Mirror, mirror on the wall, who is the fairest one of all?

We are having a cultural extravaganza next week, wherein one of the activities is a African and Middle Eastern fashion show. I wish I had my dress from Qatar! But, no I was sure I wouldn't need it so, it's in Minnesota. Damn it. Well the instructor organizing the fashion show has tons of clothes. All the volunteer models, about 20 of us, crowded into a classroom this afternoon to pick out clothing for said fiesta. I will wear all sort of crazy things; I mean I was a Spanish teacher, and you remember how your high school language teachers dressed, right? Well, for some reason the instructor organizing said event was dead set on having me wear the Abaya. "You know the pretty black dresses from Saudi?" she says. "No, I don't know, pretty? To what could you possibly be referring?" I did not say that. Nor did I say: "That is not clothing. That could be a blanket, a bed sheet, or something to cover a dead body on the side of the road. But it's not clothing." I ever so diplomatically refrained from saying all these things. "Oh but the clothes from Africa are so much prettier," said I, holding up the awesome loud patterned outfit from Nigeria. How could she argue, we're in Africa! Yet, she rolled her eyes, appearing to be vexed that a person would have a very strong preference for Nigerian clothing as opposed to elegant Saudi ghost-ware. Sorry, one is culture; the other is erasure. Hijab it up all you want, I can't do the Abaya. So I'm going as a Nigerian, a tad to the North would have been my preference, but it is far superior to anything Saud-related. She went huffing off to push the Abaya on someone else.

I interpreted the little tiff between us as one relating to my dislike of Saudi apparel. I now think she was offended at my effusive praise of all things West Africa. I have inferred this from her behavior with my friend Clementine. Twice this instructor came into our classroom to beg people to participate in said fashion show. Twice Clementine arrived to these little planning parties, and the usthada claims that none of her clothes are right for Clementine. She says this as she stands over mounds of clothing sizes ranging from Parisian to Texan, and made of every imaginable combination of colors on earth. Clementine is from Rwanda, and she tells me that this, i.e. unclear but seemingly racist behavior (well, I guess the woman could also object to Catholic nuns) is not uncommon here. My friend Myriam was so fortunate as to have this person as an instructor in class. She related to me that the instructor made disparaging comments about Tunisian men often. Myriam's father is Tunisian; clearly she did not appreciate the remarks. This teacher told her class that she hoped to marry a French or Italian man. So apparently this women has her "colors" all line up like ducks, Arabs ahead of blacks but behind the Europeans.

It's odd to observe racism outside of America and outside of the context of slavery. Certainly slavery has existed in North Africa, but it does not press upon the collective subconscious in the same way. I couldn't even get my teachers in the winter term to tell me how to say racism in Arabic. But now I can say it properly now, only because we covered Palestine this term. So I now can correctly refer to Israel's "Separation Wall of Racism." Perhaps leaning towards the hyperbolic, but aptly named.

Just the other night I was walking back to my apartment with a group of Tunisians. I was observing that we made a rather attractive group. The two women were both stunning; one tall, thin, gorgeous, long black silky hair, and the other is short, tiny, kind of reminds me of Rosie Perez. The gentleman were handsome as well, if a little less so than the girls. In particular one very, very handsome bald guy (you know, the type, he might look good with hair, but he's so hot bald that he should never let it grow!). Well on our way home from a boisterous night of karaoke, dancing and coffee (I kid not, this location did not serve alcohol!), we were discussing colonialism. At one point, referring to some particularly disastrous error made by white people the hot bald guy makes a comment about how "nous les blancs" have ruined the world. I had not previously thought of him as white or non-white. It didn't really register, mostly I thought of him as hot. When he said it, I realized, oh yeah, he's white. Whereas not everyone in the group could be so-defined. One such non-white member of group, Omar (incidentally one of the best dancers I have ever had the pleasure of partying with. Did I mention that we only drank coffee?), well, Omar and his enormous, gorgeous afro took a warmhearted offense to the comment. He kept repeating, "oooh nous les blancs." It all seemed innocent, but a weird dynamic had been established. Baldy was somehow aligning with me, hence "nous." He didn't say "you Americans," he said "we white people" have fucked things up. I wondered, does he consider his girlfriend (tall gorgeous one) white? She could pass for Spanish, Brazilian, but she also kind of looks like Catherine Zeta Jones. Try defining Arabs on color line, it's impossible. You could be a Sudanese imam from Khartoum, a red headed Circassian from Iraq, or the new Miss America who is Lebanese-American. Don't ask me where to put Shakira or Queen Latifah (hey, her name is Arab!).

I traveled in the southern part of Tunisia in March with a classmate of mine who is Japanese. I was shocked at the comments we got, way worse than when I walk around with Italians or Spanish girls. People were addressing their non-polite comments to both of us, and I realized that I was passing for Asian. This was closer to when I first dyed my hair and it was nearly black. With glasses on, I guess I can kind of see it. And, thanks, I'll take it as a compliment. Hey, my best friend from grade school is Korean and she's one of the most beautiful women I know! Well, unfortunately passing for Asian is not a good thing in Tunisia. It's possible that I heard more "konnichiwas" and "ni haos" over two weeks with Eri than the combined "hellos," "saluts," and chiao bellas" of the past four months. Plus these aren't nice hellos. They are derisive and meant to cause discomfort.

One of my classmates in my Tunisian Dialect class is Hungarian and she is married to a Tunisian man. She told me that she mother-in-law loves her blond hair and seems to prefer her to her sister-in-law, who is Tunisian. However the sister of the sister-in-law apparently has very dark skin and the kids in the family think it's funny to call her the maid. To her face. The whole family finds this funny.

Before I died my hair, I was complimented on it quite often, and usually by women. I met a young college student from the town of Beja while we were volunteering with the nuns, in helping them rescue library books that had been damaged in a fire. While applying a hair drier to moldy copies of Najib Mahfouz novels, she mooned over my eyes and told me she always asked God why he didn't give her blue eyes.

With these antediluvian, yet apparently ubiquitous beauty standards in mind, I'm rethinking my initial objection to the Abaya. I now see some value in removing one's self from this un-winnable game, and hiding under a blanket.

On not speaking Tunisian Dialect

All my photos of Tunisia thus far are rather pretty. I know that this is a "bad" traveling habit of mine. I tend to take pictures of pretty things. Cooler, edgy people take pictures of garbage, dilapidated buildings and old men without teeth. Yet, in my desire to show off my pretty new surrounding, I have failed to post photos of dirty streets, graffiti, and mangy stray cats (so plentiful here that they may outnumber Minnesota mosquitoes in August). I also tend to clean up my reporting. Everything is cool, neat, fun... eew. The ugly stuff is often more interesting, so I will attempt to address some of my unintentional censorship.

I have every intention of getting myself organized and starting to learn some Tunisian Arabic. For the time being I am concentrating on upcoming exams, that I will likely fail since I missed the first 5 weeks of the 10 week term. C'est la vie. Nevertheless I have found one very notable benefit of not speaking Tunisian dialect yet. I have not gotten into any fights with people in the street because my language skills are bad enough that my desire not to sound stupid is trumping my desire to spew verbal invective (redundant, I know!) upon the many high class gentlemen who find it acceptable to verbally harass women in the streets. Now, any woman who has traveled to oh, say, shit-loads of places where the weather tends to be nice and the opinions of foreign women less so, will be unsurprised and unimpressed with this report. And I will not even attempt to compete with any woman, foreign or otherwise, who has spent more than three nanoseconds in Egypt. Tunisia is not comparable, and I'm not saying it is. It is really very easy to live here. Yet, the comments in the street, which no doubt the speakers themselves think of as benign, are obnoxious and make me want to punch men in the face. Nearly every man I've actually met has been incredibly friendly, open and accommodating. Yet, yet, I have not walked a distance of more six feet outside without being the target of some annoying "tse-tse" "madame, blah, blah," or generally ignorant comment. Sadly, these warm-ish places wherein such male behavior is plentiful and acceptable include large parts of Spain, Italy, I think a good chunk of everything boarding the Mediterranean, Central America, Venezuela.... Ladies, have you other places to add to the list? I spent a few weeks in Jordan and Syria, and experienced relatively few such comments. One guy actually said "Did it hurt when you fell" to which I replied yes, because I was limping from a recent ankle sprain. "No," he says, "when you fell from Heaven". Goofy, but not offensive. So I give Jordan and Syria gold stars in this category. Niger, Benin and Mali, fall into an entirely different category where people, no! clarification: not people, men -women never, ever engage in this harassing of people in the streets! Well the men in West Africa just kinda holler after all white people, regardless of sex. "Anassara, anassara." Yes, you have impressive visual skills. I am white, good job you! While annoying, it feels significantly less creepy and more related to your-whiteness-as-novelty and less related to men's very un-amusing sexual frustrations. I hate these comments, whether the tsk, tsk hissing sounds, or ear scratchingly bad attempts at English. I will never get used to them and I fantasize about ways to respond. Here are some of the things that I've wanted to say but didn't:

"Leave me alone, you are going to have far better luck with a goat."

"Gentlemen, sirs, I find you and your behavior so attractive that I would rather have sex with a cactus."

"Have you nothing to do? Is that why you are able to follow us all around this town on a sunny, glorious afternoon. Have you no job, no studies, can't you go play soccer somewhere? I'm sorry that you are so pitiful. I, on the other hand, have done and continue to do and accomplish many interesting and challenging things in my life. Things you will not accomplish because you are able to spend entire days following foreign women through the streets of your city. I'm going somewhere, you aren't. Move, you are in my way."

So annoyed have I been with said gentlemen, that I'm starting to think that this one Spanish girl a few levels about me is really cute. Of course, I think this may be illegal. So when I wanted to tell one guy that I'd take any woman on earth over him, it's a good thing I couldn't say it! I did pull out one "jódate, hijo de puta." Which I thoroughly enjoyed. Although there are many Spaniards here, so I may have to adjust and switch to chíngate.

In an feeble effort to lessen this serious irritant, I've dyed my hair. It's almost black. I love it. Wouldn't you find a woman with Elvira-hair-color more intimidating? I'll report back of effectiveness of said plan.

Corner of Rue Sakiet Sidi Youssef and Rue Atlas

The cold showers, sharing a room with strangers, and creepy encounters with four-foot tall man smoking constantly in the foyer has ended as I now live in an actual apartment, in a very nice neighborhood in central Tunis. Having spent a good portion of my first week and a half searching for more suitable housing, I found myself facing a pleasant dilemma. I could share an apartment (and a bedroom-eeks) with a Tunisian girl I had recently met. This apartment was tiny, almost a studio, unfurnished (that means no refrigerator, stove or oven here!), and had a kitchen the size of my baby toe (if you've ever seen my feet you know that my toes are abnormally small). However by living with a Tunisian, I would be able to work on my language skills, and most importantly this apartment has a terrace that could easily host a party of 30, and you'd want to invite at least that many since it overlooks the Mediterranean. As in, from the apartment, which is located on the top floor of a large house in an all blue-and-white, palm tree-lined neighborhood, one can see the ocean. Fine technically, sea, whatever, gorgeous no matter what you call it! Plus did I mention that the rent was insanely cheap? I won't tell you how much, because I would like to have some friends when I return to the U.S.

It took herculean strength for me to put all romantic notions of overlooking the ocean aside in order to choose the far more reasonable option. I am now living in the lap of luxury with the coolest Swiss girl ever (of course, I hate her a bit cause she speaks 6 languages, but love her too because she is opinionated, funny, and nearly as chatty as me). Her two bedroom apartment (which means I have my own room) is completely furnished, has microwave and washing machine (how many years did I not have a washing machine in Boston?). Plus I would have had to take the metro (yes, I was shocked too. Tunis has a Metro! And it's pretty decent. How many American cities do not have metros?) about 25 minutes and then walk about 20 minutes to class. So, that's basically the same length of my commute from Roxbury to Newtown. Of course, I told myself, I did not exactly have a seaside villa in Roxbury; the Reggie Lewis Center cannot quite compete with white sand and palm trees. Well, despite my burning desire to see the Mediterranean every day, I opted for convenience and the joy of not having to fight the system in order to set up hot water, internet, and buy a stove, something I've never done, and am not interested in trying for the first time in North Africa!

The ocean is still very nearby, so I can visit it when I so choose. However, nothing, nothing can compare to waking up at 7:45 and arriving on time every day to my classes at 8:00. My commute is roughly 2.3 city blocks. To makes things more glorious, every morning for just over a week, Ester, my new favorite person on planet earth, has made me a delicious cup of Nescafe. And no, I normally don't like Nescafe, but she makes it very strong and I awake to the intoxicating smell of caffeine, glorious caffeine! It's so nice, I cannot begin to express how happy it makes me. So, the moral of this rather overdue update is that with surprising speed and acumen, I have established a life of routine and even normalcy. I begin the day with coffee that was prepared for me, continue onto Arabic classes that are really advanced for me, then coffee break at 10:45 at the cafe next to the Bourguiba Institute, then home to make lunch with SuperWoman who happens to be a great cook. I now can make a really great Risotto! In the afternoons, I do errands, hang my wash on the roof and admire my neighborhood, or have my 18th cup of coffee overlooking the lake at the Park Belvedere. At night I study (en principe) in my cozy apartment and it feels like I actually live here. I also like the fact that the apartment is located near the corner of Rue Sakiet Sidi Youssef and Rue Atlas. I've always liked the image of someone carrying the whole world on his shoulders. Somehow I never imagine that it's heavy, rather full of good stories.

My life as a Never Nude!

Yes, I am in a Muslim country and I had no intention of coming here and being naked a lot. Nevertheless, I had no idea how infrequently I would be seeing more than three square inches of my skin at a time. I am never nude here because it is really, really cold. When I sleep at night, I am typically wearing two pairs of pajama pants, multiple shirts and/or sweater, and just one pair of socks. The only part of my body visible at night is my face, since I pull the strings of my sleeping bag so tight it leaves no space but for my nose and mouth in order to breathe. But then my nose gets really cold, so often I cover my face with my silk sleeping bag liner. (Thank you nice helpful guy at REI, that silk sleeping bag liner is totally worth $70. I can't think of another $70 object that has given my so much pleasure. An object that keeps me warm at night is akin to one that saves me from being eaten alive by sharks.) The silk liner is breathable, so you can put it over your face and breathe just fine. After my sleeping bag is set up, I have one hostel blanket under me and another over me. I look like a mummy, but I’m nice and cozy. After all this work to be warm at night, when I get up in the morning I can see my breath in the air of this fancy this hostel room. It really is a beautiful hostel (look at the photos, pretty no?); it’s an old Arab style house in the medina with lots of character, but zero warmth. Of course this is largely due to the fact that the functioning heater sitting in my room is not turned on. The nice proprietor is trying to save money. Thanks, buddy, you are super-cool. So since I can see my breath in the room, you can image how badly I want to take my clothes off. I do not. So I remove one of my two pajama pants, and pull jeans on over my cotton fish patterned pjs. Then I take off just one of the two or three sweaters I’ve worn to bed, leaving on the ones closest to my body and therefore still warm from my night sleep. Then I throw another sweater and usually two scarves on.

It’s cold here, but it is hard to paint an accurate picture of this chill. The daily temperatures fluctuate between the low 40s and maybe the mid 50s. But it is damp, everyone at the hostel has a cold, a hacking, gross sounding one, my teachers are sick too. It rains a little bit every day, just enough to make you chilly and uncomfortable. Everyone wears coats everywhere and no one takes them off inside. I wear two, the light spring time coat I brought and the down jacket I thought I’d only be using in London. I nearly considered leaving it there, thank god I didn't. Since it is damp everywhere the coats never really dry. Well nothing does really, so I’ve learned when trying to hand wash some items of clothing. This is no West Africa where washed clothing dry in less than an hour.

So since I try not to remove any clothing, or I make necessary switches from the warmth of my sleeping bag, you can image how much I want to take all my clothes off and get into a shower. I do not. Particularly since the water is often barely warmer than the air. Therefore, I have taken 3 showers in the past week and a half. And you would have too if it were 30 degrees outside at night and 30 degrees in the shower as well with a water temperature of 50. Well, my lack of showering is not gross as I have fabulous hair that takes a long time to get greasy. My hair was actually in training for this lack of shower business while at home over the holidays. If you’ve never been to Minnesota in December and/or January, you might be surprised to hear that it can be very cold. So while at home eating inhuman amounts of cookies, I rarely showered, because the bathroom is a rather cool room, and well, I didn’t want to be naked it in. So, back to the three showers in Tunis, I am furthermore not disgusting because I don’t think I have sweat since I was walking the Camino in September. Actually, that is disgusting but more for cookie-eating and not exercising reasons than for smelling bad reasons. So that means I should find a gym here, but it says nothing about how I smell, which is just fine, thanks.

So if anyone has asked me to describe myself as a character from Arrested Development, it certainly wouldn't have been Tobias. Until now, cause now I empathize, sometimes it's no fun to be naked. Seriously, even in the shower I try to curl up in little ball-like positions so that smaller portions of my skin are exposed to the air. I am going to a hammam this week, and I think I’m not even allowed to be naked there.

Consistent Cars and Shifting Continents

At the age of 16 I spent part of the summer in Lyon, France. I had completed exactly 8 months of studying French prior to my arrival, and I sounded like it. In an effort to help me acclimate to my lovely surroundings, Renault decided to name one of its models le Megane. Ever since I learned of this, I've had a great, cheeky introduction for myself in every somewhat-semi-pseudo Francophone country I have subsequently visited. Je m'appelle Megan, comme la voiture. Boof, ha, ha, ha, Megane,like the car! I admit, it is an odd association to encourage people to make. Plus what if people are thinking of the Megane hatchback instead of the fashionable coupe cabriolet? Well in Tunis the Megane is alive and well and one can be found in a variety of incarnations on nearly every street. I look for them, so I know. Seeing (almost) my name printed on a car gives me warm fuzzies; it's like a little welcome back sign to a place I'd never previously been! Also it's convenient because no one forgets my name. On the other hand Renault also named a car Twingo, so maybe I should stop associating myself with them.

I appreciate Le Megane because my name sounds familiar to people when it would otherwise not. When traveling one usually expects that no one will be able to pronounce your name, so it is pleasant when the opposite is true. Yet, while we don't expect people to sound the same, dress the same, or have the same opinions on personal hygiene, we make all sorts of assumptions about how people think. And we rarely realize we are doing this. For example, I had never considered that people count the continents differently. This week there was a not quite heated, yet not at all dispassionate discussion in my Arabic class on the number of continents. The Italians and Spanish say America is one continent and Australia is part of the continent of Oceania, and is not at all a continent itself. The Japanese and Rwanda girls says no, America is two, north and south (which is certainly what I learned in grade school). Yet the Japanese girls puts Europe and Asia together into Eurasia, which makes sense, they are connected. The Europeans were having none of this connecting Europe and Asia business and they insisted that America is one continent. Having never considered it before, I arrived at the conclusion that you can count the continents as you want, but be consistent with how you draw the distinctions. If you divide the Americas into two then it makes since to divide Europe and Asia. If the Americas are one, why are you diving Europe from Russia, because of some mountains? C'mon, have you ever seen how skinny Panama looks on a map? Plus didn't we dig a hole in it and so actually there's a crack, and the two land masses are in fact divided? Yeah, but it's still pretty connected. Isn't Europe and Russia? Well, this is where the conversation went, no where.

Five continents, six, seven, whatever, why the fuss? No one seemed willing, or able to go "oh I see how some people could count Asia and Europe as part of one continent. I never thought of it before." Or "Oh, Oceania instead of Australia, yeah that makes sense, where else would all those islands go?" There was a lot of stubborn, unwillingness to consider another point of view. I guess it remains true that the naming things is very important to us. We take certain pleasure in naming and categorizing the world around us. It gives us some since of control and order. Even in class, once I know what to call something in Arabic, I have power over the word, I've named it and I feel a sense of ownership. Mustaqbil, you are mine! Apparently we feel similarly when things are named after us. I would be crushed if all the Meganes were suddenly changed to Twingos.

My life as a five year old

Even if you refuse to admit it, I bet you've read parts of one of those little platitude books sitting in a friend's bathroom. You know the books I mean, those with all the aphorisms extolling the wisdom of children and celebrating childlike wonder. While I hesitate to make the comparison to soup-for-soul literature (and I hope you aren't reading this in the bathroom), I must admit that living abroad on a whim and attempting to function in a language that I ever so slightly speak, has led me to compare myself with the 1983 mini-me for a multitude of reasons. Let me enumerate.

1. Making new friends makes me feel special. I have three new friends who are actually Tunisian (girls at that!). It is very nice to have people who appear to like me, and want to buy me coffee all the time and summarily ignore my offers to reciprocate. Never before whilst traveling or studying abroad have I made friends so quickly. I feel that this is a great accomplishment (the friends, not the getting-them to buy me coffee part -that's a forgone conclusion here). But I am perhaps overestimating my attractiveness as a friend, I think my new-found friendship may have more to do with the fact that people from Arab cultures are far warmer than Western media would have us think.

2. I am amazed and very pleased with myself for accomplishing small things. I bought a cell phone on my very first day in Tunis. I was gleeful as I walked out of the Tunisiana store, after a successful Franco-Arab interaction with the shop keeper. I took one look at the instructions in Arabic, laughed and turned it over to read the instructions in French. Okay, so it did take me awhile to figure out how to send texts, and fine, even longer to realize that you can't get voice mail. It appears that you need to ask for it specially and pay extra. Nevertheless, once I mastered the complicated settings of my Nokia, that I can only imagine is the first version they ever designed, I now can call and text the aforementioned friends. Thus making it easier to have friends since we can make plans for them to buy me coffee.

3. Police officers are your friends. I haven't exactly espoused this opinion for awhile, but here I can't help but like them! I love their outfits, dark blue with neat white writing, love that I can read them (Shurta), and love that there are tons of female police officers and that they tend to have great hair! Tough and stylish women, fabulous! I have asked many a police officer for directions and they have always smiled (in a nice and not leering way!), helped, and been nice about my formal Arabic and bad attempts at colloquial. When I see officers, I feel safe. And it doesn't hurt that they never heckle, try to make me pay a lot for something, or call me madame. How funny would it be if I made a I-heart-Tunis-police-department tee-shirt. Funnier still if I did it in Arabic and then get stopped in the airport.

4. I am scared of my teachers and I really want them to like me. I feel like I literally shiver when am admonished (i.e. corrected) by my professors. When they praise me, or even appear to approve, I am easily elated. So simple, so obvious, so true: we all just want to know that we are doing well. That what we are improving, growing, and worthy of a few compliments. And we want the compliments to come from a reliable source. I don't believe what anyone says to me in the souks. My teachers, I believe. And I want them to approve.

5. At no point in time do I feel that I am adequately communicating my feelings, desires, needs. This is monumentally frustrating. While trying to have meaningful conversations,I imagine myself floating above, watching and rolling my eyes as I awkwardly struggle to address the most benign of topics. I feel like a baby crying because I'm just thirsty, and no one will pass me the water that is two inches away but I can't reach it 'cause I am a baby. I'm on one side of the wall and I can't figure out how to get to the other side. Waah.

6. When what comes easily to adults (i.e. buying phones, talking about the weather, not getting lost) is challenging for me, as a five-year-old. These simple challenges can put one on a constant emotional roller coaster of fear, self doubt (I am in the wrong class? can I do this?) and regret (should I have gone to another country? one with a more useful colloquial? Shit, I should have listened to those nice boys who told me not to walk down this street!). Then you swing to the other end, in only moments, and find everything charming and lovely (the bougainvillea is so fragrant, the minarets so elegant, mmm this coffee is delish). So like a kid, I'm easily pleased, happy to have a bed, food and a few people to chat with, but also am quick to frustration and irrational moodiness. Luckily if I am being crabby, few will understand and therefore will not be affected.

7. Emotional roller coaster notwithstanding, everything is fascinating. The colors of the buildings as the sun sets, the crazy looking trees on Avenue Bourguiba that look like Maurice Sendak invented them, the sound of the call to prayer starting at slightly off times, so that it's as if a bunch of imams decided to perform it in rounds a la kindergarten music class. Even the toilets are interesting. Generally, there is no toilet paper in bathrooms. Many people buy little tissues packets and keep them in their pockets for hygienic bathroom purposes. But if you so chose, you can forgo the paper and use the little hose next to the toilet to wash off with nice, chilly water. It's, er, quite refreshing. I am imagining that it might be more fun when it's hot out. Now, I realize that this statement, about how cool it is not to have toilet paper, makes me sound like Alec Baldwin's character when he made a guest appearance on Friends as Phoebe's boyfriend. Remember, he was like, "oh the traffic jam looks like a million little fireflies," or some such thing. Well, no, I'm not that irritatingly positive. For example I am failing to find the beauty and depth of human experience in the general lack of hot water at my temporary home of the youth hostel. Also, I dislike and will continue to dislike being called madame. So, I am not so annoyingly pleased and bright-eyed with everything. Just most things. Like the toilets.

8. There have to be 8 things, cause that is my favorite number. So the eighth thing is: I imagined that I could do something else. Whatever the hell "else" is. I thought recently that I wasn't done exploring. So I'm here and it is certainly something else. My friend Betsy gave me this awesome card when I began my wandering. It read "Leap and the net will appear," a proverb from some great people. I jumped, and the net just showed up.

Inevitably getting lost in Souks

On my first Saturday in Tunis I went on what turned out to be a fruitless hunt for some books and a UBS drive. In order to do said errands I foolishly decided to walk through the Medina in the early afternoon. The souks are crowded during the week, but having never seen the state of things on the weekend, I forgive myself for failing to anticipate the pandemonium that is the medina on a Saturday at 1p.m. I've never been to the World Cup, but being pushed along the twisted little roads in the souks made me wonder if people have ever been trampled to death in a market. There were times when I was so smashed in between an array of veiled grandmothers, teenagers in Armani, and thickly pomaded hair-dos that my feet were not on the ground for several steps. I turned one corner in a mob of about 20 people were smashing into one another, as another group one row tried to go up Rue de la Kasbah and the other, including myself, tried to move down the same street. The stall owners stood along the sidelines yelling "Amshee, Amshee." Walk, walk. I had to bit my cheeks to avoid laughing, walking was just what people were trying to do. Seriously, this activity could drive a Bostonian to madness. When my "row" was finally expelled from the Medina and we dispersed into the courtyard at Port de la France, I felt as thought some large mythical-souk creature had given birth to a bunch of baby rats.

On my way back to l'auberge, I very intelligently decided to take an alternate route. I took another entrance into the medina, and headed in what I knew to be the generally correct direction. I turned onto a few unfamiliar corners and headed right down a rather crowded street. I thought nothing of the group of about 4 sixteen year old boys yelling at me in French: "no, no madame." Which I ignored, because, well men yelling at me has not exactly been a rare occurrence. I walked about 30 feet and passed directly in front of a sort of store front, with two wide doors open onto the street. About three feet from me were an array of women in skin tight shorts and bras grabbing at men from the street and offering massages. Ah. Got it. Sorry nice group of high-schoolers! Now I see why you did not want me walking down this street. I should have listened to you! It is a familiar frustration from various travels, it can be hard to know when to ignore people yelling at you and when to pay attention! Luckily I now know where to find the red light district in Tunis should anyone need directions.

Palm trees, Fennecs and the Synagogue in Tunis

Yesterday afternoon, after three days in a gray-skied London, I left the warmth of my friend's cozy apartment for the Auberge des Jeunesse in the Tunis Medina. On the seemingly infinite ride from the London Bridge tube station to Heathrow, I briefly flirted with the idea of staying awhile longer. Why was I leaving a guest bedroom, with enormous and insanely comfortable queen-sized bed, my own bathroom with endless supply of hot water, and an amazing array of teas and heavenly Italian coffee? Just to complicate the decision, they've got more wine and champagne in the fridge than food, and there's a parade of Scotch bottles (really good Scotch) lined up next to the hutch in the dining room. Tempted as I was, I continued onto Heathrow because as fly-by-my-pants as I may be, I'm not one to forgo purchased tickets.

So this evening, I'm sitting on a red and black, thick woven rug that is covering a small wooden bench in a tiny little foyer in my auberge in the old city of Tunis. And yes, there is wireless internet but logically no hot water. The decor does not disappoint with blue, yellow and white tiled walls, marble floors, and tiny warm lights illuminating the room from multiple stained glass lanterns on the walls. It's nice to sit after a long day of wandering all over the city. It was warm and sunny in a North African afternoon in February sort of way. Wearing jeans, a sweater (long one!), and light jacket and scarf my body was warm but my cheeks were cold. The slightly dusty streets are lined with palm trees, framed by a backdrop of white buildings, with blue doors, and cloudless sky.

As I meandered about, looking for the language institute where I am scheduled to take classes in about two months, a woman stopped to see if I needed help. I asked for the location of the school and Leila did not simply point me in the right direction, she walked me directly to the front steps. On our way she pointed to a large building and said there's the kineesa. I looked up at the huge building, with golden letters in Hebrew and an enormous star of David above the wrought iron gates. Ah, yes the kineesa, church. After my administrative errand, I walked back to the synagogue, fascinated that it was such a large, prominent building in the middle of town, and yet people seemed unaware of what it was. I asked the armed shurta, policeman, standing in front of the gate if it was open and could I enter? He asked if I was Jewish. Not sure if this was a trick, I said "No, ana mesrihee." I'm Christian. He very nicely replied that the synagogue was only open to the Jewish community. Curious, I might come back some Friday to spy.

I ended the afternoon with a trip to the zoo, because I'm apparently five years old. Well, I happened to walk right by, it cost less than a dollar and I wanted to see if they had any Fennecs. I was pleasantly surprised by the range of animals and the trip served as a helpful language review (because money is an important word to know!). After seeing multiple types of lake and river hippos, a large and scary rhinoceros, lots of camels, emus, beautiful gazelles, and peacocks flying all over the place uninhibited by cages, I found the fennec. It's a small desert fox, with white-creamy coat, huge adorable ears. They were jumping all over each other, biting each other and playing like kittens. The large number of giggling, actual five-year-olds seemed to like them just as much as I did.

Now as I finish these notes, I'm chatting with a group of fellow auberge-goers who are Iranian, Turkish, Canadian, and Spanish. I am going to let you go because we are getting into a great conversation about the amazing pulpo (octopus) from Melide in Northern Spain.

Keylessness

There are various things that a typical person my age has: house, apartment, car, job, closet, bed. For the first time, in a long time, I have none of these things and I cannot lock anything. I have no keys: no house keys, apartment keys, car keys, no keys to the office. I can’t even lock my luggage, since TSA would break the locks anyway. I currently live and work nowhere and my keylessness thrills and terrifies me. A few months ago I finished paying off my college loans, having made my goal that I would do so at 30. I always rented and since I was a high school language teacher, this was very wise. Living in a city with generally reliable mass transit, I never needed, and never bought a car. (Okay, with the exception of the ‘93 Geo metro I “bought” from a former roommate for, I think, $300. But attempting not to die for about 5 months in the pop-can-on-wheels should not count as owning a car.) I have no credit card debit, since I’m fairly type A, and could not imagine not paying the whole amount each month (plus, why would I give CapitalOne charity? They are annoying and never answer my calls). There are no companies, businesses, organizations that care where I am or what I do.

I’ve cut the professional strings as well. For a few years I taught at a very nice, unabashedly liberal high school. And teaching is great, 'till parents think they are buying grades, student plagiarize books that you specifically worn them against plagiarizing, and the administration believes that computers can teach better than humans. True, but it’s also true that I had it pretty good. I had complete creative freedom in my classroom and my students were curious, well-behaved and engaging. Perhaps it was restlessness or that malaise that comes from a relatively comfortable life in which a person seeks and fails to find meaning. Well, rather than continue with a relatively nice but somewhat unsatisfying situation, I quit. I left a secure, pleasant-enough job in 2009, genius move, no? I also left my nice, clean, large, sunny and affordable apartment with great roommates. Decidedly un-me things to do as I’ve been a planner since the age of 8 when I never left the house without band-aids and Bacitracin. I did this in order to what? Audition for American Idol, become a great chef or discover my hidden passion for spelunking? No, yes, maybe, no idea? Lacking a coherent plan, I decided to travel in a disorganized, whimsical, not-me-like fashion. I am in my sixth month of general wandering. I’ve largely made decisions of where to go and what to do based on what languages I speak and where I could not lose all of my fat-cat teacher salary savings. So I began by hiking in Spain, the Camino de Santiago (yes, it’s as amazing as everyone says). I wandered a bit in Italy, and liked it less than Spain. I visited friends and my roots in Ireland, where the scenery is beautifully melancholic and the coffee is far worse than in Italy. I couldn’t resist the pull of home, family and delicious food for Christmas. Then I skied and did some dog sledding in the frozen, crystal wonderland that is Northern Minnesota. Today I’m in London where I can stay with a friend and go to museums for free. In a few days I’ll be heading to North Africa, where I know no one and have never been. I might love it. I might hate it. Both will probably be true.

Every person who asks where I live or what I am doing thinks this is all very cool. They say they are jealous. They wish they could do it, but, you know, with jobs, kids, mortgages, bills….. “Yes,” I acknowledge, being a grown-up has draw-backs but it has serious benefits and that’s why only crazy people let go of the security that all these things provide. In not quitting you have what people always seek: security, routine, the known world. Sure, the known world can bore us. And we think we want adventure and intrigue. It’s fair to say that I’ve had adventure and intrigue in many of my little experiences along the way, but I've spent my fair share of time being a bit terrified. While the unknown may hold adventure, it is fundamentally scary, so we avoid it.

As an avid organizer, list-writer, and folder-of-my-clothes-the-moment-the-drier-cycle-ends, not knowing where I’m sleeping in a few nights challenges me in innumerable ways. Idiotic or not, for now, I remain homeless and keyless with all things in my life unlocked, while I wander around and imagine what else might be possible.