(If you've been keeping up with my posts, you'll have noticed I have a rather strong penchant for food.)

Week Three of my Senegalese escapades has already turned the corner, and in only one more week I'll reach the one quarter marker. I face a series of mixed feelings to this very recent revelation, including: Will I actually be able to do all that I want to do in the 3/4ths that remain? Will that be enough time to adjust to the heat, or will I be perpetually swimming in my sweat as the Senegalese, dressed to the nines in their fine long-sleeved blouses and carefully ironed slacks walk by me without a droplet of perspiration? Most importantly, will I be able to try all 54 flavors of ice cream at N'Ice Cream before my December departure?

Oh N'Ice Cream, thou blessèd refuge of air conditioning and sweet, creamy goodness! Located in the middle of Centre Ville, not too far from the massive, bustling (and if you're not careful, hustling) Sandaga Market, this quirky little white building, comparable to a large ice cube spotted with colorful blue port holes, juts out of one of Dakar's imposing cement towers as a veritable Toubab haven.

Let me interject- There was a brief period of time when I first arrived in Senegal that I aspired to assimilate myself to the local culture, as I would on any voyage abroad. However, I soon came to the realization that as a short, white, American girl, there was absolutely no snowflake's chance in hell that I could effectively do that. That's not to say I have entirely abandoned my attempts; quite to the contrary, it is with even more gusto than ever that I taste the sketchiest looking homemade drink-filled baggies on the corner stands and head to Friday's market to buy a boubou for the upcoming holiday of Tabaski. However, while not abandoned, they have been acknowledged as unachievable dreams and I have not only come to accept my Toubab state of existence but I have come to embrace it. I know I will look ridiculous in my boubou, as I know I sound ridiculous when I try speaking Wolof or fail miserably when I try eating with my hand. But if it makes the Senegalese people chuckle (which it does) and enrichens my experience (which it will) than I shall continue in my ridiculous ways.

But it also means that occasionally, I get to take a break from trying to be what I know I never will (that is to say, a tall, black, entirely un-sweaty Senegalese woman who looks like she's going to a ball every day in her elegant, brightly-colored boubou when she's merely going to the grungy market that practically floats in the sewer; who lets her Wolof words slide smoothly off her tongue; and who doesn't let a single grain of rice drop from her hand as the ball of ceebu jën travels from the massive shared bowl to her mouth...) Yes, I'll take a break from all that and take a moment to step into my little ice cream store with all the other Toubabs who look similarly out of place with me.

And looking at the cases of flavors, I don't think any of you could blame me. It's difficult not to look like a drooling, desperate puppy as I stare, wonder-eyed and drooling at the grand assortment of parfums: soft, juicy peaks of fresh-made mango ice cream could contrast nicely with a cool scoop of coconut. Or perhaps you'd rather go for the Obama cookie ice cream? I've heard excellent things about the sesame gelato, and the Italian strawberry sorbet is not to be passed up...

After long debate, I decide on the Milka chocolate with carmel crunch. As expected, it's mouth wateringly delicious, and I am hardly finished before I think I could eat an entire new cone. However, I practice some serious self control and decline my kind offer for a second, instead trying to savor the almost-forgotten taste in my mouth enjoying one last bout of A/C before I head back into the heat and smog that waits for me outside. My second stop at N'Ice Cream was a grand success. Two flavors down - 52 to go.