One Week in Kantaoui: Heat, Hormones & “Haute Standing” (lol)

Arrival: August 14, 2025 — exactly one week later I’m typing this in Kantaoui.

Touchdown with zero drama

Despite a delay of almost three hours, immigration in Tunis was a non-event: no checks, no fuss. Luna came back to me on the baggage belt in her crate—shaken, a little salty about it, but healthy and safe. Hello, Tunisia.

Welcome committee & instant rule-breaking

At the apartment, my lovely ex–sister-in-law, her husband Chaker, and his nephew Riad were waiting. Rule #1 (“No men in my apartment”) died on the doormat. And since I also serve as both management and staff of the Department of Mass Hysteria & Chaos, Rule #2 (“No sex without love”) followed shortly after.
It should be easy, right? Just say “No, thanks.” In my defense: hormones. Riad is hot, the weather in Kantaoui is double hot, and—surprise to myself—after five years I was finally hot again, too.

Only-sex is… only sex

The sex was flat-out bad. Not fine, not even mediocre—it was genuinely lousy. It was a tedious, clumsy interaction with new skin on my skin, and hands on my body that clearly belonged to a novice. The so-called expert, the one who obviously considered himself a magnificent lover, had zero clue how to get it right. He was all big talk and no delivery.

What was missing wasn’t some dramatic, beautiful knot of love and pain. What was missing was the only thing that ever really counts: actual competence and skill. Without that, it doesn’t matter whether it happens or not.

What lingers is a sense of utter anticlimax, that small, nasty feeling of having wasted time on a pompous disappointment.

For the record: I don’t suffer from regret over the act itself. I suffer from sleep deprivation and back pain. And frankly, boredom.

“Haute standing,” my… back

Primary suspect for the back pain: my so-called haute standing setup—one broken sofa, one broken AC, and plastic furniture that screams “holiday home, wrong movie.” Yes, La Familia was right: too expensive for what it is. Ouch in the wallet, ouch in the spine.
To be fair: the location is truly dreamy. It’s just so blisteringly hot right now that even I—lover of summer and sun—hide indoors during the day. At 40 °C, the terrace doubles as a griddle.

Luna status

Luna is alive, sniffing, eating, and giving me looks like, “Really, human? Plastic chairs?” We’re adapting. She to the heat, me to the furniture drama.

The first week: searching, finding, swearing

I mostly searched this week: water, a screwdriver, a SIM card, a fan, receipts, patience. The learning curve is steep; I’m still climbing. Details another time. For today: Tunisia doesn’t “test” you—it sorts you. Into patience. Into humor. Into priorities.

Seven-day takeaways

• I’ve arrived—physically, yes; emotionally, in progress.
• Rules look pretty on paper; reality brings its own stationery.
• “Only sex” doesn’t fill the gaps—just lines them briefly and leaves the edges sore.
• The apartment is overpriced, the location is gold, and the furniture is… pedagogical (it teaches humility).
• I’m sweating, cursing, laughing. Tunisia and I—we’re still warming up.

To be continued. Next time I’ll report from the trenches between hardware store, bazaar, and bureaucracy—and why “just looking for something quickly” is a local unit of time.