Chapter 1: The Fatal Click 🖱️
It began the way all great tragicomedies begin: with a click. More precisely, a click on a “send inquiry” button on Mubawab, the Tunisian version of Immoscout—just with more sun, less German, and a magical filter for “sea view + mosaic floor + potential for drama.”
At that moment, I was sitting in a rainy, half-dismantled room in Switzerland, three blankets piled on my knees, trying to decide whether “Kantaoui” was a place or a state of mind. What I didn’t know yet: this one click would change my life. Or at least my WhatsApp notifications 📲.
Chapter 2: The Chat with the Phantom 🕵️♀️
Hardly had the inquiry gone out when a message popped up in chat: Dahmen Immobilier. A name that sounded like a fairy-tale character. Mr. Dahmen? Mrs. Dahmen? No one knows. Neither did I. But I do know this now: how to convert WhatsApp voice notes into MP3 files, pull transcripts from free tools, run them through ChatGPT, and end up with a semi-legal power of attorney 🤖.
But I’m getting ahead of myself.
Chapter 3: Deep Dive of the Suspicion Professionals 🧐
I did what small, nerdy information junkies do when hundreds of Swiss francs are at stake abroad: I dug through the back alleys of the internet and grew suspicious. “Who am I even chatting with?” I wrote.
The reply: a photo of la patente. For non-Tunisians: a patente is like a business license—but with seals, Arabic calligraphy, and the charm of a secret document from an Asterix comic 📜.
“That’s not enough,” I typed back. “I want a mandate. With name. And signature. And ideally a stamp with a golden rim.” (The last part was ignored.)
Chapter 4: Enter Wajdi—the Puppeteer ☎️
This is when Wajdi entered the stage. Wajdi is my ex-husband, who was never really an ex, because in Tunisia, nobody is truly “ex.” You’re “branched.” Wajdi, stoic as ever, took the mission, called up some distant cousin in Tunisia. And in my experience, this is the exact point when classic Tunisian theatre begins 🎭.
Walid or Mohamed—or maybe Jemel (the Tunisian branch of my family tree is large and totally indecipherable)—called Dahmen on the phone. The conversation played out like a Tunisian family gathering: loud, chaotic, full of plot twists, with a brand-new definition of “everything is settled” 🍉.
At least one fact was now clear: the real estate agency actually existed, and I really had been talking to them—and not to some Nigerian ex-love-scammer who got tired of heart emojis and switched to real estate fraud 💔💸.
Chapter 5: Negotiation Round Maghreb 3000 💥
Relief didn’t last long. Negotiation is in Tunisian blood! It’s not about money—it’s about honor, respect, and which side can claim to have tricked the other into a better deal. (Spoiler: both sides usually believe they won, which is the only way a deal ever gets made.)
Back to yesterday: I was a nervous wreck. My brain was buzzing from the constant pings, my stomach was rebelling against every new wualla, and my phone battery died every hour 🔋😵💫.
Wualla flew like confetti across every possible channel (carrier pigeon possibly included), sprinkled with “à la tête de ma mère” and a whiff of diplomatic meltdown 🕊️📞. I felt like I wasn’t negotiating a vacation rental but a North African peace treaty. By wualla number 24, I switched to autopilot 🤖.
Chapter 6: Capitulation with Style ✍️
This morning, I signed a power of attorney. For whom? Unclear. For whoever ends up sorting it out. My only condition: no tea is to be spilled dramatically 🍵.
Chapter 7: Waiting for the Golden SMS 📬
And now I wait. For the relieving message to make its way back to me here in sunny Grenchen: the deal was sealed with a handshake 🤝. No casualties, no injuries, no major collateral damage.
The keys are now in the hands of some branch of the Tunisian family tree, and on August 22nd I’ll be able to move into my apartment in the fairy-tale land of El Kantaoui (actually more like the un-fairytale Dubai of Tunisia’s Gold Coast 🏝️🏙️).