I have never thought of myself as being 'strange' ... 'weird,' yes ... 'strange,' no. In my family, weird was an appellation to be cherished, signifying uniqueness, out of the norm. It was a 'good' thing to be weird.
In India, with Bill's white hair and pinky-white skin, and with my red-blond hair and green eyes, we have been accosted several times to have our picture taken with some locals. After one of those experiences, our guide told us that the guys (and they are usually young men who want their picture taken alongside us) who asked for a picture were from the country and had never seen a white person before.
This happened several times, then in front of the Victoria Memorial in Kolkatta, a man holding his daughter's hand laughed and came up to us saying, "My daughter has never seen white people before, and she wanted to know what you were." Which seemed funny to us, so we shook her hand and asked her name, all of which was translated by her father. It was a touching little encounter. I could see Hayleigh (my 5 year-old granddaughter) being as curious.
It is a strange phenomenon to be stared at, first with what looks like curiosity and/or suspicion, and how it all melts away with a smile and connection - ah, yes, underneath the external differences, we are truly all one.
There is the other side - being recognized as a 'mark' - no connection, no smiles, only the persistent intent to get what they can from the rich foreigners. The difference between the two perceptions is stark - another of those wide-set polarities that exist side-by-side here; or maybe it's just more obvious here.
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