A few months ago I went to Istanbul for a vacation, where I visited Istanbul’s most famous tourist trap — the Grand Bazaar. This huge market was amazing. Not because of the number of shops — 2,432. Not because of its storied history — 493-years-old. And not because I found a fantastic Turkish rug.

This place was amazing because it was there that I finally understood the “Tourist Syndrome”.

Here’s how it works:

You’re in a foreign country and feel a compelling need for something — something you haven’t been able to find back home. So you consult your trusty guidebook and make your way to the recommended shopping district.

You start walking around, but because you don't want to be seen as a tourist — raising the odds of shop owners raising their prices — you make a few adjustments. You remove the camera from your neck. You wear a local scarf. You change the way you walk.

The merchants, however, know exactly what you’re doing. They’ve been waiting for you since the days of Suleiman the Magnificent.

They see your act. You see them seeing your act. They see you seeing them seeing your act. And so on, ad infinitum.

You self-consciously quicken your pace. Your need to find “a good deal” is now being replaced by your need to protect yourself from being fooled, short-changed, tricked, bamboozled, hustled, or otherwise taken advantage of.

You keep walking, passing several shops you secretly want to explore. The merchants smile at you and attempt to break the ice with friendly comments.

This goes on for quite a while until, exhausted by your own cleverness and wanting to actually buy something, you take a deep breath and enter the nearest shop. Well, you don’t quite enter. You’re standing on the periphery peering in, arms folded. If this was the solar system, you’d be somewhere near Pluto.

Sound familiar?

From what I can tell, this little game has played itself out for centuries — and not just in Istanbul’s Grand Bazaar. It has played itself out whenever someone hears about the possibility of peace, shown by a real teacher.

It begins as most things do, with the recognition of a need. No matter how great your life, or how accomplished you are, or how many exotic places you’ve been, you’re aware of something missing — a hole in the bucket, or no bucket at all. Then you hear about someone who, supposedly, has just what you need.

So you get curious. You locate his address, leave home, find your way through unfamiliar streets, and finally make it to his shop.

The first thing you see when you arrive are people going in and out. They‘re smiling. They seem to be content. They look like they’ve all netted a really good deal.

You stand and watch for a while. But then the Tourist Syndrome kicks in. You start feeling nervous. You have butterflies in your tummy. Doubt fills your mind. And way too many thoughts. Afraid you’re about to fall prey to the Master Merchant, you do nothing. You just stand there, wondering how much you really know about this man.

It’s clear all the other people exiting his shop seem satisfied, but maybe, you think, they’ve been fooled.

Someone dressed like you leaves the shop, carrying a beautiful rug. You ask how much they paid. “It’s free,” they say. “No charge.”

Now you’re completely confused.

“Free?” you think. “What’s the catch?”

An old woman enters the shop and leaves a few minutes later, laughing to herself. A young married couple comes and goes. A hippie with a backpack shows up. Then a government official; a toothless man smoking a pipe. They’re all smiling.

You just stand there, telling yourself this isn’t the only shop in town.

You don’t see the shop owner approaching. “Can I help you?” he asks.

The tourist in you wants to leave. But something keeps you there.

You’re not sure what it is. The sound of his voice? The happy people leaving his shop? The fact that all his rugs are beautiful — and free?

Illustration by Sara Shaffer.