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.