MBA Admissions Essays - The Art of Business :: MBA College Admissions Essays

MBA Admissions Essays - The Art of Business   We stroll by dint of a marketplace in Beer-Sheva, inhaling a conglomeration of smells and sounds that feel as though they are part of a different century. My grow and I enter a small stand. A little woman sits in the corner scanning her livelihood like a hawk monitor her nest. She promotes her wares not for a quarterly report but to feed and fit out her family. My become picks up a small wooden camel and calls out in our native tongue, How much? Fifty Shekel, she responds. Her reply is automatic. This is what she does all day, every day.   My father eyes her directly. He doesnt flinch. Ill give you ten. He remembers the game as if hed been vie it daily since he left his homeland. She opens high and he counters low, each unrivaled hoping the some other will give in first. I observe, taking psychological notes.   She replies with conviction, Its handmade, I cant go lower than forty. We all know the camel was made in a l ocal factory, but he doesnt contradict her. To call her credibility into question at this stage could ruin the transaction.   I only feel twenty, fires my dad, as if he had rehearsed his line. I glance at his back max bulging with Israeli currency but dont let on, for shes searching my submit for a sign of weakness. Im beginning to see what the game is all about.   I cannot sell for less than forty, she retorts. My father squeezes my hand subtly and I bar on to his paw. We slowly start to leave the stall.   So be it, he voices over his shoulder with an air of studied ease. We continue out of the nerveless shadows toward the fascinating frenzy of the exotic streets.   Just as our sandaled feet soupcon the dirt road and we are about to rejoin the crowd, we hear a shriek. Wait Give me thirty. My father winks at me, turns nonchalantly, and swaggers toward the woman. I quickly take out thirty Shekel out of my pocket and thrust them into his hand, so the woman wont snap off the treasures buried in his pocket. I smile at my quick thinking. My father plays it straight, as if I were supposed to hand him the money.   He works his dense fingers around a five-shekel piece and with a magicians sleight-of-hand, swiftly transfers the coin to his other palm.