In Sidi Bou Said

The Romans really knew how to destroy a place. The only vestiges of the Carthaginians are those the Romans filled in with sand and gravel - below ground level. Of course, their day came and went in turn, and Sidi Bou Said rises today above the Punic and Roman ruins with a cacaphony of white walls, blue windows, doors and balconies, and the garish colors of market stalls selling t-shirts, brass jewelry and every sort of knick-knack known to man. We had risen above all that, or at least liked to think so, as we sat at the Café des Artistes drinking our mint tea and looking over the squirming crowd. Yes, we too were part of the flood of tourists that came to drown anything local or individual or authentic in a thousand ports in every corner of the world. our politically-correct consciences couldn't change that. The only thing setting us apart was our self-apportioned burden of guilt.

With all that baggage, it was a pleasure to return to the ship, to familiarity, to two-fisted drinking and banquets that left us stuffed like geese about ready to have our livers harvested. We were back amongst our own kind, for better or worse. The most important effect of our brush with exoticism was to remind us who we were... and who we weren't.