In my final days, as if in some spasm of recrimination, Tunisia’s decided to send a chorus line of hustlers and vagrants my way. Something about this face, I suspect, suggests a guarded tolerance toward mischief. “You’re not likely to wheedle a single dinar out of me,” my eyes hint, “but please, don’t let that stop you from making a colorful pitch.” And they do, around Ave. Habib Bourguiba and Mohammed V, in broad daylight and in the dark midnight hours, when every last person on the street seems up to no good. A man in a long, belted overcoat - a suspicious garment offset by his beatific smile - greets me with a crisp London accent. “My friend, I do not get to practice English often,” he says. “Do you have one dinar?” Another,
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