This morning I awoke to fluffy white clouds dotting an otherwise pristine blue sky. Thinking of all the day had to offer, I turned over and promptly fell back to sleep. An hour or so later I awoke and begrudgingly shed my cocoon.

My refrigerator, normally stocked to capacity with fresh fruits and veggies, was barren. I knew this was coming. I’d just dispatched the last of my expired eggs the previous night, yet somehow I am always surprised when I’ve nothing to eat. There are a number of people I know who shun breakfast and opt instead for a hearty lunch. I am not among them. Typically I blame low blood sugar for my insatiable appetite. “Hypoglycemia” sounds so much better than “I’m hungry again.”

A trip to the store was in order. Walking to my closet I found my bike was missing. Stupid beer. Somewhere in the city of brotherly love was a cold, lonely bike wondering where its father was. This is why I don’t have children… that I know of.

After retrieving my bike I headed over to Reading Terminal Market. By American standards, this is an ancient institution. The Philadelphian’s equivalent of the Moroccan bazaar. Established in 1892, this market boasts a tumultuous history that, in many ways, marks the socio-economic pulse of our great city. Through it’s ups and downs, the market’s soul has endured. More than 80 merchants hock their goods in today’s Reading Terminal Market, some newcomers, and some with roots to the very beginning. It is a glorious place crammed with spice merchants and fishmongers, local produce and international cuisine. The only thing more varied than the purveyors of this cultural fair are the patrons.

Whether in search of fresh food, or just experiencing the landmark, these gastronomic explorers come in every incarnation man was made. Women in black burkas, escorted by full bearded members of the Nation of Islam, gently guide their children through the crowds of gum snapping college girls and elderly Asian men, all in pursuit of the same Jersey grown peaches. The magic of any great market is that it is, at once, impossible to ignore both our differences and common humanity. Lofty stuff for someone who still hadn’t eaten breakfast.

After enjoying a lamb shawarma from a Lebanese merchant, I took a stroll up to Market Street. As I turned the corner I saw a few African American men in bodyguard formation around a man with a microphone. He was preaching to all that walked past, though none seemed to pay the small group much attention. I took a look at one of their placards lying in front of them next to a large water cooler bottle turned upside down and filled with donations. The placard read “Tribes of Israel.” At that moment I heard the man preaching say that integration was wrong. Totally confused I stayed, listening to the man’s sermon. After ten minutes, I still could not place what religion he was, but I knew he wanted to “kill Dr. Martin Luther King’s dream” and he did not know what “Barack Obama would do for black people.” He went on to say that “Chinese people were dogs, white people were dogs, Indians were dogs” etc… I wanted so desperately to approach the group and ask for a card. I wanted to interview the men and see what made them hate with such ferocity, but I thought the chances of a “white dog” getting an interview was slim, and I was not in the mood for a public confrontation with people who openly hated me for my skin color. I just wanted to digest my lamb sandwich.

I turned the corner and headed back to the multiethnic market. The sound of country jamboree music filled the air and I decided to take a peek at what was happening in front of the market rather than heading in again. The street was partially closed for a makeshift petting zoo. The pens held miniature ponies, bunnies, a cow and a handsome horse. All were lovingly stroked and admired by children and parents alike. Bails of hay were lined up in front of the jamboree where a predominantly Amish audience clapped along to songs about Jesus. The father of an Islamic family gave a pat to a cow as his daughters pet a rabbit’s soft pelt. Spanish, English, and a variety of Asian languages filled the air. The hayrides, pulled by miniature ponies were filled with everyone’s smiling children.

What a difference. How sad that those men from Market Street didn’t mill around the outdoor fair for a while and see how well we all fit together. Still, I wonder what those men have seen that makes them feel so isolated from the rest of us. What makes them preach to a street of disinterested passers by trying to instill hatred and fear in the hearts of those they want to protect most of all? I still want to interview them, and hopefully I’ll find the right channel to approach them. I want to understand the anatomy of hatred. What causes it, allows it to fester and spread?

What I saw today is that a market, that is commerce in general, is the best method of destroying intolerance. The principle is simple, it is hard to hate someone who buys your Jersey grown peaches.