I think it says a lot about my character that I didn't cry until well into the second week of the commissary's annual audit.

Finally, one strained afternoon, while my auditors tried to explain to me why money we earn is recorded as a debit, and money we spend is recorded as a credit, I felt my face get hot and my lower lip start trembling. I excused myself abruptly and shut myself in my office (the drabness of which would make anyone cry) and sobbed pent-up tears of self-pity.

My auditors are two tall, gentle, russophone (and anglophone and francophone) women. It's not their fault I cried. It's wading through boxes of papers from last fiscal year, when there were three commissary managers (none of whom were me) and one catastrophic computer crash. It's being reminded over and over that I am not familiar with basic accounting principles. It's that horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach when I realize I've been doing something wrong for the last six months and there's no way to set it right now.

We've been working on it for four weeks now, and we've probably got another four weeks to go.

In happier news, one week from today I'll be relaxing in Senegal (in Dakar, in Toubab Dialaw, and on Île de Gorée).