Thanksgiving in celebration of good friends and good health

By all indicators, my first Thanksgiving dinner "flying solo" without a mother in the kitchen to assist was a great success. Happy guests powered though an enormous amount of food and kept the conversation going 'til past midnight. The turkey, roasted to perfection, came out on time and all the recipes ... both traditional and experimental ... were successful. This morning it took me three hours to clean up, and I carted 10 empty wine bottles to the recycling bin. Clearly, my six guests were full of cheer last night, though this morning might have brought a painful awakening.
I'm relieved I didn't attempt this without taking time off work. I was cooking almost all day yesterday, and recovering most of today. And worth every minute.

I love the whole concept of this holiday ... a time to gather with those nearest and dearest and think about what you have to be thankful for. Gathered around my table last night were four of us who've had serious health issues in the past year; three with life-threatening cancers. All are recovered or recovering, and I think we've all gained a new respect for what's really important in life. It felt good to have these old, dear friends around me at such a special time. Far, far better than past years where I've met friends for a meal at one of the American restaurants in town.

I may just have to establish my own Thanksgiving tradition on this side of the pond.

ELLEN'S THANKSGIVING MENU
Appetisers:

• Cucumber slices with sour cream and caviar
• antipasto platter
• Olives & stuffed peppers

First Course:

• Chicken broth with tortellini

Main Course:

• Maple & peppercorn glazed turkey
• Stuffing with sausage, wild rice and water chestnuts
• Sweet potato crisp
• Braised fennel & chestnuts
• Chicory & orange salad

Pumpkin Pie

Coffee, Tea and Austrian Chocolates

A walk around Vienna makes another business trip tolerable

Wednesday, 10:30 pm, Heathrow's unspeakably dreary Terminal 2. I was standing in the pouring rain, waiting at the appointed spot for my taxi driver who'd been "5 minutes away" at 10:05. The plane had left Vienna half an hour late; a half hour, because of Vienna Airport's irritating security-at-the-gate policy, endured without drinking water because there's no chance to buy more once they take it off you. Upon arrival in London, another 20 minutes lost waiting on the plane because the jetway was broken. This, I thought drearily, was the reality of business travel.

But, now home, dry and with a lovely Thanksgiving behind me (blog entry to come), I can admit that there are almost always upsides to business travel, and this was no exception.

I was in Vienna to present on "third party partnerships and content as a brand building strategy" at a telecommunications branding conference. Though the conference itself was disappointingly small, the attendees were from an excellent variety of companies and the presentations were, for the most part, both interesting and useful. My presentation was well received and generated a lot of further discussion at the break. I was asked to serve as conference chair for the second day, which was also good fun. (Although presented quite a challenge at one point when the conference's persistent bad boy was having a conversation throughout one guy's presentation. I was contemplating stopping proceedings and asking the rude bastard to step outside, but the presenter at the time was so good, and was carrying on with such force, I figured I'd let him power on and just ignore the distraction.)

The highlight of the trip, however, was the unexpected joy of ending business about two hours earlier than expected on Tuesday, meaning that my colleague Sarah and I were in casual clothes, wrapped against the cold and wandering around central Vienna while some dim light still hung in the air.

I hadn't been to Vienna since the summer after University. I liked Vienna then, but I hadn't traveled enough at that point to appreciate just how elegant and sophisticated it is in comparison to the rest of Europe. Viennese must feel like they're entering the third world when they come to London, with its rubbish-dotted streets, graffiti-covered trains, slow and expensive public transport and sizable percentage of badly dressed, badly behaved people. At least that's how London appeared, in reflection, as I strode down Vienna's wide, pedestrianised shopping street.

Elegant 19th century buildings rose on either side in pleasing harmony and generally unmarred by modern signage. Plenty of modern brands, they've just proved here that it is possible to promote your store without wrecking the architecture. Almost laughably ornate baroque monuments dot the place. Pavements, buildings ... everything, really ... is spotlessly clean. (I became obsessed with looking for rubbish. There must be some. In six hours I managed to see one discarded coffee cup lid.) The Christmas lights were up, but not jet lit. No tacky, advertising-subsidized stuff here. Festoons of lights criss-crossing from rooftops with giant chandeliers hanging at the intersections.

We walked the standard tourist route, starting at St. Stephen's cathedral. I'd forgotten how Catholic Austria remained in contrast to its German neighbours; the cathedral leaves you in no doubt, from its massive holy water fonts to its towering, reformation-fighting baroque monuments. The building itself is high Gothic and quite dark, probably not best seen at dusk on a winter day. Though it did add drama to have the main monuments looming out of the gloom under the drama of the occasional spotlight.

We stopped for the obligatory coffee in an elegant coffee house ... the historic Demel just behind the palace. Fortified by the hot drink and the generous glug of alcohol spiking it, we continued through the palace and strolled the ring road, taking in the gloriously over-the-top architecture of the National Library, the main museums, the Parliament building and the town hall.

It was at the last that we found one of the famous Christmas Markets open despite the early date. The scene lived up to expectations. The wonderfully ornate, neo-Gothic Rathaus loomed like a dramatic stage set over the scene, dramatically lit and with a line of high windows draped, numbered and ready to serve as a giant civic advent calendar. The venerable old trees in the foreground park had been hung with big lights ... basketball sized or above ... in the shape of different Christmas ornaments. The wooden huts sell piles of colourful glass ornaments, wooden nutcrackers and toys, chocolates, baked goods and many vats of mulled wine.

Reinthaler's Beisl was a welcome find amongst a dearth of traditional restaurants in the historic centre

After a thorough exploration, we started to hunt for a restaurant. Which turned out to be surprisingly challenging, as the central district seems not to have many. Plenty of coffee houses, a few sparse, modern, trendy places and a curious abundance of Italian food. But it was hard work to find what we really wanted: a cozy, old fashioned, local place with traditional cuisine.

Luckily another colleague had passed a guidebook on to me, which led us to Reinthaler's Beisl. This was just what the doctor ordered, and just in time to keep my ears from heading towards frostbite. Wood paneled, packed with locals, a warren of little connected rooms with a handful of waiters running the place with firm efficiency. They bundled us onto the end of a table already half-occupied; we exchanged smiles but no conversation with our neighbours as they, like everyone else in the place, were speaking German. I suspect that had either Sarah or I spoken the language we would have discovered a treasure trove of local delicacies on the hand-written menu. Limited to English, however, we had to go for the few recognisable dishes. Since we were after tradition, this wasn't really a problem. I went for the weiner schnitzel, Sarah the bratwurst with saurkraut. Mine was the best example of the dish I've had. Crisp and light coating, cooked just enough to get the meat piping hot but not overcooked, with that classic pairing of vinegared potato salad and other pickled salads. I had a bite of Sarah's dish, equally a top example of the form. Best of all, two mains and drinks cost us just 25 euros all in. Great traditional food and a bargain; you gotta love it.

I'm back in Vienna on business in 10 days. I found myself regretting not extending the trip. I've spent so much time away from home, I just wanted to get back after the meeting ended on Friday afternoon. Now I'm envisioning all I would have done had I stayed on through the weekend. But, like all business travel, I'll take the good with the bad and rejoice in the fact that I'll get another crack, however short, at this lovely city.

As the career slides ever further into the "dark side", I take guilty pleasure

My career, viewed from one perspective, has been a steady progression from the noble and high minded to the grasping and sordid.

I began my adult life training to be a journalist, filled with dreams of championing the truth and keeping the world safe for democracy. Starting salaries and market realities soon drove me towards the corporate world, but I was in employee communications. I reasoned that I was still a representative of the people, doing good by helping others to do their jobs better. Another twist of fate, and the necessity of jobs on offer, drove me into PR. I was less comfortable here, given the atmosphere of spin and the idea that I was now sometimes in an adversarial position with those journalists I esteemed so much. And still, at heart, was.

Eventually I got the hang of PR and once again justified my choice. My background allowed me to find hard news, to be an advocate of the journalists, to find and package the truth in a way that helped both the company and the press. And always, I consoled myself with the fact that we weren't marketing. Marketing people destroyed the English language, paid no attention to the realities of the outside world, wasted vast amounts of money and generally lived in an ivory tower unrelated to the world I knew. They were evil, and the fact that I was NOT one of them was the single greatest bulwark I had constructed against the fear that I had "sold out" from my youthful journalistic aspirations.

Then in June the corporate wheel turned again. Circumstance dictated a move to marketing from a PR role that had become the proverbial "burning platform". And so I became what I'd always held in contempt. The frightening part? I'm enjoying it enormously.

And so I became what I'd always held in contempt. The frightening part? I'm enjoying it enormously.

I contemplated this odd evolution of fate yesterday, walking across Waterloo bridge with the throbbing, vibrant heart of London spreading out on either side of me. I was coming from a lunch at the Savoy, where I'd been a speaker at the International Advertising Association London. I was made a big deal of, sat at the head table and given an introduction so laudatory I hardly recognised myself. I rarely had this sort of opportunity when I was in PR. Now they're coming thick and fast. Next week, I fly out to Vienna as the guest of the conference organiser to speak on media partnerships and content strategy at a telecommunications branding conference.

And it's not just the external profile that's shifted. Almost overnight, the sense of respect for what I do amongst my peers and the amount under my control increased. My team and I all became eligible for bigger pay increases: the marketing job family pays more than the PR equivalent. It's actually more intellectually stimulating as I work across a much wider pool of agencies and vendors, and have a broader set of intellectual challenges to face. And, let's be honest: the perks are much better when you own marketing budgets.

I suppose I will soon come up with some justification for why I'm actually doing good as a marketeer, and haven't really betrayed the eternal search for truth, simplicity and the perfect story. Perhaps yesterday was a start. I was, after all, presenting on green marketing, and how those of us in the IT industry can use marketing to promote a sustainable agenda. Thus saving the planet. Even so, I suspect it will be quite a while before I can say "I'm in marketing" without a small internal shudder of revulsion; a mental hair shirt to counter my external grin of self satisfaction.

Roussillon delivers a perfect evening

As regular readers of this blog must certainly be convinced by now, London has no shortage of truly spectacular restaurants. We don't have many, however, that offer you not only an extraordinary meal, but service so perfect the maitre d' pays attention to the time of your last train home, suggests when you need to leave and arrange your taxi. The team at Roussillon could offer a master class in customer service.

In this part of town, I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised. Roussillon is in Pimlico, that lush, moneyed enclave stretching between Sloane Square and the designer shops of Knightsbridge. With its elegant Edwardian architecture and quiet, twisting side streets, I always feel that I've dropped into a scene in an Oscar Wilde play. The restaurant is tucked on a quiet residential street and is small and discrete. I don't remember seeing more than 12 tables. (We were sitting at the round one in the centre of the photo at right.)

It was a business dinner and we were shamelessly indulged by our host with the 7 course chef's menu, matched with the sommelier's choice of wines for each course. It won't surprise you that with that level of indulgence and complexity I don't remember all the details, but the overall result left me with a warm glow of contentment that lasted well throughout the next day.

The company and conversation only enhanced this mood. And here I have to give a special nod to the wisdom of my host and his decision to break tradition. The accepted etiquette is, of course, that you don't discuss business until dessert. Whoever came up with this rule clearly wasn't thinking about 7 course meals. Dragging yourself back to business in the late stages of debauchery is hard work. Our host wisely covered business topics over the first three courses. We got a lot done and ran through meaningful topics while we were still alert, allowing us to slide, guilt free, into wider conversational waters as the later courses came on.

The menu, as I remember it, was as follows. First, a tablespoon-sized dollop of fish mousse, with a sweet topping that might have been quince jam, surrounded by a delicate and richly aromatic cream of potato soup. The wine that went with this was the most floral I've ever nosed; it's as if they managed to liquefy and bottle a bouquet. Next, a two-inch square slice of grilled sardine laid atop two small crayfish tails, surrounded by a chopped, stewed vegetable that might have been turnips. The tastes were very intense, and were perfectly complemented by a sherry so bone dry I'd call it astringent. I don't think I would have liked either the food or the wine on its own, but the combination brought out the best in both. A triumph for the cheerful German sommelier who talked us through his every selection in detail. Next, risotto with white truffle, perfectly al dente and rich with earthy mellowness.

Time to switch to red wine ... a particularly lovely pinot noir ... to accompany four wafer-thin slices of rare venison, a bit of poached pear and a swirl of mashed potatoes. The cheese course was a pleasant surprise, bringing a white cheese souffle rather than the customary cheese tray. And then that magic phrase: "for your FIRST dessert..." My taste buds may have been fading at this point, because I couldn't really identify what dessert No. 1 was, other than it was creamy, white and might possibly have involved apples. Or perhaps it just paled too far into insignificance behind dessert No. 2, a small, round stack of praline biscuits enrobed in a decadently dark chocolate and decorated with a little flourish of gold leaf. (I always feel horrifically wasteful eating gold leaf. But it did look good.) Both sweets matched well with their dessert wines, one glass an unusual chestnut-based liqueur that might have been my alcoholic favourite of the meal.

My eyes were beyond glazed by the time the meal-ending plate of bon bons came out along with the after dinner drinks. The sommelier was having great fun with us at this point, giving us blind tastings and challenging us to come up with identifications. One stumped all three of us and ended up being, amazingly, a boutique-produced Rum. A testament to the transformations that can be achieved by the distillers art.

This was one of the most perfectly balanced meals I've ever had. Though it reads like an enormous amount of food, all the servings were quite small, the combinations delicate and everything well paced. Thus you emerge pleasantly full, but not stuffed to the gills. I'm not sure I could, or would, have ever put together all those combinations for myself. That's the beauty of a chef's menu. Give yourself into the chef's hands and you have a chance to really understand why cooking can, at its highest levels, be part art and part magic.

New York leaves me feeling middle aged

Last week, off to New York City ... before I'd even had time to unpack my bags properly from Tunisia. I'm not used to this much travel any more. Having taken three trips in, and been on the road for, most of the past 8 weeks, it's perhaps not surprising that I came back from New York with a miserable cold and am just getting back to normal, almost a week later.

New York has never been one of my favourite cities. It's probably the midwesterner in me. Growing up, St. Louisans always seemed to regard New York with a mix of admiration, longing, fear and hatred. I'm past my juvenile prejudices, and having spent more than half my working life in London I am now comfortable with big cities. But there's still something about New York that leaves me a bit cold. I suspect it's the combination of the relentless pace, the endless canyons of concrete, the noise and the lack of trees.

Those feelings were exacerbated this trip by the location of our hotel: The W on Times Square. If, like me, you like quiet green spaces and old world elegance, this place is not for you. It's basically like staying in a nightclub. The ground floor lobby is a stark, grey cube filled with club music and funky light features. Head up to the lobby on 7 and you step into the middle of a funky lounge/bar with artistic lighting and seating, where beautiful 20-somethings are knocking back martinis and the music has been turned up a few more notches. You have to work hard to find the reception desk, tucked discretely to one side. If I were on holiday with friends, and the intent of the trip had been fun, fashion and alcohol, this might have been fun. Arriving at 1:30 in the morning, on a business trip, after a 5 hour flight delay and with the prospect of a 9am meeting ahead, it all just made me grumpy.

The rooms continue the nightclub theme. Everything is sparse, minimal, black or grey. The lighting is so low as to be a bit ludicrous. Achingly cool light cubes under the side tables give the room a dramatic glow, but there are no overhead lights to get the room lighting past anything beyond dim. My colleagues joked that they ought to give anyone over 40 a flashlight when checking in.

On the positive side, the location is spectacular. Easy walking distance to many important locations, particularly (a) the office and (b) Rockefeller Centre and Saks.

The trendy theme continued on Halloween night, when our corporate outing was to a nightclub in the meat packing district called Lotus. All this hip stuff is courtesy of my vice president, who is one of the most fashionable and "in style" people I know. There's a clubbing 25-year old lurking not too far beneath the senior executive surface.

Rated a top 5 New York hot spot by Zagat, Lotus is the kind of place I felt I'd visited many times before ... mostly when watching episodes of Alias. The music mix was great. The decor was minimal and black, draped with swathes on red cloth and hanging skeletons for the holiday. The bar served up a fine mix of cocktails; I quickly settled into apple martinis of a calibre and icy temperature you don't often encounter in London. The food is Thai ... good if unremarkable ... and came to our group of 14 on large platters for sharing across the night.

"Halloween has become quite an adult holiday in America: in multiple senses of
the word."

As we were finishing our dinner the regulars started coming in, and I realised how much Halloween has changed since I left the States. Clearly, it's a seriously adult holiday. And, at least in New York, I'd use the word "adult" with all its nuances. Women were dressed as pirates, angels, devils, maids or Alice in Wonderland, all unified by their exceptionally short skirts, plunging necklines, push-up bras and spiky heels. I think the men in our party were enjoying themselves greatly. The fact that we all had to be at the office at 8 the next morning, and the sad reality that we were increasingly out of place as the club filled up with these costumed deities of sex, were a double reality check that sent most of us heading for the ride back to the hotel around 11.

The night before I'd dined in a different world: quiet modern elegance a stone's throw from Rockefeller Centre. I met my friend Lisa, with whom I'd just gone to Tunisia, at The Modern, the bar associated with the Museum of Modern Art. Another stage set of sparse, modern design, solid colours, draped fabrics, low lighting ... this time mostly in white and with a crowd that had a decade or more on the denizens of Lotus. On from there to Anthos, a restaurant at the heart of what is evidently a Greek revival in NYC. I was a bit surprised when Lisa suggested Greek ... pastitio, moussaka, roditis and baklava make good comfort food, but hardly seemed appropriate for fashionable mid-town Manhattan.

There's a reason they call this "New Aegean". The "Greek" is only a faint influence, present mostly in the platter of mezze that comes courtesy of the chef whilst you're perusing the menu. It was certainly the most elegantly served mezze I'd ever seen, with tiny cubes of fried holoumi artfully arranged on skewers next to a small pot of fish roe dip with pinkie-sized bread sticks custom made for dipping. The menu was heavy on fish, as you would expect. I saw some beautiful smoked Octopus go by but settled on a rich seafood risotto. We shared a trio of sorbets to honour our memories of Tunisia. The arrival of the bill reminded me that New York is probably just as expensive as London, and perhaps would be more so if not for the strong pound. Two courses and a bottle of wine for $80 a person is certainly no bargain.

Of course, bargains are not the point of New York. Fashion, 24-hour activity and making money are. And I seemed to get a taste of all of those this time. Not bad for a business trip. Even if you are feeling a bit too middle aged to fit in fully.

El Jem's arena brings glamour to the middle of nowhere

It is surely one of tourism's more delightful ironies that one of the most impressive Roman amphitheatres in the world looms above a poor, ramshackle little town on a dusty ... if magnificently straight ... road towards nowhere.

Of course, 1800 years ago this was most certainly SOMEWHERE; not deprived El Jem but sophisticated Thyrsus, a gracious community of wealthy grain and olive oil magnates at a crossroads on the busy highway between the provincial capitals of Carthage and Leptis Magna. The impressive arena was a gift to the city from local boy made good Gordian I, who was briefly emperor before committing suicide. We encountered Gordian in bust form at the Bardo, and he did look like a poster child for stress. But he built a fine stadium.

It held 30,000 -- more than the city's population -- so was obviously an entertainment draw for the whole region.

El Jem is known these days as the world's most perfectly preserved Roman amphitheatre. This is probably a superlative too far. Verona's version has a much more intact seating area and a more complete circuit of exterior walls. But El Jem has three things I've never seen before.

First, three complete levels of stairs and internal corridors, so you can climb all the way to the top and marvel at how little sports stadia design has changed since the Romans invented it. Second, this certainly must be the world's best preserved arena floor. The full ring of walls that separated gladiator from the best seats is intact, still punctuated at regular intervals with the doors through which performers came on and off. It is startling, standing on the packed dirt of the arena floor, to realise just how close observers were to the action. Certainly it mustn't have been unusual for the wealthy patrons in the best seats to get sprayed with blood. I strongly suspect that was part of the allure.

The third unusual feature is the completeness of the subterranean "backstage" area, where gladiators, animals and sets would have been massed before heading up, often through trap doors, to wow the crowds.

The El Jem complex is big, and, given the meagre huddle of buildings around it today, seems even bigger. This is a relatively flat part of the country and we could see the amphitheatre from miles off on our approach. The modern town is comprised of one and two story stucco buildings, many in a poor state of repair, with no obvious plan to the streets and a crazy bustle of natives, many in traditional dress, going about their business by car, motor scooter or donkey cart. It reminded me vividly of photos I've seen of Afghanistan.

So, needless to say, there's not a lot to see in El Jem beyond its star sight. The little town museum, however, is a pleasant surprise and should not be missed by anyone who's made the effort to get all the way out here. It's perhaps a quarter mile from the arena, on the outskirts of town.

The relatively modern building is constructed in Roman style, with large rooms grouped around open courtyards. The collection is mostly mosaics pulled up from local houses. Another indication of how different life was here once; these people lived WELL. Though far smaller, the collection here has quality to match the Bardo. Doors from several galleries lead to porticos and beyond that to an area of excavations where you can wander around the remains of several villas, with many of their floors intact.

At one side is the so called "Africa House" a villa that was moved here piece by piece from the centre of town and then partially reconstructed so you can get a feel for some of the rooms once they're walled and roofed. The double story dining room with its transom windows, lavish mosaic pavement and one side open to a peristyle court planted with a garden was particularly evocative.

The drive to and from El Jem took about 90 minutes each way, and despite the fact that this is the main road to the south, wasn't particularly crowded once we cleared the traffic around Sousse. As on the road to Dougga, we saw seemingly endless miles of olive trees. Increasingly curious, I dug around on my Blackberry and discovered that Tunisia is the world's 4th largest exporter after Italy, Greece and Spain. They've just done a rotten job of marketing and a lot of their oil is disappearing behind brands that are bottled, but not produced, in the top three producing countries.

The other consistent feature of the landscape is construction. Buildings are in the works everywhere, although many of them seem to have been abandoned mid-way. Construction appears to be uniformly made of terracotta, honeycombed breeze blocks. This all looks rather slapdash, but once covered with stucco appears sturdy. They're then decorated with an abundance of columns, tiles, moulded cement arabesque plaques and statues. The Tunisians do seem to love their decorative detail. All this seems to be available at tiny construction supply yards packed with decorative details and placed frequently along the road. I've never been to a country where builder's supply seems so abundant. And yet these homes are going up in seedy villages awash with trash, cheek by jowl with ancient hovels. I suppose that's one of the enduring paradoxes of the developing world.

We arrived back at the hotel at 2. (Driver for half day was 120 dinar plus tip) In time for Hillary and Lisa to disappear to the spa for more treatments and me to head to the pool. Unfortunately, the rainclouds that opened our trip had returned and it was a bit cool. But that, wrapped in spa bathrobe and a big beach towel, just made for lovely napping weather. The sun did return for a bit in the late afternoon. Which made the view from our westward facing balcony particularly lovely as we watched sunset colour the sky and killed off the last of the wine we'd bought at duty free on arrival.

Eventually we headed back to the port one last time and, based on the past 3 nights, returned to Les Emirs for dinner. The staff was particularly glad to see us, encouraging us to order more drinks and scattering the table with rose petals. Must have been a slow night. Before consuming too much wine we toted up the spa and restaurant bills, getting everything into balance before heading home. We were all in perfect agreement: Tunisia delivered to, and beyond, our expectations for a fantastic holiday.

The scene gets more exotic in Sousse

I love Sousse. I had been searching for Tunisian tilework to decorate my garden since my arrival, and had seen nothing but mass-produced stuff. Finally, in Sousse, a proper tile shop.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let's start at the beginning of the day, in the spa. From the impressive domed space where we made our reservations, a long hall leads to the main spa areas. Fountains of arab design cascade water down the walls and all the floors are of highly polished white marble. At the end of the hall you come to a big square atrium with a pavilion in the middle where a girl is brewing tea. There are atrium gardens on each side and song birds in cages. Upstairs, massage rooms radiate in two half circles from the atrium lobby.

Fortunately Hillary had prepared me for the possibility of a masseur rather than a messeuse, so I wasn't as horrified as I might have been when the wiry Tunisian lad came in and helped me off with my bathrobe. Perhaps not surprising, then, that this was the most vigorous massage I've ever had, really digging down into knots and stretching things out. Suitably relaxed, I joined the girls at the pool for a few hours before our afternoon excursion.

Sousse is the third largest city in Tunisia and just 15 minutes by taxi from the hotel. The feel of the old town, however, is totally different from Tunis. In the capital, the souks wind away from a square of 19th century French colonial buildings. In Sousse, the 1000-year old crenelated walls are intact and the entry square is bordered by the mosque dating from 900 ad and the ribat, a defensive castle cum monastery built for a Muslim equivalent of the Knights Templar. The sand coloured walls and round topped towers make you feel that you've dropped into the set of one of those French foreign legion films from the '50s.

The souks here sell much of the same stuff as in Tunis but with far fewer crowds. This means that there's also a lot more hard sell, as people invite you in for coffee or literally tug on your sleeve. If you do wish to buy something, this can actually turn into quite a pleasant experience as you sit down and are given the special treatment. The biggest difference from Tunis, topographically, is that the old city of Sousse runs up a hill, making the streets even more picturesque.

I would be hard pressed to find the tile shop again. All I know is that after much wandering I finally came upon a shop that did nothing but hand painted tiles in a variety of patterns and configurations. Exactly what I wanted for the garden. After some moderate bargaining, and allowing the young shop keeper to stroke my hair, which for some reason fascinated him, we struck a deal that satisfied us both. I got a central mural made up of 8 standard-sized tiles and two single side tiles approx 8 inches by 12 inches, for 50 dinars. Which is about £18. It will cost me more to pay my handyman to install them than it cost me to buy them.

After more shopping and a late lunch in the picturesque cafe de casbah, we set off in search of the Dar Essid museum. We narrowly averted a rather monumental mistake when a local man blocked our way and turned us around as we tried to go through a gate that was "as the crow flies" in the direction of the building. We later discovered that it was the red light district. Not a tourist version like Amsterdam's, but a state-sanctioned, entirely enclosed area with just one entry and exit, the gate we'd almost passed through.

We followed the wall of the district and finally came to our objective: a rich merchant's house, foundations 1000 years old, rooms and furnishings laid on over the centuries. There's amazing tile work throughout. Wife no. 1 and no. 2 had bedroom complexes across from each other. In the room of no. 1 you can see an ancient Roman lamp which, legend has it, was there as a guide to the man. He was to make love to his wife as long as the lamp burned and couldn't stop 'til it burned out. A rare piece of girl power in this country. But clearly the care and concern for the female didn't last long. You can see the much smaller bed across the room that the woman was supposed to move to to sleep once love making was concluded.

Upstairs at Dar Essid you can see kitchens and another drawing room, and climb up the tower that's the second highest point in Sousse. You can also have a coffee in a cafe with expansive views. That includes a look directly down into the aforementioned red light district. We were fascinated to watch the men coming and going at a furious pace. And this on Friday afternoon, the Muslim holy day.

Leaving the old town we plunged into the 4 story, fixed price shopping bazzar next to the main entry to the old town and realised this is where we should have started. It gives you benchmark prices, many of which are lower than you'd get haggling in the souks. My tiles still turned out to be a good deal, but I bought small gifts for others here. And if I were to buy a carpet, I'd do it here. Quality, range and price were great.

We had originally thought to eat dinner in Sousse, but found the hotel and restaurant district here to be package tour hell. In comparison, Port al Kantaoui is quiet, refined and sophisticated. So we returned "home" and tried our third place on the marina: the Restaurant des Emirs. Ironically, this wasn't in the guidebooks but we felt it was better food, and better value, than the two that were.

Thus almost a whole week falls behind us. Just one more day of adventure and sun left.

Beach resorts make Tunisia feel like Florida , with Europeans

Today was a complete R+R day, taking advantage of the hotel facilities. We're staying at The Hasdrubal in Port al Kantaoui, a massive, V-shaped building that encloses lush gardens and a pool separating hotel from beach.

We knew we were coming to packaged tour land, but we guessed wrong on the audience. We had imagined a lot of 30- and 40-something Brits, both parents with small children and drinkers in search of late season sun. Instead, we were surrounded by hoards of 50-something Germans, French and Russions all shuffling around the place in white bathrobes on their way to their abundant course of spa treatments. One advantage of this demographic is that it's spectacularly quiet; I barely heard anything above a low murmur when poolside.

The three of us headed to the spa first thing to make appointments. I am fairly laid back about this process, but Lisa and Hillary had been studying up on possibilities and Hillary had a diligently researched, neatly drawn up short list that made it clear she was the lawyer of the trio. It's a shame the spa receptionist did not have a soupcon more of this efficiency.

The entry to the spa is impressive: a long, marble-paved hall with windows on each side giving views of the gardens and decorations down its length with bowls of flower petals and swans fashioned neatly from snowy towels and sprinkled with more petals. You walk down some stairs and emerge into a grand, domed hall redolent of that heavy floral and spice scent all spas seem to share. The staff are shuffling around quietly in white coats, looking more medical than their trendy, pajama clad bretheren in the UK. So far, so good. Then we tried to get our appointments.

English is obviously a fourth language here after Arabic, French and German. We certainly couldn't find a common ground on which to get much detail of the treatments. And very little seemed to be available, probably as a consequence of all these Continental types here for their two and three treatment a day packages. Hillary and Lisa finally got some stuff booked for our first day; I had an appointment on our second. That much scheduling took more than half an hour.

I spent half my day at the pool and half on our hotel balcony, doing my best to follow the sun. This was a bit challenging as it rained all night and was partly cloudy for most of the day. The pool area is magnificent. The pool is a huge rectangle, with a long curved addition to one side and an artificial island planted with palms and bouganvilla in the middle. It's paved with hexagonal tiles in a vivid blue, making the expanse glimmer jewel like against the lush green foliage of the gardens around it. There's a smaller indoor pool with lots of jacuzzi jets, but it's not heated ... And I'm only fond of getting pummelled with water when it's good and hot.

A short walk through the gardens brings you out to the beach, of which you're aware when poolside because of the sound of the surf. It is a massively disappointing coast, unfortunately. The surf is rough, probably too much so for swimming on an unknown beach, even if you could ignore the fishing nets that were suspended fairly close in. The tides had kicked up a wide bed of seaweed at the high tied mark, interspersed with a lot of trash and a variety of sea urchin type creatures. This is a beach desperately in need of a Florida-style beach tractor that drags the sand clean each day. But that's obviously not something they do here. And despite the resemblance to Florida in the resort hotels and condos stretching as far as the eye could see, there was almost nobody to be spotted on the beach, either in repose or walking in the surf. With all that gunk, I suppose it's no surprise. Even I, who normally prefer to be seaside, retreated to the pool after my 10-minute foray.

We rendezvous-ed back at the hotel room in the late afternoon, where we sat on our porch, drank a bottle of wine and watched daylight fade. Then it was back to the harbour for dinner at the other recommended restaurant, Le Doraude. Much of a muchness with last night, except that we could eat outside and there was a bellydancer we could watch generally embarassing all the 50-something men in the place.