Ideally, you would be in your Mediterranean parlor, leaning back on a sumptuously upholstered footstool with a warm bowl of harira soup. Right now, in any case, the rich solaces of Moroccan furniture appear to be unthinkably far away. Rather you wind up strolling through the wet, stormy chill of a February morning at an hour so early that it actually feels like yesterday. Gone are the rich textures, striking tones, and cinnamon earth tones of Moroccan stylistic layout they have been supplanted by the substantial truth of the encompassing city. You grip your jacket against your chest, wanting to ward away the most terrible of the hail until you arrive at your most memorable objective – the bus station. As you get off the transport, you see the sparkling light of Moroccan lamps sparkling. Each step hauls you endlessly further from your cherished Moroccan furnishings. In any case, you have made arrangements for this; the vision of your Mediterranean Moroccan rugs parlor will support you over the course of the day until you can get back to its inviting merriment.
The transport is moving close, and you keep thinking about whether you will experience the sullen transport driver today. Eagerly, you move on board and- – the morose driver welcomes you with a contemptuous grunt. However, you’re not even there. The transport has proactively transformed into the Mediterranean parlor, Moroccan lights are wherever sparkling their enchanted flare; the solid pail seats have been supplanted by the easy-going pad of your #1 stool, its refined smooth upholstery buffering you against the surges of an insensitive society. The noise of cells and the consistent moan of the city soften away as you recollect the tranquil comfort tracked down just in your own Moroccan furnishings.
This is your stop. A pressure driven moan goes with your jump from the transport steps, and you take to the walkway as though in a daze. Despite everything the dreams of Moroccan furnishings and the sparkling Moroccan lights enrapture your creative mind. Smoke from a close by ventilation pipe helps you to remember a steaming cup of mint tea. Furniture shop windows attempt to bait you from your fantasy with commitments of present day common luxuries, yet you stay unswayed. Underneath your feet, the concrete gives way to the provocative fractals of a Moroccan tile floor; the solidified substantial way shows up as the rich hand-made Berber cover that embellishes the floor of your Mediterranean parlor. Furthermore, inside the cold puddles, you can see the impression of an extravagantly enhanced Moroccan roof above you. In this world, you might stroll between the raindrops, solid by the neon lights that buzz critically above; and in their place, you see just the heartfelt shine of hand-fashioned Moroccan lamps.
You have at long last shown up at the workplace where you have arrived at endless trade offs before. The spinning entryway of the structure brings close to nothing to the table for you in contrast with the unpredictably engraved access to your Mediterranean parlor. In Morocco, the entryways are intended to invite visitors, alluring them with beauty and creativity. Yet, here- – in reality – the entryways appear to toss you out when they welcome you in. Your body might enter here, yet your brain will stay captivated with the extraordinary atmosphere of Moroccan stylistic layout. Associates welcome you with bowed heads and grave faces; and you understand that large numbers of them will carry on with their whole lives while never having seen the inconspicuous magnificence of Moroccan furnishings.