I don't know how much I'll weigh when I get home, but I almost don't care. I feel good.
Sure, the men of Tunisia are more than appreciative of a juicy derrière and une femme with a healthy form, but when I look in the mirror, I like what I see.
I like it without penance for the brik I had for lunch more than once (a deep-fried phyllo-like pastry with a runny egg, parsley, potato, and tuna inside being irresistible not only because it's local to Tunisie, but because it's freaking delicious).
I like it even though I have spent much of my time here sitting on a coach bus, climbing a few sand dunes when the opportunity presented itself to me, and swimming laps for almost an hour amidst French and Italian tourists and a few leering Muslim men who were perhaps more curious than threatening.
My travels have evolved over the last year, placing increasingly less importance on food and more importance on land, culture, adventure, experience.
The waiter at dinner last night reminded me that it was going to be the fête de St. Valentin today, and encouraged me to start celebrating it last night. But instead of drowning myself in the Magon rouge demi boîte I was drinking, or God forbid ordering an entire bottle of red wine, I happily retired to ma chambre and look a long last look at the twinkling city lights of Tunis.
Today I fly home to New York with a stopover in Paris, the most romantic city in the world. But I'm feeling good about myself, and will enjoy my last day of traveling.
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