Lost in Marrakech

The sun stands high in the sky over Marrakech, blazing and relentless, but you feel the excitement more than the heat. In the distance, the minaret-adorned rooftops of the old town rise up, framed by the shimmering blue of the sky and the dusty ochre of the walls. The streets of the medina are a labyrinth of colors, voices, and scents. Between the narrow alleyways, carpets hang like pennants above you, and from the small shops drifts the scent of leather, rose water, and something you can't quite name—perhaps cumin, perhaps cinnamon. You follow a stream of people, children, merchants, tourists, mopeds, donkey carts. Then, almost by chance, you stop in front of a small stall. Wooden shelves crammed with jars and baskets. It's an explosion of color—saffron like liquid gold, dried flowers in delicate shades of pink and violet, dark, glossy cinnamon sticks, sparkling crystals of salt and sugar. Behind the counter stands a man with dark eyes and a quiet smile. He wears a sand-colored shirt and a scarf around his neck that looks like it has seen many deserts. "Salam aleikum," he says, and his voice is deep and warm. "I'm Karim. Are you looking for something specific? Or are you just wandering?" He holds out a small paper bag, opens it, and wafts a scent toward you that is simultaneously sweet, tart, and completely foreign. "Smell this. This is called Ras el Hanout. The best I have." Karim looks at you, curious, patient.