Remarkably, not a single satellite dish sprouts from the domed or flat roofs, although the new tourist resort just down the road proudly displays at least half a dozen. Abu Zeid's house is simply a considerably improved but otherwise fairly typical rural dwelling, featuring stone and cement walls, some left bare, others covered with the traditional pressed straw. The gate of the small front garden is open, and so is the kitchen door. Here, Ikram, Abu Zeid's wife, is labouring at the stove, preparing a huge meal. The word is out that Abu Zeid is showing his most recent work, and she is expecting a crowd.
Friends drift in, bringing more friends in tow.
Some are long-time residents of Tunis and have walked over from neighbouring houses, while others have driven in from Cairo. The two high-ceilinged living rooms are buzzing with conversations in German, Italian, French, English, Dutch and Arabic. There are painters, writers, potters, poets and photographers. Some are helping in the kitchen, carrying out trays laden with soft drinks, or making coffee, while others carefully examine the exhibits, pouncing on a chosen cup, a particularly fine bowl or mug which they hasten to mark with a red dot then put away safely. The master of the house walks in and out, seeing to his guests' comfort and refusing to get involved in the accounts.