“Chillax, my friend, chillax…” our ersatz tour guide repeated as he sauntered backward masterfully into a sun-dappled alley. We were wending our way through a labyrinthine corner of the walled city, to his “uncle’s” antique shop.

Hidden beneath a free-floating staircase that lead to a rooftop deck was the entrance to the exclusive boutique. The mixture of excitement and trepidation was palpable as we descended below ground level. Would we find a cavern of treasures as Ali Baba had when he uttered those magic words or a den of thieves?

There were no convincing similarities between our young stranger and this underground salesman. This may have been our first time at this rodeo but we knew what was happening and played along. Or at least we thought we did.

A small gazelle-print wooden box caught Bob’s eye immediately as we roamed between the dusty tables and shelves. According to the store owner, every single item in the showroom had a story to tell and he knew every last detail. The box could have been from a newly-discovered cache of the Queen of Sheba for all we cared but the fact remained that we did not have the $70 he was asking. Neither did we have our credit cards on us. We promised to return another day with the necessary funds. To cement “the deal”, we even asked for his business card.

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