I Remember Carthage

Finding a woman's passport on the sidewalk the other day, upon return from the theater, I wondered what to do with it. How had it gotten there? Would I incriminate myself somehow by returning it?

After consulting with two members of the U.S. Postal Service, guys who should know about this sort of thing, I asked if I could just pop it into a mailbox. "Yeah, that'll get to her eventually" one of them replied.

So I dropped the woman's lost passport in the mail.

It reminded me of my father's wallet coming back to him in the mail after he left it in a taxi cab in Tunis. That was a magical thing, I thought, especially considering we were living in Moscow, USSR at the time.

Of course, it came back empty, minus his $50. He said to me after losing the wallet that he'd have preferred to have bought the carpet my mother had picked out rather than to lose the money like that.

I remember the visit to the ruins of Carthage by the sea. 

"What were the Romans doing way down here?" I thought as a 10-year-old.

My sister sneaked a turtle out of Tunisia on the plane, naming it Myrtle. It would remain her pet until it scrambled into the underbrush in Upper Northwest Washington, D.C. My father raked the backyard in search of it, more for show than anything else. The creature was long gone.

I remember the feel, the aroma, the sights of Tunis. The smell of rope, the tawny colors, the French in the air (giving my mother a chance to show off hers). The desert dress. The camels. The pleasant service.