I got my last German haircut this week.
As he was cutting my hair, Michael, the most competent hair stylist I've found in Hannover (after kissing a lot of frogs, figuratively speaking) asked whether I'd like to do anything different with my hairstyle. "God, no!" I wanted to shout.
I've made it this far - through the mushroom cut, the triangle cut, the Farrah Fawcett layers, the 'how long does this take to grow out?' cut. Maybe my last two hair years have maybe not been as exciting, but they have been reliably decent.
The haircut battle is not really about hair. I thought of it today I successfully navigated the crowded swimming pool - the only disorganized place in Germany - like an aquatic obstacle course. I swerved around pedestrians in the bike lane. I answered emails at work in German. I know the temperature in Celsius. I tried over and over again and I have adapted. It took me a while to get here, and I'm not taking any chances now.
So, Michael, you can lecture me on the use of a round brush as much as you want. I'm not really paying attention. I am just glad that the Farrah cut has returned to the 80s where it belongs.
Friday, March 17, 2017
Wednesday, March 8, 2017
Note it in the log
Each time you scuba dive, you fill out a page in your diving log book. You list the date, depth, visibility, and name of your buddy. Scuba was one way that Brian got me interested in visiting Tunisia in the first place. But as the diving day approached, I got a little nervous. I hadn't gone into the depths for two full years, and was worried I'd forget the hand signals or how to deflate my vest or, you know, breathe. Most things that are mildly scary and also exhilarating, and so it was with the shipwreck dive in Monastir. After a mild freak-out at first, I remembered how to breathe and stopped feeling cold and started to notice the little fish peeking out of the wrecked fishing boat, covered with tiny sea plants and lit by sunbeams shining through the water.
We had peeled off the head to toe neoprene and shivered as we got in the van.
"There should be a log book for life," Brian said as I scribbled in the depths of our dives and the amount of air we used up. And he's right - how great would it be to complete a page for every little achievement? Every significant event? What would you include, anyway? Maybe this blog is my log book for expat life.
We had peeled off the head to toe neoprene and shivered as we got in the van.
"There should be a log book for life," Brian said as I scribbled in the depths of our dives and the amount of air we used up. And he's right - how great would it be to complete a page for every little achievement? Every significant event? What would you include, anyway? Maybe this blog is my log book for expat life.
Sunday, March 5, 2017
Kairouan and El Jem
I wrapped a scarf around my head before we went into the Great Mosque of Kairouan, and kept it on for most of the afternoon. Kairouan seemed to be the place for a hijab (or hejeb as you say in Tunisia). It's a very religious town. Plus, I dig the hijab. I think it looks classy, especially with some dark eyeliner and a hip-hugging skirt. Part of the problem with globalization is that people around the world start to dress more or less the same. At least in Tunisia, traditional clothes seem to be limited to tourist shops and few very old people. Jeans and sweatshirts seem to be the world uniform.
Back to Kairouan - other than the site of the Great Mosque (built by the Arabs in 800ish) it is the place to buy rugs and has a beautiful old city where we ate hot date-filled pastries and saw a camel ("a very senior camel", tour guide Mohamed said) pulling buckets of holy water up from a well. After an enormous bowl of couscous with fish (still working on getting those little bones out of the way) we headed to El Jem.
El Jem is the site of the third-largest amphitheater of the Roman empire. It was built in 238 AD and held 35,000 people. Much of it still stands - the seats, the stairways, the concourses. It's easy to imagine the stands full while the gladiators battled wild animals below. You can almost hear a guy selling peanuts and hot dogs. Under the floor are the basement cells that housed lions and leopards in their cages, or prisoners awaiting battle. There's even an underground tunnel used for rolling the dead bodies of losing gladiators outside. Forget the Colliseum in Rome - just come to El Jem, the lines are much shorter.
Back to Kairouan - other than the site of the Great Mosque (built by the Arabs in 800ish) it is the place to buy rugs and has a beautiful old city where we ate hot date-filled pastries and saw a camel ("a very senior camel", tour guide Mohamed said) pulling buckets of holy water up from a well. After an enormous bowl of couscous with fish (still working on getting those little bones out of the way) we headed to El Jem.
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| Great Mosque, Kairouan |
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| Kairouan's famous camel |
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| Kairouan |
El Jem is the site of the third-largest amphitheater of the Roman empire. It was built in 238 AD and held 35,000 people. Much of it still stands - the seats, the stairways, the concourses. It's easy to imagine the stands full while the gladiators battled wild animals below. You can almost hear a guy selling peanuts and hot dogs. Under the floor are the basement cells that housed lions and leopards in their cages, or prisoners awaiting battle. There's even an underground tunnel used for rolling the dead bodies of losing gladiators outside. Forget the Colliseum in Rome - just come to El Jem, the lines are much shorter.
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| El Jem |
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| El Jem |
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| El Jem amphitheater |
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| El Jem amphitheater |
Saturday, March 4, 2017
Geography of Sousse
A word on terrorism... (did that get your attention?)
A coworker told me on Monday that it was "very brave" of us to go to Tunisia. I assume he was referring to the 2015 terrorist attacks in Tunis and Sousse.
I think Sousse gets a bad rap. Paris was also the site of a terrible terrorist attack, and so were Nice, London, Berlin, and of course New York. People still visit all of those places. In fact, no one thinks twice about whether to go to the Eiffel Tower or the Brooklyn Bridge. But in Sousse, tourists are staying away. And in Sousse in the winter, there's hardly a camera-toting, zip-off pants wearing foreigner to be found.
We spent four nights in the ancient seaside city of Sousse. If the Phoenecians had an all-inclusive hotel, it would have been here. Like a lot of what we saw in Tunisia, Sousse is a hodge-podge, a mutt, built by layer upon layer of civilization. Like much of Tunisia, Sousse does not amaze you with its beauty. But it makes you want to peel back another layer of history and look underneath. It made me want to peek behind every blind corner and brightly painted door, to walk extra slowly past the cafes full of men whiling away their time smoking cigarettes and playing cards.
In Sousse, we stayed at a pretty guest house nestled into a quiet corner of the Medina. The loudest noise, in fact was the call to prayer in stereo sound from at least 3 different mosques in the neighborhood, starting at 5:30am. And then there was the rooster. Just around the corner was was the souk, with vendors offering spices, raw fish, knock-off Adidas clothes, leather slippers... all for a special price, just for you, my friend.
From the old town you can walk directly to the shipping port. A quick left took us to the busiest intersection in town and a statue of Habib Bourghiba, Tunisia's first president after independence from France. He was our landmark and stood atop his horse outside the bustling Place des Martyrs where a WWII Allied bomb blew up part of the 8th century city wall.
A quick walk north takes you to Sousse's beachfront corniche, whose newest and most stable structure is its well-swept sidewalk. It's easy to imagine this as a chic seaside destination, but the 2015 terrorist attack dealt a deadly blow to tourism here and many of the hotels have peeling paint and crumbling patios. I got the feeling it was quite a hot spot in 1989. The hotel strip is cool in an almost ghost town kind of a way. Only some locals strolled down the corniche and a few hardy swimmers splashed into the cool blue sea.
A few blocks inland are Sousse's residential neighborhoods, with some high-rise buildings and worn apartment houses above cell phone stores and beauty salons. They might have an orange tree or two out front, a stray cat eating out of the garbage, bright rugs airing on the balcony and a roof-top satellite dish to cap it all off.
I would do Sousse an injustice not to mention Planet Food. It is a copy of the American Planet Hollywood restaurants of the 90s - in decor at least - and the unfortunate site of the worst restaurant meal I can remember eating. Catherine, Brian and I sat under photos of Clint Eastwood and Denzel Washington, eating mushy vegetables and rubbery meat. It was so bad we couldn't stop laughing. We kept laughing about it the rest of the week.
Was Planet Food more appetizing when those beachfront hotels were full? Does Habib Bourghiba look down with pride at Tunisia's second city of Sousse? Are those $6 sunglasses for sale on the street really Ray Bans? Those might be questions for the ages, secrets kept cool in a shadowy corner of the medina.
Is Sousse worthy of a few hundred busloads of pale tourists to keep it going this summer? I say it certainly is. I'd like to think that this era is just one thin layer in the long history of Sousse and of Tunisia.
A coworker told me on Monday that it was "very brave" of us to go to Tunisia. I assume he was referring to the 2015 terrorist attacks in Tunis and Sousse.
I think Sousse gets a bad rap. Paris was also the site of a terrible terrorist attack, and so were Nice, London, Berlin, and of course New York. People still visit all of those places. In fact, no one thinks twice about whether to go to the Eiffel Tower or the Brooklyn Bridge. But in Sousse, tourists are staying away. And in Sousse in the winter, there's hardly a camera-toting, zip-off pants wearing foreigner to be found.
We spent four nights in the ancient seaside city of Sousse. If the Phoenecians had an all-inclusive hotel, it would have been here. Like a lot of what we saw in Tunisia, Sousse is a hodge-podge, a mutt, built by layer upon layer of civilization. Like much of Tunisia, Sousse does not amaze you with its beauty. But it makes you want to peel back another layer of history and look underneath. It made me want to peek behind every blind corner and brightly painted door, to walk extra slowly past the cafes full of men whiling away their time smoking cigarettes and playing cards.
In Sousse, we stayed at a pretty guest house nestled into a quiet corner of the Medina. The loudest noise, in fact was the call to prayer in stereo sound from at least 3 different mosques in the neighborhood, starting at 5:30am. And then there was the rooster. Just around the corner was was the souk, with vendors offering spices, raw fish, knock-off Adidas clothes, leather slippers... all for a special price, just for you, my friend.
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| Atop our hotel |
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| Our hotel from 1775 - oldest house I have every slept in |
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| The Kasbah in Sousse |
From the old town you can walk directly to the shipping port. A quick left took us to the busiest intersection in town and a statue of Habib Bourghiba, Tunisia's first president after independence from France. He was our landmark and stood atop his horse outside the bustling Place des Martyrs where a WWII Allied bomb blew up part of the 8th century city wall.
A quick walk north takes you to Sousse's beachfront corniche, whose newest and most stable structure is its well-swept sidewalk. It's easy to imagine this as a chic seaside destination, but the 2015 terrorist attack dealt a deadly blow to tourism here and many of the hotels have peeling paint and crumbling patios. I got the feeling it was quite a hot spot in 1989. The hotel strip is cool in an almost ghost town kind of a way. Only some locals strolled down the corniche and a few hardy swimmers splashed into the cool blue sea.
A few blocks inland are Sousse's residential neighborhoods, with some high-rise buildings and worn apartment houses above cell phone stores and beauty salons. They might have an orange tree or two out front, a stray cat eating out of the garbage, bright rugs airing on the balcony and a roof-top satellite dish to cap it all off.
I would do Sousse an injustice not to mention Planet Food. It is a copy of the American Planet Hollywood restaurants of the 90s - in decor at least - and the unfortunate site of the worst restaurant meal I can remember eating. Catherine, Brian and I sat under photos of Clint Eastwood and Denzel Washington, eating mushy vegetables and rubbery meat. It was so bad we couldn't stop laughing. We kept laughing about it the rest of the week.
Was Planet Food more appetizing when those beachfront hotels were full? Does Habib Bourghiba look down with pride at Tunisia's second city of Sousse? Are those $6 sunglasses for sale on the street really Ray Bans? Those might be questions for the ages, secrets kept cool in a shadowy corner of the medina.
Is Sousse worthy of a few hundred busloads of pale tourists to keep it going this summer? I say it certainly is. I'd like to think that this era is just one thin layer in the long history of Sousse and of Tunisia.
Friday, March 3, 2017
Winding through Tunis
We met Mohamed outside the Tunis city hall. I'm sure that at any given moment there are at least five men named Mohamed standing on that corner.
Our Mohamed was a professional tour guide, and our private guide for the next two days. He led Catherine, Brian and me through the medina, which is the old walled city. Since it was an unofficial tour, Mohamed could take us wherever he liked. We started in the office of the medina historical society, which is house (dar) from the 19th century. It had ornately carved ceilings, plaster molding, decorative tile walls and floors. These houses all have drainage pipes to catch rainwater from the roof and carry it down to a cistern below the floors. From a well in the courtyard you can bring water into the house bucket by bucket - almost indoor plumbing. The office workers were happy to let us wander around. They had stacked a few dead computers against the beautifully tiled wall and the only sound was the faint grind of 1990's-era printer.
This dar and other beautiful homes blend in with the white stucco of the medina. The only indicator of what might be behind their walls are the huge keyhole-shaped doors. They are often doors within doors, which can swing wide open for livestock carrying supplies, or open in smaller pieces for people. I have a thing for photos of pretty doors. Here are a few.
We wandered through the winding alleys of the souk, the central market, where one narrow row of stalls selling jewelry lead to another selling hats and another selling satin wedding accessories and another selling shoes... and on and on. Mohamed pointed out the spot where Barbary pirates sold their captives as slaves.
Somehow we wound our way out of the souk and got to Tourbet El Bey, mausoleum of the Ottoman rulers and their families. The place was closed for rennovation, and probably has been for over a decade. Mohamed, however, knew a guy. He knocked on the mausoleum door - no answer. The woman across the street poked her head out a window and shouted down something in Tunisian (technically it is Arabic, but the dialect is so distinct that it might as well be another language). Then her husband leaned out the front door, stroking their cat, and called over something else. Mohamed went back and forth with them for a while about (I imagine) getting someone to let us in the mausoleum when the big door creaked open. The smiling old security guard was there to let us in for our own unofficial tour. I can't say I understood everything he was telling me in French, but he was proud to show us around the place. Mohamed also filled in his own explanations - generally the complete opposite of what the security guard said. We were the only people there.
Rather than an old Catholic crypt or a solemn graveyard, this burial place was bright and beautiful.
Our Mohamed was a professional tour guide, and our private guide for the next two days. He led Catherine, Brian and me through the medina, which is the old walled city. Since it was an unofficial tour, Mohamed could take us wherever he liked. We started in the office of the medina historical society, which is house (dar) from the 19th century. It had ornately carved ceilings, plaster molding, decorative tile walls and floors. These houses all have drainage pipes to catch rainwater from the roof and carry it down to a cistern below the floors. From a well in the courtyard you can bring water into the house bucket by bucket - almost indoor plumbing. The office workers were happy to let us wander around. They had stacked a few dead computers against the beautifully tiled wall and the only sound was the faint grind of 1990's-era printer.
This dar and other beautiful homes blend in with the white stucco of the medina. The only indicator of what might be behind their walls are the huge keyhole-shaped doors. They are often doors within doors, which can swing wide open for livestock carrying supplies, or open in smaller pieces for people. I have a thing for photos of pretty doors. Here are a few.
We wandered through the winding alleys of the souk, the central market, where one narrow row of stalls selling jewelry lead to another selling hats and another selling satin wedding accessories and another selling shoes... and on and on. Mohamed pointed out the spot where Barbary pirates sold their captives as slaves.
Somehow we wound our way out of the souk and got to Tourbet El Bey, mausoleum of the Ottoman rulers and their families. The place was closed for rennovation, and probably has been for over a decade. Mohamed, however, knew a guy. He knocked on the mausoleum door - no answer. The woman across the street poked her head out a window and shouted down something in Tunisian (technically it is Arabic, but the dialect is so distinct that it might as well be another language). Then her husband leaned out the front door, stroking their cat, and called over something else. Mohamed went back and forth with them for a while about (I imagine) getting someone to let us in the mausoleum when the big door creaked open. The smiling old security guard was there to let us in for our own unofficial tour. I can't say I understood everything he was telling me in French, but he was proud to show us around the place. Mohamed also filled in his own explanations - generally the complete opposite of what the security guard said. We were the only people there.
Rather than an old Catholic crypt or a solemn graveyard, this burial place was bright and beautiful.
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| The hats designate the deceased's military rank |
Tunis and food
Day one in Tunisia began with fish. More specifically, it began with choosing from a pile of fish, lying on ice with their dead glassy eyes looking up at me.
We were in La Goulette, the port town just outside of Tunis, in one of the seafood restaurants that line both sides of its streets. To dine here, choose your seafood and stuff it in a plastic bag. Hand it to a man who will weigh, de-scale, clean and grill it with cumin and salt.
Having grown up far from any coast, I could never have navigated this on my own. Luckily I didn't need to, because Brian and I were visiting our college friend Catherine and her Tunisian husband Omar. Omar patiently gave us a lesson in breaking off the fish head, pulling away its fins and avoiding all the tiny fish bones. I'm amazed that this no longer grosses me out.
By the end of the delicious meal, my plate was full of fish carnage and I had dripped grease onto my jeans. Omar and Catherine had piled the bones and shrimp carcasses neatly to one side of their plates, and dabbed their lips gently with paper towels.
Catherine has learned these kinds of tricks after living in Tunis for four years. She teaches very small people at the American Community School in Tunis, the same school that was robbed and set on fire during protests in 2012. The main target of the riot was the U. S. embassy across the road. There are no signs of damage or unrest in the cheery school campus today, though a security guard did run a mirror under the car to look for explosives when we drove in the gate.
Day two in Tunisia began with omelettes, freshed-squeezed orange juice and a trip to the suburbs. When I say suburbs, don't think of strip malls and soccer fields. Think of ancient ruins. Our first stop was Carthage, capital of the Phoenicians until the Romans beat them in the Punic Wars, circa 150 BC. They pulled their boats into this circular harbor which is now sort of intact and surrounded by well-to-do neighborhoods. It's so hard to really comprehend and appreciate how old some of this stuff is, that I just had to stop trying after a while.
We visited the St Antonin Baths, whose lower levels remain mostly intact and available for you to touch or climb on, though a sign says not to. The Roman roads and sewer systems remain, ready for a rolling chariot or a rush of soapy water.
Not a bad place to take bath.
La Marsa and Gamarth offered the best views, but the prettiest spot on our tour was Sidi Bou Said. Built along winding alleys on a hill top, the houses are crisp white with bright blue doors and windows, matching the color of the Mediterranean below when the sun is shining. Which it was. The famous thing to eat in Sidi Bou Said is not the fish, but the bambeloni. It's like a fried donut covered in sugar. Now that is something that we knew how to eat.
We were in La Goulette, the port town just outside of Tunis, in one of the seafood restaurants that line both sides of its streets. To dine here, choose your seafood and stuff it in a plastic bag. Hand it to a man who will weigh, de-scale, clean and grill it with cumin and salt.
Having grown up far from any coast, I could never have navigated this on my own. Luckily I didn't need to, because Brian and I were visiting our college friend Catherine and her Tunisian husband Omar. Omar patiently gave us a lesson in breaking off the fish head, pulling away its fins and avoiding all the tiny fish bones. I'm amazed that this no longer grosses me out.
By the end of the delicious meal, my plate was full of fish carnage and I had dripped grease onto my jeans. Omar and Catherine had piled the bones and shrimp carcasses neatly to one side of their plates, and dabbed their lips gently with paper towels.
Catherine has learned these kinds of tricks after living in Tunis for four years. She teaches very small people at the American Community School in Tunis, the same school that was robbed and set on fire during protests in 2012. The main target of the riot was the U. S. embassy across the road. There are no signs of damage or unrest in the cheery school campus today, though a security guard did run a mirror under the car to look for explosives when we drove in the gate.
Day two in Tunisia began with omelettes, freshed-squeezed orange juice and a trip to the suburbs. When I say suburbs, don't think of strip malls and soccer fields. Think of ancient ruins. Our first stop was Carthage, capital of the Phoenicians until the Romans beat them in the Punic Wars, circa 150 BC. They pulled their boats into this circular harbor which is now sort of intact and surrounded by well-to-do neighborhoods. It's so hard to really comprehend and appreciate how old some of this stuff is, that I just had to stop trying after a while.
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| At the Punic port in Carthage |
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| View from Gamarth |
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| Sidi Bou Said |
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| Sidi Bou, with prickly pears |
We visited the St Antonin Baths, whose lower levels remain mostly intact and available for you to touch or climb on, though a sign says not to. The Roman roads and sewer systems remain, ready for a rolling chariot or a rush of soapy water.
Not a bad place to take bath.
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| St Antonin Baths, Carthage |
La Marsa and Gamarth offered the best views, but the prettiest spot on our tour was Sidi Bou Said. Built along winding alleys on a hill top, the houses are crisp white with bright blue doors and windows, matching the color of the Mediterranean below when the sun is shining. Which it was. The famous thing to eat in Sidi Bou Said is not the fish, but the bambeloni. It's like a fried donut covered in sugar. Now that is something that we knew how to eat.
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| Bambeloni! |
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About Me
- Julia
- Thanks for coming to my blog. It started as a way to keep in touch with family and friends, and now has become an ongoing project. I'm an American living in Germany and trying to travel whenever I can. I write about my experiences as an expatriate (the interesting ones and the embarrassing ones), and about my travels. There are some recurring characters in this blog, particularly my husband Brian and several of our friends. The title comes from the idea that living in a foreign country means making a lot of mistakes. So the things you used to do easily you now have to try over and over again. Hopefully, like me, you can laugh at how idiotic it feels. If you have happened upon my blog, then welcome. Knowing that people are reading what I write makes me keep going. Feel free to write comments or suggestions for future posts.