Ridiculous in the City

It’s easy to hate on tourists. It’s not only easy, it’s amusing, entertaining, a sociological study of absurd ridiculousness at its finest. Because at the core of this disdain is one scorching truth: tourists are irritating. They’re lost, they’re in the way, they’re wandering around taking pictures of everything in sight; crowding the streets, the trains, and just about every corner of the city as their dollar bills and high enthusiasm keep the “I love NY” t-shirt industry in business.

Evidenced by the fact that they are immediately wearing the newly purchased t-shirt.

Tourists come in all shapes and sizes; solo travelers, gangs of tour groups, families with so many factions they’re not even sure whether they are down a man until they get back to their hotel. They wear black socks and sandals, they have cameras that rival the finest paparazzi models strapped to their chests, they’re asking you for directions and yet, somehow, still not getting it. They want to find the “in” restaurant, the hip club, the Cronut; seek out Carrie’s house from Sex and the City, have a Manhattan in Manhattan, ride the subway—ah, the glamour and mystique of the subway—stopping just long enough to photograph every moment of their journey and plaster those precious moments on social media (#bigpimpinNYC). And now, thanks to the entrepreneurial determination of modern invention, they are equipped with selfie sticks, the ultimate tourist accessory.

But for as much annoyance as tourists bring they can also be easily avoided. Don’t go to the “Knockoff Riviera” (a.k.a., Canal Street), stay out of Times Square, hold yourself back from a pilgrimage to Strawberry Fields and try to squelch the urge to ascend the Empire State Building on the Friday before Fourth of July weekend. It’s not brain surgery, you know where the vast majority of the crowds are headed.

According to nycgo.com, New York City had roughly 54.3 million visitors in 2013 that spent an estimated $38.8 billion dollars. That’s revenue the city uses to improve itself for everyone’s benefit, residents and tourists alike. So maybe it's time to put that haterade on ice.

More adventurous tourists seek out The Highline, obsess over Eataly, go to The Met or walk across the Brooklyn Bridge. They will stop at nothing to have Chinatown’s best dumplings, hit Russ and Daughters for some "appetizing," achieve cool in Williamsburg’s most hipster Airbnb and get drunk in a former speakeasy that serves drinks in teacups. Even the most jaded of us can relate to at least one of those desires on some level.

In case you’re wondering, I’m in the speakeasy.

We can all relate because the reality is we are all tourists somewhere. As much as we hate on tourists running around desperate to inhale every New York City experience they can, we’ve all been there. At some point we were all that tourist at the Eiffel Tower, the Grand Canyon, St. Mark’s Square, the Great Wall, the Alamo, Avanos Hair Museum; trying our best to get the perfect shot—the picture—and freeze frame that memory for all time. Okay, you were a little chubby then and your hair was abysmal from the obscene humidity that day, but you were there and you totally rocked that town, the picture says it all.

And after your killer photo session you wanted to hit the streets, find the best “non touristy” restaurant, discover the greatest neighborhood boutique, stumble upon the underbelly of the local live music scene, immerse yourself in the would-be East Village of Bangkok or Bucharest or Buenos Aires or Belarus or Boise (yeah, blue Astro Turf). Hey, why the hell not? Have a Chicago dog, find the essential Philly cheesesteak, go to a real Hawaiian luau, be like Yanni and rock the Acropolis. It’s all possible. It’s your vacation, your chance to spend your hard earned money to live like the locals for a few days and see the sites. Go ahead, take it in, that's all the tourists infesting your town want to do.

We all know how much New Yorkers love an infestation.

And let’s not forget about our own humble tourist beginnings in our beloved New York City. Once upon a time you were that kid on your first sweaty visit to NYC being dragged around by your parents to every tourist attraction they could squeeze in before you hit the inevitable crabby, late afternoon wall and had to be revived with a hot pretzel and a smack in the face (sweet memories of youth). But how you remembered the energy of the city and longed to be in its clutches, making it there just like Frank and Carrie and the Donald. Now look at you, you’re all grown up and a bona fide New Yorker. Damn you look good.

So, the next time we nay say the tourists clogging the oversized pores of our beloved city, let us remember that we are all tourists, in travel and in life (and often in our own homes, our careers, the juice bar, spin class, the topless club in Tribeca you’ve never been to...). We’ve all been just as annoying to someone as they are to us, and someone has made just as many jokes at our expense as we have at theirs.

It’s that kind of quid pro-quo ridiculousness that makes the world go around.