The souk, jasmine and cinnamon. Gentle brine on the breeze, and orange blossoms, and blush wine. I stretched out like a starfish in my raspberry brocade bed at my east gate hotel. The ceiling was a labyrinth of flowers. I asked my hosts if I could borrow a corkscrew: the concierge wrinkled his elegant nose in consternation. And the chef who served my full fish eye-up on a dazzling blue ceramic swirl of a plate frowned and shook his head, wagging a finger for emphasis. I wandered through the markets again to find a booth of requisite sundries and amenities, savouring pistachio pastries from Kasserine on the way back to my room. The men smoked and leered, but I didn’t care. At dawn, there were a thousand cats, marmalade and mangy and mewling, sipping milk and tenderness on tiny saucers all the way through the market maze. I chose shiny brass plates engraved with names for everyone: cheery camels adorned with rainbow ribbons. Olives, everywhere, and sprigs of bright mint. Up the coast I roamed in the turquoise seaside ruins of Carthage, the crimson sun and Sanderac conifers swallowing sky and skin. The gods there before all this and after.