There is something truly satisfying being in a strange place, experiencing a locale that is out of the ordinary. This explains the popularity of travel, especially the type of travel engaged by world-minded optimistic people who hit forsaken lands in search of the native (primative) landscape, people, and cheap goods. We've all had the friend who having travelled to such exotic locales like England must reiterate how different everything is across the sea. "I can't believe they ate that kind of food. It was so foreign." And by foreign, she means alien, weird, gross, something to scoff at while drinking her Applebee margarita bowl with her friends. Before you think I'm being to high handed with ole Ramblin' Rose, just know that I do the same thing, and I still think french people are rude and their coffee is just so foreign.
However, this is not the point of this entry. There's a different type of tourism that happens, right here in your city, town, burb, or trailor park. We, as humans, are also tourists in our own habitats, especially for urbanites who have access to entirely different neighborhoods with varying degrees of socio-economic statuses (or is that stati?). For instance, take Baltimore: I live in Bolton Hill, 4 minutes north of downtown, and around my eclectic neighborhood's mix of art students, urban professionals, and government housing projectionists, we've got several different types of areas. Head west and you're entering the locales made famous in "Homicide" and "the Wire." Head east, and you're in historic rowhouses that are now law offices, Subways, and trendy chic storefronts. Head south, you've got MLK and then the start of the downtown ghetto. Head north, and eventually you'll get near Hampden (white blue collars), Charles Village (domain of Hopkins), Remington (crusty white blue collars), and those types of lands (ie mo' money). Now, I've only gone east to go to my post office, surrounded by an area that reminds me of some crapy commercial areas found in "Falling Down" Los Angelas. I don't drive through those areas with spiritual ease. In fact, its akin to a wild ride, something out of the ordinary, a jaunt into the hood.
Back during the Greensboro years, Vini and I got into my beat up car at midnight and drove through the "projects" of downtown Greensboro. We had the doors locked tight, windows up, giggling like boys breaking curfew as we bopped around, scoping for pimps, dealers, hustlers, and murderers, who just had to be around. Nothing. A trip of futility in our sightseeing adventure. We were touring a neighborhood, not a mile away from our college campus, hoping to spot some Boyz in the Hood scenes.
Likewise, another story: I drove through an area in Baltimore called Pigtown. An ethnic white neighborhood known for some positives and alot of negatives, namely organized crime and drug trade. My friends and I went to an illegal poker room in that part of town. As much as the poker seemed like fun, I was a bit more interested in viewing Pigtown, a land of seedy lore. Hearing stories of gangster and russian mafia, I expected to see the streets lined with Billies in their white trash muscle cars eyeballing police as well as dapper russian/polish gangsters with plump bellies and colorful monikers such as the Nose. Though not as seedy as my imagination desired, we were greeted by a bouncer at the door, who had to get confirmation that my buddy was alright to vouch for us to come in. The guy who ran the place was large and in charge, his smoker's cough and accent-tinged voice filled the room. His family made food for the hungry gamblers. The guys around the place had the nicknames. Quickly losing my money, I soaked up the atmosphere, marveling at this little slice of underground while at the same time knowing that I was gawking in the worst way, a snot nosed civilian looking around like he's just got off the Disney Monorail, snapping pictures for the folks at home. I wasn't of that place and so I was a merry tourist.
People tour old houses, museums, parks, and burnt out forts. They go by those so-called institutions, such as Baltimore's "Hon" (boring suck-face food) or Philly's Geno's (I guess its good, but then again, other than the bread, I could very, very, very, very easily make that sandwich at home). People head over to new houses of friends, to tour the digs. We drive past a nice neighborhood, or see a pretty house, and we tell our significant others that we think the stone facade is really rad. People also tour places that are bad, nasty, decrepid areas in their own town. Its because of two things: 1> genuine curiousity, especially anything deemed morally distasteful (ie pertaining to sex or violence, for case in point watch the crowds cluster for a murder victim in the west side of Baltimore) and, more importantly, 2> to remind ourselves that we are not there/from there, and allow us to compare our own lots in life. We see something we want, we envy. We want the nice shrubbery like that castle-
esque house on Elm. We want to have a place that makes
scrapple and waffles like this in our neighborhood (or better yet, we want to be the only person who knows about this particular hole in the wall breakfast joint, just for the satisfaction of introducing people to such an incredible place). We want...but at the same time, nothing makes you feel better than seeing other people's misery. This is not a new assumption or theory. Its old as dirt and still quite trendy.
We want to see the misery, the poverty, the primitive, the undeveloped (or nature), the destitute (or those who don't have enough money to spend it on booze, hookers, or cable), the
hopheads, the
crackfiends, and the single mothers carrying around their babies, asking to bum a smoke. We want it so that, deep in our little heart of hearts, we can feel good about ourselves, making our 35,000 annual, living in a nice apartment, with our x-boxes and trader
joes. We want to see the shit to know that we're floating on the surface, looking down.
So, here's the last part...instead of using your vacation time to go to some beach where you'll just be tired when you get back, use your time off to go out and see the slums, the poor
trailer parks, those cramp derelict apartments, those government projects named for longtime civil servants, and just let yourself be honest: it feels good to see those schmucks suffering a bit more than you. You're doing alright for yourself. Right on.
Then take a nap, eat some food, and voila, you've got the perfect vacation stories, "we went to the Stop, Shop, and Save, and all the food in there was processed. It was so cheap. It was amazing how foreign it all was. I totally bought a can of something called hominy for a souvenir."
This past weekend, from Saturday noon to Sunday morning 2am, six souls gathered in the basement of an academic building to watch 12 episodes of one of the great American television shows. "The Wire," season three, pizza, cold medication, and chalkboard diagrams came together to create a perfect environment to view the brilliant HBO series.
solved in the confines of a single episode; additionally, no case ever finishs up in the neat little bow that typifies network crime shows such as "Law and Order" or "CSI."
