But we almost didn’t make it. A couple of days before our scheduled departure we were on the local light rail public transit train. It pulled into our stop and we made for the doors, which instantly started to close. We pushed through them before they slammed completely shut, but what neither of us had noticed as we managed the doors is that the train was moving. If it had come to a stop at all it was for a nanosecond, but I don’t think it ever truly stopped.

I managed to maintain my balance, but Dorothy, who came through after me as the train was starting to pick up more speed, tumbled to the platform and hit the ground knees first. The knees, for those who need reminding, that have both been replaced.

She stayed down for a while before she could get up and limp the block home, holding onto me for support. When we got there and reviewed the damage, it looked bad. Very, very bad. The pain aside, the knee was grossly misshapen. It looked like the kneecap had migrated to someplace it didn’t belong. Which would be anywhere it hadn’t started.

We’re staying in the grandmother unit of a house occupied by our host’s adorable mother, who knows not a single word of English. I knocked on her door and handed her Google Translate with the French for Where is the nearest emergency room? Thankfully, Nour, our host, was visiting. His English is impeccable, and the next thing we know he’d produced a wheelchair and was driving us to the ER.

He was incredibly helpful, and stayed with us the entire time (which was only about 45 minutes start to finish – take that, US healthcare system). While the doctor spoke English, it was comforting to have Nour there to translate. Any comfort was huge, because we were both terrified. On the spectrum of what-could-go-wrong, one end had us invoking our medevac insurance and heading back to the States. The best possible case outcome seemed to involve eating our road trip. Which we’d have been delighted to do, under the circumstances.

The x-rays were negative. The implant was completely in place, and the misshapen knee was nothing but swelling. Soft tissue damage! Yay!!! By the way, the entire retail cost of this escapade was $100, inclusive of ER, doctor, X-ray, and pharmacy. Take that, US healthcare system!

Next was just to wait out the next couple of days to see if Dorothy would be mobile enough for our planned road trip.

I might have spoiled the suspense by calling this post Road Trip, but Dorothy rallied like a trooper and we hit the road as scheduled. With a still painful and distended knee, but when has that ever stopped her?

The Uninvited Guest

Everything is a fucking adventure when you don’t know how things work and don’t speak or read the language. Even something as theoretically simple as taking a train.

We’d checked out the train schedules, and there was a train directly from Tunis to Nabeul. The train web site said so, as did the posters with train schedules in the station. I’m sure showing up the day of travel to get tickets would have been fine, but there was only one train to Nabeul per day, so we wanted to get our tickets in advance. None of the Plan Bs (Plans B?) looked attractive.

We got there a few days ahead of departure, before Dorothy’s misadventure, to be told that they only sold tickets day of and day before. So I left Dorothy behind to throb and returned the day before, to be told that there was no train to Nabeul the next day. The day after Ramadan is a holiday, Eid al-Fitr, so I think that’s why, but I’ll never actually know. The train I’d been expecting just wasn’t an option. Instead, I was offered tickets to Bir Bou Regba, and told I could take a bus or taxi, no problem. Very close. No problem.

Okey doke. We wound up arriving at the station about an hour before the train departed. There were no signs as to what platform the train departed from, and the doors to the platform were locked. They had green signs that said Entrée, and the platform was on the other side. I figured they didn’t want folk hanging out on the platform until their train pulled in, so we just waited. Every so often I walked over to the doors to see if they were still locked.

After one such stroll two gentleman who’d been sitting near us waved me over and explained something in French. I smiled and nodded and thanked them (“Merci!“), and then took my seat again with Dorothy. I finally noticed an information booth and started to head over, when the man sitting next to us asked in English if we needed help.

Boy did we, and when we explained, he told us that the green doors weren’t functional (which is obviously what someone had tried to explain to me) and to get to the platform we had to go through the doors behind the red Interdit sign. Of course, so logical. He asked where we were going and then found our platform for us by asking other folk, because, still, no signage.

He hung out with us and chatted (it seems like 100% of Tunisians have a relative living in the US), which didn’t seem dodgy. We were clearly clueless. When the train finally came he grabbed our luggage and took it aboard, which we didn’t need, but seemed friendly. Dorothy was working a cane, after all. Then he sat with us, which also seemed friendly, until the train started to move and he didn’t get off. That seemed less friendly.

He grabbed our luggage and got off with us at Bir Bou Regba and started walking towards the cab stand. We were perfectly capable of managing the taxi process, but he insisted on speaking to the cabbies despite our attempt to peel off. When we finally got a cab he got in with us. There seemed to be no way to lose him.

I texted our host, who was picking us up in Nabeul, that we had an unwanted companion, and he provided the bus station address to the cabbie, so this guy wouldn’t know where we were staying. On the way there, our new best friend offered to stay with us for our visit and show us around. Yipes! When we got to the bus station, our host, Mohamed, hustled us into his car quickly enough that we were able to ditch our limpet. He took us on a tour of the area before we went to the apartment, to orient us, he said, but mostly, I think, to make sure the cab wasn’t following us. Welcome to Nabeul!

Nabeul

We’d chosen Nabeul because it’s one of the two primary sources of ceramics and pottery in Tunisia. What little we’d seen in the Medina in Tunis made it clear that ceramics were the artisanal highlight here. Like Morocco, there was wood and metal and leather and jewelry, but the ceramics really stood out. In addition to the regular shops and factories throughout Nabeul, there was also a Friday public market that promised even more delights.

Which is good, because we hadn’t done our homework on Eid al-Fitr, which turns out to be a multi-day holiday. We arrived in Nabeul on Wednesday, the first day of Eid al-Fitr. We made a list of shops and factories to walk to on Thursday, but they were all closed. As we walked away from the last of the four locations on our itinerary, a car pulled up and asked if we were going to Poterie Najjar, which we were. Turns out, it was the proprietor.

He opened up and we had a delightful chat. He walked us through all of the styles, where the designs originated, where they exported to… Not a word of English, but we were somehow miraculously able to follow his French.

We bought a spectacular piece, and when we left we turned around and they’d locked up and were driving away. We thought we’d gotten there just as they were opening up. Turns out they were just driving by. I hope it was worth the 50 dinar sale, about $16 USD.

We walked back to the apartment through what passes for Nabeul’s Medina. It’s really just a downtown area with shops, not a traditional souk like we’re used to. Most of the shops were closed, but we were able to get a feeling for the city. Friday was clearly going to be the payoff.

We clocked 4.5 miles walking that day, by the way. Just four days after Dorothy’s existential knee crisis.

The Streetscape

Not only do they make tile in Nabeul, they use it. From street follies to mosques, the entire city seems to be made of ceramics.

Unlike Tunis, Nabeul has some very specific vernacular architecture. The repeating motif here is balconies with decorative tile, pressed plaster, and half-round glazed ceramic roof tiles.

And while we’ll get to the desert, so far everywhere we’ve been in Tunisia has been on the Mediterranean. Same here. Poor us.

Ceramics

And this is why we came. While the Medina here is a fraction the size of Marrakech’s, or even the Tunis Medina, it is thick, thick, thick with ceramics. We had high hopes for the quality of the artisanship here, and they have been surpassed.

Although we visited several shops that were factory stores, we weren’t able to squeeze in any factory tours. However, here’s a promotional video created by one of the local factories. It’s one thing to look at the work and say, “Of course, handmade.” It’s another thing entirely to see the hands making them. The precision required seems inhuman.

There’s a classic Penn & Teller bit where they do the hoary old ball and cup trick, which everyone has seen every magician do ever. Ho and hum. But then they repeat the trick with clear cups and explain exactly what they’re doing. What looked like a simple magic trick, once exposed, becomes an inexplicable feat of dexterity. It’s more magic than before, not less. Same with seeing the ceramics made.

While most of the shops and factories in the Medina were fixed price, there were a few that operated on the aggressive Marrakechi style of offering insanely inflated prices and then demanding “Give me your price,” which I just find incredibly tedious. While you couldn’t tell from the outside which was which, it was pretty easy to tell once inside. Either there were no price tags on items, or the prices were obviously wrong. I don’t like to reward that approach, but we made one exception.

And then there’s what we actually bought. Dorothy’s refrain was, “How will we get this home?” Mine was, “We’ll figure it out.” Obviously, we still don’t know. Yet another suitcase?

Cap Bon

Our host, Mohamed, is a retired tour guide. So when we asked him for help finding a car and driver to take us around the cape, he jumped into the driver’s seat himself. We’d asked for a trip up the coast to Kerkouane, the only Punic city that the Romans didn’t destroy, with a stop at the historic fort at Kelebia on the way. He suggested we make a loop and go all the way around the cape. Guess who won?

Unlike the desert south, the north of Tunisia is lush and green, in no small measure due to the Mediterranean climate. No place in the north may be greener than Cap Bon, which, aside from its beautiful beaches, is one of Tunisia’s richest agricultural zones.

Kelebia

First stop up the coast: Kelebia, which was founded by the Carthaginians as Aspis in the fifth century BC. Because Tunisia. Now it’s primarily a fishing port, although it’s also renowned for its incredible beaches. We went primarily for the 16th century fort that overlooks the port and the Mediterranean.

Kerkouane

Kerkouane was frankly the reason for us to take this day trip. After spending so much time in Carthage, which is almost exclusively Roman ruins, we were really interested to see an actual Phoenician-era city.

That era was 850 BC, substantially older than the Carthage that’s left. The original Phoenician Carthage dates to about 900 BC, but the Roman ruins date to about 50 BC. Sorry, sorry. I mean only about 50 BC.

Kerkouane wasn’t actually a real city. It was a summer resort for the wealthy, and its lack of strategic value is probably what saved it from the Roman wrecking ball. In fact, while there are other Punic ruins, Kerkouane is the only Punic city to have survived, so it’s a special place.

The other cool thing about Kerkouane is that if you look up the coast to the tip of Cap Bon, you can see where the Atlas Mountains sink into the Mediterranean. The same Atlas Mountains that start in Morocco and extend all across the Maghreb, through Algeria to Tunisia. They just dead end at Cap Bon.

Fun fact: the Atlas Mountains are the reason the Atlantic Ocean is called the Atlantic Ocean. See? Travel really is broadening.

Al Huwariyah

Al Huwariyah is at the very tip of Cap Bon, where we turned the corner and headed back around the other side. The highlight here was seeing the Atlas Mountain range peter out into the Mediterranean. We’d seen it from the other side at Kerkouane.

Ain Atrous

On the far side of Cap Bon we stopped at Ain Atrous, a natural hot spring. Tunisia has 65 natural hot springs, which is incredibly dense for its size. We should arrange a tour of nothing but hot springs, because how awesome would that be?

Sadly, we didn’t have an opportunity to swim here, but that’s OK. The highlight for me was Dorothy’s response, which was not unlike the wonder, fear, joy, and suspicion that a five year old would exhibit when her uncle pulled a quarter from her ear. She couldn’t wrap her head around hot water just coming out of the side of a mountain.

To be fair, it requires a substantial suspension of disbelief.

And that returned us to Nabeul, which ends the first part of our road trip. Next up: Sousse!