It’s easy to get lost wandering through the souks… such a beautiful hypnotizing maze of shiny, pretty things… like a jungle of bear traps laced with honey and cream-filled donuts… Each shopkeeper sits outside his own shop, the hungry spider waiting for any unsuspecting fly… he prods or lures or begs you in… “Just look. Come.” It’s a fierce and tiresome tug of war, over and over again. “Where you from? Ah, welcome.” “My friend, come in, just look.”

It’s hard not to become jaded and callous and you have to guard your eyes from making any visual contact or use verbal jujitsu to get past. Eventually, I did get caught off guard, or I was too tired to fight, and I got pulled in to the web.

A young jewelry store owner somehow harangued me into sitting and chatting, and we talked about politics, economics, love (“romantics”?), and Moroccan life, in general. Throughout the conversation, he just couldn’t help himself and inevitably (several times) would come back to asking if I wanted to buy something in his shop.

I told him how poor and broke I was… a pauper in America… and explained my ill-fated career choice… the starving artist… and how difficult it is to survive at times. He replied, “No, you are not. You are rich. You can move around and go anywhere. Do anything. The fact that you are here in Morocco means you are rich.”

I felt ashamed… like I was caught out or exposed… he was right. I knew this. No matter how broke or down-and-out I might ever get, I am truly rich. So privileged, so blessed, so spoiled. To live where you can be what you want. Free to move or go anywhere you want. This is not the Moroccan way.

He said Moroccans will always be poor their whole lives. I tried to argue with him, or counter jab… partly from my natural defense mechanism anytime I feel cornered… partly because deep down, I believed what I was about to tell him as I tried to break it down in as simplified terms as possible.

I told him I have seen so many poor people here… yet, they seem happier than many people who live in the West. I said “rich” or “poor” is what is inside your heart. Someone can have all the world’s treasures, and still be poor in his heart… or a man can have nothing, no material possessions, and still be rich in his heart.

It sounded like an American Indian speech in a cheesy western cowboy film… I was winging it, but as it came out of my mouth and off my lips, it sounded too simple… too obvious… but exactly true…. as if I told him how it gets hot in the summer and cold in winter.

There was a long pause, as if he were tasting a glass of wine for the first time, trying to articulate the new flavor of something he’d never thought about before… swirled it around in his brain… processed it… and finally uttered, “Yes, my friend, this is true.”

We went on to discuss and contrast and compare each other’s family life, some cultural heritage, more love and “romantics”… and I could tell we were both pleased with the friendship… a new bond… that would instantly break apart and end as soon as I left…. but it was still worth it… worth the seeds that might have been sewn…