Just a few days ago, I washed Gabe's shirts in our medina hostel in Sousse, the call to prayer over the loudspeakers and the smells of fish, urine, and roasting pralines drifting up to our second-floor window. In the absence of a bowl (I used to use the cooking pots in our apartment in Bogota) I used a 2-gallon Ziploc bag and the detergent we carry around with us in a resealable plastic bag to soak the clothes.
Things change, non?
