Demba's comment on Forgive and Forget has been eating away at me all day. I know he (or she?) is wrong about one thing -- I don't dislike Mali. I like many, many things about living here. Does that sentiment get lost in my posts? Do I portray life here in an unfairly negative way?

I don't have clear answers to those questions, but as I've been mulling over them, I've accumulated a list in my mind, a catalog of positive things. I'm putting it down here so that, reader, you can no longer accuse me of "always saying bad things" and "focusing on the bad things" about Mali. In my defense, Exhibit A: A list of things I love about Mali.

I love buying fresh, juicy mangoes the size of softballs and eating them with yogurt. I love that we have a mango tree and a grapefruit tree in our yard (plus a banana tree and papaya trees, but they're not producing fruit yet). I love taking the long hooked bamboo baton, yanking ripe grapefruit off the branch, washing the dust off them and putting them away, and eating a cold one for lunch.

I love that we are more closely connected with our food here than in America. Every day I see men with tall stacks of egg trays strapped to their bicycles, teetering through the streets on the way to the market. I love that if we want bread, we buy it fresh at the bakery. I don't love meat, but I do love the fact that if you want meat, you can buy a chicken or a goat or a sheep and kill it and butcher it and cook it yourself. I love that we only eat seasonal fresh fruits and vegetables, and that they have more flavor than the factory-farmed or hothouse versions back home. I love that we only get strawberries for only one month out of the year, and they taste so much sweeter.

I love going to the sort-of-American-style Broadway Cafe, where the service is slow but always cheerful. I love the veggie burgers that PCV Koumba taught them how to make, and the Spanish omelette with hash browns, and most of all the ice cream. Mint, hazelnut, and vanilla are my favorite flavors.

I love that when we want to go out for a drink with friends, we can go to La Terrasse, where the walls are a rich red, the bar is tiled, the high-quality sound system is discreetly hidden behind a DJ station, and there is a basket in the ladies' room full of fresh cotton towels. Or we can go to the unnamed "blue bar," which is a shipping container, painted blue, with some plastic tables and chairs in front of it, and some promotional beer posters taped on it. While it's still light, boys play soccer and kick up clouds of dust; after sunset, we sit in total darkness and listen to scratchy Bob Marley cassettes.

I love that this city of one million people feels like a small town in so many ways. I love going to the grocery store and seeing the owner of DaGuido's (our favorite pizza place) and being recognized by him (because we eat there once a week). I love seeing people I know around town, both expats and Malians.

I love how well Malians remember faces. Once a month or so, I park down in Centre Ville to run errands, and the men who collect the 100F for parking always remember me. I love that the guy selling black market CDs outside the Mini Prix not only remembers me, and remembers that I've bought CDs from him, but remembers which CDs I bought from him -- and, of course, which ones I still need to purchase to complete my collection.

I love the chattering flocks of wrinkled old ladies asking for change at the stoplight on the Koulikoro Road; I'm not sure, but they also seem to recognize me. If I give them one big coin, they'll buy a bowl of rice together and share it.

I love that when you approach a group of people eating, they always say "Viens manger" (come eat). You can say, No thank you, j'ai bien mange (I have already eaten well), bon appetit.

I love going to evening aerobics at Sinaly's gym. The classes are a mix of Dutch and French and Cameroonians and Lebanese and Senegalese and Americans and Malians and who knows what else. I love how much Sinaly loves dancing, and how he makes us feel that love.

I love that, although some things that are simple in America are hard to do here, some things that are hard to do in America are quite simple to do here. (Thanks, Peter B., for expressing that idea so well.) For instance, I love going to the tailor to get clothes custom-made. I used to go to Bah, in the little blue shack across from our friend's house, and he does a nice job with my husband's shirts and other little odds-and-ends. For more complicated things I go to Madou Saade, at the other end of the Broadway road, whose soft-spoken voice I can barely hear over the whir of the Singer sewing machines. Today I picked up two new skirts and a top and a pair of pants he hemmed. While we looked at the things, we each had a small glass of foamy, sweet green Malian tea. Before I left, Madou gave me a gift, a vest of beautiful Burkinabe fabric. "This is for you," he said in English. I didn't know he knew any English. I love how generous and thoughtful people are.

I love our cozy little cul-de-sac, which is home to three American families and a couple Malian families. I love that when our friendly and unassuming Malian neighbor, who happens to be the brother of a former president of Mali, sees me out walking, he offers me a ride. I love that the guards are as much our neighbors as any of the people living in the big houses; they offer us tea and make conversation, and help me out when I have car trouble. I love how the one woman who sits with them (our neighbor's housekeeper, or cook?) is always laughing and smiling, and tries to teach me Bambara, little by little. But my favorite was always Moussa, the older man, near retirement, who was always so sweet and kind. Whenever I travelled he joked that he would meet me at the airport, and we would fly to America together. He now works far from our street; I miss him.

That's only a start, but that's all for today.