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.