Dreams of another place

In Saint Paul we stood in a walled city, admiring an old fortress turned art colny, streets of white stone pristine, restored, and far cleaner than they probably ever were, even when new. The shops of art and jewelry, lavender sachets, herbier de provence and t-shirt à la StPaul au americain reflecting the expected tourists (middle-aged yuppies, contradiction in terms?) rather than the history of the place. You see these touists, a balding man with an expensive smile, a pauch in his waist and a over-browned, over-made-up and under-satisfied (un-self-satified?) companion, perusing the art and jewelry, exclaiming over the quaint handmade whatchamacalit or the rustic somethingorother. Or else, perhaps not in St Paul but certainly elsewhere, flocks of Asian tourists like ducklings following their mother (and conveniently posing for portraits in front of particularly old or impressive buildings), grungy backpackers with bags dangling like an overloaded packhorse, groups of American teenagers, hungover and/or exclaiming loudly (all this stuff is, like, old or something. I totally saw this awesome shop back there, where you can buy like handmade stuff).

I try to pretend that I don't belong to them, or to any other hastily generalized group. I don't like speaking english when around such locals as exist, though it is obvious I am not from here, will never be from here, and in a place like St Paul, or Venice, or Breckenridge, there probably isn't anyone at all who is actually from there. I try to pretend like I belong, but to where, and to whom?

And what, may I so politely ask, is wrong with being a stranger? I know everyone hates tourists--and I incude myself in this--but is it so wrong to visit such places, to be someone on a trip who can still appreciate the small differences and local delights? To disparge the endless stream of tourists touring every church in Europe, those who do a kamikaze tour of fifteen european capitals in three weeks and those who fork over money to take the elevator up the Eiffel tower or visit the Mona Lisa is easy--yet what does one do, when one tours? What does it mean to be a tourist? To sit in taxis and airplains, trophy mugs and t-shirts like war booty piled in overstuffed suitcases, picking destiations based on Michelin ratings, film credits, or 'must sees' seems rediculous to me: the modern crusaders plundering an imagined history, collecting places visited like commemorative plates. Historical sites abound, and we go, and we look, and we don't understand: it is 'just another church' to us, differnt from the last but we don't know how, yet we do not understand all that this building has represented for its community nor the history and the violence it has withstood throughout the century. To us, a fortress on a hilltop surrounded by luxury villas does not represent a contradiction any more.

As we sat on the shore listening to the waves, enjoying the peculiar sound they make when receeding over pebbles, like fingers on a washboard, I realize the reason you go somewhere, anywhere, is to change the default set of activities. People are creature of habit, slaves sometimes to their routine, everything timed and measured and predictable. Hobbies as well are predictable, and there is a finite set of choices of things to do in a given environment. Travelling allows you to experience completely new things, of course, but adds activities like walking on the beach, exploring old buildings, or visiting a museum to the set list of possibilities, and removes the old standby of work *(hopefully). I do not have to visit every church because it is there, but the option exists for me. I do that which pleases me. It helps to be somewhere completely different when trying to find oneself.