A Peek At What Will Be Awaiting You Upon Your Return To: Fill & Download for Free

Tunisia.Until visiting that country, I never understood what an inferiority complex at a national level might feel like.From beginning to end, the Tunisians seemed angry that they lived there, angry that they existed and mad at everyone else who came to visit and see their misery.Keep in mind, Tunisia is much better off economically than the majority of other African countries and essentially like anywhere else in the Middle East. Nonetheless, I have been to much poorer countries where people were happier.By way of background, we decided to visit the country while on a trip to Paris. It became rainy in Paris, so we decided to hop over to Tunis on the recommendation of a former university colleague. He was from Tunisia and we both remembered him to be a quite a difficult character (the kind that puts cigarettes out in “No Smoking” signs).That should have told us something about the atmosphere that awaited us, but we ignored all the signs.We arrive after a flight late at night and get to the (supposedly exclusive) hotel we booked. The guys at the front desk refuse to give us the room we paid for. Instead, they say very very little to us in response to our concerns and throw us the keys to a humid, dirty shoebox.We came back to complain, but at that point they feigned complete ignorance of English—even though I’d overheard them speaking English in the back behind the desk. They claimed only to speak French or Italian. Fortunately, my girlfriend spoke Italian, so their game was up. She told them that unless they found us an acceptable room, we would stay in the lobby all night.So we start that process (i.e., of sleeping in the lobby) when the police call on the hotel as part of a routine inspection. Immediately, the hotel manager surprises us by saying, “Your room is ready!,” and it’s a suite on the beach!(Later, I learned later from a friend who spent an expat stretch in Tunisia that the only thing which brings locals there in line is the police. Otherwise, they have no problem abusing you, so he said.)The suite was okay, but still nothing like what was advertised. Still, we were happy to get it and looked forward to a nice adventure. The beaches were beautiful, the weather fantastic and there is lots of history and varying lansdcapes. Everything one needs for a perfect vacation, right?Wrong! The next problem we encountered as the people. They were negative at every turn—even the ones obviously making lots of money from tourism.Moreover, to sort of twist the knife into us, the next morning we are awakened by some yahoo on a bullhorn at 6am. It’s the facilitator for what the French call, “animacion”. Loud music ensues and, when I peek out the window to look at the swimming pool, I see the “animator” running around attempting to get everyone to play games, even though there are no children around.After tossing and turning until about 8 o’clock, we get up for breakfast at the pool. The food consists of items made with what we estimated were the cheapest possible ingredients— including shrivelled olives. This especially disappointed us, given what the smoking protestor back home had told us about the food and the delicious, juicy olives Tunisia exports to France.Nonetheless, we assumed it was just the hotel/tour package thing, and picked out what we could stomach. What quickly became apparent (and what ultimately explained the food), however, was that despite France’s PR image as a bastion of sophisticated culture, the French middle class we were among were no more sophisticated or discerning than suburbanites from rural Mississippi.I kept expecting to see people line dance “Achey-Breakey Heart”, of course, in French or Italian.In retrospect, I think many people were high on something or there was some ongoing orgy every night that we weren’t invited to. My girlfriend said this was my wishful thinking as a subconscious substitute for olives.Animacion stopped for a while and we sat down around pool, hoping to relax. No sooner did I do a few laps when the guy on the bullhorn starts up again and wants people to start dancing. After that, he explains, a contest will take place: where people will race back and forth across the pool with spoons in their mouths, holding boiled eggs.I look around at the 50+ people sunbathing around me and say to my girlfriend, “There’s no way anyone is going to do this.” But to my surprise, EVERYONE gets up and starts doing this. In fact, my girlfriend and I are the only ones abstaining. I felt so bad about it that when people tried to nudge me on, I pretended I had a damaged limb.To my chagrin, this didn’t deter a fully nude, elderly lady sunbathing next to me from trying to help me get up and join in while brushing me with her sagging breast. I mean how do you maintain composure as a gentleman when something like that happens? My girlfriend could not stop laughing at the struggle I was undergoing.We decide to go into town. But there it gets worse. We enter shops and people act like we’ve stolen something the day before. They are simply unfriendly and uncouth towards us. On several occasions, we start looking at items and the shopkeepers ask, “Are you going to buy?” And when we say, “Yes, if we find something we like.” Then they snatch whatever we are holding and say, “Don’t buy, don't touch!”I’m honestly wondering what planet we’re on at that point.To get our minds off of this stupidity, we decide to book some over-priced tours and do some things that leverage the country’s natural beauty: things that depend less upon interacting with local people.Then I make the worst choice possible. I like deep sea fishing, so I charter a boat to take us out into the water the next morning. My girlfriend stays back at the hotel, partly because the guys who show up to take us out look really dodgy.We catch a ton of fish, but despite my having caught them, and already paid for the boat, the tackle and the bait, they want to charge me additionally to take them home to cook them. By this point my Christian patience has worn thin and I feel like the entire atmosphere is a conspiracy.I manhandle the lead guy in the crew and explain that he will cook the fish in front of me without any extra charge and that he can keep what I don’t want.This goes reasonably well: which makes me believe that perhaps this type of behavior is more culturally acceptable from patrons. I behaved like one of those South African Boers from the movies—all aggressive and rough on the edges. Perhaps earlier I had been too nice or too American, I thought.Nonetheless, while the guys did what I asked, the hatred in their eyes—which was already there to a lesser degree, from the beginning—became noticeably ever-present. Had the police factor not been there, I suspect I’d have gotten stabbed and tossed to the sharks, perhaps for “animacion”.We book a tour the next day for Carthage. This was the only memorable and truly great aspect of the trip. This, and the desert we traversed, which involves stopping at an oasis and grabbing fresh figs from a tree. Truly Adam and Eve experience!The guide was an extremely positive and nice lady and it was hard to believe she was local. I suspect she must be from a village and was new to the tourist area: where people seemed more conditioned to be as unpleasant as possible.Later, when speaking to the same expat who told me about the police, I suggested I had a one-off, bad run of personal experiences and was stereotyping, but he assured me (as a North African himself) that no one in North Africa or Africa likes Tunisians or their attitude. That made me feel bad for the country.Carthage was great. The guide’s narration was great. Even the food she managed to get us somewhere in the desert along the line was great—a pleasant change from the restaurants in town or at the hotel. It didn’t save the whole trip but it brought us back to sanity.On the way back to the hotel we shared a van with a French couple and started talking about our horrible hotel experiences. We explained the bad rooms, the bad food, the bad service, etc. But at the end of all this, the woman says to us, “Forget about about all that: How was the animacion?”Note: Thanks to everyone for the comments! I just want to clarify that this was my personal experience and it was an honest retelling of that experience—without any broader racial or political thoughts or anything. I have met some Tunisians abroad who have been fantastic, but the question was whether I would return to Tunisia the country and, based upon my experience—but not necessarily my assessment of Tunisians, whom I cannot judge—the answer is no!Follow my newsletter on Tony Ewing | Board-Certified Trainer!

Tldr: When I didnt need thisWhen going hereOur quarterly visit to the salon due, Dad and I entered the salon located in a rural area, its old rusty marble floor strewn with clumps of hair as if a magician had, with his magic wand, brought the black motifs in the stone in their myriad shapes to life.From the point of entry, on the left there were 3 barber chairs. Save for the middle one—whose metallic sheen peeked out from the holes in the half-torn plastic covering as if a reptilian were in the midst of exuviating its skin—their metallic trunks had lost the luster. Each occupant was being served by a slim young-adult man's swift handiwork. Behind these and on my right, was a long wooden box kept parallel to the wall that doubled up as a sofa.On the box, sat a bespectacled, balding man with his legs crossed, peering into the day's Hindi newspaper as a slipper dangled from the toes of his foot. His face bore a scruffy look—white pointed hair growths jutted out almost surreptitiously, the shirt's collar was lopsided.Dad ambled to the box. Shoved a virgin, neat bunch of newspapers away to a side. Took a seat.The little salon became abode to the clickety-clack of scissors, the sweet & intimate crisp of newspaper pages being turned, and the occasional nasty snuffling of the man who still maintained an unflinching scan on the papers oblivious to his nasal clamor that had pierced an otherwise tranquil place.The 11 years old me sat idly next to dad while he went about rebuking me for a gaffe the nature of which, has since escaped my memory.Suddenly my eyes darted to this particular customer whose head jiggled under his nai's hands. The fingers glided in and out of the smooth bunch of black hair like snakes slithering in a grassland. I sat there, grinning like I always did when witnessing this. The best part was when the 'snake' recoiled from the head and 'struck'. Flittering around the man, his hands quaked and ruffled the hair his as if readying the skin for the roll of repressed whacks that were to follow.Pat! Pat! Pat!The nai then seized the squishy padding of the headrest, his fingers sinking in it and jerked it up as the nuts and bolts clattered and squealed following which, the man reflexively lay his noddle on it. He then proceeded to slap a towel on his cheeks and began kneading some vitality in them. His deadpan look betrayed the amount of effort it must've taken. Sitting there, awaiting my turn, I felt I was receiving a sort of second hand relief from the thumps that rang in the salon. It felt oddly soothing almost cleaving me from my purpose of being there…Ah! Should I ask dad to get me one? Seems sssooo enjoyable"Are you even bothered to listen to what I am saying?!", Dad admonished me, jolting me out of my stupor."Um…huh-huh", I muttered. Realizing it wasn't convincing I let out a sheepish smile.Upon hearing a clunk, I returned my gaze to the man who rose up from the chair with a sigh, pleasingly surveyed his now glossy face in the mirror, reached over to his back pocket and clipped out some currency notes with his two fingers, handing them over to the barber before he left.Nai then nodded at me.Oi! Seems like they've begun giving us kids some prefer—Ah no! the sniffling uncle is smoking a pack outside.So, standing up from the box, I squirmed my little butt in anticipation of having it squashed on the dreaded wooden plank I had known but eschewed its touch.Eek!! That darn heavy pain would leave my booty as taut as a leather ball.I trudged to the chair…"Sit, li'l one", said the nai.Okayyy…but wait! He's just standing there. Doesn't he have to fetch the plank?!And so I sat. Resting my li'l boy bottom on the padding. I felt the air swoosh out from under me to the sides. Ah! That sensation. Golden! I noticed I was just tall enough to see the whole of my visage in the mirror. Whoa! That's when I realized, Kid had finally grown up."Baauji, How should cut his hair?", Nai asked in the direction of my Dad."Just give him the simple haircut".What, you guys?! Ask meee! I have grown up! I’ll have a simple cut, thank you ver—And then the clickety-clack of scissors resumed.

Aside from what would be a normal trigger for “cringe”. It amazes me to no end how some people have totally unrealistic expectations about things.As a matter of fact, right now I’m cringing.Lack of touch with reality makes me cringe.Like an hour ago, I stumbled upon some girls on Twitter talking about what they would ask from a sugar daddy.“I want a house and this, and this.”I’m like: “Wat.”As it turns out, I've seen plenty of things that I wish I hadn't. While they have made my experience of the world more “complete”, there’s something like losing innocence points by proximity. They've given me insights that I wouldn't have otherwise and a measure of how crude/nasty things can be. Read at your own discretion.I've had clients that used to drop by our agency with their mistresses. I knew a guy that had built a room for his personal prostitute very close to his office at the docks.I've had female friends who became escorts, I had transitioning trans friends, I had a transvestite neighbor, I knew a real life gigolo/taxi-boy. We had an old gay client who would regularly pay young men to have sex with him. We knew a swinger guy who would regularly host gang-bangs with his wife, they even had a website for it.So I’m looking at these girls talk, and can’t help thinking: “Why?”They are severely lacking in street-smarts. They don’t know shit of what’s going on outside their phones.A city I lived in had a street known for its under-age prostitutes. Nobody gave a damn. It was horrifying.The wealthy brother of a female friend of mine, had two coke-head escorts which he took on vacation with him. He would share them with a guy I knew. He would spend half-summer partying like mad until he showed up wasted to “share” his exploits. Who knows what else happened at his beach party house.I’m cringed out by those girls talking. In what kind of world do they live? Innocent they are not—for considering such thing—but how delirious are they?Those cringey girls remind me of a former English teacher of mine, a proud virgin who wanted a rich boyfriend. She was listing all the property he had to have in order to woo her heart (cash register). A land rover, actual “lands”, this, this other thing, this and that.Back then I just rolled my eyes.There is a very famous saying in Argentina that comes from the movie “Nueve Reinas”. It’s a good one, watch the original one. The US remake sucks.In any case I’ll translate this important and hallmark scene.—There’s no saints, there’s just different rates.[pauses]—Do you like guys? Would you fuck a dude?—No.—Wouldn't you fuck a guy if I offered you ten thousand dollars?—No.—Ten thousand, it’s good money.—No.—And if I gave you twenty thousand?[he shakes his head]—Real money, all for you.—No.—Fifty thousand dollars.—No.—Five hundred thousand.[closes in, whispers]—Do you realize? There’s no shortage of gay-boys, what’s lacking is investors.In our vernacular: Putos no faltan, lo que faltan son financistas.I would add to those girls. There’s no shortage of putas, in fact there’s an over-supply of them.Locally speaking I know a couple of gold-diggers who are very oblivious to the kind of nasty wealthy men they are currently dating. Among their male acquaintances they have said and almost publicized some of the most perverted things I've ever heard. Some said they wish they hadn't seen those pictures.There’s dramatic irony to it as I've seen female friends envy their vacations on exotic places. They happily ignore that those gold-diggers, hungry for the perceived status on social media and death-scared of working, are simply paying for vacations with an STD.Why then do these people have weird expectations? I can only guess that these people watch too many movies. There’s loads of fiction in their expectations. They live cloistered, feeding unreality to their brains.They lack street smarts.People tend to ignore how the world actually works. The real stuff that happens outside.I remember some colleagues that were on tour in New York. Back when one of them returned, drunk on a party, he started showing what he had done with his University’s research money.A fat old white man, picture Lord Sidious, with two VIP prostitutes. Right after the congress he had gone to. A “family” man, married with children.His travel mate had told us what the other guy did before he showed us. He also returned to his “normal” life where his wife, his daughters and a mistress the age of his daughters awaited him.How were we supposed to look at his wife and daughters later? We felt very sorry for them.You might think: “Hey Omi you’re not cringing at the fact that they were considering it. You are cringing at the price.”And you would be partially right.I have no issues with people freely doing whatever they want with their bodies. If you want to become a cam-girl. Fine by me. You want to sell “companionship” to a wealthy “sponsor”. I don’t care.Your body, your business.¯\_(ツ)_/¯Once there was this tough looking sailor back in my town, and I was complaining.“This place is shit bla bla bla.”From his rugged good looks and his stern countenance he uttered.“You should be thankful you live here.”He had real authority while saying that, you could tell just by looking at him that he had been places.Afterwards, that made me realize that you should experience life outside of your bubble, trying to see what other people live and how they breathe it. So after exploring, you kind of get to pick your bubble and value it for what it really means.Knowing what a third-world problem actually feels like and what a first-world problem actually looks like. Understanding the human experience, different people and their mindsets.No bullshit, just objective analysis of reality.Even so, there’s bubbles I don’t even want to peek in, and I've seen plenty. Even in the upper echelons of society nasty things happen all the time, and you should be very aware of that.Realize what kind of stupid sick world you live in. Stop living in a delusional bubble and get out there. Learn. Stop mistaking stupid shows for reality. Stop mistreating decent people because the “role model” in a soap opera does it.You might be undervaluing that nice, honest to god, down to earth person who brings food to your table.Get out here, collect experiences, grow. Learn what things are and what they aren't. Tune your thresholds accordingly.Get real.