Letter to my children: On Being a Tourist

Dearest Beloveds,

As you both know, I grew up in a city. I walked to school crossing concrete sidewalks. The orange glow of the streetlights on my bedroom ceiling at night lulled me to sleep along with the clattering engine of the 96 bus. Every Saturday morning Baba, Tia, and I would walk to the Eastern Market to buy eggs, drop off Baba’s dry cleaning, and, once I was old enough to notice, to gawk over the artisan vendors. 

Commerce was all around me. From sneaking to Sam’s Market for Now and Laters (25 cents for a 12 pack) on the way home from school, to going to the Ice Cream Parlor with Meme for rainbow sherbet, to not losing my bus money - the exchange of cash money for goods and services was my pond. 

Country living involves much less in your face commerce. Boxes arrive to our doorstep from mysterious places “Momma, what is eBay?”

A few years ago, Bean, you put together the connection between mail packages and new goods entering the house. “Can I open it? PLEEASE? Well, then you must to tell me what it is in the morning. Yes, as long as it isn’t a present. Pinky promise.”

Aside from a steady trickle of packages (I write that and cringe - because the trickle is indeed steady. Sometimes it is even a deluge.) commerce does not exist on our homestead.

This is deliberate on our part. Plant catalogs are kept to savor. Clothing, plastic doodads, furniture, jewelry are pitched - that is, if I can do it before they are pulled from the recycling pile. 

“Momma, I WANT this catalogue.”

“Bean, you don’t need any new clothing. We can’t even keep track of the clothing you have.”

“Just to look, please?”

“You promise you won’t ask me for anything?”

“I promise.”

“Bean, there is enough clothing now in the world for no one to purchase anything new for maybe, who knows, 30 years. We could use up all that we have, patch that which tears, and give the earth a break from cotton farming and sweatshop labor. Having to wear the latest fashion is an addiction and it’s poisoning the planet.”

“Okay, can I have the catalogue?”

Then you decide to visit a different part of the world - to be a tourist.

We left in the soft velvet dark to catch our flights. Stars pierced the ink. Rustling leaves beckoned our sleepy excited bodies into the car.

Then commerce hits you like a wave, a roiling relentless maw of addiction and desire, of “not enough” and “wants”. Thankfully it was too early for the shopping malls that are airports to entice.

But that didn’t stop the video screens on the back of our seats.

“Momma, what is this?”

“That is a picture of San Francisco, specifically, the Golden Gate Bridge.”

“Why is it on my screen?”

“Because the airline wants you to fly and go to that place. They are advertising themselves, by showing you a beautiful part of the world to visit.”

Then you arrive to the thriving metropolis, or two, where all around is commerce.*

Stores that sell Victorian paper houses and dolls. Stores that sell handmade wooden puppets. Stores that sell brightly colored water bottles that match the cutting boards that match the aprons. Stores that sell cute yellow sweaters that go with the gray trousers. Stores that sell rainbow colored mens formal shoes handmade out of horse leather. Stores that sell large plastic orange chains to keep your glasses around your neck.

Children, I grew up thinking that being surrounded by storefronts selling stuff we don’t need was normal. I didn’t think about the constant drag on my attention of this advertising. I now find it an affront - a steady drip of relentless asking and evidence of our societal waste.

So, we went to castles, playgrounds, and carousels. We choose to be tourists who ate our commerce. We visited stores that sold nameless blue cheese made from goat and cow milk from the farm down the road. Stores that sold croissants and macarons and eclairs and palmiers. Stores that sold meat pies made by the brother of the owner from their meat grown on their farm.

We walked and admired buildings and walked some more. We found the swings by the Seine. The trampolines in the Tuileries. The merry-go-round in the Parc Monceau. We fed pigeons stale baguettes. We ate fried halloumi in front of the Tower. We visited mummies and the Rosetta Stone. We learned about Henry VIII having cups made out of spun sugar and enrobed in gold leaf.

A different era of commerce.

*You also have conversations like this:

“Momma, why are the buildings so tall?”

“Well Bean, a lot of people need to live on a small piece of land. That is what cities are.”