I am in the medina, buying my Moroccan cell phone at a hole in the wall. A hole, in an alley, in a labyrinth where every space not filled with people is filled with bootleg DVD’s, crates of yogurt, piles of eggplant.
These sights exist alongside the same fetid smells that accompany the congregation of human beings worldwide, but with odors uniquely Moroccan. After all, the delightfully pungent smell of snail soup you will not detect in any American subway station.
I stand at the counter and ask “Combien?” The man next to me has appointed himself translator, and he draws invisible numbers with his finger on the glass counter-top. I agree to the price.
The “translator” shares that he used to live in D.C. My friend tells him that she is from New York, I say I am from Boston. “Boston, New York, D.C.,” he says pointing with his index finger. I look at the map that he has constructed in space. “Los Angeles” I add, jabbing the air to the far left of where we stand. We exchange a smile.
I’ve heard bargaining in the market described as a dance between the shopper and shopkeeper. Earlier in the week I bargained down the price of leather bracelets by repeating a lower price stupidly over and over. “Ok,” the seller agrees…I am such a bad dancer, he can’t wait for me to leave.
It is ok. Pas de problème. From the airport, to the souk, to the first moments with my host family—everywhere it is like this: communication at its most primitive. It is terrifying, exhilarating, humbling.