Of Ancient Floors and Azure Alleys
Carthage's Encore Performance and Sidi Bou Said's Blue Poetry
The Hammamet breakfast room hummed with morning deliberations as we plotted our route north to Carthage. My mother stirred her coffee while studying the map, occasionally glancing at the Mediterranean visible through the windows — that constant blue presence that had guided our coastal journey.
"If we leave by nine, we should have plenty of time for the villa," my uncle announced, with the insouciance of someone who hadn't spent two weeks turning our "quick stops" into archaeological marathons. The Roman mosaics at Carthage had assumed mythic status in our family conversations, referenced with such reverence you'd think we were discussing the lost ark rather than some pretty floor tiles.
Checkout complete and luggage tetris mastered once again, we pulled away from Iberostar and rejoined the coastal highway. The route toward Carthage promised our first true urban driving experience since leaving Tunis, a prospect that inspired mixed emotions after weeks navigating rural roads where donkey carts occasionally outnumbered automobiles.
Carthage Revisited: Roadside Ruins and Mosaic Memories
Just outside Carthage, a cluster of ancient columns casually appeared beside the highway. No ropes, no explanatory signs, not even the pretense of archaeological formality—just weathered stone existing in that particularly Tunisian state of being simultaneously UNESCO-worthy and completely mundane.
"We should stop and look," I said, with the automatic response of someone who'd developed an unhealthy enthusiasm for ruins. My mother sighed with the resignation of a person who'd heard this exact sentence approximately seventy-three times in the past week. This jumble of stones—which appeared to have been arranged by someone with questionable spatial awareness—later turned out to be Basilique de Damous El Karita, a significant early Christian complex that most countries would surround with gift shops and audioguides. Here, it was just another roadside attraction, competing for attention with a man selling bananas from a wobbly cart ten feet away.
Arriving at the Roman Villa ticket counter, I attempted what might generously be called "negotiation" and more accurately "embarrassing myself in public"—producing our previous tickets with a hopeful expression that suggested we deserved some kind of archaeological loyalty credit for the truncated visit our last time. The ticket attendant's face remained impressively neutral, in the universal language of "nice try, tourist."
My uncle and I secured tickets while my mother and aunt — having conducted a cost-benefit analysis of Roman stairs versus comfortable car seats — opted for air conditioning and a coffee break instead.
Inside, free from the previous visit's time constraints, I absorbed the villa at a proper pace. The mosaics that had occupied our comparative discussions across Tunisia amazed me even more than memory suggested. The craftsmen who created these floors weren't just decorators but something closer to ancient photojournalists, depicting scenes with a precision that made me question what I'd been doing with my life while these fellows were inventing entire art forms with tiny colored stones. I stood transfixed before a hunting scene where a gazelle leaped with such anatomical accuracy it could have illustrated a modern zoology textbook, its terror rendered in minute tesserae by someone who'd never heard of cameras or Instagram or any of the modern crutches we rely on for visual memory. The intricate scenes of daily life from the estates of wealthy Romans like Dominus Julius where servants bring offerings of fish, grapes, and other bounty to showcase the owner's prosperity were enough to stun me.
Two hours disappeared in what felt like minutes. My uncle had vanished into the depths of the villa, no doubt contorting himself into increasingly improbable positions to photograph ceiling details. When we finally reconnected near the exit, he had that slightly manic look of someone who's just had a religious experience involving ancient grout.
"Did you see the bird mosaics?" he asked, his eyes bright with the enthusiasm only ancient floor decorations could inspire. My uncle had the unique ability to make stone fragments sound like breaking news. "The anatomical accuracy is remarkable," he continued, already moving on to his next discovery before I could respond.
My mother and aunt waited in the car with expressions suggesting they'd aged several years during our archaeological immersion. My mother had that look that communicates both "I'm glad you enjoyed yourself" and "if you mention mosaics one more time I might leave you here" simultaneously—a facial expression perfected by mothers worldwide.
La Marsa Sanctuary: A Haven Among the Hills
The short trip from Carthage to Sidi Bou Said wound upward with the theatrical flair of something designed for travel brochures. Light raindrops speckled the windshield despite persistent sunshine—one of those Mediterranean meteorological contradictions where the sky seems to be experiencing several emotions at once, like a teenagers' group chat.
We found our dar tucked away in the hillside village of La Marsa. Its presence was marked only by a simple blue-numbered address plate and a small brass bell beside the heavy wooden door in an otherwise nondescript wall that could have led anywhere from private residence to broom closet.
One moment we stood in a narrow alley, the next we entered a world that existed in defiance of the cramped streets outside. A central courtyard opened to the sky, with a swimming pool reflecting whitewashed walls and climbing bougainvillea adding splashes of magenta to the predominantly green-and-white palette with jasmine and centuries-old cypress trees. The garden created a microclimate that felt several degrees cooler than outside, with potted herbs releasing their scent with every passing breeze.
The dar's permanent residents greeted us with varying degrees of enthusiasm: a golden Labrador whose tail thumped against the floor with metronome-like consistency, and a gray cat whose impressive whiskers suggested both advanced age and considerable dignity.
Our host appeared with mint tea served in traditional glasses, the hot liquid releasing a cloud of fragrant steam. As we settled into chairs surrounding the wooden patio tables, the ritual created a natural pause — an opportunity to transition from travelers to temporary residents of this beautiful space.
My mother and I shared a second-floor room with a queen bed and a single bed, both draped in beautiful olive green linens. A massive stone sculpture resembling a mandala hung above what instantly became my mother's bed — which she claimed with the territorial efficiency of someone who's spent decades securing the best spot in any shared accommodation. The room featured a generous walk-in closet that swallowed our luggage with room to spare. Our small window let in the afternoon sunlight with a reminder that daylight was precious and we had limited time for our final exploration.
Sidi Bou Said: Cobalt Corners and Clamped Wheels
With accommodations secured and sun still at its peak, we set out to explore Sidi Bou Said, leaving my uncle to tackle the unenviable task of finding parking. The village's narrow streets and limited spaces would later prove this decision catastrophically optimistic.
Our first stop was Café des Nattes — where apparently half of Western literature's greatest minds once sipped mint tea while contemplating existence or whatever it is famous writers do in picturesque locations. The walls could probably tell stories of Simone de Beauvoir arguing philosophy, Paul Klee sketching on napkins, or André Gide and Albert Camus entertaining their existential crises in this famous gathering spot that's been hosting intellectuals since the early 20th century.
Today, it mostly featured tourists like us, crammed shoulder-to-shoulder while waiters navigated the maze of bodies with trays of precariously balanced glasses. The café's two-level layout with its famous straw mats looked exactly like the postcards, but the thick cloud of shisha smoke made it impossible to actually see much of anything, including the supposedly stunning view. We retreated to the street, chalking it up as one of those experiences where the legend exceeds the reality.
The village itself proved more enchanting than any single café. Each doorway displayed unique combinations of metalwork and carved wooden panels—all maintaining that mesmerizing blue-against-white palette that's launched a thousand Instagram posts. The effect was simultaneously charming and slightly disorienting, as if we'd wandered into a film set rather than a functioning village.
Narrow stone paths wound between buildings, occasionally opening to reveal breathtaking Mediterranean vistas. These viewpoints created natural gathering spots where visitors paused to absorb the panorama and pulled out their cameras. I was drawn to small watercolor paintings displayed on portable easels, each one capturing a different blue door with the kind of detail that made photography seem almost redundant.
As the afternoon light softened, we began our return journey to find the car, navigating back through increasingly busy lanes. What we found instead was automotive distress in its purest form — our rental car immobilized by a bright yellow wheel clamp. My uncle's expression shifted from confusion to horror to resignation in the span of seconds, the universal stages of parking violation grief.
A juice shop in front of our vehicular hostage situation became our crisis headquarters. With the purchase of several extravagantly priced fruit concoctions, we secured not just refreshment but local intervention with the cashier’s aid. The resulting rescue operation involved a mysterious phone call, a man with suspicious tools, and a cash transaction that involved no paperwork whatsoever. Within ten minutes, our car had regained its freedom, though its dignity (and ours) remained thoroughly compromised.
La Marsa by Moonlight: Carrefour Hauls and Midnight Feast
Rather than risking further parking violations, we decided to cap our day with a safer activity. The plan: find a neighborhood Carrefour—a French supermarket chain that has colonized Tunisia with more proficiency than any historical empire— to assemble a DIY dinner that we could enjoy in the tranquil courtyard of our accommodation.
We scattered through the aisles with the enthusiasm of people who find grocery stores irresistibly exhilarating. What should have been a twenty-minute errand stretched to nearly two hours as we examined everything from spice blends to unfamiliar snack foods with disproportionate interest. Each aisle offered new discoveries that somehow seemed both familiar and slightly different from their counterparts back home.
I gravitated toward the wine section, securing bottles of Magon Signature that had become my personal Tunisian discovery. My mother examined every label in the juice aisle with the focus of someone translating ancient hieroglyphs. Fresh baguettes found their way into our cart, along with a collection of local cheeses and nuts that would make perfect appetizers.
After hours of this methodical exploration, we realized our collection of snacks wouldn't constitute a proper dinner. The food court outside the main supermarket beckoned with its ready-made options. A family-sized box of chicken shawarma complete with fries and tabouleh salad became our main course, supplemented by a rice dish whose exact ingredients remained delightfully mysterious. The dessert shop next door presented rows of pastries ranging from traditional honey-soaked creations to French-influenced chocolate confections. We eventually settled on pistachio and chocolate mousse creations that promised a perfect end to our meal.
As night settled over La Marsa and stars appeared above our open courtyard, we shared this final feast accompanied by the gentle splashing of the fountain. Conversations drifted between reflections on the trip and plans for tomorrow's return journey to Tunis, with occasional digressions into which ruins deserved the coveted "most impressive" status. The bottle of Magon Signature disappeared with remarkable efficiency, helping fuel increasingly passionate defenses of favorite sites.
With time well-past midnight, we reluctantly gathered our feast's remnants. The night had given us something perfect in its simplicity — just four travel-worn family members sharing supermarket treasures in a converted dar under a starlit Tunisian sky. This evening in our peaceful courtyard sanctuary, this fleeting assemblage of time, place and people, would exist nowhere except in our collective memory. And somehow, that impermanence made it more precious than any mosaic that had survived two thousand years.
Finding home in starlit courtyard and fleeting moments,
Susie
감동적이었습니다.