I didn’t expect Egypt to change the way I see the world—not in this particular way. But it did, again and again, in the most unexpected moments. One of the most meaningful came not inside a tomb or temple or museum, but on the curb outside the Grand Egyptian Museum in Giza, while I was waiting for my Uber.

Throughout my eleven days in Egypt, I was continually surprised—almost disarmed—by how many people simply walked up to me and asked for a selfie. Sometimes families. Sometimes young men. Sometimes kids who barely reached my waist. I know I stood out: the foreigner, the American, the whitest man in Cairo. But never once did it feel intrusive. It felt welcoming, curious, joyful. It felt human and fun.

That afternoon at the GEM, a boy of about thirteen approached me shyly and asked if he could take a selfie. A moment later, his younger brother ran over, eager not to be left out. We snapped a photo, and before their mother swooped in to tell them to stop bothering me, the older boy somehow managed—lightning fast—to ask for my information. His name was Mahmoud.

He promised he would write to me.

I smiled, thinking it was one of those polite promises kids make when the world is still shiny and full of possibility.

But he wrote! Many times. And a small cross-continental friendship began.

Yesterday, he sent a message that stopped me cold. He said, “Mr. Rick, I have a question for you. I saw a picture of you as Santa Claus. Please don’t laugh… but is Santa Claus real?”

Thirteen years old. Completely sincere. Tentative. Hopeful.

My heart melted. It took me a moment to really take it in—the innocence of the question, the vulnerability of asking it, the trust he placed in me. It wasn’t a joke. It wasn’t sarcasm or cynicism or world-weariness. It was a boy reaching out, almost in secret, to an adult he believes might tell him the truth about something magical.

And in that moment, I felt a deeper connection to Egypt than I’d felt in any monument, temple or museum.

We here, we talk so casually about a country being “developing” or “third-world,” but what struck me most is not what they lack—it’s what they still have. Hope. Curiosity. Wonder. A belief that magic isn’t entirely out of the question. Children who still allow themselves to ask whether Santa Claus might be real.

I replied:

"Mahmoud, my friend…
You asked me if Santa Claus really exists, and I want to answer you honestly and kindly.

Santa doesn’t always appear as a man in a red suit with reindeer. He exists in a different way — in the smiles people create, in the surprises we give each other, in the kindness we choose to show. Santa is a spirit of generosity that lives inside people who care.

So yes…my Egyptian friend, Santa does exist.
Sometimes he looks like a stranger being kind.
Sometimes he looks like a parent or a friend.
And sometimes, when I put on the suit, he looks a little bit like me.

And now that you’re getting older, you get to decide how you want to keep that spirit alive in your own life.

Love,

Mr. Rick"

That is the pull I feel—like a magnet tugging at my chest. That is why I am trying to return as soon as I possibly can. Because Egypt didn’t just show me temples or pyramids or ancient mysteries. It showed me people. It showed me generosity. It showed me the beauty of being seen as a friend by a child who just wants someone to believe with him.

On a street corner in Giza, a young boy named Mahmoud reminded me that the world is still full of wonder—and that sometimes, all it takes is a simple question about Santa Claus to crack your heart wide open.

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