The Moroccan Mambo
With the snap of a closing laptop and the clink of the glass, she puts down her cup of tea and sets out to explore the market bazaar of Morocco. She slips the laptop into the padded Zinnia compartment, pulls vintage sunglasses out of the slip pocket and slings the bag on in backpack mode. With confidence she wades through the sea of brilliant colors and heady scents that Marrkesh's markets are known for. Suddenly a scarf catches her eye. It's the color of his eyes. It will be a perfect gift for him.
Her eyes fall on the shopkeeper. They lock, both knowing what is about to begin, the haggle. But not haggling how most think of it, but as Morcocans think of it: a sport with wins and losses, cheers and groans, a dance where both move according to unspoken rules until finally a victor stands. Being that victor she swings the Zinnia over her shoulder. Casually trying to hide her excitement she unclips the bag and reaches deep down to pull out just the right amount to pay her opponent and slips the scarf into her bag.
Almost on schedule, the afternoon rain starts swiftly and with a vengeance. Street sellers scramble, customers scatter, and she calmly watches this unfold while grabbing her umbrella from the handy side pocket of her bag. The Zinnia’s rain flaps will keep her laptop and new scarf safe, but her outfit is another story. Watching the downpour she carefully considers how to get to her lunch date. A taxi will have to do since shopping took longer than expected and the rain is so intense. However, the taxis seem to know this and one appears, almost unbeckoned, ready to grab a fare. "That cafe with the french name," she tells him, and they are off.
Stepping out of the taxi, she bolts into the cafe. The cafe is a blend of Moroccan and French cultures, vying at each other in a beautiful fusion. But more beautifully, there he sits. The one whose eyes match the scarf. She mutters under her breath "This is going to be a good lunch...."
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