When you hang little flyers around Chott Meriem asking for help learning Tunisian Arabic, you don’t expect it to turn into a social experiment about attraction, culture, and restraint.
But here we are.
Day One: Café La Costa & the Unexpected Plot Twist
It started with my innocent little flyer:
“Je cherche quelqu’un pour m’aider à apprendre à parler le tunisien du quotidien.”
No hidden meaning, no secret agenda — just a Swiss woman in a beach town trying to learn how to order coffee without accidentally proposing marriage.
Then came Amine.
We met at Café La Costa, and the plan was: one polite meeting, maybe a bit of small talk, then goodbye.
Except that didn’t happen.
He was wow.
Warm eyes, sharp humor, that relaxed confidence of someone who’s lived abroad long enough to understand irony.
He told me about his time in Ireland, his past, his therapy, his not-drinking-anymore-phase — and instead of memorizing verbs, I memorized the way his laugh lingered.
Afterwards, he invited me to quickly see his “classroom.”
I said yes, fully aware that this was how every cliché begins.
We didn’t do anything — we just talked.
But when I left, my head refused to shut up.
That night I didn’t sleep.
I wasn’t thinking of him — I was experiencing him, on repeat, in full-colour, surround-sound, imaginary 4D.
Let’s call it what it was: 24 hours of internal cinema.
And I loved every minute of it.
Day Two: Coffee, Confusion & Cultural Discovery
Today was the actual learning session.
He welcomed me with that relaxed smile again, the one that makes you forget whether you’re a student or a character in his story.
On the table: a notebook, a pen, and his handwriting — messy, fast, slightly artistic.
He started jotting down words for me: flous (money), taula (table), mouch mouchkla (no problem).
Each new word came with a smile, a gesture — and before long, I was watching him more than I was watching the paper.
He cooked eggs. Rührei. Simple, humble, and unexpectedly sweet.
We talked, laughed, and at some point the conversation drifted — as it does — from grammar to relationships.
I asked about his “no-go’s.”
He said:
“Hair. And dishonesty.”
Just that.
Hair.
For a second I thought I misheard him.
But no — he meant hair, as in the general concept of it, existing on human bodies.
He added, a bit sheepishly, that it’s “just in his head.”
Which, ironically, is also where my entire fantasy life currently resides.
Anyway — new rule for self-preservation: keep the pubic hair. Stay safe.
Post-Lesson Reflections (and Messenger Reality Check)
After the “lesson” he walked me home, like a perfect gentleman.
One a.m., seaside air, friendly goodnight.
I went upstairs and immediately did what any grown woman with teenage hormones would do — opened Messenger.
Him: “Good night. Sweet dreams.”
Me: “Good night… though I’m not sure my dreams will stay sweet.”
Him: “Why?”
Me: “Because you gave my imagination something to work with.”
Him: “OK.”
And that’s how my romantic screenplay ended — with a single, anti-climactic “OK.”
Epilogue
So far, I’ve learned the following vocabulary:
- Habeb = love
- Flous = money
- Sabah el khir = good morning
- Tawa la = not yet
That last one might come in handy.
Because yes — I still like him.
But before anyone gets between my hairy thighs, they’ll have to prove they can handle what’s between my ears.
And in the meantime, I’ll stick to learning Tunisian.
One word, one eyebrow raise, one slightly ridiculous cultural discovery at a time.