The swift breeze of the Mediterranean has almost made me forget the dry heat of the inland…. The swift breeze of the Mediterranean has almost made me forget the dry heat of the inland. But as Youssef, my companion, and I walk farther away from the fishing port, our shirts once again become rags and our faces drip with sweat.

I had met Youssef at the hospital where I was working, and he was showing me the remains of the ancient city of Carthage, Tunisia, a once proud domain that had fallen to the Romans more than 2,200 years ago. Embassies and archeological sites have now overthrown its land, and only the area around the commuter train to Tunis, Tunisia, remains for the common people.

The North African sun turns the train car we ride into an oven. Each time the train rattles away from a stop, some young men stand in the doorway, holding the sliding doors back and bathing themselves in the wind. I look questioningly at Youssef, who nods and tells me in French that someone always does that.

“Tunisian air conditioning,” he says. Some men near us in the carriage hear him and let out chuckles.

Though my skin is darkened by the sun, I do not have the olive tone of the people around me. I can speak passable French, but not Arabic, and my long hair is a rarity for Tunisian men. Fortunately, most people I speak with assume I am Canadian.

I have learned my lesson in anonymity during my first days in Tunisia. On my first night, I sat in my hotel room watching Al-Jazeera, the Arabic news service. Images of Osama bin Laden and the bombings in Baghdad, Iraq, reminded me that some people would assume all Americans to be enemies. Not all people make this assumption, but I don’t want to find out who would.

Our train rumbles into Tunis and we begin to walk through Place du 7 Novembre, named after the Tunisian day of independence. Bookstores and shops bustle with activity, and Tunisians and tourists alike people the outdoor cafe tables.

Tunis is not the stereotypical Arab city. Many of the older women are clad in black from head to toe, but some of the younger women wear the latest fashions — and some of those fashions are rather revealing. Modern shops and buildings balance the traditional domed, arched architecture. An old mosque has been transformed into a mall.

Tunis is the doorway from Europe to the Arab world, a fusion of two cultures often at odds with each other.

Youssef and I walk down Avenue de France to the edge of La Medina, an ancient district of Tunis where the small streets form a bazaar of food and goods during the day. Stunning metalwork and sculptures line Rue de Jamas Ezzitouna, and the crowds push through the narrow passage, often being stopped by the European tourists who pause to negotiate prices with the vendors.

With all the money that changes hands in La Medina’s bazaar, I find it surprising that there isn’t more crime. Youssef tells me that robberies only occur when tourists are stupid enough to pay 30 dinars, or about $24, for a tour of the notable doorways of La Medina.

As we shove our way through the passage, some of the vendors remember me from the days before. They reach out to shake my hand, but I just wave and smile to them. If they get hold of me, they will not let me go until I had at least looked at what they are selling that day.

We turn up an alley that leads to Rue de la Kasbah. This street is more of a market for Tunisians. Clothing, music and hardware are sold on this street, contrasting with the extravagant tourist offerings available in the next alley. I prefer this street; somehow, it seems more real.

Past the Kasbah Mosque, at the edge of La Medina, lie a highway and a steep drop into Tunis Est, a collection of small houses on streets known only by numbers. Youssef leads me down the dangerous slope to Rue 41691 and points to a small grocery.

Our journey was worth it. I discover good bread, salt-cured olives, cheese and all sorts of Mediterranean treats. After buying as much as I think I can eat, as well as a new bottle of spring water, I follow Youssef down Rue 41603. Children playing in the dust and men riding bicycles by us stop to look at me, a strange white man with long hair and enough food to feed a small family. I am remarkable in the real neighborhoods of Tunis. The white people never get farther than the Kasbah Mosque.

We come to a house surrounded by the sounds of the waves of the Gulf of Tunis. Youssef’s family is waiting for us. His wife is modestly dressed in black, with her dark hair tightly controlled in a braid. Their daughter runs to us, wearing a dirty tank top and shorts, her hair wild behind her. Youssef embraces his daughter and says softly to me, “Le Tunis vieux et le Tunis nouveau, n’est-ce pas?” “The old and new Tunis, eh?”

After the biggest meal I have eaten in days, Youssef brings me over the highway to the gulf. The beach is littered with plastic bottles and cigarette butts, but we ignore them. We sit in the sand, each with a cold beer, and we toast the last of the sunlight that dances on the water. As the other foreigners of Tunis sit on Avenue de France, sipping Arabic coffee and reading the newspaper, we sit on the beach, hearing the waves as the earth’s heartbeat, while the city behind us becomes cloaked in darkness.

Michael Mastroianni got stranded in the Tunisian desert and all he brought back was this lousy article. He can be reached at [email protected].