Motorbikes weave their way in and out of the crowds, and the shrill, frantic notes of the snake charmers' flutes fill the air. An old woman calls out to all who pass her, promising to read their futures in the creases of their hennaed palms. The men in bright Berber outfits clink their cups together, their large hats casting shadows across their dark faces, and the acrobats flip and bounce through the air as a crowd gathers to watch. Women in jewel-tones headscarves whisk past you in groups of two and three, and waiters call out to you from the restaurants that crowd the edges of the plaza, each menu exactly alike yet each promising to have the best mint tea and tagine in all of Morocco. It all melds together, a giant frenetic mass of life, and yet despite the pulsing energy all around you, you stand still. You smile in disbelief and amazement at the sight before you as the sun beats down on your arms, and you take it all in.
