Let me tell you a story about Yousef and Laila in Hammamet, Tunisia.
As an experiment, I used AI to help plan part of this trip. For the record, no travel planners were harmed in the making of this itinerary; I still do all my own research and always have. AI suggested Hammamet as a place I might enjoy. It was right, though for reasons it probably couldn’t predict.
Hammamet was lovely, but instead of staying in the old Medina with most tourists, I chose the beach district. Normally lively, it was nearly deserted. The weather was windy, damp, and far from beach season. It was also Ramadan, so many restaurants and shops were closed.
So, I did what travelers must do: turn lemons into lemonade.
I embraced my enormous, but crazy inexpensive apartment and the opportunity to experience daily life among locals rather than vendors trying to sell me souvenirs every ten steps.
I had arrived at Tunis airport just before sunset. AI had warned me that Uber and Bolt weren’t reliable here, so I hired a private driver — the cheapest option. He met me holding a sign with my name and led me to his shuttle van. I was the only passenger, so I rode up front.
During the 40-minute drive to Hammamet, the sun slipped below the horizon. It was Eid al-Fitr — the breaking of the fast. We didn’t hear the ceremonial cannon, but my driver received the notification on his phone and immediately pulled into a convenience station.
I, perpetually hungry on this trip, jumped out to buy a snack. When I returned, I discovered my driver had already bought me a bottle of water.
Outside, my driver and others gathered in the parking lot, finally lighting cigarettes after a full day without food, drink, caffeine, or nicotine. The collective relief was palpable.
As darkness fell, I lent my phone to the driver so he could speak with my rental host. As they prattled in Arabic, I understood nothing, but instinctively trusted him and them completely.
Eventually he dropped me along a quiet roadside, explaining through Google Translate that someone was coming to meet me.
I stood alone in the dark.
In many places I’ve traveled in the Americas, I might have felt uneasy. But Tunisia is remarkably safe, and my well-trained spidey-travel instincts were calm.
Then, out of the darkness, a boy — maybe eleven years old — ran toward me calling my name imperfectly but understandably: “Robert!”
This was my host?
He introduced himself as Yousef.
Moments later, a woman approached — his mother, Laila. Using their phone flashlights they guided me down a narrow alleyway. Yousef insisted on dragging my oversized roller bag, and together we hauled it up the stairs to my apartment.
Through enthusiastic pantomime and generous patience, they showed me the apartment’s quirks and features. I understood about half of it, which felt like success.
When I mentioned needing water before stores closed, they insisted on taking me to their favorite shop — which, of course, was closed for Eid. Undeterred, they led me to another small market where I bought fruit, yogurt, and water for about three dollars — a haul that would have cost five times as much in the U.S.
On the walk back, a wounded, limping, neighborhood dog bounded toward us. Laila and Yousef had bought bread specifically for her. The dog clearly knew them — and loved them.
Only then did I realize they didn’t own the apartment. They lived nearby and simply cared for it on behalf of the owner.
Over the next few days, we saw each other occasionally.
One afternoon I accidentally left my apartment door ajar while doing laundry and preparing to shower. Wearing a towel that was, frankly, too small for public appearances, I sat down to check email.
Suddenly I heard voices in my hallway.
Laila and Yousef.
“No, no, no — I’m not dressed!” I protested.
But they didn’t understand. I wasn’t speaking Arabic! I knew I should have learned the word “no” in Arabic! Too late.
They entered cheerfully to inform me I’d left the door open. Unable to stand without creating an international incident, I remained seated, laughing in embarrassment while wrapped in insufficient terrycloth.
They laughed too — completely unfazed.
What followed was ten minutes of conversation via Google
Translate that felt astonishingly normal. Within moments I forgot I was half-dressed. It felt less like an awkward encounter and more like chatting with family.
I had worried I might offend them — this is a Muslim country, after all. Instead, they made me feel entirely at ease.
The next day, when it was time to leave, I stopped by their home with local sweets as a thank-you gift. But they had a gift for me as well: a small ceramic lantern to use as a candle holder.
As we hugged goodbye, Yousef began to cry.
I tried to tip them for all their help. Laila refused. When she stepped inside briefly, I pressed local currency and coins into Yousef’s hand — maybe five U.S. dollars at most.
I gave him my WhatsApp number and promised I’d return in the summer.
I may not. And perhaps I shouldn’t have promised. But explaining uncertainty across languages felt harder than offering hope.
Yousef messaged me regularly while I was in Tunis and even a week later when I reached Italy. Translation made conversation slow, but I always replied.
Then he told me I’d left behind a portable hard drive. He promised to keep it safe until my return.
Again, I didn’t have the heart to explain that I might never come back. If I ultimately don’t, I’ll tell him to sell it and keep the money.
People like Yousef and Laila are why I care so deeply about what happens in the world.
When Americans behave abroad like arrogant tourists — or when leaders treat distant countries as abstractions rather than places filled with real families — it matters to me.
When the United States bombed a school in Iran, my first thought was of Yousef.
The more than 100 girls killed were roughly his age.
They were loved by mothers like Laila — women doing their best to raise kind, decent human beings — whose lives were shattered by decisions made by powerful men far removed from the consequences.
Travel does this to you. It replaces headlines with faces.
And once you’ve met people like Yousef and Laila, the world stops being theoretical. It becomes personal.
