Scarlet bougainvillea draping white plaster
walls pop against a backdrop of blazing sun, cerulean skies, and turquoise
waters. The beautiful city of Sidi Bou Said, Tunisia, presents this striking
image to visitors. Before the Islamic Spring, before Iraq, Iran, and Syria
exploded in our politically volatile world, Tunisa was a haven of liberality, a
small triangle of peace and prosperity situated between Libya and Algeria. Even
then, we prayed, as westerners, that our plane not stray off-course.
Although my daughter and I had been advised
to wear long dresses and to cover our arms, young women native to Tunisia
walked the busy avenues decked out in the latest fashions, even halter tops and
short shorts. At the time, Tunisia was quite progressive, especially as
compared to other Islamic countries. The storefronts and sidewalk cafes
mirrored those of any other city in Europe or America.
The contrast of old and new was startling
in every Tunisian city we visited, among them Tunis and Kelibia. Ancient Roman
ruins cropped up among contemporary buildings in bustling, modern towns, and
older women draped their bodies in dark, flowing robes while colorfully, and
often scantily, clad youngsters filed past them. The maze of winding passages
in the ancient bazaars offered the latest in electronics and watches along with
spices and grains that have been staples for centuries.
The most exotic spot we visited was one of
the islands of Kerkennah, purported to be the Island of Circe of Odyssey fame.
It’s warm shallow waters were clear as a teardrop, and we were able to walk for
what seemed like miles before the water rose to our kneecaps. Unfortunately,
the rather sparse seaweed caused my son and his friend to break out in huge
hives within minutes. That was another thing about Tunisia. Even on this tiny,
sparsely populated island, we found an up-to-date, gleaming pharmacy, where a
chemist prescribed medications to the boys without a script from a physician.
Just a good, common sense approach to what ailed them.
The island was lovely, peaceful and quiet.
The blue, silvered mornings and golden twilights were punctuated with the sound
of goats being herded past our tiny villa. We awakened to sounds of their
tuneless bells and soft bleating. People walked everywhere and gas-powered
vehicles were rare. I remember only one: a rusty pick-up truck, its bed filled
to its brim with loaves of French bread, none of it packaged, but stacked like
cord wood and battened down with twine.
About the food, I have to admit it was
splendid. I have never seen more beautiful fruits and vegetables—ripe
strawberries, succulent watermelon, figs, and apricots. All fresh produce was
shipped from Sicily. Coming from the United States, where everything is
sanitized, waxed, packaged, and processed so as to be almost unrecognizable
(not to mention grown to promote shelf-life rather than taste), I found it a
marvel. This was well before the demand for organic, whole foods in my part of
the world.
Also, while on the island, we experienced a
dramatic sand storm. We thought those dark, approaching clouds were rain
showers until it was upon us, when it was too late to close up the house or
save any of the food. We bathed in the Gulf of Sfax with local families who
washed with a dark brown liquid, shampooing their hair until it looked like
soapy mud. We slept on rugs on the roof of the villa while listening to a
wedding celebration, to the joyous voices, laughter, and ululations of women,
throughout the night.
Perhaps the highlight of our journey was a
visit to the ruins of ancient Carthage, now a suburb of Tunis, and the
excavations of Kerkouane, in the Cap Bon peninsula along the coast. Regarding
the latter, what was left of the walls of the Punic city (about two feet high)
revealed the homes of ordinary people. Every domicile appeared to include a
stone bathtub that drained outside to the gutter that ran along the narrow
passageways between households. Imbedded in a mosaic floor in front of a
hearth, we found a little Tanit, the mother goddess, symbol of protection. We
certainly felt she had showered us with good luck as we toured beautiful
Tunisia.
History, Punic and Roman ruins, beautiful
deserts, glorious food, and the lovely, welcoming people of Tunisia created
memories we cherish still.
Thank you so much Phyliss for this look at Tunisia.
England, 1922. Times are hard. Anne Chatham
is a clever, modest young woman with little money, no prospects for marriage,
and a never-shared secret—she can see spirits.
Anne finds employment as a typist at
Northfield house, the grand country manor of the Wellington family. Her
employer, the wheelchair-bound Mr. Wellington, is kindly. His haughty wife is
not. He has two handsome sons, the wry and dashing Thomas and the dark and
somber Owen.
Anne feels sure her prayers have been
heard. Until the terrifying night she stumbles upon a tortured spirit roaming
the dark halls of Northfield, a spirit that only she can see. In a search for
answers, she finds herself drawn to Owen as they unearth a tragic story from
the Wellington family’s past—a beautiful young bride gone missing on her
wedding day.
Then tragedy strikes again on the night of
a glittering masquerade ball…
Biography
Phyllis M. Newman is a native southerner.
Born in New Orleans, she spent formative years in Florida, Iowa, Mississippi,
and on a dairy farm in Ross Country, Ohio. After a long career in finance and
human resources at The Ohio State University, she turned her attention to
writing fiction. She published a noir mystery, “Kat’s Eye” in 2015, and “The
Vanished Bride of Northfield House” in 2018. Today she lives in Columbus, Ohio,
with her husband and three perpetually unimpressed cats, ghostwatchers all.
You may contact/follow/like her at www.readphyllismnewman.com, or
Facebook https://facebook.com/ReadPhyllisMNewman/
British buy link: https://goo.gl/uU5QBC
Purchase at Amazon.com/co.uk, Kindle, and
Barnes & Noble
Very interesting thanks for opening our eyes!
ReplyDeleteThank you. It was the trip of a lifetime
ReplyDeleteRachel, thanks for the opportunity to do a guest post.
ReplyDelete