Swap 'Til You Drop: Mastering the Art of the Deal with the Berbers

An afternoon with Stella and Lucille: stories of Berber deals, treasure hunts, and why its never just another day, another dime. Morocco . Letter #14

Dear Ageless Wanderer,

I've sat with this letter longer than I care to admit—crumpled drafts, endless staring out the window, and asking myself, Does this story even need to be told? But you know how some stories don't gently nudge; they shove? Yeah, this one's been tugging at my sleeve like a persistent toddler, whispering, Tell them. Tell them now. So here I am.

The other afternoon, Lucille and I found ourselves tucked into the shadows of one of our favorite cafes as the Moroccan sun unapologetically did its thing—brilliant, warm, and relentless. We were halfway through an existential debate (read: giggling over mint tea) about our latest escapade in the Medina when I caught sight of fresh faces.

Enter Matt and Ellen, Midwest gems. They had that unmistakable fresh-off-the-plane glow mixed with Medina-survivor energy—a little awe, a slight panic, and a whole lot of "What the heck just happened?" vibes.

They slid into the seats next to us, and as fate would have it, a conversation was inevitable. Turns out, they'd just spent two hours buying a rug in the Medina. Matt's voice dropped to a hushed tone as he confessed, "It was brutal."

We couldn't help it, Lucille and I, grinning like a couple of mischievous cats, raised our glasses of mint tea and said in near-perfect unison, "Congratulations! You live to tell the tale." That's the thing about Lucille and me. We've been friends so long that we basically share a single brain cell.

What followed was the kind of vibrant tale that only a Moroccan rug shop could inspire. Matt and Ellen rehashed every stitch of it—the intense call of colors and textures, the dream of that rug "really tying the room together," the we-are-not-sure-we-won price, and the puzzled, soul-searching question: "Do you think we got a good deal... or were we played?"

I paused. You know that pregnant pause when your thoughts line up, and you carefully shepherd your words into just the right tone.

"Listen," I said finally, "What you found out is that Morocco doesn't do 'another day, another dime.' Bartering is its own art form here. While we may be used to strolling into RugsUSA with prices neatly printed on a tag, the Medina is more... Wild West. With all the admiration in the world, the Berbers invented bartering; it's practically in their DNA. Yes, it can feel like a game—one you may even name The Art of the Steal—but trust me, it's so much more."

Matt's follow-up, channeled directly from his wallet's (and ego) recent battle scars: "Yeah, but how do you play this game and not feel like a broke fool afterward?"

I couldn't help but exchange a knowing glance with Lucille as I leaned in. "Oh, honey," I grinned, "Let me tell you a story."

Yesterday. Lucille and I are wandering into this quiet little square in the Medina. You'd miss it if you sneezed, but there it was, spilling over with broken metalwork, recycled art, hand-painted tiles, and these tiny baskets practically bursting with "What even is that?" intrigue.

Lucille spotted one such basket, crouched over it, and started toying with the idea of dumping its contents to sort through it. A nearby shopkeeper saw this and, without a word, grabbed two cushions. He plopped one on the ground for himself, gestured to the other, and gave her the kind of "Have a seat, let's chat" look that you don't say no to.

So there sat Lucille, sorting through jumbled treasures like a prospector sifting for gold.

The shopkeeper—charming as the day is long—fetched us mint tea. It arrived on a tray in delicate, painted glasses, offered with a question: "Sweetened or unsweetened?"

(For the record, always lightly sweetened. And always served with a whole lot of soul.)

As Lucille sorted, the shopkeeper began narrating. A camel bone here (once adored on a leather bag from who knows where), a shard of tile there (rescued from the wreckage of the recent earthquake in the High Atlas Mountains), some amber beads once part of a nomad's earrings, and of course, The Hand of Fatima—"for good luck," he said with a wink.

I stood back, sipping my tea and taking it all in, when it hit me: this wasn't a negotiation or a game. This was a dance. She sorted; he told stories.

And my heart? It melted.

Then came the twist. Lucille finally picked out her treasures, and just as she started to put the rest back,

the shopkeeper delivered the biggest one-liner since Casablanca: "I want to touch your money."

Wait. WHAT?

Lucille froze. "Did you really just say that?"

With a laugh as smooth as the mint tea, he repeated it. "I want to touch your money. How much of it do you want me to touch for these few things?"

And so, the dance became... a tango. They went back and forth—price, counter-price. Oh, the drama! The flair! Lucille, her wits sharper than a Berber knife blade, finally named the price. Deal struck.

Except, of course, she was a few dirhams short when it came time to pay.

But our gracious shopkeeper? "Don't worry about it," he said. "I'd much rather you come back for more tea than fret over a few dirhams."

And that, my new friends Matt and Ellen, is how you engage. You dance.

It's not just haggling. It's storytelling. Connection. Drama, laughter, and whole decades of culture wrapped into one memorable, mint-tea-scented moment. Sure, sometimes it feels like you're being played, but really? It's a magical tango, and everyone walks away a little richer in spirit (and sometimes, with fewer dirhams).

So here's my unsolicited cheat sheet:

• Barter with charm and a whole lot of humor. Smiling is your secret weapon.

• They're not just selling an item; they're crafting a moment.

• If you say, "Maybe later," it's a pinky promise they will remember.

• Hesitate for a second? BAM. New color options magically appear.

• And if you leave empty-handed? You’ll still leave with their kindness, a story, and maybe even a friend for life.

Another day, another dime?

Not in Morocco.

It's another day, another dance.

XXOO,

Stella

P.S. Tea is never just tea here. It's an invitation. A connection. A moment to meet each other in that beautiful space between a stranger and something truly special.

P.P.S. Also, tell your barista their latte art could never compete with the perfection of a hand-painted Moroccan tile, no matter how good their foam hearts are. 🏺✨