Of the few things I collect, or many if you ask my husband, a teapot is one. So even before landing in Marrakech I knew a Moroccan teapot would soon find home in Boston. 

The day after we landed in Marrakech we headed (our jet lagged selves) out to spend a night in the Sahara desert, a journey that usually takes two days. On Day 1, we drove by a local weekly souk (market) and I quickly asked our driver, Khalid, if we can stop for a few minutes. He obliged. 

The open marketplace was bustling with people, produce, and livestock. It was a delight for the eyes and nose. At one corner, there were about half a dozen sheep up for sale: You could hear their bleats go louder and heads nodding faster each time an agreeable selling price was reached upon. Next, I walked past an area where a cart full off oversized pomegranates were bursting open and revealing their ruby-red kernels, when the smell of freshly popped and tinted popcorn (yellow and green to be precise) quickly lured me to the main entrance of the market. 

As I stepped in, with the loose gravel crunching underfoot with every step, it took me a second to realize how we were the odd ones out: the tourists. The locals were there driven by necessity, us by curiosity. 

One stall quickly caught my attention: A stall strewn with teapots, old and new. After a quick scan my eyes and heart quickly settled on a silver teapot that I could tell was pre-loved. It was nothing extraordinary: A usual Moroccan teapot used for serving mint tea. 

Upon close inspection I found how the spout, which was stripped of all glaze, seemed as if it was welded together as an afterthought. Our driver quickly pointed out how it was also missing a screw on the top. The seller donning a fake Fendi hat, quickly came to the rescue: He unscrewed a golden screw from a new golden teapot and quickly screwed it atop “my” silver teapot. It didn’t fit properly but I convinced myself: That’s where the charm lies. 

It was now time to talk price, time to haggle. 

Moroccan sellers are notorious for quoting tourists prices significantly higher than the actual value.

I was ready: I have got this covered, I reassured myself.

“How much?” I asked.

“240 dirhams,” he said.

“100,” I said.

After a  short back and forth and me pretending to walk away, we agreed upon 120 dirhams.

He wrapped it in a small plastic bag and handed it to me. 

Khalid turned to me and said: You’re a business woman. 

I was proud of my bargaining skills.

I stopped at many other stores and bought many such nick nacks on our way to and from the Sahara—and of course I negotiated a better price each time like a business woman. 

Upon returning to Marrakech, I stepped into a store selling teapots and saw a teapot that was identical to the one I got, but this one was brand new—so out of curiosity, I asked for the price. 

“100 dirhams,” he said.

A business woman indeed!