'Welcome to Tunis Evan. It was so pleasant to finally hear from you. I only hope you are as eager to begin as I. I suggest you start by becoming familiar with the painting and the layout of the gallery. It is on the same street as the hotel you are in. Proceed toward the sea, the Tunisian National Gallery is the first building before the Promenade. Please familiarize yourself with the route from the gallery to the dock. The boat 'The Panta Mine' is moored in slip number 15. Its captain is a Welshman named Flynn Coogan. He is waiting for you and has most of the supplies you will need, anything else can easily be found in the open air bazaar down the street from the gallery. Everything else is in your hands. I eagerly await your return. Good luck.

Samas.'

The old woman said nothing when I walked past on my way out. The clock above her graying head showed 3:00 p.m. I stepped onto the sidewalk, placed the cane under me and started toward the sea.

The Tunisian National Gallery was set back from the street to make room for the two life-sized, carved stone elephants that guarded the entrance. I walked past, feigning disinterest while taking in every detail of the building's facade; the flowering colors of the low planters between the granite pillars, the clock set high in the wall under the peaked roof, the ubiquitous white stains of the loitering pigeons.

The surrounding city was abuzz with activities that surface after the heat of day and before the fall of night. Men and women, old and young, burdened with all manner of goods, walked in and out of the breach in the storefronts that served as the entrance to the indoor bazaar. I noticed several other foreigners as I entered.

The inside was organized chaos. Each merchant ruled over a ten foot square of concrete floor under the high, sheet metal roofed iron superstructure, their wares as varied as their dark faces. Brass pots lay stacked next to caged monkeys, next to six-foot tall mounds of onions and gourds. Old women constantly fanned sides of beef and racks of lamb with long palm branches to beat off the swarming flies, their steady rhythm wafting the scent of spoilage into the stagnant air.

I stopped on the square of a T-shirt vendor just beyond a young couple arguing amongst their piled guitars. I picked a shirt hastily emblazoned with a mural of racing camels. The young boy watching the stand took the twenty-dollar bill from my hand and crammed a wadded handful of Tunisian bills in its place. He giggled when I pulled the shirt on over my sweat-soaked white button down. I couldn't be sure if he laughed at my choice or my gullibility in not contesting or even counting my change.

I took two steps back to the neighboring square. "How much for a guitar?" I shouted into their heated squabble.