It was in Sidi Bu Said that I saw streets made of stone steps, streets that wound up between buildings as white as chalk and disappeared into the sky, or so it seemed.
There were a few rough cobbled streets that carts and donkeys could maneuver but all of the side streets weren't streets at all, if you picture them the way ours are.
The steps were wide and touched the buildings on both sides. The steps were shallow, and natives ran up and down them with ease.
On one such street, a small boy leaned against a building and eyed me as though he didn't trust me, smile or not, soft words or silence. He just stared. He should have been in school, because he looked about nine.
Along one cobbled street, recessed stone areas seemingly carved into the sides of buildings like caves in a boulder mountain held workers on their flat shelves about three feet off the cobbles.
In some of these "window display areas", children worked feverishly, heads down in concentration, eyes watching their hands as their brown fingers expertly wove reeds into delightful baskets of all shapes and sizes. Some of the older children wove leather strips into sandals.
The children looked to range from five to twelve years in age. They seemed so lonely in their quiet solitude, and it tore at my heart.
I wanted to reach out and touch them, to smile at them, and ask their names.
In one of the "windows" on a rough, hewn shelf, an ancient man, wizened and miserable, worked at his craft with wrinkled tobacco-stained hands. He looked so tired.
The bus had dropped us off in a wide open sandy area at the base of the town of Sidi, a town that rose solid and white up the hillside like a monument to North Africa. There was no room for a bus to pass through the streets.
A cafe offered strong coffee and poppy seed pastries near the bus area.
On the sand, men holding lengths of beads spoke rapidly, holding up the yellow opaque beads, and I wondered what they were.
"Amber," they said eagerly. "See."
Out came cigarette lighters, a flick, and a rising flame was held to the beads.
"See," they said. "Amber. No burn."
Amber - beautiful pale yellow. Not paste beads but the real things, strung on thick strings with a knot to hold the necklace together.
Intrigued, I chose one, saw how heavy it was, how coarse the holes in the beads were, and I absolutely was charmed by it. I bought it and let the seller drape it around my neck with pride.
The long ride down to the harbor was so scenic I wished we could have stayed longer.
These North African countries fascinated me. The people did as well. They worked hard at pleasing foreigners, white people from across the ocean who couldn't possibly speak their language, so they spoke ours in halted words, enough to make us understand.
I marveled at the dignity of the men, for there were no women allowed in tourism. The men were always respectful and kind to us and each other, beautiful and attractive men who wore only white clothes with brown camel sandals on their feet.
They were men who smiled a lot, smiles that were genuine.
I hope their lives are still good there, but I wonder.
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