Accenting the East Coast

Tunisian peddlers, fluent in Arabic and French, are some of the most intelligent people on the planet. They ask me, in English, what language I speak. Being clever, I offer “Sono italiana”; they respond, in Italian, “What part of Italy?” I admit I speak only poco italiano; they smile triumphantly.

They know what to say to get me to buy: “You’re beautiful!” “Your children are smart!” “Set your own price!”

I pick up a pair of pink Converse. Touching is a sure sign you’ll buy.

“You like?” the vendor asks.

“I do.” I smile, a possible mistake. “How much?”

He smiles back. “How much do you want to pay?”

“How much do you want?”

His smile remains. “How much do you want to pay?”

“15,” I reply.

“30,” he counters.

Having been to markets in both Naples and Istanbul, I’ve learned to enjoy the haggle. It’s not unlike performing in a play. I gasp. Put my hand to my chest. “Oh, no!” I roll my eyes and begin to leave.

“How much do you want to pay?” he asks again.

“15,” I repeat.

“25?” he pushes.

“Never mind,” I say. I walk away.

He chases me, places the shoes in my hands. “15,” he assents. I pay the man.

I pass stall after stall, beckoned in many ways.

“Your husband said you would come here next!” My husband is actually behind me.

“Heather!” one calls. I see my son, cowering amongst key chains, pretending he isn’t the one who revealed my name.

I stop when I’m interested, continue when I’m not. I take pictures of the beautiful blue doors of Tunisia, marveling at their cerulean color, a blend of the African sky and the Mediterranean sea.

“You are American?” one man yells.

I nod.

“We are neighbors! I am Canadian!”

I turn to find a dark man, his hair wild and his teeth rotting.

“Half-Canadian,” he blackly smiles.

I laugh.

“Come in,” he pleads.

I shake my head.

“There are many things you will like here!” he proclaims.

I continue walking.

“YOU HATE CANADIANS!” he exclaims.

“Yes. Yes, I do,” I tell him. I laugh loudly, with abandon.

When traveling I look for street art. This market in Tunis has prints, not originals painted and sold by artists in the streets. But the tumbled marble mosaics here are beautiful. I find one featuring a terracotta hand held aloft, fingers together, an eye centered on the palm. Again, I smile.

“You are very beautiful,” the vendor tells me.

“What does this symbol mean?” I ask.

“It is the hand of Fatima. You buy one your first day here to protect you from the evil eye.”

I love such stories.

He wants 10. I pay 5.