The Beginning Of The End? The End Of The Beginning? I'm Back, Confused, And...Apparently Being Self-Absorbed Through A Rather Disgusting Display Of Confusing Self-Analysis

So basically I've been putting off this "Returned-To-The-US" post because...because, well, it means that the experience is really and truly over, and life is back to normal.

Except that life can't ever go "back to normal," because there is no normal anymore; things have changed, and falling back into a life that doesn't really feel like yours anymore isn't easy. 

Having been home three weeks (three weeks! Practically half my time in Morocco, but being here still feels like some weird dream...), things are getting easier, and closer to a normal, even if there are moments when I miss my Moroccan life like crazy.

I suppose that this is what happens when you change. I'm still me, of course, but in a way, I'm not. I'm a different me than the one that left, even if it's difficult to see. Maybe my habits are still the same   well, except the fact that I now turn on the hall light when I'm trying to turn on the light in my room (it's a long story, especially if I babble about the methods of habit-forming)   maybe the way I talk is still the same, maybe everything on the exterior, everything that every single one of you encounter, is still the same. But that's just the exterior, and hasn't the adage never judge a book by its cover been burned into our brains since infancy? There's plenty different, some of which I've uncovered, and some of which I'm still playing with, trying to figure out what it is. 

Sometimes I still feel more me than ever. But then again, of course I do, because I am still me; and even though I've changed, I'm present in this reality where this is me. My reality has moved with the change. (That's why I've developed a disdain for the "you're not acting like yourself" line that you hear in movie arguments. They're acting exactly like themselves, because they are the selves acting, and in that moment, in their particular reality, they are being who they are. Perhaps the former realities that the accusing characters are drawing from do not exhibit a particular behavior, but in that moment, they are being who they are, and now I really need to stop talking about realities, because it's confusing me, and if it's confusing me, lord knows what it must be doing to you, since You, dear reader, do not have access to my brain to pick apart the knots I've tied, and collect the strays, ends, and tangents that I've missed. Unless you are in a reality where that is capable, for which I applaud you heartily. Yes, I know that there was a gigantic run-on. Welcome to my thoughts. But really, are thoughts ever that orderly? I don't know about you, but my thoughts take flying leaps from one another, and generally don't pause or break in between subjects, ideas, etc. Welcome now to the shaky world of thought and conjecture and often-accompanying-frustration that is TOK.) 

I don't even remember where I was. Oh...I suppose I was going to provide a counter to the first sentence of the above paragraph. That's what the sometimes was for. Anyways, sometimes I can't figure out who I am. (To be fair, I read that this is a problem that a lot of teenagers have. Maybe I'm just going through my angsty teenage phase. I wouldn't put it past me.)  

I seem to have lost whatever degree of eloquence I once had, and I can't seem to find it again (even after thinking about this post for the past two weeks). Such is life, I suppose. I think I'll just shut up now, because, contrary to popular belief, writing about the metaphorical, elusive "it" is not helping. 

Maybe this is the last post. Maybe it isn't. It probably isn't (and I hope that to be the case), because I'll probably get bored at some point, and turn that bored energy into creative energy (and thus, a post or three). Maybe my life will provide me with another opportunity in which you must be/want to be updated. The future is somewhat unclear. 

I guess, then, to use my own words, from my very first post when I was learning to blog: Stay tuned (or don't). 

A Very Weird Last Day

I can't believe this is my last post in Morocco. The time has flown by, and I can't accurately express in words the levels and kinds of emotions that are tumbling around right now. "Sad" is such a disgustingly simplified word that I don't know that it really means anything. I'll just leave it at that.

As the title indicates, today was a rather odd day. I woke up to a phone call, and a "Trusty" Travel Clock that said 2:17. It was not, in fact, 2:17; my clock was off by over 4 hours. Which is weird, because when I set it last night, IT HAD THE CORRECT TIME. I suspect the fey-folk were involved. Them, or low batteries. Tomorrow (which, by the time this is published will be today here...but still yesterday there, which is today   oh, time-zones!), I'm just using my phone's alarm, because that one has never failed me, nor has it ever randomly skipped hours in the day without cause or warning.

My day was further wack-ified by an intense, sudden dislike for people, as I scrambled (or rather, moved slower than the continental drift) through the souk, trying to wrap up the very last of the gift shopping for both sets of family. I have never been as intensely aware of my dislike for people who don't walk at a real pace. I also suspect that all my karma levels have been severely wrecked from all of the mental swearing that I was doing.

I returned to my house about five minutes after the REAL 2:00, only to be immediately summoned to leave again. I'm still not sure what we were attending (I think it was at a school, because there were a lot of dressed up little kids) but I think you'll all get a sufficient mental picture by the following description: mosaic floors, clowns, and Oppa Gangnam Style. It was really rather bizarre.

From there, I went to not-my-house. I was perplexed, because I thought the woman in question was going to help me shop for Mama after iftar, but I guess she made up some excuse involving her host-son, who also happens to be a fellow NSLI kid.

I got back at the crack of 5:30, which was exactly when I needed to be back.(For those of you who question why this is so impressive and worth mentioning: You have never operated on Moroccan time. This is like some sort of miracle.) And was again summoned to leave the house (although it was expected), this time for the Hamman. I'd been wanting to go basically the entire time, but between weekend trips, school, Ramadan, and a particularly nasty sunburn, it never worked. Let me tell you: life changing experience. It was fantastic. You would never believe the amount of dead skin that you have on your body, just waiting to be sluffed off.

We ate iftar at not-my-house, which was a bit sad, but in a funny way it was kind of fitting, because it was the same place we ate the first iftar of Ramadan at, and just as I had been the first day, today I was fasting.

Aside from that, it was a little time with Mama and lots of time packing, and now I'm writing this and listening to some sort of traditional music (very beautiful) that is playing in the medina. Not sure if it's live or not. (Edit 1:07 AM: It's still going on, and I believe that it is live.) But it seems like a lovely sort of send-off.

Ineffective Shopping Is Ineffective.

Go figure.

See Also: There Is Still Decency Left In The World.

Let’s get something straight: I hate shopping. I hate shopping with a vengeance. My mother can attest to that. (Hey, Mom, remember the Kohl’s Christmas Earring Fiasco? Yeah, you definitely shoulda known that something was up.) I hate shopping in the States, and I’m not particularly fond of it here, either. (Though at least if I don’t like the price, I can demand it for something less, which is definitely not Culturally Acceptable in the US. Amendment: I love walking around the souk; I don’t mind bartering, which can be quite fun; I hate feeling like I have to buy things for other people. As in souvenirs.) Which brings us to my problem.

My shopping list doesn’t appear to be getting any smaller, folks. And that’s not cool. I go into the souk and buy things…and come out feeling like my pre-departure shopping list is still as long as ever.

Here’s the one nice thing about Moroccan souks: they’re relatively inexpensive, especially compared to some American prices. Perfect example: the other day I bought a leather bag (we’ll get to that story in a moment) for $1.66 less than my plastic looks-like-leather-but-isn’t-even-leathery-enough-to-be-called-pleather bag that I bought for this trip at Target. Score.

Anyways, here’s the story. I wouldn’t know fake leather from real leather if they gave the leather some Veritus Serum and I got to ask it some questions about itself. There, I said it. I mean, I know that some leather stinks to high heaven, but you can also spray non-leather with the leather smell to make it, well, smell like leather. It is also not in my nature to trust people. Therefore, I went in the souk to buy leather, expecting to be ripped off or sold not-leather. (So then why go buy leather, you ask? Because it’s so much cheaper here, duh!) Anyhoo. After looking around, and—you guessed it—not being able to tell if things were real leather or not, I decided that there was a bag that I liked, even if it wasn’t real leather. So the bartering process began (and good lord, it’s so much nicer in Rabat!) and of course the guy said it was real leather. But I’m the aforementioned skeptic. Eventually, he brought out the cigarette lighter (not to ax-murder me, guys) to show that the leather would singe, instead of melting, as fake leather would. (I actually knew this tactic! Yippee!) I bought the bag, after knocking 50DH off the price (don’t get too excited; that’s only about $6), but, being me, I was still skeptical as to whether or not it was real leather, because the singe was so tiny that I actually couldn’t tell if it was singe or melt. (Looking back, the guy probably wouldn’t have even brought out the lighter if he thought that I might see the bag melt. But that’s hindsight. Oh well.)

So what’s a girl to do?

Go and ask other people in the souk, of course! 

The first person that I talked to didn’t speak English (I asked. In Arabic. Success!) and he referred me to a shoe guy across the way who did. Now, he was not a bag-seller (Obviously. He was a shoe guy.) but he probably does work with leather. A quick glance and he said it was real. I offered to pay him for his trouble, but he said no. (Decency, folks, decency.) So real leather, right? 

But see, I was still feeling skeptical. This guy had no reason to lie, but he also had no reason to tell me the truth if it was fake, on the chance that I would get super upset and accidentally make him look bad by losing it in front of his (I’m sure very nice) store. (*Skepticism Alert* if you haven't noticed.) So I went to another vendor; this time, one actually sold bags. He, too, told me it was real, and he too refused money for his trouble. (And I figure that he could have had something to gain by lying. If he’d said it was fake, he could have pointed me to his own shop with "better" products.) Anyways, I’m pretty sure that my bag is real leather. I’m not going to be 100% confident, though, until I get home and make my dad look at it. (Funny, I actually do trust him. What is this?) 

But yeah. Turns out, people are basically good. Even if I don’t seem to want to believe it. Everyone was (surprisingly) happy to help, though I was not buying from their store. That's Morocco for you. (Or at least Rabat. Doubt you could get away with that in The Lovely Medina Of Murrakush.) 

***For all of you concerned about my sanity: 1.) Yeah, I am too, and 2.) Since my Ineffective weekend, when I first began writing this post, I've had some mildly more productive shopping excursions. Not by much, but just enough to keep me from going totally insane.

And since we're on the topic of the souk, I'll provide a fun fact. Just for you, personally. The entire internet. Huzzah. 

Fun Fact Of The Day: Vendors tend to speak to non-Moroccans in French. Even if asked a price in Arabic, they will respond with a French number. Now, funny story. This gives me a lot of trouble. I go in expecting Arabic, and I get French. It’s funny, because the Moroccan-accented French and my own faulty French skills just don’t jive, meaning that half the time I can’t understand a word, and the other half of the time it takes me faaaar too long to figure the number out (like, say, three times as long). Let’s face it: the Arabic numbers have become easier. Now, sometimes, they will say both. But the other day I actually had to ask one of the vendors for the number in Arabic, because I couldn’t figure it out. And then he said the number (40) and it was like, “Oh! 40! Gotcha.” I was amused at myself and my inability to comprehend quarante. 

Good times. 

Jeeps Sent From The Underworld, Part The Second

Dear Everyone,

No, you didn't actually miss a Part-The-First post somewhere along the way; don't go scrolling frantically thinking you've missed something. (Be honest, how many of you got a tiny jolt of what? just now? It's true that this is a slight extension to the Sahara story   yes, I'm returning to that after several weeks   but it's more of a detail fill-in than anything else.) Also, you’re not going to understand most of this post. You’ve been warned. 

Dear Mom,

I have details JUST FOR YOU since there was so little information previously. Turns out, it doesn’t actually scratch the lens, it gets inside the lens and the zoom (and anywhere it can), rendering the lens un-open-able, and thus the entire thing unusable. Just so you know. *Firsthand experience, y’all!* (PS: Did you wonder why Sahara photos took soooo long to get up? And at least I didn't lose it totally, or a computer or an iPhone, etc, which has befallen a traveler or two throughout history.)

Dear Dad,

What is it with superjeeps? Like, what. Seriously. So we’re chilling in this town where we bought turbans for the Sahara, and then we get back to the van, except—oh, wait!—it’s now a brigade of superjeeps that are about to take us into the desert. Which is fine, and all, except we’re cramped in.

And then—get this—we ride on actual roads for awhile, and then go off road into this barren landscape that might—just might!—be comparable to a certain boulder field because it was rather bumpy.

Which was dandy on the way there, when the adventure was beginning (lots of sleep, adrenaline, crazy sights; you get the idea). Everything was new and exciting and I was in the middle row. 

But guess who was in the very back row on the way back?

Guess who also now comprehends how a certain Chinese couple fell asleep in the back? (That is, until the bump came that slammed a certain someone's head against the ceiling. Oh, yeah, it was Halle-style.)

If you guessed Aaron Burr, you are wrong. 

It was me. 

LIFEPOINTS FOR EXPERIENCES! 

The Murrakush Pictures, Because That's What You Actually Want

Enough of my babbling about bargaining, pants, juice, tourists, and the like. You guys read this for the pictures. I shall not disappoint this time.

I'll do Kaza first, since that's where we went first:

Hassan Mosque, 7th largest in the world, and bearer of the highest minaret. 

The courtyards surrounding the mosque.

Just in case we   somehow   forgot where we were.

Seriously. We think the US has national pride. Take a look at the four clusters of Moroccan flags. This is super common; there seem to be flags everywhere.

A picture of an outside-ceiling that decided, for some reason, to upload the wrong way. It's still impressive, though.

And now, onward to Murrakush.

We visited this set of ruins; it is a sister to Hassan Tower in Rabat, and another in Spain. It was once a library, school, and mosque simultaneously. It is now a mosque that many people pray at, especially during Ramadan. You can see the area outside where people pray once the inner areas are full.

The famous square in Murrakush itself. It was pretty calm when this picture was taken; trust me when I say it becomes so packed that walking becomes quite hindered, and at times, even difficult. 

The same square, as seen from above and at night. 

The kasbah where we visited tombs of the Saadian dynasty. 

The light from a stained-glass window in Bahia Palace.

The shadows cast by structures in El Badi Palace.

The walls of the herb shop that we visited.

Magic Pants, Where Have You Been All My Life? See Also: My Juice Personality In A Bottle

In Morocco, apparently. They have these ridiculously comfortable pants that are made of cotton, and are super loose. They probably look like crap when worn, but I no longer care, because they are divine. My new mission in life is to venture back into the depths of the medina, put my bargaining face back on, and buy more, so that I can wear these pants every day of the week if I want (let me rephrase: so that I can wear these pants every day of the week but change them so that I don't look like a total hobo; I wouldn't mind putting on the same pair multiple days in a row if I had to   they're that comfortable). Honestly, I'm willing to pay the tourist price if I have to, but bargaining is good for practicing my Arabic, which is why I'm doing it at this point.

Next: For fun, I read some Amazon reviews of Argan Oil, just to see what people would say. (By the way, when I say "read reviews," I mean that I read the one-star reviews. Those are the funny ones.) Even Amazon, Be-All-And-End-All for good deals, was super expensive compared to the Argan Oil that I bought. Now, I'm sure my Argan Oil isn't the best of the best since it was a product sold by street vendors, but I can tell you that it's decent quality. How, you ask? Because when you apply Argan Oil, if it's decent, it will smell kind of like salami for about a minute or two. My Argan Oil kind of smells like salami for a little bit; therefore, it is not totally worthless. (I'm about to tie this all together, I promise.) While I was reading bad reviews, I came across one that complained about how the Argan Oil smelled terrible, and that made me laugh, because Argan Oil does not smell fantastic when you first apply it. I'm guessing that this person was discounting the Argan Oil due to the very thing that indicated its good quality. People crack me up sometimes.

Also, who knew that one bottle could so perfectly fit my juice desires? Coming home from Murrakush, we made our stop at a gas station for bathroom + drinks, both of which were much needed. While there, I found this bottle/carton of juice. (Well, two, actually.) The first was pineapple and coconut; the second was red fruits. The bottles were fifty percent juice, and fifty percent water, with no extra-extra sugar (though the juices were mostly from concentrate). Which most of you are probably shaking your heads at. But! I don't like pure juice; at home I prefer to water it down. Also, I am a fan of mixing. And cold juice. These bottles were actually cold, which is a rare occurrence in Moroccan beverages. It was the perfect combination at the right time, and I wish I could remember the brand, but I guess it doesn't matter since I'm only here for two more weeks (depressing!) and it certainly wasn't an American brand. 

And finally. We've reached the best part of my little rant for this evening. 

Oh, tourists. Sometimes, you can be so cute. I'm proud to say that at this point, I think I'm only 80% tourist, instead of 100% like someone I encountered recently (and like I was when I first got here). It's kind of a funny story. Would you like to hear it? Because you're going to, regardless.

I was taking a post-iftar walk. It was more a power walk and less of a stroll, mostly because it was night (reason in and of itself), I was with a friend who walks faster than I do, and it was about an hour long walk. Anyways, my friend split off in the medina (obviously) and I was walking home. I was inside the first gate, and almost through the second, when I was called to (not super uncommon; cat calls are fairly frequent but pretty harmless), except this time, it was "Excuse me, do you speak English?" spoken in English, with a rather American accent.

Now, it's late, here, folks. I'm tired, and a little sketched out because I'd been walking alone (even though it was the medina, and not, say, Youssoufia), and I have no desire to talk to anyone, let alone some random dude that I do not know. But I've already turned my head at the voice, indicating that I do, indeed speak English, or at the very least hear him. The question is repeated, and warily, I nod my head, because maybe this guy is just a tourist (*ahem*badmoviereference*ahem*), and it would be super terrible of me to slam the gate and walk away if there is some semi-dire situation to which I can give vocal-help. (My first thought was Oh-my-god-is-he-going-to-try-to-rob-me? so I was prepared palm him in the nose if I had too [or, you know, worse   but that's just unsavory reading] and my hand was on the gate, ready to slip behind it and slam it shut, which would at least provide me time to scream bloody murder.)

Nope. Turns out this guy was not trying to ax-murder me. He wanted to know where he should walk around. As in right at that moment. Because he had walked around a little, but wanted to know the best places, or something. So I asked him where he had been, to which he replied that he had been in Morocco for 20 hours. (That is not an appropriate answer, folks. Units of time do not count as "wheres.") I [somewhat impatiently] coaxed out that he had walked around up by the train station. I then suggested the Oudayas. When he asked how to get there, I gave loose directions/descriptions...to which he replied that oh, maybe he'd walked around there earlier. This is why I asked you where you had already been, thank you. He wanted to know if there was a more happening place (I'm 97% sure that was the word he actually used); in short, where there were more people. (I give him props for knowing that it was Ramadan.) But seriously, it was like 9:15 at night. Yes, the medina kind of picks up again after iftar, but to get the real action, you have to be there during the day. I suggested the medina ("Where's that?" Here. That's here. *facepalm*) and told him to stay where the shops were, and that there are a few nice cross and parallel streets (or tried to; I was tired and frustrated at this point, and probably not communicating well) and that he should stay on those, and not venture into the small alleys, because they are sketchy at night. Basically, that there were still streets with people, but that it was Ramadan. At this point, I was just done, and apologized for not being more help, and told him to have a nice stay in Rabat.

Oh, tourists. I guess I'm a little flattered that I looked like I knew anything at all? Not so much that I would speak English, but then again, I'm 6'2'' on a short day and just about the most-Caucasian person that you will ever meet. (Side note: Sometime I'll have to talk about the vendor that couldn't figure out what nationality I was because I just kept shaking my head and laughing.)

But if there is ever a next time, I'm going to speak as much Arabic as I can as quickly as possible, and see how they take that. I imagine it would be fun to see confused looks on faces when an extremely-Caucasian person asks them whether or not they speak Arabic.

I guess that would be mean. But really, really funny.

A Tale Of Two Cities

See what I did there? I had you all ready for some sort of clever spin on a classic title. Nope. Actually, that's what I read recently.

Althoooooooooooooough...

We did go to Murrakush and Kaza this weekend. Those are two cities.

This tale of two cities is nowhere near as interesting as the first, though.

(For anyone who did not like ATOTC; thought it was boring; didn't like the writing style; etc: come here so that I can knock some sense into you. This is a parenthetical, so technically I have to keep it brief, but I could rant for quiet awhile about this [or really any] book. I wasn't sure at first what I made of Sydney, because on the one hand, the initial declaration/admission seemed like a really jerk move, because honestly, what was going to happen? What was it going to change if he already knew the outcome when he entered and started talking? But on the other hand, how many people actually have the guts to say what they feel? Not that many. It took courage to go into that room and say what he said, with the aforementioned pre-knowledge that there was nothing to be gained by the admission except of the act of the admission itself. Good for him. But then I was still undecided as to my feelings towards him because he really didn't do anything in those years and years to change his situation, though his lot was terrible. [Also: Really? Ten years plus and you're still pining after the same person?]  But then I remembered that this was 18th century England, a time not exactly conducive to "pulling yourself up by your bootstraps" and "reversal of fortunes," and also, that by incorporating this self-destructive/stubborn trait in Sydney, Dickens made his character much more realistic. And so then, at the end, I teared up, because that was an incredibly unselfish thing to do (or maybe, in a way, it was selfish?), and because he realized that should a certain event come to pass, neither of them would ever be happy again. But he also realized that by altering that certain event there was hope and happiness for the one. This followed by a bitter sting of annoyance that the story did not include a certain scene of realization/reunion. However, this was immediately proceeded by the realization that what Sydney "sees" voids the necessity of that moment, and that honestly, it's irrelevant, because that is not the point of the story. What is done has been done, and what has been sacrificed has been sacrificed; there is no reason to focus on what we know will happen, when there is this greater idea to be considered. So there you have it, folks. My take on ATOTC, abbreviated, though it doesn't look like it. Also, I know that if you haven't read ATOTC, none of this makes any sense, and for that, I am sorry.)

Back to my two cities.

First up: Casablanca, called Kaza by many people, or, if you want to be proper about it, ad-dar al-baida'a (a rough transliteration; for those of you who read/speak Arabic: الدار البيضاء, which still translates to "white house"). We were only there for two-ish hours, to see Hassan Mosque, which happens to be the largest mosque in Morocco, and the 7th largest in the world. (It has the capacity for 105.000 people. I think we were all a bit grateful that we were not there during call to prayer.) That was it; the city was otherwise dead, as it was early in the morning and Ramadan.

From Kaza, we bus-ed it to city number two, aka: Marrakech (which I will henceforth be referring to as Murrakush, due to pronunciation. Those of you looking for the Arabic script, it's مراكش‎ so that you don't have to go through the trouble of opening another page and Googling it.) Murrakush was suuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuper touristy. I mean, I think I saw more tourists there in my first hour than I've seen since coming to Rabat. And let me tell you: They were culturally inappropriate. To anyone with notions of possibly traveling to Morocco: No matter what you do, you will look like a tourist, but please, for the love of all that is holy, do not dress the way many of these tourists did. Yes, it was hot; yes, it will be hot; but there is no need to dress that ... distastefully, for lack of a more polite word.

We were actually quite lucky; Murrakush was experiencing unseasonably cool weather, meaning it was in the 32-34 range, and only peaking at 36 or 37, as opposed to being an average of 36 or 37.

Next: I'm not sure where, exactly, people actually film when they are shooting a scene in "Murrakush," but I am willing to bet that it is generally not actually Murrakush. It did not look anything like it seems to be depicted, except perhaps for the red color of buildings. That's not to say it wasn't beautiful (it was).

Also: Murrakush always sounds like the be-all and end-all of Morocco. It's as if there is nothing else here. (Heck, when I first found out that I was going to Morocco, I thought that Murrakush was the capital, because it was so hyped, and the only other city that I knew was Kaza.) Let me tell you a secret: it's not. (The be all and end all, that is.)

I enjoyed Murrakush; I really did. I wish that we had another day or two or three there. But I much prefer Rabat, Tanga, and Chefchaouen to Murrakush. The souk was impressive, but you can find most of the things here in Rabat that you can find in Murrakush. The streets/buildings were lovely, but the novelty wears off after a little bit (I'm still wearing off the novelty of Rabat after a month, but in Murrakush it was starting to wear off after a day and a half). It's true that you can negotiate more in Murrakush (although that's partly because the prices start higher) and oh, goodness, are the vendors aggressive. You better be ready to bargain for real, because these people are pros. (Although, they also know how to flatter you so that you feel better about getting ripped off; I guarantee that you are not a good bargainer, even if they say you are. That was always when I knew that I was getting a particularly bad deal [respectively; it's still cheaper than the States], and once, I was able to get away, even though that was the time I was actually negotiating a decent price; it's a long story, and I was just too tired to argue over the last 10 DH, but I knew I could get the same product for just a little more in Rabat, and that I would be treated much better; I'll be damned if I gave that particular vendor anything.) You will be exhausted after a day or two of constantly keeping your guard, fending off vendors who want to sell you something you didn't express a whit of interest in, and constantly negotiating to get a fair price. (Don't fall for the "student price" either; and if you're looking to use it to your advantage, get the initial price before they know that you are a student, and then complain about how you're a student, have no money, and are trying to learn Arabic. That way they can't give you a bogus price that looks terrible compared to the price they quote you. Darn it, I know that that Argan Oil is not worth 500 DH anywhere so don't you dare pretend that you're going to quote me half of that like it's a good deal. I still got ripped off, because I wasn't sure what the appropriate price would be; the vendor agreed way to quickly for it to have been decent, but of course I couldn't drop lower after he agreed; that would have been rude. But at least this particular one was nice, so I guess I was paying for salesmanship and personality, which was honestly worth it by the end of the second day.)

You would be bored listening to every detail of bargaining, I'm sure, and the above is probably already too extensive. I'll wrap it up by saying that the experience was definitely worth having, and I would go back, but there are other places I would go (Meknas, Faas) before returning to Murrakush.

That is definitely not as good as the book, especially due to my atrocious grammar and sentence structure, given the nature of the hour here. It is with many apologies that I bid you all goodnight.