Back to Feed
Long Read

chasing stray beats in tunis: a digital nomad’s scribbled diary

@Mason Grey3/15/2026blog

i woke up to the call to prayer mixing with the hum of my laptop fan, the kind of morning that makes you question if you’re still in a dream or already living the gig. the weather today? i just glanced at my phone and saw 9.8°C, feels like a brisk 7.8 with humidity clinging at 100%-perfect for layering that oversized hoodie i bought in the *medina last week. i grabbed my trusty laptop, a half‑eaten brik, and headed out toward the kasbah, where the narrow alleys seem to whisper secrets in arabic and french alike.


somewhere between the scent of harissa and the echo of a distant oud, i noticed a graffiti tag that read 2473499. a local vendor, eyes twinkling over a steaming cup of mint tea, told me that number used to be the old tram line’s code before the tracks were ripped up for the new light rail. later, scribbled on a napkin at a tiny café near the zitouna mosque, i found 1788968797 scrawled beside a doodle of a camel-apparently it’s the postal code for a forgotten district that only the oldest residents still reference.


i overheard a couple of expats at a rooftop bar arguing about whether the bourg area is still safe for solo travelers after dark. one swore he’d seen a shadowy figure near the port last night, while another laughed and said it was just a stray cat chasing its own tail. drunk advice, maybe, but it made me double‑check my hostel’s lock before i crashed.

if you ever get bored wandering the medina’s labyrinth, the coastal towns of sidi bou said and carbón are just a short drive away-perfect for a sunset espresso or a quick dip in the mediterranean. i heard that the little fish market near the port serves the freshest grilled sardines you’ll ever taste, though a friendly waiter warned me that the line gets crazy after the sunset call.

i spent the afternoon editing photos in a co‑working space tucked behind a bookshop that smells like old paper and cinnamon. the wifi was spotty, but the ambient noise of students debating philosophy made it feel like a live podcast. later, i tried my hand at sketching the doorways of the kasbah, each one painted in shades of turquoise and ochre, a reminder that even in a city that’s constantly upgrading its infrastructure, the past still paints the present.

by night, the city’s lights flicker like a delayed bass drop, and i found myself tapping my fingers on the tabletop, dreaming of the next gig. if you’re a fellow digital nomad chasing cheap rent and reliable coffee, tunis offers a strange blend of old‑world charm and fiber‑optic hope-just remember to keep an eye on those mysterious numbers; they might be the city’s way of whispering where to go next.

on my third day, i wandered into the avenue bourguiba where street performers turned the boulevard into an impromptu stage. a break‑dance crew spun on cardboard while an old man played the mezoued beside a cart selling makroudh. someone shouted that the best spot for sunrise yoga is the belvedere park, where the view over the lake feels like a living painting. i tried it, and the morning breeze felt like it was trying to steal my yoga mat-definitely a workout for the core and the grip.

later, i ducked into the dar ben abdallah museum, where centuries‑old ceramics whispered stories of trade routes that once linked the mediterranean to the sahara. a guard, noticing my camera, whispered that the hidden courtyard behind the main hall is where locals sneak in for late‑night tea when the tourists leave. i didn’t see anyone, but the echo of footsteps on the marble felt like a secret handshake.

as the sun dipped, i found myself at place de la victoire, where a spontaneous drum circle formed around a fire‑pit. a traveler from berlin, cheeks flushed from too much café au lait, told me that if you ever get lost, just follow the smell of couscous drifting from the souk-it never fails. i laughed, but later, after a wrong turn down a narrow alley, i did exactly that and ended up at a tiny family‑run eatery where the owner served me a steaming plate of lablabi and insisted i try a splash of harissa "to wake up the soul."

before i left, i stopped at a tiny kiosk near the bab el bahr gate and bought a postcard with a faded photograph of the old port. the vendor, grinning, said the number 2473499 still appears on some of the old railway timetables tucked in the archives-if you’re into that kind of nostalgia, he suggested checking out the national railway museum* just a few blocks west. i made a mental note, though my backpack was already full of souvenirs, half‑eaten pastries, and a lingering sense that the city’s rhythm is something you feel more than you see.

now, sitting at the airport with my boarding pass in hand, i realize that the real souvenir isn’t the trinkets or the photos-it’s the way the city’s hum syncs with your own heartbeat, a little off‑beat, a little unpredictable, and utterly addictive. if you ever find yourself scrolling through job boards dreaming of a change of scenery, give tunis a shot. just pack a light jacket, an appetite for adventure, and maybe a notebook for those mysterious numbers that keep popping up like graffiti poetry.

You might also be interested in:

About the author: Mason Grey

Observer of trends, culture, and human behavior.

Loading discussion...