The bar, the shifting bar: Sleeping menace, slumbering hippo. A cat beneath the carpet, slinking eastwards, never in the same place twice. Now the waves are breaking in deeper water, but as soon as you paddle out they're behind you; turn to chase them and there's a monster rearing on your tail. The tide drops and the swell builds, now lumpy and gentle, now peaking with enough force to lift you off your board. The wind picks up, scattering the water's skin in a confusion of spray and chop. The bright sun makes a beeline for the zenith, penetrating the sea, now turquoise, the foam blown white and bright.

The sun fell behind the Possotomè hills as it does in the tropics: quickly. The shadows stretched over the lake, and we dined on lobster and grilled flatfish over rice. The hotel's restaurant stood on stilts over the lake surface, and the water lapped gently beneath us as the lights reflected over the water.

I retired to the extreme edge of the dock with a whiskey and my journal, where I saw something I hadn't seen in ages: stars. We see some stars in Cotonou, but the lights of the capital preclude much of a show. Here in the countryside, there were few lights to speak of, and the sky was ablaze in a moonless night. Orion reclined over the lake's eastern shore, and Mars and Sirius glowed like embers beneath his shoulder. In the distance we heard the drums of a celebration, or a Vaudoun rite.

It's hard not to evoke Cotonou's name in the local language, Fon, because the expression "River of Death" turns heads. But in Benin, West Africa, the past and the present are the same, and the future and the present are indistinguishable. So it is that, irregardless of what Cotonou is today, it will forever retain the soul of an African slaving hub at the mouth of a river that carried an unfortunate cargo down to the waiting slave ships. And for the moment, Cotonou is my home, and this message is coming to you live from the River.

In August 2009, Benin celebrated its 49th year of independence. For an American whose country was last the colony of another nation 233 years ago, that's pretty impressive. It's a sobering trip to walk east from Gran Popo along the shores of the Mono River through what remains of that village's now ancient, colonial architecture. Blame economics, neglect, differing priorities, or the simple avarice of the Atlantic coast's shifting coastline. But the little that remains of France's colonial influence in Gran Popo is not far from oblivion. That makes it an inspiring destination.

As our low craft slipped through wooded islets it was hard not to appreciate the tenacity of the river's march towards the rumpled Atlantic. The river's course widened appreciably in our descent: low villages of concrete and adobe huts watched us from the river's edge, children splashed each other in the warm water, and men strained to push their wooden craft in, laden with nets...

Early evenings are when the city most evoked the illusion of walking through the pages of a Milan Kundera novel, but although I looked everywhere for confirmation we were beyond the footprint of the old Iron Curtain, In Prague I failed roundly. I found instead a glimpse of the wry Czech sense of humor. The old statue of Lenin was cheerfully dynamited a decade ago: a 10 meter high stone structure where Lenin stood grimacing over the high banks of the Moldau, four proletariat behind him. The Czechs called the statue "waiting in line for meat," and laughed that Lenin was at the head of the line. But the Cold War is rapidly becoming the leitmotif of a generation whose time has passed, and the streets are full of mini-skirted consumers chatting on cellphones and drinking lattés...