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Stay Home! A Tirade Against Tourism
by Joan Z. Shore

The world’s population is exploding; the world itself is shrinking; and travel is becoming a nerve-wracking, back-breaking, soul-crushing ordeal.

So why is everyone on the road? Or in the air?

Why, when television, computers, iPhones and iPads are bringing the world into your living room, are you still booking flights to Paris and cruises to Cancun?

Why are you struggling to find the lowest fares, the chic-est hotels, the newest restaurants, the sunniest beaches when in the end you’re going to return home disappointed, exhausted and ready for another vacation?

Stop right there! You are never going to find the perfect vacation. Perfect vacations are a thing of the past: the Grand Tour of Europe, the Cooks Tour, the Roman Holiday…they have gone the way of the elegant French Line, when “getting there was half the fun.”

These days, unless you can pay your way or pry your way out of an Economy Class flight, you will be trundled into a kindergarten-size seat along with several hundred strangers, served a trayful of inedible muck and alternately chilled and roasted by the plane’s erratic ventilating system.

Or, on a ship as big as the Vatican, you will be lost among three thousand strangers who pass away the nautical hours eating, drinking and gambling. You might as well be home alone with a pizza, a bottle of Chianti and a deck of cards.

So far, I have been exploding the perennial myths about travel in light of present-day realities. Now, let me present the other side of the problem: the natives whose homeland is invaded by foreigners.

I am such a self-proclaimed native. Having lived in Paris for three decades, I consider it my rightful residence, my city, my home. Imagine, then, my utter despair when a caravan of tourist buses (half of them empty) navigates down a neighbourhood street. Inevitably, these mastodons end up at the Eiffel Tower, park there for a while, and then continue on their implacable rounds.

But of course at some point they disgorge their passengers, and these hapless creatures wander around the streets, map in one hand and camera in the other. Sometimes they have the temerity to ask someone for directions—and what a relief if I am the English-speaking native they happen to ask! I have helped Russians, Hungarians, Japanese, Finns and countless others whose English is just adequate enough to say, “Excuse me, please…?” and the finger points to a spot on the map.

There are other tourists, of course, who return regularly to Paris and who are more savvy: the fashion crowd, for example, who come for the Collections. They book the best restaurants for dinner, hire private limousines and take over the town like imperial warlords. I resent their presence, too, because they are appropriating my city and turning it into their private playground!

Listen, folks, Paris is not a playground. Nor is it a quaint leftover from your history books. It is a place where you can write, paint, philosophize, dream, stroll, eat, drink or simply lose yourself. If you wake up early, it’s sunrise on the Seine; if you get lucky, it’s love in the afternoon. I’m sorry, but your presence here in droves distracts me, distresses me, drives me fou.

And I remind you—you had a rotten trip over here, your hotel is a dump, the prices are outrageous, and you couldn’t get through the crowds at the Louvre.

Stay home! You can see the Mona Lisa on the Internet.

Meat Sweats
by Marcus Slease

Last January I slept with two pairs of socks. The snow really came down. There are always wild dogs howling in the nearby forest. I was attacked by six of them on my first day here. Two of them were Anatolian shepherds. Of the ancient clans used for hunting wolves. I was listening to a Zen lecture on my iPod when they attacked. I thought by remaining serene and calm they would leave me alone but that only seemed to egg them on. I turned my back on them and walked across the road. That’s when they attacked. One of them jumped up out of the blue and sunk its teeth into my thigh. My calmness during the attack did not stop the attack. It happened regardless. A policeman came by on his motorcycle. I am not sure what would have happened otherwise. I was taken to a clinic even though I insisted I had my class to teach. I think I was in shock, but I thought I was being stoic. The clinic didn’t have any rabies injections so I took a taxi to a public hospital. The public hospitals were swarming with people. Like lost bees. This was a different part of the city. The women were mostly covered and the men were mostly old. The signs were not in English and it was a real labyrinth inside. A few weeks later I got a Facebook message that my grandfather had died. I grew up with my grandfather. His father was a gardener and he was a gardener too. Tending the rich Anglo-Irish gardens. My grandfather clipped his hedges, grew roses, and kept budgies. When I visited him in Northern Ireland, he was always watching some gardening show or other. One night when my grandmother had retired to bed, he confessed to watching Baywatch and wanted to know if women in America really looked like that. I couldn’t make it to his funeral. After I got the news, I went into the small room. The one with the narrow bed and no clothes in the wardrobe. One of the perks of teaching at university was an almost-free, two-bedroom flat. Furnished to Western standards. Which meant that the smell was bearable, the plumbing mostly worked and we were walled off from the rest of the city on a hill. I sat in the room with only a bed and tried to listen to the silence. I thought I was being spiritual and brave. There was no use in causing a ruckus. Just take things as they come. I was getting severe sweats. I thought it might have been bad meat. Later someone told me it was the vegetables. One advised me to wash them in vinegar. Washing them in treated water wasn’t enough. The natives are born with some kind of bacteria in their intestines and are immune. The Western teachers were always having stomach problems. A few days later Bedia brought me a Turkish rug. It wasn’t an expensive one. It was the kind you see hanging on walls near the castle where you had to haggle. I didn’t care if it was expensive or not. It added a nice touch to the place. Bedia held my hand in the kitchen and showed me how to make Turkish tea. There is one big kettle and one small one. One sits on top of the other. The big one is filled with water. The little one is warmed by the big one and has the black tea. The big one boils the water and the boiling water is poured into the little one. You have to wait fifteen minutes or so for it to brew. We drank it in little glass cups without the sugar. Bedia also helps the man across the street with his street stall. They make toasties together. When REAL shopping is closed I grab sandwiches from the stall. I had to visit three hospitals in the city to find the one that gave rabies injections. Four doses over the course of a month. I have to take a bus into the city. There are no trains. Everyone takes a bus. The buses, or rather the coaches, are luxurious. Like a small aircraft. A man or woman walks up and down and gives you drinks and small packages of fıstık. There is a television screen in front of you, pinned to the back of the person’s chair in front. At the front of the buses they are usually streaming ads about marriages. The faces of eligible bachelors from all over Turkey blink on and off on the big screen.