Today began in a rather mundane fashion but developed slowly, as all good things do here, toward a very surprising and most pleasant finale. After knocking out the obligatory Sunday chores - laundry pick up, grocery and cat supply shopping at monoprix- I headed over to the Bardo Museum for a tourist experience. I won't drive my few dear readers away by detailing each piece. Just know the museum showcases Roman period Tunisian art from the Carthage area. Included here are a few of my favorites. The museum was airy and open with large round vaulted arches at every room entrance and ethereal flowing white staircases spiraling to each floor. I nearly enjoyed the graceful architecture of the building as much as the art itself. As it was under renovation, only about half of the museum was available for tour though they did manage to relocate many of the pieces temporarily to allow for viewing. Though I did break out 3 TD for a guided recording of the exhibit rather than the 25TD live guide, I found it difficult to pay much attention to the audio as I was often interrupted by self appointed "tour guides" offering low grade art history lessons in return for a little spare change. I did get some none too flattering photos of myself out of the deal. I blame the camera operator. You decide for yourself. 
The Louvre this is not- but the tiny ceramic tilework really is fantastic stuff. I would probably be more impressed if I knew what I was looking at. Like I said I tried. As I wound up the tour back at the guide station, a relatively young Tunisian man with a very intense look about him began to query me in very good English about the sordid details of my life and reasons for being in Tunis and, more directly, what I was searching for in the museum this day. I told him I was playing the part of the tourist for a bit, but had much broader ambitions for my 8 month sojourn. This began a long conversation encompassing truth, politics, Americanism, Jewishness, 9/11 conspiracies, Iranian affairs, atheistic Shiites, women's rights, and a host of other topics. I suggested we take our discussion to a cafe if he knew of one nearby. So we sat for a couple hours sipping espresso under an unusually cloudy summer Tunisian sky with a blustery wind keeping me comfortably cool and Ibrahim mildly disconcerted. As we sat, a gathering crowd - men only - began to surround us as a Tunis club soccer match started on TV. He informed me it was the Prophet - not Bourgiba -who gave Tunisian women their exalted status. While he confesses women are sacred, the unusual liberties that females are afforded by the constitution are not to his liking. He said he chooses not to be married because a wife must stay at home and the man must make enough money to support her. When he informed me the average wage for a blue collar worker in Tunis was about 400 TD a month, it took all i could manage not to spit my espresso out. I saw his dilemma. To compensate for his lack of marital status, he claimed to have 6 girlfriends. Very nice. Whether true or not --this type of hyper-masculine talk seems to dominate much of men's conversations from what I observed later on. Or maybe he avoids marriage as he admitted regretfully being once married to an Italian wife. Another thing I learned was that the average Tunisian does not have the opportunity to leave his or her country. 
Ibrahim placed the blame predominantly on other countries and their regulations.I don't know how true that is, but it is obvious his income does not allow him to do much travelling. He said the Hajj is merely a fantasy as it would cost him around 4,000 TD. His other dream journey is Cuba interestingly enough. He said it embodies his vision of "freedom." I said that was ironic considering that Cuba is the one place Americans can't-legally-go. We talked some more as the the cafe became more crowded and I had my first sheesha -- an apple flavored water pipe. I re-learned how to slow down and just relax. Next thing I knew he was inviting me to his house in the Martyrs district for dinner. Knowing this was an honor, I quickly accepted, though I did obligatorily mention I didn't wish to trouble him or his family. Ibrahim's father left for Italy when his son was only 14. Apparently he was some sort of political dissident. Ibrahim's older brother is in jail for reasons not made entirely clear but along the same lines it seems. My companion appears to adore his president but sees the actions of his father as an emboldening burden he must bear as the current leader of his home -- which includes his mother -- Maboobe, a 60 something Berber who once visited Turkey long ago and was not impressed. She speaks only Tunsi Arabic; his sister, about 21years old I guess, who appears very contemporary with french manicure and pedicure; and his younger brother Yusuf, about 13, who also likes boxing and plays soccer. This responsibility as head of the house gives Ibrahim a stern focus and determination I rarely see in American men who are unmarried. Upon arrival, I admit I was a bit anxious not wanting to make any huge cultural gaffes, I greeted everyone warmly in my best two or three words of Arabic introductions -- Thanks Lonely Planet guide! All five of use congregated in the living room. They were watching a Ben Stiller movie, and I attempted to be as gracious as humanly possible - especially toward Maboobe. The apartment was furnished warmly but it was clear this was not a wealthy family. I did not discover whether his sister works or not. Dinner was set on the table in the kitchen - Spicy white beans with peppers, baguette, and bottled water. Added was a tasty green salad - just for me I was told. Ibrahim invited me to the table while the ladies and boy waited in the living room. We used only our hands- though his mother had set out forks, I was informed she only did so because I was there. He even showed me the correct method in which to procure and deliver food to the mouth in this fashion. Faltering slightly, I managed a nice spicy red sheen all over my goatee which provided some amusement. After we had mostly finished - I had two helpings out of respect- plus it was tasty fare, Yusuf was called in to eat. At this point there seemed only enough food left in the pot for him from what I saw. I grew very concerned that the women might not have anything left for themselves. Ibrahim was seemingly unconcerned. I called into the living room from the kitchen professing in my best Arabic - learned only moments before from my host- professing my sincerest thanks for the food to Maboobe. She called back in appreciation. Wow. I must say this level of hospitality staggered me. We made our way back into the living room and chatted some more. His sister speaks English quite well. Before I knew it, I had been invited for a formal dinner next Sunday of traditional couscous. Again, I knew this was a tremendous show of respect. I accepted and will be contemplating the most appropriate gift for this auspicious occasion. Ibrahim and I took off for his local town cafe - sort of a Cheers for him I would say - after I gave as many endearments of gratitude as I could muster. I truly don' t know when or if the women even ate. What followed was another two hours of male bonding, ridiculing, joking, insults, and alcohol-free good times. I was truly a duck out of water here in this setting and Ibrahim capitalized on this opportunity to shock all his friends with this tall, pale, non-Arabic speaking American who apparently has no fear of unusual settings or being used partially for the good humor of others. I learned many new Arabic phrases and met many interesting characters. They were all various insults and swears that I cannot repeat here regarding mothers and unfortunate activities best said if some crazy driver attempts to run you over or if you simply want to harass your coffee barista. Willett, pictured here, became the butt of most of the jokes, and I was used to deliver the insults in my haltingly humorous parroted Arabic. Everyone, all men, were in stitches at this novelty. Willett tested me by saying he always wanted to come to America - and that he was a terrorist from Iraq. I retorted he is probably from southern Iraq and called him a dirty Shiite. Of course, all Tunisians are Sunnis and this made everyone fall to the floor in laughter. From then on, Willett was "Willey" to me and whenever he tried to insult me I reminded him that he was a Shiite in a room full of Sunnis. This interaction would never have occurred in a million years if Ibrahim had not gotten to know me over the last few hours. This was another amazingly rare experience no doubt.
As I intimated earlier, hyper masculine banter was the name of the game among Tunisian cafe men. It reminded me greatly of my infantry days in the army of the type of homo-erotic humor that most civilians just don't get. I felt right at home strangely enough. Willey's yellow short shorts made him the prime suspect in the room for illegal homosexual activity. I met another six or seven of Ibrahim's close friends as well. It was getting late and I suggested I should go home soon and prepare for my work week. One fellow teased me by saying there were nefarious gangsters lurking around outside. Others laughed, but he seemed to maintain an air of concern for me. All I know is, Ibrahim stayed closely by me as we made our way to find a taxi. We even got to see some of the late night wedding festivities of a local family on an upsatirs balcony while waiting for my ride - All Ululation, drums and dancing.We exchenged phone numbers and I departed. He was very adamant about calling me on my mobile IN the taxi as I was headed home and he made me promise to call him once I was safely in my room. Fascinating. I am not really sure exactly how concerned I should have been but maybe ignorance was bliss? I think he is just over-protective. All in all a pretty spectacular day that afforded me some phenomenal insight. Ibrahim said he didn't know of any other American men who had been into his favorite cafe. He said the threats of secret police kept the embassy guys away. Maybe he is exaggerating. Maybe not. But a couple of his friends insinuated I might be CIA. Go figure. Witty retorts fueled by three or four espressos go a long way to overcoming such suspicions. Who would have thought?DD
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