The Market Place

I can feel the eyes of the people on the street burning through me. What is it about us that gives us away? The blond hair? Ponytails? White sneakers? There is nothing we can do... We seem to move at a difference pace. Fourteen of us stampeding through their streets. We were lost.. they could tell.. wandering, pretending to blend in, to know our way. Walking fast, talking loud, we are the interrupters. Barging into the market on a mission. We will experience this"Go" "Observe" We split into groups searching. Immediately we are treated like outsiders. "Hello, New York?" they shout as us when we pass. Is it kind of them to greet us in our language. Or should I be offended we stick out like a sore thumb. Derek wants a jacket. 60 euro the man says. Derek will pay 30. The man is not willing to barter with us. People all around are getting lower prices. His things have no price tags. Why? To rip off the obnoxious tourists? The man ends up bringing the price down. 55 euro. Where are the savings? We have already spent so much time at the stall we have probably earned the 5 euro ourselves. Derek feels triumphant. 5 euro. But is it a win? No, he was still taken advantage of. Another boy bought a jacket last week, from a real shop for 30 euro. But a man with a stand at a Market can charge 55? Thats not right. I feel offended. We always worry about treating these people different. The immigrants, the outsiders. But here they take advantage of us. Because we are the immigrants and the outsiders. Is it fair for them to treat us differently when we are here to learn and grow to be more accepting. No we are all hypocrites.