I stood inside the studio apartment, looking around at the place I would now call my home away from home, when my cell phone began to ring. Answering it, I heard the unmistakable voice of Mounir Abouda, the landlord, asking typical starter questions in Tunisian Arabic: “Labes? Chna hwalek w eddar?” This is strange, I thought. I spent a good part of the afternoon with this man — what else could he possibly want or need from me? “Aslemma khouya,” I began. “Oui, ça va bien ya sidi, kol chay labes, hamdullah.” After all, everything was perfectly fine. I was fine, the studio was fine. It had been less than thirty minutes since we parted ways … hardly enough time for my world to collapse. “Maikel,” he continued confidently. “Fama haja okhra - ghodwa lezzem temchi maia lel merkez.” Come again?...