In a particularly hasty move, I hopped aboard a vessel late one night and fled Africa. I spent the last of my dinar on a family-sized spaghetti platter at a seemingly posh restaurant, waited in an atrociously chaotic line-up, and sat in the marine terminal at the Port of La Goulette reflecting on all that I have learned from my time on this majestic continent that has shaped—and dare I say been shaped by—me: namely, that the train between Tunis and La Goulette costs less than 40 cents, and so long as your boat is not 10 hours late in docking, you can avoid the $25 “friend tax” imposed on you by vulturous taxi drivers. Just a tip.
After a quick layover in Sicily, I was headed to another Latin country in the east, Romania. Nothing could be higher than my spirits on the morning on February 5th, 2010. A journal entry confirms this:
“...so I’m now sitting in Catania in the hot sun sipping a cappuccino and eating a chocolate croissant, things are not so different from Tunisia, despite the obvious price difference. I leave for Bucharest in a matter of hours. I took the train from Palermo to Messina, snapped a picture of the toe of the Italian boot, and then arrived in Catania last night. There is a festival going on for Santa Agata. There are churches everywhere on this island. It’s like Calgary with good food. It is 20 degrees, I am wearing a t-shirt, and presumably getting a tan. Yes, winter is closing out. Romania next! I can feel it! I can feel that the thaw is upon us!”
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