Tourism: It's Happening.

Fat tourists go home. Venice, Italy

Fat tourists go home. Venice, Italy

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.

I love you, EV.

Yesterday’s blaze in the East Village left an entire corner decimated, numerous people injured, several missing, and businesses and apartments destroyed in a scene that was exceedingly scary to witness. Scary because any disaster that fills the skies over downtown New York City with thick black smoke conjures images of another horrific day, and scary because it took a while to understand the full extent of what was happening. People walking around, confused looks on their faces, breathing in the hazy, ashy air as it filled the cavernous blocks that stretch uptown; straining their necks to see downtown and up, the smoke blurring out anything in view more than two blocks away.

The Empire State Building, which is somehow always with us, was no longer visible to the north. Freedom Tower, which rose from the ashes of the greatest tragedy NYC has ever seen to literally tower over downtown, obscured by the smoke which has washed everything in a dingy gray, the color of smoked cigarettes butts floating in water.

Closer to the blaze, the result of an explosion caused by work to a gas main, people stood in droves, inching their way as close as they could get towards the blocks that neighbor 2nd Avenue and East 7th Street. The police had the area on lockdown, trying to prevent unnecessary bystanders from entering. What seemed like hundreds of fire trucks filled the streets. 

FDNY kicking ass.

FDNY kicking ass.

You could see multiple ladders of firemen high above the blaze, aiming their hoses at the inferno. The FDNY was indeed all over it, as they have been so many times before and will be so many times again. People stared up, covering their mouths in shock, some cried, some leaned against buildings like they couldn’t stand on their own. Sirens whaled continually in the distance as if on a timer. Phones were thrust into the air, the effort to snap the perfect picture of the blaze in full swing. Surgical masks began popping up on passersby. It was a now a situation. 

In front of me, a man was explaining what happened to two younger guys in blazers and backpacks, conspiracy theory already in action. “A man went into the bathroom of the sushi place. A few seconds later he ran out. The explosion happened literally two minutes later… I saw the lady from the sushi place trying to tell someone on the street, but the cops snatched her up quick. They don’t want that out, don’t want her talking to anybody.” God love the East Village.

Yes, it was scary to see the raging fire, scary to see the destruction, scary to be reminded of disasters past, and have a window on those yet to come. It was scary to think about the people who had lost their homes, their businesses and worse, possibly their lives. It was sad to see neighborhood landmark, Pommes Frites, reduced to rubble. But the scariest part was watching the devastation happening to my beloved East Village.

The minute I understood what was going on and where it was going down, I felt a pang in my stomach. I was worried, uneasy, saddened by the loss that had not yet fully occurred. Just knowing the East Village was being threatened was an affront. I love the East Village like I love my parents, my first love, Depeche Mode, my childhood dogs—deep in my bones. My whole self: mind, body, pores, ridiculousness is at total peace in the East Village. There’s something about the feel of it. The air changes in the slightest way as you cross Astor place or slip below 14th Street. It feels good, like you’re breathing in relaxed positivity and exhaling your best self, a self who just happens to be exceedingly awesome and absurdly at home in their own skin.

The energy of the East Village, the Easy Village, the EV, the 10003, is alive. Alive in a comfortable, laid back way that is electric and energizing, but not in your face or irritating. Tompkins Square Park, St. Marks, Avenue B, the little community gardens, Odessa Café, it’s a place where life feels hyper tangible, where you can observe anything and anyone at anytime on a given day. Fifteen minutes on a bench in Tompkins Square will change your outlook and maybe your life. Beware the sketchy dog run though. 

When people say, “I hate New York,” I say go to the East Village on a Tuesday afternoon and wander around, that’s New York, not fucking Midtown.

New York City is a place where freedom and individuality underscore so much of daily life, but nowhere is that more evident than the East Village. Little kids, groups of old men, musicians, newbie New Yorkers, seasoned EV lifers, all of them make up the neighborhood; a place rich in history and culture and “cool” street cred (hey man, it’s the truth). 

I wax ridiculously poetic on the East Village because it’s where I began my New York story. Luck or the gods, or just the spin of the Craigslist wheel, landed me in my first place off of Avenue B. It was a shit hole, but it was my shit hole, the greatest NYC shit hole ever in my ridiculous mind. And that’s where my obsessive affection began. I knew no one, had no idea what life might become, but I had the East Village and together we made our way. Many years and many East Village apartments later, I remember every inch of it, burned into my brain and the well-worn soles of my less-than-desirable early NYC walking shoes.

I hope I’ll always have the East Village. I can promise the East Village it will always have me. Perhaps that’s why yesterday’s events struck me with such a sad tone. The East Village is my touchstone, the place I always know will bring me back to myself, my self. It feels like home and heaven, and a $4.99 all you can eat prime rib buffet with horseradish sauce. In short, it’s paradise. But yesterday reminded me that nothing is forever, not even my beloved East Village, though it will surely outlive my ridiculousness.

Ridiculous in the City was born in the East Village. One fateful night I saw a toilet bowl someone had placed underneath a “dead end” sign on 13th Street and Avenue B and I knew the EV and I were soul mates, true soul mates. And so, today I pledge to keep the East Village at the forefront of Ridiculous in the City. An occasional love poem, nostalgic photo montages, the possibilities are limitless, just like the EV’s own special brand of ridiculousness. I owe that to the East Village and my love and I are up to the task. Ridiculousness lives everywhere in this city, but we can never forget where we came from.

I love you, EV.

Well, now you’ve stepped in it.

Two nights ago I stood hailing a cab. I was running late, cursing the obscene wind chill as it attacked my face like it was a frozen ham. I’d been standing there for nineteen minutes. If I don’t get this cab, I thought, I’ll die out here—when I’m cold, everything is all very Dr. Zhivago. As if from my brain to god’s ears, the driver swerved to the curb in front of me and stopped. I had won. I had gotten a cab. Warmth, mobility and reasonably safe, chauffeured service to my destination would be mine.

I kill.

The driver was nice enough. He made good time and we had some above adequate small talk. I threw in a disparaging comment about Taxi TV for good measure. It was dark out, making it hard to see anything inside the backseat of the cab’s black interior. I was strapped in my seat, but my feet slid around in the residual moisture that the weather seemed to have left on every floor surface in the city.

Reaching my destination, I paid the man, opened the door and stepped out. As I turned back to shut the door, I noticed mud smeared all over the floorboard underneath the seat I’d been sitting in. “Great,” I said, eyeing my shoes which were now caked in it.

I did the moonwalk and a spastic grapevine move for a few minutes, trying to coax as much mud off of the shoes as I could, but I was only pushing it farther into the leather body of the shoe. I picked up a piece of discarded paper (“trash” is so five non-eco friendly minutes ago) on the sidewalk and bent down to wipe some of the mud off of my feet. There was a lot more than I realized.

My shoes were covered in brown, looking like upside-down, chocolate frosted cupcakes. Bottoms, sides, toes, there was mud everywhere, and in the few steps I’d taken, it had transferred itself onto the hems of my jeans, making for what I prefer to think one could interpret as a very chic, brown ombre effect—if one was on crack. Using the discarded paper as a shield, I scooped a big chunk of it off of the sole of my left shoe. I was going to need a lot more discarded paper.

I glanced down at my watch. Wait… what was that smell?

I took a long sniff. Ugh. What was that? Moving closer down to get a better look at my stinky predicament*, something definitely smelled horrid. At this point it wouldn’t have taken a rocket scientist to figure it out, but I sure could have used one, along with a rocket to blast me out of those goddamn shoes. It wasn’t mud as I had naively assumed, it was shit.

It was literally shit. Poop that had been lying in wait for me in the back of the cab, the cab that had “saved” me from the harsh environs of fourteen minutes ago. Now what was harsh?

It’s when the answer is staring you in the face that it’s the most ridiculous.

Seriously? What the hell was I going to do? I stood there, feet caked in shit, well over fifteen minutes late to my destination, no way to remedy my huge problem and the smell—the smell was horrendous.

What could I do? I couldn’t go home, there was no time. I didn’t have spare shoes in my bag. I had no viable options. None. It was shit. I was pooped. Turd City Motel, single room please.

I stood there for a few moments thinking (read: marinating in shit), scraping my feet on the sidewalk a few more times, but it was no use. I had to get moving. There was bound to be a bathroom inside. I could get creative with some paper towels. Or something.

And so I appeared. From the ankle up, I was my usual, shining self (shining has many forms). From the ankle down, I was stench walking. Luckily, the place was dimly lit and reasonably packed, all the better to hide my stinky look. Seeing my party, I approached, waving hello in the hopes of warding off a round of hug and kiss hellos—which I am always trying to escape. My plan was to order a drink and head to the bathroom. Nothing like drinking alone in the toilet.

The plan was going well until about five minutes in. I was mid-order when I heard, “Something stinks.” This prompted a chorus of deep inhales, the result of which was a series of facial expressions I hope never to see again. Suddenly, they were looking at me, the recent arrival, the likely genesis of said stank.

The time had come. I had to say something, own up to being the stinker. “I got dog shit on my shoes,” I muttered like I’d never muttered before.

The next set of reactions came in waves of slow motion, as if I had just revealed a horrendous facelift, an ugly baby, a tattoo from a toxic relationship that everyone knew was already over; only it was worse, worse than an ugly baby with a bad facelift and a flaming heart tattoo, because they were also totally grossed out. And I was grossed out.

I looked down at my shoes. They were so unhappy. I was right, they were cupcakes. They were sad, once-frosted cupcakes that had been brutally knocked off a festive dessert party tray. Now, no one would want them. No one ever wanted an unfrosted cupcake.

And then someone said, “If it was even a dog. I mean, who knows?” Oh, god.

Collecting my drink and what was left of my pride, which was not much, I waddled to the bathroom. Smaller steps seemed wise.

Stepping in shit is never good. Typically, it’s a rare event (don’t even), not unlike the perils of stepping in gum or having a bird take a fly-by crap on you—I know, that’s “good luck.” Well, Jesus, I’m due. But stepping in poop carries with it the added bonus of a smell you just can’t shake, no matter what you try to MacGyver in the bathroom of a public place with a wad of damp paper towels. And being blindsided by it in the back of one of my beloved New York City cabs, not even having a chance to see it on the street and avoid it, that’s what really stunk.

Now I was the sad, unfrosted cupcake who had been brutally knocked off of a festive dessert party tray.

*Add another one to my list of potential band names.