Waiting in Line for a Bathroom at Lotfi’s Wedding in Sidi Bou Sid, Tunisia

[creative nonfiction]

I speak no Arabic, only a bit of French. They speak no English.

We crowd into the small bathroom to wait for a toilet, two young women before me, coiffed and polished, their eyes lined black with a calligrapher’s precision. Soft lashes, velvety blush, and foundation blended with an artist’s hand. Hijabs pinned and draped just so. Layers of beaded satin flow around their slight frames, one indigo, the other violet. Lips stained rose. Eyes like a fawn’s.

It’s freezing. The cold seeps through my layers. I am unused to life without heat, so common in southern Tunisia, where the days are warm and the nights are as cold and sharp as a knife’s edge. I wear heavy socks, a wool sweater that scratches my skin, a puffy oh-so-American down vest. Black pants layer awkwardly beneath my long skirt. I stand out at the wedding like a missed note. My skin, a shade lighter than theirs, marks me as French, or so they assume—few Americans venture this far South for a local’s wedding. Wails, drums, exuberant high-pitched Zagrouta fill the air.

I am at the celebration for Lotfi and his bride, the man who befriended my son, Mike, and me a decade ago while Mike researched his PhD here for four years. This place I fell in love with during visits—the parched hills, the camels grazing along the roadside, the pink and orange bougainvillea spilling off roofs, fresh dates and olive oil as plentiful as sun.

The women glance at the closed doors with practiced patience while their hands re-pin their head scarves and smooth the fabric. They layer on more lipstick. I feel for a tube of lip balm in my pocket but find only crumpled tissue. My wispy brown hair is haphazardly pulled back in a barrette. The two stall doors remain closed tight. From the hall outside, music blares, drums dum-de-dum. I worry my long absence will alarm my son. This simple bathroom break has gone on so long. I assure myself that he’s enjoying his old friends and not conscious of time moving by like I am.

The women and I look at the door, then each other, and finally down at ourselves. We wait. My feet are in sneakers. Theirs are in shiny heels. My outfit is ridiculous, but I don’t care, having traveled by two planes and a three-hour car ride to witness this moment.

Earlier, we joined a celebratory caravan of cars down the main boulevard, with our horn blaring while Roman candles blazed and firecrackers popped like gunshots. In the hall beyond, a freshly slaughtered lamb rotates over hot coals; sticky sweets, and large bottles of mineral water stand on every table.

So much joy, laughter, and dancing pair with a deep sense that the other matters. I feel it in the strong hand clasps hello to Mike and me, still important friends despite our decade away, or perhaps because of it. And in Lotfi’s request that I, too, attend his celebration. Generations of families take on a significance here I rarely see in the US. Maghreb tribal life is so interwoven, so the opposite of American rugged individualism.

Here everyone is part of someone else. We are welcomed like family. And despite me not knowing the women in line in front of me, I sense we are each a piece of this celebratory whole. If we touch one person, we touch them all.

These are the thoughts that run through my mind as we wait patiently for one of those shut doors to open. To hear that familiar flush.

Finally, one of the bathroom door handles turns. A woman and her young daughter emerge. Relief. The business of peeing is so fraught with uncertainty when traveling. Never knowing where the next toilet will appear, if it will flush, or have paper or soap. I hope the women in front of me won’t take as long. I notice American women pee much faster than those from many other cultures.

As the mother and young girl push toward the sink to wash their hands, the woman ahead of me taps my shoulder. I spin around, alarmed, concerned I may have misunderstood the cultural expectations of this interlude. The woman’s eyes catch mine; I see no judgment in them, only kindness as she gestures for me to go before her. I hesitate; her bathroom generosity is more foreign to me than the swirls of ruddy henna adorning her hand. I nod, smile, then summon a hasty Shukran, and she hands me several pieces of clean tissue from her purse.

Some things among women are universal.