My first stop was a spice stall, where a vendor named Hassan, with a grin wider than the Sahara, waved me over. His shelves were a rainbow of cumin, saffron, and mysterious powders I couldn’t pronounce. I pointed at a tiny vial of saffron, thinking I’d be slick. “How much?” I asked. He named a price that could’ve bought me a camel. My counteroffer was timid, and he laughed—a big, belly-shaking laugh. “You bargain like tourist!” he said, but he didn’t mean it unkindly. Over mint tea, he taught me the dance of haggling: eye contact, a smile, and a willingness to walk away (I was terrible at that part). I overpaid for the saffron, but he threw in a ras el hanout blend and a recipe for lamb tagine.

The souks are more than markets—they’re a living museum. I wandered past leatherworkers stitching slippers, their hands moving like they’d done it for generations. At a rug stall, a woman named Fatima showed me Berber weaves, each pattern telling a story of her village. I didn’t buy a rug (my backpack said no), but I sat with her, sipping tea and listening to tales of desert life. She gave me a woven bracelet, saying it was for “good journeys.”

Food was a highlight. I followed my nose to a stall serving harira, a hearty chickpea soup, and ate it cross-legged on a stool, dodging stray cats. Another day, I tried pastilla, a sweet-savory pigeon pie that sounds weird but tastes like heaven. The vendor, an old man with no teeth, winked and said, “Eat slow, live long.” I took his advice, savoring every flaky bite.

Marrakech’s crafts are its heartbeat. I watched a potter shape clay into tagine pots, his wheel spinning like a meditation. He let me try; my pot collapsed, but he said, “Mistakes make beauty.” I bought a small bowl, chipped but perfect. The souks taught me to slow down, to talk, to listen. Haggling’s not just about price—it’s about connection. I left with spices, a bracelet, a bowl, and stories I’ll carry forever.