Tunisia
Chapter two
Two free days in Tunis before the tour.
Breakfast at La Chambre Bleue is a spread, the table laden with jam and honey and granola and yogurt.
A pudding is before me and fresh flatbread arrives with a boiled egg on hummus. Sonia tells me there’s cake at the end of the table.
A family from Italy are just finishing up. The matriarch notices my longyi and asks if I’m Burmese. Chinese I tell her. I just spent some time there and fell into the habit. It’s such a comfortable piece of clothing. She agrees and tells me they’ve been there twice, lamenting the current state of things.
Sonia notices I like the bread and tells me she’ll pack some for me tomorrow morning before I leave. There’s an extra boiled egg on the table and she asks if I’d like to save it for later. She’ll leave it in my room. She also slices off two large pieces of cake and plates them, wrapping it in Saran Wrap for me. She tells me that everything is made by them.
I step out into the Medina. It’s a world of difference compared to the day before. The streets are flooded with rivers of people. It’s a slow-moving current and I allow myself to be swept away.
I end up at Victory Square. Today the fountain is turned on and people take photos before it and the stone gate. Men sell tops, spinning them out before them. A man in a red jacket with a crown of flowers on his head weaves through the crowd.
I walk east along the Avenue de France and stop in the Cathedral of St Vincent de Paul and St Olivia of Palermo. It was closed on Sunday but today I walk around the corner to the entrance. A security guard conducts a perfunctory search of my bag and waves me through.
Inside it cavernous. Small mosaic portraits line the walls. Outside, a mosaic adorns the façade. Construction began in 1893 and the church was opened on Christmas, 1897, almost 127 years ago to the day. I missed it by two days.
I continue walking east to the clock tower. A pedestrian boulevard splits the avenue in half and I walk its wide path to the tower. Families and friends gather, take photos, relax in the sun. A fountain splashes happily before it.
Walking back into the Medina I pause again before the cathedral to take photos of its façade. An I ❤️ Tunis sign stands before it and I indulge in a few photos before moving on.
Reaching an intersection I decide to turn left and head towards the central market. Inside, it’s mostly fruit and vegetables. An area that looks dedicated to meats or fish is empty. I wonder if I’ve missed it or if that market operates on a different days.
Victory Square continues bustling with life. I look around for a place to sit to watch the action, but every available surface is taken. I content myself with standing on a corner for a minute to watch the people pass. One of these days I’ll take a coffee before the Royal Victoria Hotel and gaze out at the crowds.
I dive back into the river of people streaming in and out of the medina, allowing myself to be swept along by the crowds around me. It’s surprisingly tranquil. Like crossing the streets in Saigon, everyone seems tacitly to agree on a pace and give way to vendors pushing carts before them.
Now and again, a song will catch my ear and I’ll stop to Shazam what it is. Back in my room I cycle through stations created off of Samara’s “Koli Vibe” (hip hop) and Shadya’s “En Rah Menek Ya Ain” (traditional).
I wind my way around the bustling market streets and then wander off in search of quieter alleys and avenues. I’m searching vaguely for a historical landmark north of where I’m staying, but when I arrive I learn it’s closed.
I pass a park I remember seeing when Arbi first led me into the medina, and try to remember how we had come before. My memory fails, but I’m still able to navigate my way home without checking my phone (much).
At night I step out for a bite to eat. I had passed Dkik & Zit, a fast food place selling chapati, malfouf, and pizza that seemed popular with the locals. I ordered a chapati and a man began to roll out dough, filling it with spices, tuna, a boiled egg, and cheese before folding it in half like a calzone and grilling it on a flat ceramic pan.
Janis asks me where I’m from. He tells me the man making my chapati is from Japan. Tokyo the man says. Janis accuses him of being a bad liar. I laugh, confused as to what’s true.
A man in the back asks if I’m carrying a Leica and Janis encourages me to take photos. He shows me his Instagram page and asks me to send them to him. I tell him I will.
I eat the chapati at a table on the street, warm, the shell thin and crisp, the fillings spiced. At 6 dinars it’s an inexpensive and tasty meal. I know I’ll be back.
I decide to take the long way home, immersing myself once again in the medina. At one intersection I pause to take a photo of a door, about to recede into the darkness. Behind me I hear a hip hop beat played on a tinny speaker. A voice freestyles to it. Soon three dudes pass, one rapping to the others as they shuffle along to the beat.
The next morning I pack for my trip and then lounge about my room until it’s time to check out. Sonia has wrapped up a few pieces of bread for me and I pack it away.
When it’s time to leave I ask if I can leave my bags for a few hours. My guide is to meet me at 14h to take me to my hotel for the night. It’s an arrival day and there are no activities planned, which suits me fine. I look forward to a down day before hitting the road. She leads me to a room and has me leave my things there. She tells me to take the key and let myself in when I return. I can leave the key on the kitchen table.
I head once again into the streets. It’s quieter today than yesterday. I wander east until I reach the Rue Mongi Slim. I recognize it only as the edge of the Medina but know that Victory Square is near and to the right
I walk once again to the clock tower for the exercise and to kill some time. I sit down on a bench to take in some sun and a man sits beside me. He speaks to me in Arabic and then translates. It’s cold he says. Yes because of the wind. He asks me if it’s cold where I’m from. New York? Yes. It is. He has a friend in Baltimore. Not as cold. No.
Beer the church a man compliments me on my camera. He tells me there’s a Berber exhibition and market at a former palace down the way. I ask him where he’s from. Half Italian half Tunisian. He asks if there are a lot of tourists in the hotel. I tell him I’m staying in a house but that there were Americans and Italians there. He seems pleased and crosses the street, turning away on the other side.
In Victory square a man tells me the hotel used to be the British embassy. He’s dressed in a fitted jumper with a matching scarf. He’s quite dashing. Japan? He asks. Chine I tell him. But from New York. Ah Yankees! He says. And the Boston Red Sox very popular. You like Tunisia? Very much. He asks if I’ve been to the mosque. UNESCO heritage site he says. Too bad it’s closed today.
You have to go south! He tells me. I will. Tomorrow. Tattooine! He says. Yes. I laugh. I will go.
He tells me there’s a street nicknamed Shanghai street. All the dresses are from there. Very strong. And the fake designer accessories. He extends his hand and I reach out to shake it. He holds as he wishes me a happy new year and a happy Christmas before releasing it and blending into the crowd.
I take an orange juice at the cafe attached to the hotel to sit and while away some time before meeting my guide. It’s a warm day in the sun shielded from the wind.
I make my way back to the guesthouse through the medina. A man is already there to take me to my hotel. We shoulder my bags and walk towards Kasbah Square where he’s parked his car.
Leaving the medina and driving the highway back towards the airport, I’m struck at how quickly the landscape changes. After driving a few blocks it feels as though we’re in another century.
We continue driving east, along the road I had traversed the day before from the airport. Now we drive towards and past the airport, towards Carthage and then north towards Gammarth Beach. It rains off and on as we drive, the blue skies giving way to storm clouds.
By the time we reach the hotel the skies are once again clear. In the off season the area feels desolate. The buildings are sparse, with large hotels lining the beachfront and lake.
The driver drops my bags and bids me adieu. I check into the hotel and am asked to wait as they make sure the room is made up. I’m not sure if it’s because there was a large group previously, or whether it’s because they don’t bother keeping so many rooms maintained in the off season.
I ask if there’s an indoor pool and the receptionist says there is, next to the fitness center and spa. She tells me they also have beach access. A man comes to take my bags and a woman tells me my room is ready. I follow her directions to my room down a wing on the second floor.
After dropping my bags and getting my bearings I head off in search of the pool. I am led first to the outdoor one before I double back and stop in the spa to ask about treatments. They have massage and hammam scub packages. I ask what time they close. Eleven. Do you have availability this afternoon? Yes. I tell them I’ll stop by again later.
I walk out to the beach. A man sitting in a small post lets me out and I follow a wooden path out to a beachfront restaurant. The tide is high and the water comes right up to the edge of the path. I step out to take some photos, with the intent of touching the water with my hands. A series of waves washes up on the sand and I am too slow to get out of the way. The surf soaks my shoes.
I walk back to the hotel. The man at his post lets me in the gate. In my room, I unpack a few things and start thinking about what to bring tomorrow, the start of my tour. I do a little writing and photo editing and then decide to head to the pool.
I change into my swimsuit just as it starts to rain outside. The late-afternoon light lights the hotel yellow.
Back at the spa I decide to give myself a Christmas present and book a massage and hammam scrub. The attendant asks which I’d like first. I ask for her advice. Hammam first, she decides. She leads me to a massage room and shows me how to use the safe, using 1234 as an example. I copy her to make sure I understood and she tells me not to use 1234 as my code. I need to select my own. We laugh and I nod and I change into a little speedo-type garment that she’s given me.
She leads me to the sauna and turns it on, telling me it’ll be hot in about five minutes. She asks if I want coffee and I say yes. Sugar? A little bit. No, no sugar. She comes back with the coffee and a water and asks if I’d like some baklava. Yes, please.
I eat and drink and lay down in the sauna and wait for her to return. When she comes back she takes me to the hammam, telling me to shower. The woman will be in soon. I’m a little surprised it’s a woman who will be performing the hammam duties. I’ve only ever seen men inside. She scrubs and washes me, but there’s no beating with palm fronds. It’s incredibly relaxing and when she taps me on my shoulder to turn over I think it’s part of the treatment and don’t move. She laughs when I understand her instructions asking me if I’ve fallen asleep. Almost.
Afterwards she leads me to the massage room and hands me a fresh pair of shorts to change into. The massuese enters and bids me lay down. Once again, I find myself drifting as she continues my treatment.
I have two choices of dinner, an a la carte restaurant and a buffet. I check out the buffet first and then opt for the a la carte. I’m the only one in the restaurant; everyone else seems to have chosen the buffet. I order a seafood cous cous, which comes in a tagine. It’s delicious.
I retire to my room. The phone rings. A woman is on the other end. Hello, I say. Bonsoir, she says. Hello? she hangs up. Shortly after there’s a knock on the door. An attendant holds a tray with an aluminum-foil pyramid on it. It’s a cake, she says. I don’t understand. She undoes the foil to show me. Happy new year! she says. And also to you. 🇹🇳
