The Taxi to Tunis | تاكسي إلى تونس
"A missed train means sharing a taxi from Sousse. The driver is handsome. The other passenger is intriguing. The journey takes unexpected turns."
The Taxi to Tunis
تاكسي إلى تونس
The last train left an hour ago.
I'm stranded in Sousse—an American tourist with bad timing and a flight to catch tomorrow morning in Tunis.
"Louage?" the station guard suggests. "Shared taxi."
It's my only option.
I'm Christine.
Thirty-nine, accountant from Ohio, taking my first solo trip since the divorce. Tunisia was supposed to be adventure.
It's becoming more adventurous than planned.
The louage is a battered Mercedes.
Three other passengers—two men and a woman. We're waiting for a fourth to fill the car.
He arrives at sunset.
"Assalam," he says, sliding in beside me.
Early forties. Dark eyes. The kind of face that would make anyone forget their budget spreadsheets.
"Assalamu alaikum," I reply.
"American?"
"That obvious?"
"The hiking boots. Dead giveaway." He smiles. "I'm Karim."
The drive is two hours.
The other passengers sleep, leaving Karim and me whispering in the dark.
"What brings you to Tunisia?"
"Escape."
"From what?"
"A life that didn't fit anymore."
"And now?"
"Now I'm trying on new ones."
"How does Tunisia fit?"
"Better than Ohio." I laugh. "Though nothing could fit worse."
"Ohio sounds terrible."
"It's not. It's just..." I search for words. "Safe. Predictable. And I realized I'd rather be scared and alive than comfortable and dead."
"That's very poetic for an accountant."
"Even accountants have souls."
"What do you do?" I ask.
"I restore riads. Old houses. Buy them ruined, make them beautiful."
"That sounds romantic."
"It's messy and expensive and occasionally heartbreaking." He shrugs. "But when it works... there's nothing like bringing something back to life."
"Like people?"
"I've never tried people."
"Maybe you should."
The car breaks down outside Hammamet.
Steam from the hood, driver cursing, everyone piling out.
"Two hours," the driver announces. "Mechanic coming."
We're stranded on a dark road, midway between adventure and disaster.
"There's a café nearby," Karim says. "I know this road. Come."
The other passengers stay with the car. We walk.
The café is closed.
But Karim knows the owner, who opens up for us. Coffee, conversation, moonlight on the Mediterranean.
"This is insane," I say.
"This is Tunisia." He raises his cup. "You wanted adventure."
"I didn't want to miss my flight."
"You'll make your flight. But first—this." He gestures at the night. "The universe gave you a detour. Accept it."
"You're very philosophical for a riad restorer."
"I've learned that fighting circumstances never works. Embracing them does."
"What circumstances are you embracing right now?"
"A broken-down taxi. A beautiful American. A café that should be closed." He meets my eyes. "Circumstances that seem designed to bring us together."
"That's presumptuous."
"Is it wrong?"
I kiss him.
Under Tunisian stars, in a café that shouldn't be open, with a taxi broken down somewhere behind us.
"Not wrong at all," I admit.
The café owner discreetly disappears.
Karim and I have the place to ourselves.
"This is crazy," I say as he pulls me closer.
"The best things are."
We make love on cushions.
The Mediterranean breeze through open windows. His hands learning my body, my soft American curves that I've always hidden.
"Beautiful."
"I'm not thin—"
"I don't want thin." He kisses my belly. "I want real."
He takes me slowly.
Like we have all night—which we might, depending on the mechanic. I come with his name on my lips and his body covering mine.
"Stay," he whispers after.
"My flight—"
"Cancel it. Stay in Tunisia. Stay with me."
"I have a job. A life."
"You said that life didn't fit."
"I can't just—"
"You can. People do. You came here for adventure. I'm offering one."
The taxi is fixed by dawn.
We arrive in Tunis just in time for my flight.
"So," Karim says at the airport. "Back to Ohio?"
I look at the departure board. At my gate. At the life waiting on the other side.
"Actually," I say, "I think I need a riad."
Six months later
I live in Hammamet now.
In a riad that Karim restored—our riad. I do remote accounting. He brings buildings back to life.
"Happy?" he asks.
"Deliriously."
"No regrets about the missed flight?"
"That flight was the only right thing I've ever missed."
He makes love to me on the rooftop.
Tunis glittering in the distance, the same Mediterranean that witnessed our first night.
"Je t'aime," he says. French for the Tunisian moment.
"I love you too."
Alhamdulillah.
For broken-down taxis.
For detours that become destinations.
For adventures that start with terrible timing.
The End.