A haze hangs low over the kasbah, thick with the scent of/and/from burning trash. It clings to your clothes, your hair/the walls/your throat, a gritty reminder of Tangier's underbelly/soul/heart. Here, in this neglected/vibrant/pulsing corner of the city, you'll find SPAMS - tiny/shadowy/obscure cafes that thrive/exist/survive on strong coffee and