Yes, I admit it: I do speak French. I’m talking to you, Burkinabe. And while my future-verb conjugation is appalling, at least I know how to ask whether my phrase employed the proper future tense . . . to which the answer is almost always, Uh-uh. Except for oublierai . . . Jamais je ne t'oublierai (I will never forget you). This I owe to the film, The Painted Veil, and the children’s song À la Claire Fontaine, which I love teaching to children. Oublierai is a great verb. One of my favorites. I will forget. I’ll never forget. Don’t’ forget. I can do all sorts of things with oublierai. Think about it.
So my speaking ability (never my weakest-link) makes you Burkinabe think that I understand French; but I don’t. See? I didn’t understand a word that you just said to me . . . except for the marriage proposal.

Last week I had one of those amazing African days, from start to finish. I began the day at the school with my students, tying ribbons and cadeaux around bottles of our soap . . . preparing for the school fair. One of the teachers pulled me aside and said, in French: Ah, American marketing and merchandising finally arrives in Burkina . . . and we need it. Happily, marketing is the same in French (isn’t that odd?), so I did understand this observation, which was one of the nicest compliments I’ve ever received. Three hours later, the fair finally began . . . over three hours late, which is actually right-on-time for West Africa International Time (or WAIT time). Great fair, great kids, great games, great traditional costumes. Why do I never have enough info to dress appropriately for the occasion. Oh, right . . . it’s because I don’t understand French.

I played the ring-toss game (you know it from every carnival or American fair that you’ve ever attended), trying diligently to win the Obama flashlight. Come on, now . . .who doesn’t want an Obama flashlight? I could have bought three for the money I spend trying to win just one.

Regrettably, I had to leave the fair before the dancing began (and before the beer was cold) to deliver a my pink straw hat to Ami. You know that pink straw hat, right? Ami wasn’t at her restaurant. Surprise surprise; but some nice folks were there, wanting the hat (as well as my Castro cap) and insisting that I could speak French. Speak, yes; understand, no. Still, it was a fun encounter.

Off to the hut to prepare for the Club baking class in the afternoon. Into the courtyard arrived five men, looking in every home and inspecting everything. Where was Leon?! How odd that men are snooping about. I went to do my meet-and-greet in Kassem, but they didn’t understand me. Clearly not from these parts. So I reverted to French. Ah, they said, you speak French. Yeah, right, but I don’t understand it. These nice fellows were clearly a group of grand types. No one would dare enter and snoop in the Copia courtyard without permission and an invitation.

Baking class was chocolate cake and chocolate frosting (thanks again for the powdered sugar, Michael). What would I do without powdered sugar? Do the President and First Lady know that their faces on flashlights fetch only 20 cents? We can only speculate.