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  • Your spinning head impishly grins ambling through the souks, a labyrinth of multilingual merchants' storefronts, in some areas canopied by loose reed tarps that squeeze slanted shards of sunlight to the floor like leaning icesickles. You breathe one minute a cloud of saffron, jasmine, lavender; the next a thousand chickens and all their fecal matter. Every visual frame abounds in indigos, violets, crimsons, and golds, natural local dyes soaked into robes and slippers for sale next to Moroccan lanterns with alternating technicolored panes separated by copper, figurine malachite camels and jade elephants, and jewelry boxes cedar with mother of pearl. You keep your eyes open so as not to miss a scene. Sometimes you would rather miss a scent. Stray cats sleep on thresholds of house doors and donkeys pull produce and flies on rickety carts, this is not New York.
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