“Every single lamppost along the marina walkway has a different lean to it, like they're all listening to a conversation happening somewhere offshore.”

The taxi from Sousse takes twenty minutes if your driver doesn't stop for cigarettes, thirty if he does. Mine does. He pulls over at a kiosk near the roundabout where the road splits toward Port El Kantaoui, buys a pack of Cristal, and offers me one through the open window. The air outside is thick and salty and smells faintly of grilled merguez from a cart I can't see. Bougainvillea spills over every wall along the approach road, absurdly purple against the white-washed concrete. A kid on a bicycle weaves between parked cars with a baguette under his arm. You know you're close to the port when the souvenir shops start — ceramic plates, leather camels, bottles of olive oil with handwritten labels — and the road narrows into something that feels less like a highway and more like a neighborhood deciding whether it wants visitors today.

The Marhaba Palace sits just back from the marina, the kind of large Tunisian resort hotel that announces itself with a wide driveway and a fountain that may or may not be running depending on the hour. It's not trying to be boutique. It's not trying to be anything other than what it is: a big, sun-bleached place where Northern European families and Tunisian weekenders come for pool time, buffet dinners, and proximity to the beach. And on those terms, it works.

The pool, the port, and the morning call to prayer

The defining feature here isn't the room — it's the grounds. The pool area sprawls in that generous North African way, ringed by palms and sun loungers that fill up by ten in the morning. By noon, the animation team is running some kind of water volleyball tournament, and the bar is pouring Celtia beers and fresh orange juice in equal measure. There's a second, quieter pool around the back if you'd rather read. I'd rather read.

The room itself is clean, functional, and honest about its era. The furniture has that late-nineties solidity — heavy wood, patterned bedspreads, a balcony with two plastic chairs and a view of either the garden or, if you're lucky, a slice of Mediterranean blue. The air conditioning works hard and wins. The shower takes about ninety seconds to warm up, which is enough time to study the bathroom tiles, which are a shade of green that hasn't been manufactured since 1997. I find this charming. You might not. The bed is firm, the pillows are thin, and I sleep better than I have in weeks — possibly because the sea air does something to your brain that no pillow menu ever could.

What the Marhaba Palace gets right is its position. A ten-minute walk puts you at the marina, where fishing boats knock against pleasure yachts and restaurants line the waterfront with identical menus of grilled sea bass and salade méchouia. Café du Port has the best spot for watching the sunset, though the coffee is average — order the thé à la menthe instead, which arrives in a small glass with enough sugar to stand a spoon in. The souk at the edge of the port is tourist-oriented but not without its pleasures: I buy a small brass hand of Fatima from a man named Ridha who insists I'm getting the family price.

“Port El Kantaoui was purpose-built for tourism in the 1970s, and it knows what it is — but the jasmine growing over every garden wall didn't get the memo.”

The buffet is enormous and slightly chaotic, which is exactly what a buffet should be. There's couscous, there's brik — the fried pastry parcels filled with egg and tuna that are impossible to eat gracefully — and there's a dessert station with enough baklava to build a small wall. A man at the next table eats an entire plate of harissa-drenched salad with a piece of bread and nothing else, and I respect the commitment. The staff are warm in that unhurried Tunisian way; nobody rushes you, nobody upsells you, nobody asks if you've considered the spa package.

One thing worth knowing: the hotel runs an all-inclusive option, and most guests take it. This means the bars are busy, the pool area has energy, and there's a nightly entertainment program that ranges from genuinely fun (a Tunisian folk music night with live oud) to endearingly awkward (a magic show where the magician's assistant clearly wanted to be somewhere else). The Wi-Fi reaches the lobby and the rooms but gives up somewhere around the pool — which, honestly, might be a feature.

Walking out into the light

On the last morning, I walk to the marina before breakfast. The light is different at seven — softer, less insistent. A fisherman is untangling nets on the dock, and two cats are watching him with professional interest. The souvenir shops are shuttered. The bougainvillea is still absurdly purple. A woman on a balcony across the road waters a row of potted jasmine, and the smell reaches me ten meters below. The loupes from the nearest mosque have just finished the call to prayer, and the silence that follows it sits over the port like something you could hold. If someone asks what Kantaoui is like, I'll tell them about this minute, not the pool.

Rooms at the Marhaba Palace start around 62 $ per night for a double with breakfast, or roughly 97 $ for the all-inclusive rate — which, given the volume of brik alone, pays for itself by lunch.