When you ask me about my year-end 2023 bingo card, sitting at a Tunisian police station for three hours was definitely not there. Yet, there I was, sitting across from no less than four police officers, all dressed as civilians, and smoking cigarettes while flipping through the pages of my passport.

*freeze frame* You’re probably wondering how I got here, aren’t you? Well… here it goes.

To tell this story, I have to go back a little bit to a tale of missed contacts, missed connections, and misunderstandings. The date was Wednesday, December 13. I just landed in Tunisia for a weeklong stay. So far, everything went extremely smoothly, almost too smoothly.

Tunisia doesn’t have Uber, so I hailed a cab via Bolt – another app I have on my phone for overseas rideshares. I found my Airbnb easily, laid out by easy directions from my host. I settled in, took a quick shower before the water shut off from 9 p.m. to 5 a.m., and went out to grab a quick bite to eat. The nearby restaurant, Cafe Abouba, served a mean chicken with fries, salad, dressing, spaghetti, and fresh bread.

When I tell you, I housed that meal. Back in Morocco, Doha had warned me about food in Tunisia being incredibly spicy and she sure wasn’t lying about that. The spaghetti had a kick, almost spicy for no reason – but it was bearable, and dare I say, delicieux?

All the way back in the last week of October, I had reached out to a contact from an organization I had partnered up with in other countries around the world. I had also set up some programs with them in Jordan and Uruguay, but those were shut down on account of conflicting schedules. They had proven to be a reliable partner, but that did not seem to be the case here. Multiple messages seen and not responded to for weeks on end, I figured the worst I could do was show up in person at their office once in Tunisia, to let them know I was very serious about collaborating.

Well, an hour long taxi later, and a 15 minute meeting that could’ve been an email – it was very clear that this organization was not interested. I hung my head low and had to come to grips with the fact that perhaps I had flown all the way out to Tunisia for nothing. Country number 56 would not be happening.. or at least that’s how it seemed.

I cried thinking about the airfare I had wasted, the leftover footballs, t shirts, and jerseys that could’ve, and should’ve, been given out in Casablanca instead, and the seven days I’d be stuck in a country with nothing to do. Could I set something up on the fly? I sure thought so, but with schools out for vacation and rain every single day – the possibility was far less likely than I had optimistically hoped for.

I had reached out to a few last minute organizations, but despite a 45 minute walk to their front door – that proved unsuccessful as well. It was now Tuesday, the day before my Wednesday departure on December 20. My last 24 hours in the country. At the foot of my bed, I still had a bag full of Challenger t-shirts and already-inflated soccer balls.

An outsider would see it as hopefulness, but with the week I’d had – those balls sat there as a symbol of failure, almost mocking me and my futile attempts to run a program. The days passed and with them, hope faded. Between the schools being on vacation and the countless non-answers, I was all but ready to close the door on any chance of a Tunisia-based program.

Tuesday morning, I woke up at 10:30 a.m., threw on some clothes, tossed the plastic bag of soccer balls over my shoulder, and headed out the door. Worst case, I figured I’d just hand a ball out to whoever I saw on the street. Plus, ever since my first day in the country – I had seen a young boy kicking around with a friend using a flat basketball. He was my first priority and I vowed to give him one if I saw him before my departure.

Unfortunately, when I walked outside – he was nowhere to be seen. I asked around and found out his name was Youssef. Apparently, he was at the tea shop down the street. I took a detour to Stockholm Cafe, but he wasn’t there either. The day wasn’t off to a particularly good start.

I hooked a left down the street instead, moving towards one of the primary schools I had walked by the day prior. “Maybe Monday was just a day off for Sunday’s holiday…” I told myself, naive optimism some would call it, but I’d call it straight up denial.

Unsurprisingly, the school had no noise coming from it, and no students either. However, just beyond it in an attached parking lot was a group of about 15 boys kicking around an old, beat-up football. They spotted me on the street just as quickly as I did them.

“Come play!” one of them yelled, immediately throwing me on an under-matched squad.

“Wait, I want to swap the ball out,” I said, digging into my bag and pulling out a brand new, high quality ball I had reserved after my time in Casablanca.

The kids all shouted with glee. What they had also spotted, though, was the five other footballs stuffed away in my plastic bag. As imagined, despite being in the middle of our game, chaos ensued and eventually, a school administrator ran into the lot and told us all to leave. “This is a private establishment, get out!” he yelled.

We folded immediately, leaving the premises and trading the cement court for the sidewalk and street outside it, before eventually making our way over to a large dirt field just across the street. The space was large and open, but it lacked any sort of cover or privacy. I hit a round of les mains ou la tete, finding a winner for our first prize – the brand new ball we had begun to play with earlier. A young boy with glasses named Med ended up victorious in our first round. However, the boys were growing impatient and I could sense it.

“Okay, change of plans! We’re going to play un petit match. Teams of 5 – 4 field players and a guardian. First to two goals, and the losing team swaps out. Then, the team that accumulates three wins will get a football for each player. Sound good?” I asked.

“Deal!”

That was it, the boys designated captains and one of the older ones set up two goals with large stones as goalposts.

“Monsieur, you be the referee,” a young boy, named Mohammad, said to me. “But do a good job please,” he added.

“Okay boys! Peut être c’est le final!” I yelled out, drawing attention to the fact that Team Mohammad and Co. was currently sitting on two wins.

Just as I blew my whistle for kickoff, a small black car – unbranded and nondescript, pulled over the curb and onto our sideline. Three men got out, one with a small two-way radio in his back pocket.

“What’s happening?” I asked one of the boys to my left.

“C’est le police,” he answered.

The boys didn’t panic or run, and neither did I since I knew I hadn’t done anything wrong. They immediately began interrogating me, going through my backpack and asking me for my documents.

“Where’s your identification?”

“Are you Tunisian?”

“Do you live here? What are you doing here?”

“Yes, you say you’re American, but maybe you’re half-Tunisian? Are you?”

I had no idea what was happening, but I explained that I didn’t have my U.S. Passport with me because I don’t carry it when outside the house. “Okay, get in the car, we’ll go to your house and grab it,” the leader of the group said.

The boys looked on reservedly, “Sorry boys, I’ll be back in 10-15 minutes,” I told them, as one of the cops tossed my bag full of soccer balls into the trunk.

Just for a few minutes, I really thought that was the case. As we made the literal three block drive to my flat, the questions continued.

“Who are you staying with? How do you know them? Why here?”

I had nothing to hide, so I continued to answer honestly. Plus, I figured that if I did anything but that I’d be in far worse shape. I explained my situation, how I booked an Airbnb and I was staying with my host’s family in a private room. What I did not know, though, is that Airbnb is technically illegal in Tunisia.

What resulted, was not as much me retrieving my passport from my bedroom as it was these three cops raiding an underground rental operation. The whole time though, they continued to assure me that “This is all for your safety, monsieur, we are just making sure you are protected,” but man, I did have my doubts. I was taken with my host to the station and plopped in front of yet more members of the police force, as they flipped back and forth through the pages of my passport.

“You’ve been to Mexico and Colombia?” a cop asked, trying to get an idea of my travel history.

“And you’re here for vacation?” another asked. “Yes, tourism.”

“Why would you pick this area?” The first one asked, insinuating it was not a nice area.

“I mean, It’s located near the airport,” I said, “Plus, it’s been raining everyday so I spend all my time in the house anyway.” None of these answers were untrue.

There was a mix of English, French, and Arabic being spoken – and I was trying my best to keep up.

“What other countries have you been to?” the leader asked, taking out a sticky note to jot down a list.

I gave him a list of about a dozen countries, before asking him if he’d like me to continue with 2022’s list as well. He scribbled the list out and decided to just say that I was coming from Morocco, which in fairness was also true. I alternated between a booking room and an open waiting space with a row of chairs – spending ten minutes in one, then 30-40 minutes in the waitroom.

I maintained my innocence, steadfast and confident in the fact I had done nothing wrong, but man it is not fun at all sitting in a station like that, especially for a three hour time block. The saga seemingly reaching its close, another cop drafted up a police report and printed out about seven copies for my host to sign and acknowledge.

“Mr. Stephen, we will need your signature on these documents as well,” he then said.

I was hesitant. The reports were all in Arabic and the only words that jumped out on the page were, Stephen James Schirra, written both at the top and the bottom.

“What does it say?” I asked.

“It just says that you were caught in the middle of this by accident, and none of it was your fault,” he said. Did I believe him? Perhaps not, but what other choice did I have? I signed away.

I was called back into the first booking room to pick up my passport, my backpack, and my bag full of soccer balls. The leader of the force shook my hand and told me I was free to go.

“Where will you go now?” he asked.

“Well… I told those boys I had footballs for them and that I was only going to be gone for 10 minutes,” I said. The time was now 3:30 in the afternoon, after leaving the field just past 12:30.

“No, don’t go back there,” he said. “This area is not safe for you – is like Chicago,” he said. “It is too dangerous.”

I hadn’t felt at all in danger earlier, but the last thing I wanted to do was disobey a cop’s order, so I stood down. The craziest part of the entire ordeal? When I was leaving the station one of the cops literally asked if I could give a soccer ball to one of their children. Life is crazy, I swear. Yes, we’ve just held you at the station for three hours, but can I have a soccer ball? I couldn’t believe it. I’m a people-pleaser though, so naturally I obliged.

I had zero desire to see my host, so I dipped out to my trusty restaurant down the street for some chicken.

“Stephane!” I heard, as I was shoveling some pasta into my mouth. It was 4 o’clock and I was just having my first meal of the day.

The voice was coming from one of the boys from earlier, he had spotted me from across the street. In fact, he had won a football himself, but the cops had taken it and placed it in the trunk. I was glad I could hand it back off to him as he had won it deservedly. Back focusing on my food, I was interrupted by yet another familiar face – another one of the boys from before. I ripped open my backpack, and handed him a ball. Lastly, there was Mohammad and one of his teammates – who claimed the final two soccer balls I had on me, as I finally was able to finish my 4 p.m. lunch.

As I wrapped my meal up, I was approached by a young man, named Yassine. He had seen me handing the footballs out to the kids and I think curiosity got the best of him as he began to ask me some questions.

“Is it a humanitarian type of thing?” he asked, as I explained the situation of my flaky contacts in the country and my failed attempts to set anything else up.

I told him about the run-in with the cops, the public session with the boys, and everything that had unfolded on an unintentionally chaotic final day in Tunisia. I told him how I was afraid to see my host again and that that feeling of discomfort itself should’ve been a sign to leave. He was a good listener, providing feedback here and there, as well as some comic relief too – which was more than welcomed after the day I was having. Plus, he had suggested some other charity contacts like le crescent rouge, just in the off-chance I’d return to Tunisia in the future.

I told him how bummed I had been about the weather, but I had only myself to blame since I hadn’t searched for it ahead of time.

“Wait, have you tried that?” Yassine said, pointing at a food kiosk attached to my favorite restaurant.

“Bro, no! But I’ve been curious about it ever since I arrived here a week ago!” There was always a line of 10 people at minimum waiting for this particular dish so I just knew it had to be nice.

“I tell you what bro, I will invite you for that dish later tonight for dinner – it is called Lablabi,” he said, referencing one of the staple foods in Tunisian cuisine.

With the day I had had, I was in need of a win, so I took him up on his offer. “Yassine, just hope that nothing bad happens with my host,” I joked, “and if not, I’ll see you at 7:45 p.m., right here.”

A more than awkward encounter later with my host, I took a shower, packed up some of my bags, and sent a quick message to Yassine that I would be on time for our 7:45 meal. I won’t lie, I was excited to try this one – and there was no better company to share than someone who knew exactly how to order it. My approach was cautious, “not so spicy, Yassine, no egg, no tuna,” I said. Basically, neglecting all the things that made Lablabi so good. We got to work, breaking some fresh loaves of bread into small pieces to serve as the base of the dish. Then, a mixture of chickpeas, Tunisian olive oil, spices, and cumin would be layered on top.

“Are you sure bro?” he asked. “You know what mon ami, put everything on there – this day has been a nonstop adventure anyway,” I responded.

“Ok Stephen, it’s your turn to mix it up – this is a very important part,” Yassine said with a smile.

I had watched from afar as patrons did this for the past seven days so, needless to say, I was ready. With a flick of both wrists, I got straight to work. I mixed it up until it was ready to go. Yassine had insisted on taking the bill, for the Lablabi split between the two of us – one bowl, two spoons. Fortunately, he had let me take the drinks as a thank you for good company and better conversation.

“Cheers mon frere,” I said, toasting our sodas and then digging in with a big spoonful. The taste was amazing, such a blend of different flavors and the perfect amount of spice to top it off.

Yassine and I killed the bowl over more conversation, before walking barely two blocks away to his house. He spoke of his studies, a young man of just 18 years old he was currently studying business information, although his real dream was to be a footballer. “Yours and mine both,” I said with a smile. He spoke of his passions, his desire to get back into calisthenics and working out during his current two week vacation from university. He spoke about his religion, doing so with pride and reverence. I told him I had always had a deep respect for it, as I’d always found that particular faith to be incredibly devout. Lastly, we passed by his house as he excitedly showed off his nine cats. “This one is Luna, she’s the smallest,” he said. “And this one is Yassine.”

“Yassine!” I yelled out, joking that maybe all nine cats were named after my new Tunisian friend.

Yassine knew it was dark out and given the day I was having asked if it would be okay to walk me back towards my flat. We made a quick grocery run for some snacks and a bottle of water for me to brush my teeth with (since it was already 10:30 and the water was turned off). As we walked, I told Yassine that I was extremely thankful. I told him that it had been a day full of surprises, an overall strange one, but beautiful in the sense of adventure.

“I’m moving carefully today because the way things have been, one good thing happens and immediately after, something bad follows… like a friendly game of footy with the boys, followed by three hours with the police. A tense and uncomfortable run-in with my airbnb host, followed by a new dish with a new friend,” I explained to him.

“Mais, c’est la vie mon ami,” Yassine said. “But there’s a saying, ups and downs… they are inevitable. But the essence of life lies in what happens between them.”

And, he was right.

Because as I look back on this year. As I close the door on a whirlwind year of programming following countries number 55 and 56. I can wholeheartedly say that it was a year full of ups and downs. But despite that, I can’t help but think of everything that happened in that “in between.” The new friends, the programs, the experiences, the memories, and the stories. Man… the stories. They could fill a book ten times over from just this year alone.

So, in the spirit of that, I’m choosing to reframe this one. No, not as the time I spent my final day of 2023 programming in a Tunisian police station, but rather, as the time I met a young man at the ripe age of 18 who reminded me of the essence of life and the beauty of adventure.