What’s a hangar in Burkina? It’s large tree branches somehow mounted into the ground that support other branches creating a sturdy frame for a thatch-type roof called secco. Think of it as the West African HGTV pergola. I like to think of these hangars as outdoor dining pavilions . . . just awaiting a well-set table, some tea lights, and a chilled bottle of Voigner. Unfortunately, the hangar belonging to my courtyard is the carport for my host family’s little red car . . . so I don’t have to worry about not having any tea lights . . . or Voigner.

Somewhere in an Old American West film is the scene where the entire town comes together, water-filled buckets passing along a sea of humanity to extinguish the fire in the ol’ barn. Got the image? Well today was Pô’s version. Actually, my courtyard’s version.

Now that the rains have ended, grass dead, and with the harvest complete, the courtyard’s trash pile is glaringly evident. Not pretty. I always deluded myself – believing that my weekly personal trash burning would ultimately prompt others to burn their trash. Be careful what you wish for . . . this morning was the trash fire in the courtyard’s trash pile. Big trash pile, big fire. And when the winds picked up around noon, burning debris floated up, then downwind to the newly secco-thatched hangar. Guess what happened.

There are two ways to get water in my courtyard: my outdoor shower, or the water pump in the center of the courtyard. Guess which one produces more water quickly. Following a loud commotion in the courtyard, I stepped onto the terrace, looked left, and saw flames rising about eight feet above the courtyard walls. Time to grab my three buckets and the official PC water filter. I assigned myself the task of filling buckets . . . standing under the shower, water bucket on my head, which I discovered long ago to be the most efficient way to fill a bucket without wasting a drop . . . and it’s easier to balance a 20-pound bucket on my head than to use arm strength and lift the bucket under the shower head.

Martin and the other kids came to grab the filled buckets and return to the fire. By the time I had filled buckets about thirty times the secco was completely consumed and the wooden hangar timbers were charred. Exciting? Very. Alarming? Absolutely! Fire is a serious threat to the ship, to quote Denzel Washington. But the most interesting part was the number of neighbors who appeared from nowhere with giant calabashes to dip into buckets and toss water on the steaming timbers. These ladies have amazing aim. You’d think they have experienced this before. I suggested to Martin and Yak that the fire in the grass and trash pile was not out, merely smouldering, and should be stirred and extinguished with more water. No, I have no idea what the French word is for extinguish. But the gist of the idea was clearly grasped, and children and vieilles alike stirred and splashed water on the huge area of smouldering trash. I melted a pair of sandals (tappets) walking on the smouldering pile.

When the action had nearly concluded, two men arrived in a nice Mercedes Benz. Before even assessing the situation, they politely greeted me with the five-minute litany of Kassim good day, how are you, how’s the family, and finally, how’s the courtyard? Duh . . . not very well, thank you very much. I believe that had flames been climbing into the sky, greetings still would have been de rigeur. Elizabeth arrived (as in Elizabeth, Leon’s wife, owner of the courtyard) and she, too, greeted me. Ça va, Katerine? Well, Elizabeth, not ça va . . . your carport just burned. Eh, she shrugs, Ça va aller . . . in other words, this too will pass, it will be OK.

Ah, the Burkinabe attitude . . . it’s always OK . . . don’t ever let it get you down. Got malaria? Three hours late to a meeting? Just lost your dog to rabies? Ça va aller. Garage just burned threatening your entire home with all the flammable corn and grain inside the courtyard? Ça va aller.

So there I am, soaked, feet covered in red mud; and there’s Elizabeth and the vieilles in their starched and ironed Sunday complets – how do these women do it? Will there be a barn-raising now that the fire is out? Or a hangar-raising? Who drives a Mercedes here in Pô and knows me by name? I understand Ça va aller . . . but don’t you think this family deserves some peanut brittle and a icy cold beer? We can only speculate.

Once upon a time I rode my bike from Koudougo to Palago, about 7 - 8 km. Not far, an easy ride, but it seemed to take forever to get there. Then one day in Po, I rode what I was told to be 7 km to a farm/field, over hill and dale in the hot, mid-day sun; and then I rode another 2 km through muddy fields thick with tall grasses and cris-crossed with rivers and streams. I had to dismount and walk, even carrying the Barbie bike over gorges with rivers below. Like when Humphrey Bogart had to get out and push the African Queen . . . but without the leeches . . . and the boat. Today I rode way out to the Lycée, twice. I don’t know how far it is, but I know this: every trip seems quicker . . . much less far. I’ll be at Lycée quite often as tomorrow begins the Club de Commerce.

Arriving back in village about 20 minutes after sunset, Po was packed. This, in contrast to yesterday’s empty lanes due to Tabaski. I stopped in the grocer for some Humbolt Fog, then popped into Starbucks for an Eggnog Latte, then off to . . . . Wait! I mean, I went to the corner vendor for a pack of cigarettes. The town was packed shoulder-to-shoulder with hundreds of ladies in their soft silk and chiffon boubous with long beaded and sequined scarves. Stunningly beautiful women. What is going on? I asked Pouabizon. Tabaski, Day 2: The Peul Version.

Don’t quote me on this, but I believe that the Peuls are historically a nomadic people with some Eastern Arabic bloodlines. They drive their cattle, seasonally, from Côte d’Ivoire through BF, Mali, Niger, and who knows where else. But don’t hold me to that. Most Peuls have a distinct appearance with gorgeous skin, elegant features, and almost aquiline noses. Their dress for Tabaski tonight wasn’t in any traditional cotton pagne. Rather, all soft bejeweled fabrics, with the men in extravagantly embroidered boubous. This had to be experienced, so I stayed and watched for about 30 minutes. I gave a friend a couple of cigarettes just to clear the crowd so that I could eventually make my way home. I still can hear the party here on my hilltop. Gotta love this place.

So despite my work on the polio campaign, I feel as if the real Peace Corps experience won’t begin until tomorrow at Lycée. Tomorrow afternoon is the meeting, which follows tomorrow morning’s meeting, which followed two meetings today, which followed last Wednesday’s meeting, which followed the previous Sunday meeting.

This country is so suited for this obsessive compulsive gal, who makes a list, to make a list, to get ready to make a list. Other volunteers may find odd this series of meetings. For me, it’s fine, albeit hilarious. So tomorrow should finally kick-off the Club de Commerce. Of course, it's the first meeting with the students, and it will surely be a meeting only to decide when they want to meet.

When will the meetings ends and the club begin? How long will the Peul party last? What’s it called when you have a Peul at pool party? Election day is Sunday. Do the Peuls have much pull at the polls? We can only speculate.

I was awakened at 6:00 a.m. with the sounds of blaring but fun music. Let Tabaski begin! Great dance music. Inside the courtyard we shucked more corn while standing and dancing in a congo-line, carelessly tossing husks everywhere.

I thought I'd been invited for Tabaski. Eleven-thirty a.m. at chez Yaya. One of my favorite things about Africa, or at least Burkina, is that you can always find someone on the road or inside a courtyard, tell them whose home you seek, and they'll lead you there. Can you imagine this in the States? I'm looking for Sam's place? Well good luck! But here, if they don't know the person directly, they'll know someone who knows, or more likely, someone who's actually related. Thus, I found Yaya's home with minimal effort. Large home, huge courtyard, big freezer. Size does matter, especially with freezers and Tabaski.

So I've been complaining about lack of protein in my diet. Then comes Tabaski. It's not that Tabaski is all about lambs and sheep, it's merely that lambs and sheep trump goats in size, thus they are more suitable for a grand fete like Tabaski. Or so I believe. So a chevre slaughter is fine for the end of Ramadan, but Tabaski calls for something plus grand . . . in addition to poultry and goats. Analogy: one could serve a chicken for Thanksgiving, but for such a grand feast, a turkey is better suited. Size does matter.

When I arrive at Yaya's I meet his wife and children, as well as his little brother, neices, nephews, and so many other family members that I couldn't possibly put together the pieces of the family tree. Sauce pots were already boiling, with sheep lungs, piment, cabbage, and tomato sauce . . . and the ubiquitous palm oil, of course. A rice pot the size of a Mini-Cooper simmered away. Size does matter. Sheep and lambs were already hanging, blood dripping into collection pans. Alaco, chickens, and guinea fowl had already been fried. Fried chicken is good, but fried guinea fowl is fantastic. I was full in about 10 minutes, with the first protein I've had in weeks. And this was merely the first course. Was it as good as I think it was? Yeah . . . definitely.

After chowing-down on poultry, the kids proudly showed me the sheep heads . . . fur, tongue, eyes, horns, all intact. We took the heads out to the road to be placed on fires. Yep, fires, right there in the middle of a road . . . all roads being virtually deserted today. The kids though that pulling on the sheep tongue was funny; and as I, too, pulled on it and said baaaaa, everyone laughed. Hey, it's only a slimy tongue in the mouth of a decapitated sheep. What's the big deal?

So the woman in the courtyard near the road was cleaning a recently deceased rooster and hen. In all candor, I was sorry to have missed the kill. I'll eventually see a chicken kill in this land, and today I was actually ready for the chaotic event. But no such luck. However, the neighbor was anxious to see if the little white girl would sully her hands and rip apart a chicken. You bet I will. And thus, sans knife, I removed the tongue (yes, chickens have tongues . . . did you miss that episode of Iron Chef?), removed and opened the crop (not edible, but she wanted me to look inside), and carefully preserved the testicles of the rooster and the immature eggs of the hen. Ever seen eggs still inside a hen? Fascinating, truly. And the rooster's testicles? Clearly, size does matter.

OK, enough images of animal slaughter. Suffice it to say, I had fun and was still able to enjoy my luncheon. When lunch was served, I ate inside with the men. Being a white woman in West Africa evidently brings some status, and at events such as Tabaski (or birthday or bac fetes), I've always been invited to eat with the men. Women eat later, usually outdoors, children eat last, and dogs get the left-overs. Lunch was surprisingly simple: more fried poultry, rice with the lung sauce (which was quite delicious), and more cold soda pop varieties than I've ever seen. Beer, too. I think that the Muslim consumption of alcohol is tied directly to the importance of the holiday. So for a general dinner, I suspect that most followers of Islam don't imbibe, as per their religon. But for a grand fete all bets are off and beer is consumed in quantity . . . from light lagers to Guiness and Castle Milk Stout from Ghana.

I think that the measure of a good host or hostess in Burkina is a two-prong test: the quantity and chill-factor of the beverages, and the quantity of meat in the sauces and on the plate. Meat and cold drinks. I'll have to remember that for Thanksgiving.

So where was the cooked lamb? Where's the carving of the sheep and the munching on sheep's head? Evidently, the big event is a village-wide affair near the centre-ville this evening. Yaya says to get some rest this afternoon for the party tonight. So what'd you do on this ordinary Tuesday? And who's going to clean-up all those corn husks? We can only speculate.

So much corn arrived in the courtyard over the weekend that it’s spilling over the courtyard walls out into the world of Po. Several times daily, children and elders stand outside the wall urging back the unruly cobs trying to keep them inside the courtyard . . . corraling the cobs in sheets of pagne then pushing the sheets over the top of the wall or tossing rogue cobs into the courtyard. Thunk, whacka – cobs hit my walls and roll down my sloping terrace. I’ve never seen so much corn, in husks, off the stalk. And don't picture moist green, soft-with-corn-silk corn. Picture hard, dried, brown-husk corn, with rock-hard kernels. This corn will become meal, and some will be roasted along the roadsides and sold for snacks. After roasting, it has the taste of popcorn, but the kernels are still rock hard. Not my favorite.

OK, it’s not a contest, but I can shuck corn quicker than the Burkinabe women. Perhaps this is a result of my upbringing with summertime Texas corn. I’m fast. Never mind the worms and bugs sometimes found inside the husks. I half-way expected a corn snake to emerge from the 6-foot-pile of corn on which I was sitting. A pile of corn as high as the house. Seriously. Never mind that something on the husks caused a rash on my arms requiring Benadryl. And never mind the need to redo my once perfectly-filed nails. Soon the shucked corn will be beaten inside bags to remove the kernels. I'd like to see what a Calloway driver could do to remove kernels.

Today was windy – the perfect day to bring out the kite for the kids. It’s not a contest, but clearly 11-year-old Martin best understands the dynamics of kite flight. Some children merely toss the kite, only to see the kite fall and strike the heads of the tiny children. Yes, of course tiny children cry when hit with a kite stick falling from the sky. I really expected someone to lose an eye. Martin, however, understands the concept of the running start.

Tomorrow is Tabaski, the Muslim holiday that is celebrated a month following the feast at the end of Ramadan. So there was the Ramadan fête in October, which wasn’t shabby by any means; but tomorrow’s Tabaski fête should be spectacular. Of course, it’s not a contest. Today there were dozens of animals (from hens to goats) with feet tied together, hanging from handlebars of motos . . . going to their death for the fête of Tabaski. Try to tell those selected animals that it’s not a contest! I’ll be spending Tabaski with Yaya and his family and am honored to be invited.

Last week I spent two days vaccinating for polio children five years of age and under. Two drops, orally, dispenses the polio vaccine. Easy, right? Well try telling 431 mothers, in French and in Kassim, what you want to do to their child and why. The children were fantastic. They tilt back their head and open their mouth like little baby birds. Then comes the difficult part: so that some other health worker doesn’t re-vaccinate, each child gets the little fingernail on his left hand colored with a marker. Believe me, this caused some screaming . . . not because it was painful, but because there are children here who really don’t want a white gal coloring their finger. Anyone would be frightened. But yesterday at the marche, two days after my work was complete, about a hundred children held up their pinkies to show me that I had vaccinated them. I vaccinated a lot of children . . . but, of course, it’s not a contest.

So just when I think I’ll never be a real PCV, not with my new frigo, I’m suddenly shucking corn with the vieilles, vaccinating children, and experiencing Tabaski. Current bike-time to get to my bureau? Over an hour due to the requisite meet-and-greet with all the new folks who now know me by name . . . or at least by Katerine.

Might one of those upside-down hens be le coupable who ate my zucchini? How much corn does it take to make a pile six-feet tall on which one can climb and perch to shuck? If this is what happens to the corn, what will we do with the stacks of sorghum that are presently arriving? Will I be able to adequately reciprocate the Tabaski hospitality with my Thanksgiving fête? Well, it’s not a contest, but we can only speculate.

I took a one-hundred dollar bill in my Jill-the-Pill coin purse, intending to change it for CFA at the bank, combine it with my CFA savings, and purchase the frigo. Seydou sees the one-hundred-dollar bill, and suddenly the 75,000 CFA price is reduced. Clearly, a nice, crisp $100 talks. Not wanting to take advantage, I suggested that he check the exchange rate so that additional CFA could be paid. So with my clear intent to throw in a few CFA, Seydou said that he’d clean the frigo and throw in a few plastique chairs. Oh, how I love this country. Seydou also told me that I was a skinny white girl and needed at least two years in Po to get fat and have my skin turn black. I’ve been invited to dine with his family. I failed to tell him that dining with Burkinabe is how I lost 20 pounds. Nevertheless, this was clearly a compliment on the part of Seydou – he is suggesting that I will fit or currently do fit-in in Po . . . either me or my crisp $100.

So I have a frigo on the way, and I also have a houseguest. Last night my host family brought me a plate of frites and alaco. . . . french fries and fried plantains. Yummy! But as I opened the screen door, in ran lizard. Not a gecko, thank God . . . they’re freaky-fast and not my favorites. Though rest assured, as it ran by my foot and as Martin heard me squeal, it appeared plenty fast and quite large. Today I’ve spied it sitting on my sofa -- true. It’s really not that large . . . not yet.

Last night there were billions of bugs in the air. Everyone in the courtyard noticed it. Bugs somehow make their way inside through the air-space surrounding my screen door. There’s not a big call for weather-stripping in Burkina. So maybe it’s the season for billions of nightly bugs. Billions, as opposed to the usual millions. In any event, a lizard could be a great solution to the bug problem. I’ve warned her not to eat the bug poison around the perimeter of the hut, nor to eat a poisoned bug. I think we reached an understanding, despite my limited French.

I tell myself that the lizard is terrified of me . . . that she will know that I’m in bed, motionless and asleep, and that she will never want to run across the bed at night. I almost believe this. If I’d just not seen her sitting on the sofa.

Will the frigo arrive in time to chill-down the vodka and tonic for cocktails? Skinny white girl that Seydou says I am, can I return to my WASPy way of keeping vodka in the freezer? What does a crisp one-hundred dollar bill say? Rich American worthy of robbing? I think not . . . I hope not. But maybe I’m fooling myself, just as I am with the intentions of the new house guest. Will she be happy eating bugs, or is she going to want to eat crackers in bed . . . my bed!? We can only speculate.

I broke my water filter. Or perhaps I didn’t break it, perhaps the new parts simply don’t fit. Or perhaps there’s some trick to assemblage that I’ve forgotten, which is probably the case. That’s one theory.

So my stunningly beautiful water filter, the one that would be a gorgeous accent in any home and the pride of any kitchen (not so much), does require an occasional cleaning. In fact, the PC recommends weekly cleaning. I cleaned mine today – first time since it was given to me, new, in June. What’s today’s date? As I popped-on the new white cartridge, it wouldn’t fit. And the black cartridge? Well, it screwed into place but water won’t come out. This is probably something as simple as my failure to remove a cap, or puncture a seal . . . or something. But perhaps it’s like programming the DVR . . . women simply weren’t intended to do it (or at least not this woman). That’s another theory, albeit most sexist! Some things never change, do they, Rusty?

So assume I was given the wrong parts for the filter. How quickly do we think that the Bureau in Ouaga can get new parts to Po? Before I’m thirsty? Are cocktails the answer? Nice, clean tonic and distilled gin? With unfiltered ice? If I had a freezer, I could make unfiltered ice and then I’d be queen of the world, though not a true PCV. In fact, I’ll never be a true PCV. I have electricity (usually), running-water out in the courtyard (most days), and a USB key that allows internet access (sometimes). I’ve also got a flat-iron (which I rarely use), a nutmeg grater (in my professionally-equipped kitchen), a Clarisonic™, and a Braun™ electric toothbrush. Who brings a nutmeg grater to West Africa . . . with a jar of whole nutmeg? Is it nutmeg, or nutmegs?

Now the icing on the cupcake is: on Tuesday I’ve got a date with Seydou to shop for a small refrigerator/freezer. I’ve saved for two months and I’m going to pull the trigger and purchase a used frigo. And if all this luxury isn’t enough to eliminate me from being a real PCV, now I have a toilet. It’s true! A white, porcelain, European-push-button-flush, still-got-the-sticker-on-it toilet. I have my Association to thank for this; and incidentally, I did not ask! It was installed inside the walls of my outdoor shower, so now my shower will only accommodate four . . . six if they’re really good friends.

Of course the toilet isn’t plumbed to any sewer lines. To my knowledge there are no sewer lines in Po. Only the customary pit. My new private toilet is plumbed to the waterline in the courtyard, but flushing merely results in waste going into the traditional drop latrine. And so I wonder: how many flushes do I get before the latrine is full? I saw its construction. Roughly a meter square and two meters deep . . . with my brilliant SED number-crunching ability, I calculate that as two cubic meters. So how many flushes? No idea, but this keeps me awake at night. How long has it been since I thrilled my gentle readers with a juicy toilet tale? Well that’s too long. Now you can stay awake, too.

Any mathematicians out there (actually, I know about a dozen) who can calculate the cubic volume of a flush, divided into two cubic meters? Where am I going to find ice cube trays in Po? Is it culturally appropriate to have the gals over for cocktails after work? Oh, wait, they never stop working here, so when would they find time for happy hour? Can one sweep gravel with straw in one hand and a gin & tonic in the other? We can only speculate.

I swallowed a bug. Just a little Friday evening cocktail after a really poor week. Scraped my knee and four days later it looked horrible. In an environment where infection is inevitable, a scraped knee can become quite serious. However, I believe that I’ve staved-off gangrene and the knee will ultimately heal to kiss the rocky ground another day. Then I caught a cold. I never think of cold bugs in this hot land that wouldn’t appear to have a cold-n-flu season. Insect-bugs, yes; cold-bugs, no. This is my second genuine cold, and thus I might want to reconsider what and whom I touch.

So today, feverish and on antibiotics, I had to force myself to leave the hut. Piles of corn arrived in the courtyard today. Ladies heretofore unseen in the courtyard arrived to bang the corn. What a racket. I wanted to know what was happening to the corn. Only one way to accomplish that task: leave the hut and go ask. Quel bummer, because I was quite content inside, on drugs, watching South Park.

Still, as long as I was outside, why not hop in the shower and shave my legs. How long had it been? Well, kids, I’ll tell you this: I brought a-razor-a-month, and I’m nowhere near dulling a razor every four weeks. Scarier than a skinned knee, I know. Anyway, I felt better after a shower . . . soft and clean and ready for a new bandage the size of a saucer. Might as well take a cocktail out to the courtyard and get more details on the corn harvest, and the new ladies.

The permanent family in my courtyard is small, relatively, by Burkinabe standards. The main home has a lovely family of four: maman, papa, son, nephew. In the other home is a nice family of three . . . just one young daughter. Also living in the compound are at least a half-dozen cock-a-doodlin’ roosters, about eight hens, a half-dozen guinea fowl cocks, and dozens of tiny baby chicks. Guinea cocks only . . . remember, the hens don’t tarry after mating. We also have an orange kitten and two puppies, Rex and Dora. Boy, that’s what you think of when you wonder about Burkinabe dog names . . . Rex and Dora, right?

Anyway, outside this evening is when it happened. Something solid in my rum punch. And large. Maybe I’m onto something in a country sorely lacking in protein. Garnish . . . trim . . . or as they say in Ouaga, decor! Someone send the cocktail umbrella-skewers.

Last night I saw a flying frog-bug. Of course it wasn’t really a frog, or perhaps it was. Size of a medium beetle, shaped just like a juvenile frog that has almost lost its tadpole tail, with wings. There’s not much in the world that I detest more than frogs. It’s a scar from childhood. So to see and feel flying-frog-bug land repeatedly on me . . . well, it wasn’t pleasant. Couldn’t kill it . . . I’m not up to smashing something resembling a frog. Gnat, yes, Flying-frog-bug? Non.

So I can stop complaining about lack of protein . . . a bug counts, right? Didn’t I see that on Survivorman? Protein breakfast drink, fine. Protein cocktail? Non! Are we having fun yet? We can only speculate.

It was a dark and stormy night, and we approached the West African graveyard mindful of ancestral spirits and bitter tales of torment. OK, not really, but it was Halloween weekend in Po, with my demyst house-party of four SED stagiaires and their two LCFs (Language & Culture Facilitators . . . the PC does love its acronyms).

What a brilliant and enthusiastic group of PCTs. They were anxious to experience everything about village life, starting with how to cook at site. And so, prepared here in my Po kitchen were three dinners and two breakfasts for seven people. Eggs are back in Po, so Saturday breakfast was Toad-in-the-Hole. Nothing too fancy, really . . . Bananas Foster, flambéed with rhum, naturally; crispy-toasted tuna melts with piment slaw; thick Ghana toast with strawberry jam; Thai basil rolls. Why, you’d almost think that I made a run to Ouaga for supplies.

So I spent the weekend corrupting four delightful and fun new PCTs . . . suggesting such decadence as the Bon Boniere and Cocktail of the Week, the grand ol’ tradition of my stage. Then came the newly-designed bissap-watermelon martini. I think the stagiaires dubbed it the PoTini. Po-tentially dangerous.

We did the usual demyst activities. There were lessons in the essential-to-survival skills, such as bissap-making, peanut-brittle and caramel-corn making, and the making of the Halloween masks for over two-dozen children. Thankfully, I brought string and markers. Of course there was also a visit to my bureau, a visit to the Shea Butter Association, a visit to the marche, and language classes. There was also soap-making at the new hotel, which is definitely not a demyst activity inasmuch as the new Stage hasn’t yet learned the closely-guarded secret of soap-making. Oh well . . . four of ‘em have . . . now.

So Sunday night was the carving of the Halloween pumpkin; but pumpkins are short on the ground here, so in our case it was a Halloween watermelon. Being good little PCT/PCVs, we didn’t want to waste anything; thus the watermelon was carefully hollowed-out saving all pulp for juice. Voila. The birth of the bissap-watermelon Po-tini, which I must say is better than the original bissap martini.

We had at least 25 kids for trick-or-treat, all at the same time. Twenty-five rapacious Burkinabe children on my little terrace. Happily there was with plenty of caramel corn, bon-bons, and cylume necklaces given as prizes after our talent show. When candy is involved, you’d be amazed at how quickly French- and Kassim-speaking children will learn to squeal trick-or-treat. After explaining the tradition of Halloween, we quizzed the kids on what it takes to get the treat. Do you have to wear a mask? OUI! Can you get a bon-bon without saying trick-or-treat? NON! I suppose you could call it my first sensibilisation at my courtyard. I dare say that it was 100% successful.

And since I live in a courtyard with a graveyard, the setting was appropriate for Halloween, though I confess that the only spirits of which we were mindful were Gordon’s and Smirnoff. As for tales of torment . . . there was the horror-tale of the LCFs who suggested that cold beer on a steamy afternoon was inappropriate before language class. At such a suggestion, someone was feeling a tad tormented, I guarantee.

How many PCTs does it take to carve a watermelon jack-o-lantern? Did I really corrupt David, Grace, Luis, and Anne, or are they above corruption, like all good PCTs? If this was the Halloween party, what will Thanksgiving bring? We can only speculate.