It was a dark and stormy night as we piled onto the train platform at Civitavecchia, a port town north of Rome. The Mediterranean was whipped white with foam and the rain came down in heavy sheets. Naturally. The ONE day it really rains in Italy is the day we are leaving. We munched our chicken and buffalo mozzarella wraps on the platform as we waited, in vain, for the rain to lessen.
The two miles from the Civitavecchia train station to the ferry dock vies for the longest two miles of the trip. Fully clad in our rain suits, with lights on, we crept through the darkness. At points the water was so deep that it came a quarter of the way up our bike tires. The worst moment: when Tony missed a train track beneath the water and dumped his bike, the bags and the boy on the back into six inches of puddle… in the middle of a three way intersection… the fun was just beginning.
The ferry from Civitavecchia to Tunis, Tunisia only runs once a week; on Wednesdays.

It leaves at 11:00 p.m. but we had to be there to get the tickets and line up at 9:00 p.m. Two hours past Ezra’s bedtime, on a good day… and this was NOT a good day. We rolled in like drowned rats to the claps and cheers of some diehard motorcyclists who shared our fate: waiting the two hours beneath a bus stop overhang and shivering. Tony read The Princess Bride aloud for the entire wait. I knit away at a damp sock and Ezra laid with his head on my lap. It was a long two hours, preceding an even longer ferry ride.
The storm had not abated when we boarded the ship, exhausted. I congratulated myself on NOT choosing the, slightly cheaper, deck passage and purchasing pullman seats inside, instead. I chided myself for cheaping out on the pullman seats when what we so obviously needed at that moment were nice, snug little cabins with bunk beds, like we had crossing the North Sea. Nonetheless, it was better than deck passage… we did that once as kids in Mexico and were scarred for life… Josh rolled off of a box of life jackets in the middle of the night, right on to a whole family of Mexicans. I huddled beneath a blanket, between my parents and froze on the teak deck all night, but, I digress. We found our seats without difficulty, I slipped the kids a little “vitamin M” (melatonin) to help them sleep, and we crashed.

The boat crashed too: all night, up and down on the prodigious waves.

Our seats were near the front of the boat, maximizing the movement. No amount of Bonine (an excellent anti-nausea drug) could compete. With each wave the boat pitched high and then plummeted into the valley with a bone jarring shudder and metallic crunching sound. This did not inspire confidence. I checked on the life boats in the middle of the night, while walking off a leg cramp. Morning dawned, grey, and breakfast did not stay down. By 8:00 a.m. all four kids were throwing up, along with at least two thirds of the rest of the passengers… only eight hours to go. To think, we paid 505.00 Eu for this pleasure cruise.
With lunch time came flat seas and blue skies. The Med turned a deep sapphire blue tipped with thick white foam. The wind blew a fine spray from the tallest waves and the sun turned it to rainbows all around the boat. Grey mountains appeared, like magic, along the horizon and we savored our first glimpses of Africa. The kids were glued to the windows for the remainder of the trip and for the first time in hours we were dry, well fed and healthy. It’s the little things in life.
We eagerly disembarked at la Goulette (a historical haunt of pirates, the boys were interested to discover) and found our host and an entourage of his friends waiting for us. Bikes went into one truck, we and the bags into another and Mr. Hachana drove with enthusiasm toward the apartment we are renting, 160 km away. Of course, before he could deliver us, we had to meet his family. He roared past the American embassy, jerked the car to the right, off of the highway, over the curb and out into the dirt, weaving between cactuses and shrubs, “You have first class tour!” he said, in broken English. The kids, (all four of whom were wedged into the backseat with me… no seat belt laws in Tunisa) made BIG eyes at me and grinned. Mrs. Hachana, and two of their three children met us with hugs and kisses on both cheeks. We were served sodas out of wine glasses and were paraded proudly before a neighbour. Mr. Hachana reappeared and announced, “We go now! Long drive.” Mrs. Hachana hushed him and rattled in Arabic something about the children not having finished their drinks, their daughter laughed and tried to translate. “Okay, five more minutes!” he acquiesced in the face of his clucking women and disappeared once again. We gulped down our drinks, only too eager to find our new home.

Indeed, it was a long drive. Ezra laid across Hannah and I and slept for most of it. Mr. Hachana and I chatted in French as much as possible. I learned many things: We are the first Americans to rent from him. He is hoping to build his American clientele through us and wishes for us to tell all Americans that when they come to Tunisia, “They stay with Mr. Hachana, it is very safe and he take very good care of them.” We were strictly forbidden to shop anywhere but the supermarket as he is quite concerned that we will be taken advantage of by the locals. No kidding. I couldn’t quite make him understand that we’ve done the third world bartering thing more than once in other countries and fully expect to get shafted every once in a while. It’s part of the fun! We were informed that he’ll be back in two weeks to collect us for his family’s olive harvest. Apparently they own 500 olive trees somewhere near El Jem and we are expected to join them for the party. There was something in there about the possibility of having to ride animals to get there and it may be a several day venture… I’m unclear on the details, but it sounds like our kind of adventure. He’s a good man, our Mr. Hachana.
The apartment is perfect. Better than we expected, to say the least. 1600 sq. ft. Three bedrooms, three balconies and each one with a view of the ocean. We’re less than a hundred yards from the beach and the little market downstairs sells the best baguettes that fifteen American cents can buy. The internet works (this took a ride into Sousse and UN negotiations in Arabic, French and Computer… two of three languages I do not speak, to accomplish, but at least it’s working.) There are some work possibilities on the horizon for Tony. We even found a little church to attend in town; surprising, since only 1% of the population of Tunisia is Christian. There is a 1 dinar (about sixty cents) bounty out on the head of the first camel the kids spot. There have been several false sightings of stuffed camels, and much negotiation on why these camels should count for the reward. My stock reply is that “if it’s not breathing, it doesn’t count!” We’ve decided that we know we’re in Tunisia because we wake up at four in the morning to the wail of prayers being sung from the top of the mosque, there are donkeys pulling carts as part of the normal traffic pattern, all of the signs are in Arabic first (often in French second, thankfully) and on our first walk through the souq (market extraordinaire) we were not only cornered by carpet sellers, one vendor tried to trade Ezra a dead cow’s head (in excellent condition) for his bicycle.

Bienvenue a Tunisie!