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 piled high like pyramids, leather slippers in every shade imaginable. But it’s not just the goods that make this place what it is. Like everywhere else, it’s the people.

And then there’s him. The shopkeeper. He sits across from his shop in the narrow street, reclined in his chair like a man with all the time in the world. His stall is somewhere behind him, tucked into 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, expression unreadable. A man who has seen thousands like me pass through—some stopping, some glancing, some haggling with the bravado of seasoned traders, others folding 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.