The Moroccan entryway stands marginally unlatched, its hand-cut designs so complex that you quickly fail to remember why you are here. A clandestine mission. With a full breath, you drive open the intricate entryway and step into the room. Before you is a wonderfully designed Mediterranean parlor, and you are incapacitated by the capricious magnificence of the Moroccan stylistic layout encompassing you. In the focal point of the room, a hand-painted octagonal table with Moorish plans remains between a weaved footstool and a privileged position fit for the shahs of Persia. You notice some mint tea on the Moroccan table. Still hot, its steam misshapes the fragile calculations simply over the cup, similar to a wave in the texture of room. The hassock coaxes you enticingly, and you oblige. What’s more, without precedent for a very long time, you feel quiet and recharged.
For the beyond about fourteen days you have voyaged Morocco, across the desert from Marrakech to Ouarzazate. So far you have figured out how to remain one stride in front of your followers in this round of worldwide undercover work. In your undertakings, you have seen the wonderful qualities of the world. However, the Mediterranean parlor, with its curved themes and lively varieties, has another common vibe that is on the double recognizable and elating. It is natural since you perceive the impacts of Roman and Arab engineering from your last mission in Ankara. It is thrilling in light of the fact that never before have you seen such an ideal union and equilibrium of style and stylistic layout. In your hazardous occupation, you have in essence failed to remember that humanity sparkles most splendid in the soul of collaboration, not in success or separation. You taste the green tea thoughtfully. Obviously somebody left it here for you.
Above you, Moroccan lights swing tenderly to the beat of your viewpoints. Behind sheets of stained glass, the still gleam of the lights projects kaleidoscopic shapes across the Marrakech tile floors and Berber carpets. In the mat you sense not the chilly computations of a prepared machine, but rather the living articulation of human craftsmanship. Since you joined the mystery administration, you have been prepared to Moroccan rugs ignore the amazing nuances of life, to consider just monetary interests and the overall benefit of the “framework.” Here in Morocco, hundreds of years of variety and exchange have resisted this congruity. Through tastefulness and imaginativeness, Moroccan stylistic theme murmurs in dissent of a homogenous world.
You put the cowhide dossier on the Moroccan table before you, its insider facts alright until further notice. Then your eyes become focused on the Moorish plans that decorate the table’s surface. Some place inside its painted points, a code arises. The message is conceptual from the outset, however the undulating sparkle of Moroccan lamps enlightens its secrets like an encryption key. Settled inside the examples, you see the battle of mankind’s set of experiences unfurl on a mathematical plane. Each conflict, each settlement, each discussion among societies and standards is written in the theoretical language of Moroccan style. As the scaffold between Europe, Africa, and Asia, Morocco has refined the best components of the Old World and the New.
You breathe in the light aroma of mint from your tea and settle further into the tempting solace of the Moroccan stool. The strain you felt only second before dissolves into the rich bends of the chaise, becoming one with a current of human feelings. The heartless monetary framework which has set you in danger endlessly time again has no domain here in the Moroccan parlor. This is the world as fate has smiled down from heaven experienced, not how the experts project it ought to be. Through an open window, you hear strides in the yard beneath. Your contact has shown up. Furthermore, the following experience is going to start.