Tunis runs on two speeds at once whether you ask it to or not: the UNESCO medina, all narrow alleys and souk noise, and the hermetically cheerful world of the all-inclusive where we were staying. Smoke, spice, brass, and ceramics pile up in the lanes; vendors haggle as if it were a civic duty. I enjoyed the assault in short visits, then fled back to chlorine, buffets, and air-conditioning without pretending the two halves belonged together.
The hotel was exactly what that genre promises — long tables of food, pools you do not quite earn, and a lobby that feels like a departure lounge for people who are not departing. I am not snobbish about it on holiday; it is a machine for rest, and after a few hours in the medina the machine had its uses.
In the souks, stallholders pushed flowing robes and were quick to mention Star Wars — these are everyday clothes here, but the films hang over the country, so why not suggest yours once shared a wardrobe with a Jedi? We smiled, declined, and walked on. It took me the better part of another decade before I had a robe of my own; when it finally happened, the Lucasfilm connection no longer mattered. It was just comfortable.
The pool was real; the postcard glow in my head looks more like this.