"How much do I tip a camel." Brad asked it without looking up from his wallet. We were standing in the dust near a pyramid. A real one. The kind your fifth grade textbook has a photo of. A man named Mahmoud was holding the rope of a camel he said was named Charlie Brown. The camel did not look like a Charlie Brown. The camel looked like a Charlie Brown who had been through some things. I bowed to the camel. Mahmoud nodded approvingly. Brad was still on the tip question. "Like. A dollar? Five? Is it the camel I tip or the guy." "You tip the guy, my friend," said Mahmoud, with the calm of a man who has been asked this in seventeen languages this week. "The camel does not have a Venmo." Brad laughed harder than the joke deserved. Mahmoud turned to me. He raised one finger. "For my friend the gentleman. Camel ride. Special price." I straightened my shoulders. I understood at once. This was the merchant's trial. In my homeland, the price is the first stroke of a great negotiation. To accept the first price is to dishonor the merchant. To refuse forever is to dishonor yourself. There is a sacred middle path. "What price do you offer," I said gravely. "For you, sir. One hundred American dollars." A killing blow. I steadied my breath. I countered. "Ten." Mahmoud put a hand on his heart. He stepped back, as if struck. He looked at the camel. He looked at the pyramid, which had been standing here for four thousand years and which, his face suggested, would not stand much longer if I kept insulting him like this. "Sir. Ninety." "Fifteen." "You break my heart. Eighty." I was preparing my next move. I was, in my head, drafting a quiet speech about the merchant's honor versus the buyer's honor, which I would deliver, with great solemnity, after offering twenty two. Brad leaned over to me. "Bro. Just say twenty bucks, dude." I looked at Brad. "This is sacred," I whispered. "Yeah," said Brad. "Twenty bucks." I turned back to Mahmoud. I raised one finger, in the manner of a man delivering a verdict from a balcony. "Twenty dollars." Mahmoud smiled. He had clearly been waiting for twenty dollars since the conversation began. He had probably been waiting for twenty dollars since his father's father had stood in this dust holding the rope of another Charlie Brown. "Twenty dollars, my friend. You ride." I climbed onto Charlie Brown. Charlie Brown groaned in a key I will hear at the moment of my death. He stood up in three lurching parts and I was suddenly very high above the world. Below me, a small child appeared with a small plastic camel. "Five dollars, sir." "For the small camel," I said with great dignity from the top of the large camel. "Yes." "I will buy it." Brad looked up at me. He looked at the small camel. He looked at the child. He looked at his wife. "Babe," his wife said gently, "is everything tipping in this country." "I don't know what the rules are anymore," Brad said. He pulled out his wallet. "Get me one too." Twenty minutes later we came down from Charlie Brown. Brad had three small plastic camels, a postcard, a hat he had not wanted, and a feeling. Walking back across the sand, Brad held all his small camels in one hand and was quiet for a long time. Then he said, half to himself, "That guy works harder than my whole HR department." I bowed in the direction of Mahmoud, who could not see me, and to Charlie Brown, who had not asked for any of this. Tomorrow at home I will tip the barista an extra two dollars. I will not explain why. The world is held together by men named Mahmoud, and women at the diner named Linda, and one tired camel in Giza named Charlie Brown. Also I am keeping the hat.