Yesterday I was seated by the balcony listening to giant toads croaking the night away, air-con blowing a gentle breeze.
Fast-forward 24 hours, six hours of queuing and one keftiji sandwich later and here I am, ensconced in what I thought would be ‘magnificent’ surroundings, but are more like cells.
Before I proceed, I would like to point out that sometimes, very occasionally, travel writers get it wrong.
Namely, The Telegraph‘s Rosemary Behan.
The sales pitch by the Bourguiba Institute is way off: the magnificent building in actual fact resides between mechanic workshops, semi-constructed buildings and the metro line.
The pizzerias are permanently shuttered and the sole shop selling warm yogurt provides the only neighbourhood sustenance.
The kitchen that the brochure boasts is a camping gas hob to be shared by 20 people, while the kitchen is a complete stranger to pots, pans, plates and cutlery.
These, I must buy tomorrow.
The bathroom is Solzhenitsyn in appearance, though I have yet to test the urban myth that it actually varies in temperature from zero degrees.
The phone downstairs has no buttons to ensure no calls are made out, while the big TV by the entrance is fiercely guarded by an elderly lady who grimaces at passers by, while residing in a small room strewn with peacock feathers.
Tomorrow I must leave for school at 07:15 – the classes better be good.
Because I have never been so close to quitting as I am now.