Though the darkness of night makes most streets sleep, there are some places from which the light never leaves. One of these places is the International Marketplace at Waikiki. The masses come alive at dusk and illuminate the sidewalks with their overwhelming diversity. Singers, dancers, and even mimes line the street outside of the market with their authentic costumes; swarms of people at their feet.

The entrance to the Marketplace is across the street from the ocean waters, nestled between little shops and ice cream stores. Walking in, I see massive, old trees covered with vines, leading the eye skyward into their canopies. ABC stores stocked with cheap merchandise are a popular attraction, but the real bargains are in the center of the market.

Carts full of jewelry, clothes, hula dolls, and other miscellaneous trinkets are scattered about. It is not long before a vendor pleads for my business. I cannot pass the brightly-colored shell necklaces for my friends or some blue board shorts for my own wear. Cart after cart, store after store, it seems as if the marketplace never ends. It is easy to get lost in the masses of colorful hibiscus flower shirts that nearly everyone is wearing. Finally, after pushing and fighting through the crowd, I find a crossroads that takes me either right, toward the short, pushy ladies selling t-shirts, or left, past the popular henna tattoo stands to the food court.

The food court has an array of different foods; from simple snacks to exotic and very spicy foods of the east. My personal favorite is the Dole smoothie window. There are tables, but with all the other tourists cramming into every open space, I decide to walk with my food. After a round at the food court, I notice an alley lined with vendorsÕ carts packed tightly together that seems tempting. All eyes are on me as I walk down the narrow path.

ÒHow much you want to spend?Ó the ladies beg, attentively. The vendors fight intensely for my business, dragging me to look at their souvenirs. I learn that I must resist their wide, black-eyed stare and fast speech, unless an occasional buy seems attractive. My friend finds an intricate shell mobile: she brags that she bought it for a whopping two dollars.

When the carts start leading into the dark depths of the alley scattered with shadows of people, I know it is time to leave. It seems as if it is impossible to forge my way through the people. Then I see car lights shining from the streets and hope is renewed. I run to the sidewalk and out of the market, just in time to meet my friends. The performers continue their flawless acts and I am amused to see a girl clad in Hawaiian attire, playing a ukulele with her dad. When I escape the crowd, I look upward, and the stars seem endlessly bright, reflecting into the calm water. Flower-shirted tourists pass. Men with bright parrots on their shoulders beg to take pictures. Police patrol on motorcycles, and the waves of the ocean lap upon the sand. Each sight I witness tells a story.

After work last summer, I was driving aimlessly downtown when I noticed that my gas tank was almost empty. I turned around in a video rental storeÕs parking lot and drove to Maverick, the most commonly-used gas station in the small town of McCall, Idaho. I kept my CD player playing as I stepped out of my car and went through the same process I go through every time I fill my tank. My concentration stayed on my music since filling gas is always monotonously the same.

With a loud roar, an extremely large truck painted a bright red pulled up beside me. The driver, a cocky-looking man with a handlebar mustache and a Budweiser baseball cap, stared at me with a territorial expression and revved his engine. He stepped out of his car like a bull rider dismounting his steed. When his whole body came into view, I noticed he was wearing a white, grungy, Red Bull energy drink T-shirt that was tucked into a pair of Wrangler jeans complete with a nice shiny belt buckle with the words ÒRIGGINS RODEO Ó engraved on it. I decided that he was either confusing me with someone else, or he didnÕt like the music I was playing. When the gas pump stopped, I briskly walked off in the face of his menacing glare, and pulled open the door to Maverick.

I had just cashed my paycheck, so I decided to treat myself to something to eat and drink. Not pressed by any time schedule, I casually browsed through the nearest aisle towards the drinks. I looked over the same drinks that I see in every other gas station across America: Pepsi, Coca Cola, Mountain Dew, Sobe, Starbucks chilled mocha, and tried to decide what I wanted to drink. I was contemplating getting a chilled mocha or a strawberry-banana Sobe when I noticed in the reflection of the glass that someone was walking down the aisle behind me. I was curious to see who it would be, probably because in the back of my mind I was trying to avoid the angry-looking man from the truck outside.

As someone walked past me, I glanced up and was relieved to see a short old lady, probably in her late fifties, with wiry gray hair that stuck out in all directions. She looked crabby, and paid no attention to me. I kept pretending to stare at the drinks as she grabbed a twelve-pack of beer and made her way toward the counter. I watched her in the reflection as she asked for a pack of cigarettes, counting the money she had pulled out of her pocket. I couldnÕt quite hear the conversation but I could tell from watching their mouths that the employee was trying to be polite and conversational despite the crabby old ladyÕs poor mood and rude behavior. Beep! Beep! Beep!

The door sensor sounded, announcing the truck driver entree. I hastily grabbed the strawberry-banana Sobe without actually deciding whether it was what I really wanted, and made my way to the back of the store, avoiding eye contact with the Yosemite Sam character. As the ice cream station came into view, two middle schoolers looked at me guiltily, holding half-eaten ice cream cones. I smiled and turned to look at a rack of chips, allowing them to add ice cream onto their already half-eaten cones. Once they walked away, which they did quite quickly, I leisurely grabbed a hot dog and bun, carefully applying the correct amount of ketchup and mustard. As I did, another middle-aged lady approached, but this one looking much nicer and better-dressed than the gray-haired grump I had noticed earlier. She was wearing a black, knitted sweater over a colorful, collared shirt and white capri pants. She had a happy-looking little girl walking beside her, holding her hand. The mother made an ice cream cone affectionately and handed it to her daughter, who had large grin spread across her face. They walked towards the cash register, holding hands the whole time.

My mind began to wander as I watched the angry man impatiently wait behind the mother and daughter. I thought about each of these peopleÕs lives, and about what had brought them to Maverick. Most of the time, IÕm sure, theyÕre pumping gas and decide to get something in the station at the same time, just like I had. But I couldnÕt help wondering if perhaps some people come just to get what is in this convenience store. Like, maybe the grumpy old lady came just to buy some beer and cigarettes. Maybe the mother had brought her daughter in just to have some ice cream. I suddenly became aware that I had absent-mindedly poured too much ketchup onto my hot dog. I grabbed a napkin and tried to wipe some of the ketchup off into the garbage, cursing myself at the same time. I again put mustard on because there was hardly any left after removing the excess ketchup. Finally, I walked up to the cash register after making sure that Yosemite Sam had left, and set my food down on the counter to pay.

ÒDo you have gas?Ó The clerk asked as if she had asked the same question a thousand times that day. When she opened her mouth, I couldnÕt help but notice the huge gap between her front teeth. ÒYes,Ó I replied. ÒIÕm number two.Ó She quickly ran up the total and I gave her the money just as quickly. Vroom! Vroom! I heard the angry truck driver rev his engine outside and confidently speed off in his big shiny red truck. I was glad he was gone. The cashier handed me my change and gave a quick, meaningless, Òthank youÓ. She didnÕt care if I bought stuff or not. SheÕd just as soon have that the place stay as slow as possible. I grabbed my snack and headed toward the doors, listening to the BeepÕs sound as I passed through. As I opened the door, the smoke from a cigarette shot up my nose and I turned my head to see where it came from. A scraggly-looking man with curly hair sat with his knees pulled up on the bench just beside the door. He stared off into the sky with a very thoughtful expression on his face as he ritualistically raised his cigarette. He wore ripped green shorts, and a gray sweatshirt with the hood pulled up. I wondered why anyone would want to wear a hooded sweatshirt on a hot summer day. Maybe he was trying to hide his face. He was barefoot, but his sandals sat below the bench. I walked past him to my car, which was still playing music.

Taking one last look at the hooded man, I got into my car and started the engine. I sat there for a while, not really waiting for anything, but just looking at Maverick. A strange thought suddenly came into my mind and, for some reason, I had a desire to be one of their security cameras just watching the customers all day one day. At last, I slowly pulled out and flicked my turn signal right, to go waste some time somewhere else.