I am back, for the third time in six months – never has a city bored me so little.
Despite the exhaustion accumulated after a two day trek, which at times prompted the query of whether it would have been quicker to row in a dingy, the sight of Tunis stirred the piece of coal that has long since replaced my heart.
The land now scorched from the merciless sun, the high-rises of Avenue Bourguiba gleamed in the afternoon sun, signalling the destination’s proximity.
That, and the brown-grey halo of pollution that crowned the capital, providing an aerial sign-post lest the cluster of snow-white match-box buildings failed to indicate.
The heat is sweet and sickly and for tonight my view is over the Belevedere Park, the shouts of children and chugs of mopeds orchestrating the early evening background.
Despite all plaintive cries for brik, it seems the nearest eatery will be a trek; given that I can barely summon the will to change the TV channel, a food foray is unlikely.
Tomorrow, I will register at the Bourguiba School and commence my Arabic perfection in earnest, squealching that last bete noire – my script’n’grammar.