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leather shop called out to me after reading my tag.Within seconds my name, or a rough form of it, was on the lips of every shill and street hawker within the sound of his voice."We make deal for you, Ale mer."You get gently nudged into shops so heavily stocked with wares that there is barely room to sidestep your way back outside and into the waiting arms of the merchant from the adjoining store.There are literally stores on top of stores. Narrow stairways lead from one ground floor shop to upstairs lofts where a merchant may be selling the same line of wares in direct competition with the guy whose stairway led you to him.Alleys too narrow to have sidewalks are lined with stores so small that most of their goods are hung outside on hooks.Every available inch of floor space is covered with merchandise. There are things hanging from ceilings and walls off of doors and over countertops, stores where the layout of the tiny floor space tends to funnel you toward a place where someone with a calculator is waiting to bargain in the currency of your country.And language is no more of a barrier than a lack of small change.There are athletes and journalists here from 160 nations. Some can only converse in languages as obscure as Urdo and Xhosa.But merchants are able to point and gesture and speak just enough of something they can understand to keep them from going home empty handed. Most merchants speak some French and Japanese. You haven't heard anything until you've heard Spanish spoken with a Korean accent.And they all speak a little English. The street shills even practice American