A GUEST POST BY GRANT TOLLEY
If you missed Part One, it is here!
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| See? Almost invisible. |
These hapless souls are the ones standing on a corner peering at the street signs, while wrestling with an indecipherable, gigantic map that is desperately trying to be a kite.
The same ones you will see, two hours later, on another corner a block away, with the same map.
In the same wind.
And the same helpless, confused look on their faces.
“Harriet, I know we've been here before. I remember this bakery.”
“Are you sure, Harry? I don’t remember a bakery. I don’t recognize anything!”
Harry then squints at the street sign.
Harry then turns the map upside down.
And peers at the street sign again.
And at the bakery again.
“Just give me a minute. I’ll figure this out. What street is our hotel on again??”
“Look, honey, your favorite perfume. L’Air du Temps. Look at the price! It’s really cheap here.”
And suddenly a helpful, friendly third voice joins the conversation. It is the Know-it-All tourist standing next to you who jumps in to show off his or her supposed knowledge about the country you are visiting.
Or anything else.
“Oh, yes! It’s because Greece is part of the European Union now, and they can get things from other countries in Europe really cheap. That’s a marvellous French perfume. L’Air du Temps. That means Birds in Flight, you know. I’ve been to France three times now . . . . . ”
“Take this back! This is . . . this is disgusting.”
The Obnoxious Tourist is rejecting his meal in a four-star restaurant.
As loudly as he can. For the whole restaurant to hear.
“But sir,” objects the server in her faltering English, “eet is zackly what you order.”
“I didn’t order no #@&% rabbit-food crap like this!”
“Sir? Did you not order the horiatiki?”
“No, @#$%&*. I ordered the @#$&% Greek salad!”
“But sir, that is what horiatiki means. Greek salad.”
“Well, %$#*& it, why didn’t you tell me there were $%#$ black olives in it! I hate olives! They don’t make Greek salad like this back home. Why don’t you @#$%& foreigners learn how to make it right!”
There are several sub-species in this category as well.
First is the Intellectually Insensitive Tourist, (as in just plain stupid).
“Sir? Sir! Sir, please don’t touch . . . Sir, please don’t climb on the statue! Sir! Sir!? . . . . Security!!”
Next is the Socially Insensitive Tourist.
“Sir, this is a no-smoking area . . . .No, sir, that rule applies to everyone, not just to Greeks.”
And, there is always the Culturally Insensitive Tourist.
“Excuse me, sir, like the sign says, photography is not allowed in the Church . . . . well, sir, because it is a sacred place, sir . . . . well, maybe not to you, but it is to the local people, and out of respect . . . . How would you feel . . . . Oh, I see, well . . . er . . . Churches are places where millions of people go to worship . . . . “
The Invisible Tourist
Alas, I must confess, we fall into this category.
We try hard to blend in.
Not to be Loud.
Or Insensitive.
Or Obnoxious.
Or Anglocentric.
We try desperately to learn a few phrases of the local language, and practice them rigorously.
We eat the local food.
And pretend hard that we omnivores really enjoy boiled octopus and eggplant mush.
We take the bus. And the subway. We refuse to be seen emerging from a taxi.
We are invisible.
At least, we would like to believe no one can tell that we are that most abominable of creatures, tourists.
But still, people know.
Somehow, they know.
They speak to us first in English.
How could they tell?
Maybe it’s the lobster-red, sunburned noses.
Maybe it’s the broad-brimmed sun hats we wear, out of mercy for our noses.
The ones in which no self-respecting Greek would be caught dead.
I think I get it now.
Maybe it’s the small Canadian flag.
Embroidered on our shirts.
And the flag pins on our hats.
And the ten-pound camera hung unobtrusively around our necks.
And the brilliant whiteness of winter legs sticking out of really scary Bermuda shorts . . .
Maybe we're not so invisible after all . . .
