Just when I thought I was getting the hang of things.

Just when I thought I was getting the hang of things. Just when I was congratulating myself for settling in so well. Just when I believed I was (somewhat) master and commander of my new environment, life... life in Lagos... interceded and reminded me that I am not in control.

It started on Monday.

On Monday, the apartment was scheduled to be fumigated. This is not an event you stay home for. Once the apartment is sprayed, it needs to stay sealed up for three hours at least, then aired out for a few hours and finally, at the end of the day, you can come home. So a neighbor and I, with our kids, decided to spend the day together, starting with lunch. We picked up Michael from the office and headed for a restaurant called Bungalow in our little two-car caravan. On the way there, we get pulled over at a police checkpoint. I won't say the Nigerian police are corrupt ... but I certainly won't deny it either. (Frankly, if you saw the squalid slums they call police barracks, you wouldn't blame them.)

My poor neighbor was in the front passenger seat where the officer approached the car so she got the full brunt of his remonstrations (and his armpits, she added). The officer requested our car papers, which Ade handed over. He flipped through them and found something random and arbitrary to make a fuss about. Ade protested that the papers were completed by the car dealership; they had put everything in order. The officer started in on a lecture... this was his profession... don't tell him how to do his job... he doesn't tell Ade how to drive... etc., etc. There were several minutes of back and forth. The other driver in our caravan joined the discussion. More officers showed up. Ade got out of the car and the discussion moved out of my view. I don't know what finally settled the matter, but I'm pretty sure a bribe had something to do with it. Or perhaps, the officers finally realized that no bribe would be forthcoming. Regardless, both drivers returned to the cars and we drove on to Bungalow. I decided a whiskey with lunch would be very appropriate.

So that was Monday. Fun.

On Tuesday, I ventured out to do some grocery shopping. I had it in my head to make lasagna, but could not find ricotta (or cottage) cheese at any of my usual haunts. I was about to head to a small, pricey French delicatessen, when I remembered Ade mentioning something about an Italian market connected to a restaurant where we had eaten recently, so we decided to give it a try. We pull up to an un-marked gate, confirmed with the guard that, yes, the market was here. The gates were opened and we pull into a lovely little courtyard. In a very pioneering fashion, I bravely hopped out of the car and walked toward the building that looked like it could be a market. There were two doors into the building. One read "Beware of dogs" so, naturally, I chose the other door. Inside, it looked like a stockroom. I distinctly remember seeing stacks of espresso cups stacked on a shelf. Then I notice a little black dog sniffing my ankles. He's small—some little toy breed—so I don't give him a second thought. I look up to speak to the attendant, when growl, bark, bite!

That damn thing bit me!

Then to my great terror, another dog appears! This one is of fine German stock—nothing toylike about him—and he is coming to attack! I have nothing but a thin pair of flats to defend myself, but I lift my foot anyway to block him. He bites my shoes and catches some of the sole of my foot. The attendant and the shop owner, a elegant Italian lady, quickly shooed the dogs off. At least I assume they did. I really don't remember, because, I am ashamed to admit, I got hysterical. Completely hysterical. I want to get out of there. NOW. But I am not leaving without my cheese. So I brush off their concerned inquiries ("Did they bite? Are you ok?"), and ask through tears if they have any ricotta cheese.

Nice Italian lady: "Yes, yes we do."

Me (hysterical): "Two, please."

Nice Italian lady: "Are you okay? Did they bite you?"

Me (weeping and hysterical): "Yes. Will you bring me the cheese?"

Nice Italian lady: "I am so sorry! Security should have told me there was someone here."

Nice Italian lady (knocking on the window, shouts to her security guard): "Stupid! You are stupid!"

Me (weeping, hysterical, voice rising): "Bring me the cheese."

Nice Italian lady: "I usually keep the dogs in my office. I had no idea someone was here..."

Me (weeping, hysterical, now shouting): "JUST BRING ME THE CHEESE!"

The nice Italian lady and the attendant disappear and return with two cartons of ricotta cheese. I apologized for shouting, saying something about not liking dogs. They accept my apology. I pay for the cheese. I escape. I bawl most of the way home. Ade keeps saying "Sorry, madame, sorry," (Nigerians say "sorry" not to take blame for something, but to express concern). I get home and pour myself a cup of coffee. Then I pour a hefty dose of Bailey's over it.

For the record, I am fine. No blood, no broken skin, just bruised on my foot and shin... and the mortification of completely losing it, in front of a nice Italian lady and her bewildered attendant.

So that was Tuesday. Fun.

On Wednesday, my friend and I are planning to workout together at 10 a.m. I wake up and dutifully don my workout clothes. By 9:30, I know that I will not be working out today. I am sick. And getting sicker. It was one of these days where you lie perfectly still and wonder if you are going to throw up now or later. I felt like I was made out of paper, trying to hold in this heavy, hot liquid lump of sick that was getting heavier by the minute. Luckily, I have a medicine cabinet to rival CVS. Around mid-afternoon, I self-prescribe antibiotics. By 7 a.m. Thursday, I begin to feel better, but am happy to spend the day in bed.

Today, I am getting near to normal, although I won't be drinking whiskey or Bailey's any time soon.

And I could really use some after the "fun" week I've had.

You know when the stock market goes through a dip, and the analysts spout off about it being a "correction"? That's what this week was like, a correction. Bringing my cocky, self-assured self back down to earth. Reminding me that I am vulnerable and dependent and not in control. So while it wasn't fun, maybe it was necessary. And, it made me realize that I do have some wonderful people in my life, including a best friend who knew just what to say (love you, Bec), a neighbor and her daughter who helped me with the kids on one of my sick days (you're angels, Keisa and Theresa), sisters who made me laugh at myself (ahem... maybe before I was quite ready, Kathryn), and a steward and driver who I can trust and count on.

I still want a drink, though.