“Be careful in Tunisia.” “Watch out for pickpockets.” “Muslim countries can be dangerous for women traveling alone.”
I heard it all before we left. In fact, I have heard it all for years and years…. Friends, family, even strangers online – everyone had warnings about taking Romeo to North Africa. Everyone was so concerned about our safety in Tunisia.
Funny how life works out, isn’t it?
We had the most wonderful two and a half weeks in Tunisia. Safe, welcoming, magical. Romeo made friends, we explored ancient medinas, we danced at local festivals. Not once did I feel unsafe. Not once did anyone try to take advantage of us.
But France? The French Riviera? That “safe” European destination that no one warns you about?
That’s where everything went to hell.
When Exhaustion Meets Bad Decisions
Let me set the scene. We weren’t supposed to stay in Nice – it was meant to be a simple transit stop. But flight connections being what they are, we ended up with twelve hours to kill between our 9am arrival and 9pm departure.
I was absolutely shattered. We’d gone to bed at 2am in Tunisia, had to wake up at 3am for our flight. One hour of sleep. I felt so sick from exhaustion that I genuinely considered just booking a hotel room and spending the day by the pool instead of exploring.
But guilt won out. Here I was in Nice, a city I’d never properly visited despite passing through to Monaco a few months before…. How could I waste the opportunity?
So off we went, dragging our luggage, both of us running on fumes and stubbornness.
The Tram, The Elevator, The Theft
The tram system in Nice is confusing as hell when you’re exhausted and carrying multiple bags. But we managed it, Romeo and I squashed in with all our luggage and my little bag strapped across my stomach – the one with my wallet containing everything important.
We got off at the station where I’d found luggage storage online. That’s when we encountered her – the woman in the elevator with her kids. Something felt off immediately. She was wearing way too many clothes for the weather, which struck me as odd. But I fought that instinct to judge. She had children with her, she was being helpful, waiting for us to get in the elevator.
There was a second elevator after that. Again, she and her kids were there, being friendly, making space for us and another couple who joined. We were packed in tight – very tight. Both my hands were occupied with luggage, Romeo was tired, I was exhausted. I wasn’t paying attention to anything except getting through the logistics of the moment.
When we got out, I went to get my tram ticket to exit the station, reaching for my wallet in that little bag across my stomach.
It wasn’t there.
The Sinking Realization
The bag was still closed. Everything looked normal. But my wallet – with all my cards, my driving license, Romeo’s and my ID, cash, everything – was gone.
For a moment, I told myself I’d dropped it. Maybe someone would find it and call me – I always keep a note in my wallet with my contact details and a promise to be “very generous” to anyone who returns it. I’m organized like that. I even had an Apple AirTag in there.
But I didn’t have internet to track it.
I went back into the station where there was WiFi, trying not to panic, trying to stay calm for Romeo who was tired and hungry and had no idea what was happening.
That’s when I saw it – my wallet was moving. The AirTag was showing it traveling away from where we were. This wasn’t a dropped wallet. This was theft.
The first thing I did was freeze all my cards – eight or nine of them. Every single one, which meant even though I had Apple Pay on my phone and watch, I couldn’t use any of it. I’d protected myself right into having no access to money at all.
Within minutes, the notifications started coming in. Transaction declined. Transaction declined. Someone was already trying to use my cards – including attempts at the tram company. They weren’t wasting any time.
The French “Help”
What happened next was a masterclass in how not to treat a distressed tourist.
I asked for help at every little shop near the station. “Please, I can see where my wallet is on my phone, I just need help, I need to call the police.” Nothing. No one cared. No one even tried to understand.
They eventually pointed me toward the local police station – an hour’s walk away in the heat, carrying all our luggage, with a tired five-year-old.
An hour later, we arrived at the police station. “No, we cannot help you,” they said in broken English, not even bothering to try to understand the situation. “You need the national police. That’s another hour’s walk.”
I wanted to cry. Romeo was exhausted, we had no water, no money, no wifi or data, no way to get anywhere. I was carrying heavy luggage and a child who was about to have a meltdown, and these people couldn’t have cared less.
The One Bright Spot: Hotel de Suède
Just when I thought all French people were heartless, we found salvation. Hotel de Suède: The manager, owner or whoever was working there was an absolute angel.
He gave us free WiFi immediately. They brought us water. They actually cared about what was happening to us. And here’s the thing – they weren’t French. They showed us the kind of hospitality I’d experienced everywhere in Tunisia, but hadn’t found anywhere else in France.
From their WiFi, I could see my wallet had travelled to a busy train station and stayed there for ages. Clearly, whoever had stolen it was working that location, probably targeting other victims. It was so frustrating – I could see exactly where it was, but I had no money for a taxi and no way to get there safely with Romeo and luggage..
The Hollywood Movie Moment
The second police station – the national police – was initially just as useless. But when I got firm with them, explaining that I had an apple tag (which meant I knew where the wallet was) and that our IDs was in that wallet and we couldn’t travel without it, (didnt mention I still had our passports….) that I wasn’t going to become a refugee in their country because they wouldn’t help, something shifted.
Poor bebe sleeping at the police station after waiting for over 1h…
Finally, after waiting for over an hour, a plainclothes team was assembled. They gave me internet access so we could track the AirTag, and suddenly Romeo and I were in the back of an unmarked police car, racing through Nice like we were in an action movie.
By the time we got there, the wallet had moved back to a residential area – close to where it had first gone after being stolen. Ten police officers searching the area, following the AirTag signal, knowing it was there but unable to find it.
20 min later, no luck. We were about to give up when something incredible happened.
The Suspicious “Good Samaritan”
Just as we were leaving, a man came out of one of the buildings. With my wallet in his hand. That kept ringing, I mean the AirTag did…
“Are you looking for this?” he asked.
I wanted to hug him and punch him at the same time.
His story was that he’d found it in a bin and was about to take it to the police when he saw all the commotion. He said he recognized Romeo from a photo in the wallet.
Here’s where it gets murky. Every single bank card was gone. All of the cash was gone. My driving license was gone. Surprisingly they left the Portuguese IDs. But my contact details were still there – the note saying “please call me if you find this wallet” with my phone number and email. He’d never tried to contact me.
And the photo recognition? There were only two photos of Romeo in that wallet. One was his Portuguese ID – a tiny, black and white photo from when he was much younger with different hair. The other was on my credit card – a recent, clear photo. But all my credit cards were missing from the wallet.
So he could recognize my five-year-old son from a tiny, old, black and white ID photo? Really?
The police believed him. I got my wallet back, and most importantly, I got our IDs back. But something about the whole situation felt wrong.
Here she is, thanks to the AirTag
The Real Damage
Beyond the money and cards, this experience shook me in ways I’m still processing. I’ve traveled to over 70 countries. I’ve been to places people consider dangerous, places where solo women with children are supposedly at risk. This was my first truly traumatic travel experience.
And it happened in France. In Nice. On the French Riviera. In one of the “safest” places in Europe.
The cruelty of it still gets to me. You can see I’m a tourist. You can see I’m traveling with a small child. You can see we just arrived and are trying to navigate a new place. And your response is to steal everything we need to survive?
How do you target a mother and child like that? How do you take someone’s documents, their money, their ability to get home safely? Specially being a woman yourself and seems like a mother…
The Bitter Irony
Everyone warned me about Tunisia. Everyone was so concerned about our safety in a Muslim country, traveling as a solo mother with a young child.
Tunisia was magical. Safe. Welcoming. People went out of their way to help us, to make sure we felt comfortable and protected. Romeo was treated like a little prince everywhere we went. I never once felt unsafe or targeted.
But France? The supposedly civilized, safe, European France? That’s where we were robbed. That’s where people refused to help a distressed mother and child. That’s where we experienced the worst of humanity.
The only people who showed us kindness in France weren’t even French.
French police ONLY helped us when we said we would become refugees … without ID…
What This Really Means
This isn’t about France being terrible or Tunisia being perfect. This is about the dangerous assumptions we make about travel safety based on religion, culture, and geography.
We’re so busy worrying about the “dangerous” places – the Muslim countries, the African destinations, the places that don’t look like home – that we forget crime and cruelty exist everywhere. Sometimes especially in the places we consider safest.
I’m not saying don’t be careful when you travel. I’m saying be careful everywhere. Don’t let stereotypes and prejudices guide your safety decisions. The person who robbed us looked like any other tourist. The people who refused to help looked like the people we’re supposed to trust.
And the people who showed us the most kindness? They were from African countries, where everyone warned us about…
Best part of France – leaving.
Moving Forward
I got my cards replaced. My driving license was harder – that’s still causing headaches months later. But we made it home safely, and Romeo still talks about our amazing time in Tunisia.
This experience was traumatic, but it was also educational. It reminded me why I travel, why I want Romeo to see the world, why it’s so important to experience different cultures firsthand rather than relying on other people’s fears and assumptions.
The world is full of good people and bad people. They exist in every country, every culture, every economic class. Your safety doesn’t depend on avoiding certain places – it depends on being aware, being prepared, and not letting prejudice cloud your judgment about where real dangers might come from.
Tunisia was beautiful. France was where we got robbed.
Let that sink in the next time someone warns you about travelling somewhere that doesn’t fit their narrow definition of “safe.”
Love,
Emma
And you, have you ever had your travel safety assumptions challenged by experience? I’d love to hear your stories in the comments below.