Beep! Beep!
The cartoonish sound of an off-brand Vespa horn fills my ears. I jump to the right just in time for it to teeter by.
The old man driving shouts something indecipherable to a man lugging a sack of dried mint leaves and then reaches back to adjust the overflowing pot of couscous strapped haphazardly on the backseat. He’s followed immediately by a lazy-looking donkey pulling a cart of pink pomegranates and overripe limes.
From the store on my left, a shopkeeper beckons me to browse a room filled with handmade shoes of every color, shape, and size. In the background, a chicken squawks moments before he meets the butcher’s blade.
My nostrils sting with the pungent scent of black Savon and orange blossom.
I let out a sigh.
No matter where I turn, I am always blocking some form of traffic and always being ushered down the nearest sales funnel. But in the souks of Marrakech, you accept the chaos and become a part of it.
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