The souks of Marrakech are a maze, alive with color, scent, and sound. Every turn reveals something new—brass lanterns gleaming in the sun, spices heaped into pyramids, leather slippers in every shade imaginable. But it’s not just the goods that make this place what it is. As everywhere, it’s the people.

And then there’s him. The shopkeeper. He sits in front of his shop in the narrow street, reclined in his chair like a man with all the time in the world. His stall lies behind him in the shadows of the medina, its treasures hidden from sight. He doesn’t need to call out or wave me over. Instead, he watches, arms crossed, with an unreadable expression. A man who has seen thousands like me pass through—some stopping, some glancing, some haggling with the bravado of seasoned traders, others wilting under the weight of a well-placed sigh. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. He just waits. It’s a challenge, unspoken but clear. I take the bait.

“Nice shop,” I say. He nods, one eyebrow barely lifting. “Yes.”
A pause. Then, the words I knew were coming—the invitation and negotiation wrapped into one perfect phrase:

“Let’s make good price.”

And just like that, the game begins.