So, we pull into Tangier at about eight in the morning, hike across a construction site to get to the nearest restaurant we so desperately needed, and then proceeded to wander about the beach front for most of the day. At this point, it was just the four of us, the other Americans had split up into their respective groups. We had brought our swim trunks in the hopes that the reports on the cleanliness of the beach in Tangier were wrong. They were not. The city had a rather unfortunate smell that seemed to emanate mainly from the docks and the beach. So, we dared not venture in.

On the recommendation of an information guy at the train station, we found a hotel called the Valencia. The cost came to about 100 dirhams ($13) per person, very reasonable given the inclusion of an in-room shower. There were rumors of cheaper (30 dirhams) hostels in the casbah, but a few luxuries seemed to be worth the few extra dollars. That night we got dinner and hookah at a cafe nearby with some of the other exchange students. Some members of the group wanted to take the ferry to Spain and see Gibraltar. Me, I didn't feel like ponying up the eighty some-odd dollars, plus I had yet to stroll through a real medina (the old, crowded section of the city), so I parted ways with my pals for the day and set off on my own.

I hadn't taken ten steps before I was being invited to sit down for a cup of coffee at a sidewalk cafe by a man in his fifties (Kalim) and another in his thirties (Abdullah). We chatted for a while. They were Spanish Moroccans and after a few cups of strong Moroccan coffee, I was invited to a nearby apartment for a chicken lunch. The lunch was, frankly excellent. It was probably the best thing I've had to eat since I arrived on this continent. So far, so good, right? Here's where my day gets interesting. I mentioned that I would like to see the marketplace. My hosts perked up immediately and asserted that they knew the medina like no others. A little wary, I followed the elder gentleman out of the apartment and into the heart of the medina.

The medina is a really interesting place to just be. The streets are just as steep and narrow and curvy as in every movie that involves a chase scene through an Arabian city (The Battle of Algiers and The Bourne Supremacy come to mind). It always boggles my mind when I see people living and working in buildings that have existed for (at least) hundreds of years. So very un-American.

I was led through the marketplace into a store and out into a courtyard that was ringed with stalls where men sat at every stage of production, making carpets. The looms were logs held together with ropes, really old school stuff. It's easy to imagine hi-tech, computer-controlled machines making cool stuff like these elaborate carpets. But all those mass-production devices had their origins in what I saw in front of me that day; a crew of guys working through an ineffable web of colored yarn, eventually yielding a carpet.

But those carpets have to bought by somebody, right? And I was just their mark. I was led upstairs from the production rooms, to a room with folded carpets lining every wall. A man appeared wearing bedouin robes, bearing a tray of mint tea. He spoke impeccable English, and after some niceties, he began laying out carpets in earnest. If I said I liked the color red, three more reds carpets would be on the floor before I could stop him. And then came the question that I have learned is a Moroccan shop-keeper's staple: How much do you think these are worth?

Unfortunately, I had failed to do my homework before coming to Tangier, and honestly had absolutely no idea how much I should pay for a rug. I breathed a little sigh of relief when he quoted a price of 400 dirhams. At the time, I only had 200 dirhams left, so I could honestly say that I didn't have the money on me. Now, in retrospect, I probably could have bargained him down to below 200 dirhams, but I didn't have the confidence that comes from having a ballpak figure of what something is ACTUALLY worth - something that is a necessity for a tourist in a Moroccan souk.

I expressed interest in some Berber jewelry, something a little closer to my price range. Again, I didn't know the fair price for such items. For a necklace and a bracelet, he offered me 400 dirhams. I counted with 200, which I thought would be a good low-ball offer. Much to my dismay, he immediately shook my hand and thrust the merchandise towards me. Oops. Could have gone lower. Well, better luck next time. I paid the man and followed Kalim back out into the medina.

Periodically, on the walk back, Kalim stopped and told me that if anyone (namely the police) asked if I knew him, I should profess ignorance. Don't worry, the guy wasn't on the run from the cops. The deal is that in Morocco, it is against the law for citizens to guide tourists around without a permit. There were plenty of people asking me "where I wanted to go" in pretty much every language, and it got annoying. I had come to realize that Kalim was one of these guys, too, but a much subtler one. At the edge of the medina, he asked for some money for his "six kids." I politely refused, guessing that he probably got a cut from my jewelry purchase. He smiled and said goodbye, shouting after me, saying "Don't trust anyone." And hence, I christened him Shady McShadester. An interesting day, to say the least.