I will never forget my summer nights spent sleeping on the beaches of Tunisia, for they are among the soundest and most profound comforts of any slumber I have ever known. When Libya was closed to me, Tunisia was my playground, my home away from a home which was unknown yet instantly recognizable as Djerba’s Houmt Souk stood in for my Souk al Jareed and the modest generosity of La Goulette was just as rich as my Sahbri would extend to me until even now. Both are the throats, the gizzards , whose constant churning of sweat and muscle are the gristly organs that maintain the tempo of labor to fuel a city. As I would later help myself to the 5 star Hotel Corinthia pool as though it were my own, the opulent resorts of Monastir and Hammamet,too, were at my disposal for in both I was a foreigner who was finally at home. It was in Tunisia that I would exercise and condition the kind of senses and senses of kindness that continually allow me to see nothing but hospitality where others, even straining, can see only hostility. In both countries, as well as Egypt, I would watch the tour buses and taxis come and go, spitting fumes and spinning dusts cloud into my face while I could not be more content, exercising my outstretched thumb as I walked across Egypt, Libya, and Tunisia looking for the flashing headlights that still beckon and guide me to the next ride with a familial stranger.
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