Morocco is about carpets. Probably 90% of the people who come here and buy rugs to ship back home get ripped off by the merchants, and still they get good deals. The prices here seem to be less than what we paid for ours in San Miguel.

Jean and I are ignorant about oriental carpets, and for all we know, the ones we've seen here are cheap imitations of the ones in our house. Or, the ones in our house are cheap imitations of the ones here. For our peace of mind, it's probably best not to look at this too closely.

A few rugs are made in Marrakech, and some yarns are hand-spun here as well.

This porter was pulling his handcart piled high with undyed yarn.

One morning, Jean and I were out walking, looking fruitlessly for some historical site or other, when a man pushing a bike called to us. Big deal. There's always a man calling to us in the Medina. But this one said, "It's Ali. From the hotel. I just got off work"

I said to Jean, "Yeah, right. I bet he says that to all the tourists. Ignore him."

"No, John. He really works at the hotel. Let's see what he wants." Jean is so naïve, so trusting, so gullible. Well, that's probably a little harsh. Actually she's warm and open and outgoing whereas I am suspicious and introverted. So sometimes I follow her lead, to my profit. Sometimes.

Ali launched into a dissertation about how lucky we were on this beautiful day because the Berbers were coming down from the Atlas Mountains to some sort of festival or craft sale or whatever (it was hard to follow what he was saying), and we could see them after three o'clock or right now or some other time and we should follow him. We trailed along southward toward the Djemâa el Fna or the Royal Palace or some other place where he told us they would assemble. Then he made an unexpected left turn into the Souk. A short cut?

Not likely. We quickly came to the emporium of a rug merchant. Ali's friend. Big surprise. They did the air kiss thing and I got the feeling I was about to be had. The rug merchant asked us if we had yet experienced Moroccan hospitality—well we must certainly accept his—come, come inside and have a glass of mint tea—where are we from, anyway?

But, but, but...

Stepping into the store, we encountered a woman weaving a rug.

What a great sales tool. Once you see this loom in action, you just gotta follow through and see the rest of the place. Of course, the loom is not the primary source of the merchant's carpets. Too expensive to make in town. They buy them from Berber weavers for a fraction of the cost.

Jean, still hoping for the best, asked the merchant if the Berbers were going to come to his store. The merchant said, "What Berbers, " and began showing her rugs.

I have to say they were gorgeous. To my untrained eye, they looked better than the expensive little beauties we'd bought in San Miguel. We might have been well-served if we had come here armed with room measurements and a budget.

Not actually being in the market, we politely looked at a few carpets and then excused ourselves. All signs of Moroccan hospitality drained from the merchant's face, replaced by an expression of complete indifference.

In the foyer, the weaver called to Jean and got her to sit down for a short impromptu weaving lesson.

Wasn't that nice? Sure was. Give me a tip please. There's no free lunch in Marrakech.

Outside, we looked around for our guide. We still wanted to find those wild mountain Berbers. Having accomplished his objective for the morning, he was nowhere to be found.

The merchant came outside to say goodbye, and no doubt to let us know we would be welcome to enjoy his hospitality on our return. I laughed and he said, "I'll see you again soon, and if not, I'll remember your smile in Paradise."