the map village street editors

One of the joys of shopping in far-away lands is bringing home treasures that can’t be found on the shelf. Treasures that come with stories. Recently I unearthed my Berber blanket from storage. Its sight whisked me back to Morocco and the scene of its purchase at the rug-seller’s house, where the show-and-tell began over cups of face-puckeringly sweet mint tea, poured from a height into short glasses. As he unfurls the rugs, the vendor tells a little story about each, while asking me mine. Is it my first visit to his country? (‘Ah, big welcome!’) Where is my husband? (‘Oh, you need good husband!’) He adds his nephew to the list of items I might take home if he spruiks hard enough. When a higgledy rug mountain erupts from the floor and the teapot is dry, the haggling begins. I ask how much for a camel’s hair and lambswool blanket with Berber inscriptions I’ve spied. “For you, good price,” he beams. Then, “If you like it, it will be yours!” Finally I extract a figure and submit a counter offer. He feigns insult. Bid by bid, we tussle over the blanket. I put on my best couldn’t-care-less face, though I’m sure he sees the bowerbird glint in my eye. He shakes my hand and I buzz with the thrill of victory… or is that a sugar rush? Wrapping up the rug, he tells me it’s an aphrodisiac. Rug in hand, I thank him for the tea and make for the door before he can return my attention to his nephew. At home, I wrap myself in the blanket and ponder the greater treasure: its warmth or its story?