England, England Syndrome or The Future of History

I emerged from the darkness. It stood before me, a tower of stone and concrete, a most elegant example of mankind’s eternal attempt to capture the intangible.
And all I could think was, “This is Big Ben?”
That Clock of all clocks, one of the most recognizable European monuments for any American, became for me a symbol of disenchantment. As I stood there on my first trip to England, the murky sky set the backdrop for a lesson that would only be repeated as my travels continued. The London Bridge (I recommend visiting Tower Bridge instead, a sort of willful self-deceit), the Eiffel Tower, the Arc d’Triomphe, the Parthenon…as the list grew, so did my feeling of betrayal. Every one of these monuments was not only smaller than I’d thought-each was surrounded by a thicket of tourists milling in a linguistic cesspool. Enjoyment was near impossible.
It wasn’t until I extracted myself from my prejudices (and the sweaty crowd of photographing oglers) that I was able to make some sense of the situation.

In his book, England, England, Julian Barnes creates an island off the coast of England that is filled by an entrepreneur (picture an adventurous Six Flags CEO meets Bill Clinton ) with miniature replicas of England’s most popular sights. This ridiculous miniature Disney island ends up a complete success, answering a need never before served by majestic monuments: the experience of convenience.
When you think about it, tourism isn’t as much about seeing these ancient wonders. How different is your life after a glimpse of an old clock, or a moldy church? For most, the answer is not very. No, like so much else these days, tourism is about ourselves. How seeing Monument X will make us feel smart, cultured, or exotic (take your pick). This is what is capitalized on in the satire of Barnes’ novel.
These “attractions” are the realest manifestations humans have of years gone by. We are literally taking our history and turning it into a spectacle. By turning it into a money-making endeavor, humans cheapen their own roots.

It was then I realized that perhaps the problem was mine. These temples, clocks, and bridges never proclaimed themselves to be anything more than what they are…ancient constructions of humans that, at one time, served a real purpose. They did not ask to be photographed. They did not ask to be printed on woven cotton and worn over potbellies with Bermuda shorts. No, they merely exist. It is we who impose upon them this extra responsibility. Imagine a world in which it wouldn’t be so. It’s hard, and it will probably never be. But, oh, if only…

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Today, so many things happened.
U.S. soldiers rescued three Christian peace activists in Iraq. Louisiana State University wrapped up Duke and sent them off in the basketball finals. Canberra, Australia was Wikipedia's featured article. A download-to-own movie service, the world's first, was announced by Universal pictures. A little girl bought a little book at a big bookstore.
And I started a blog.
And I hope to never use the word 'I' in it again. Probably unrealistic. Actually, I changed my mind. My true resolution is to avoid ranting and raving about my personal life. There.

I wonder if places have expiration dates, like food. If one overstays their time in a certain place, perhaps it tastes a little funny after, oh, the first week or month-- but then maybe turns sour. Gagging, dry-heaving sour. Why do people never tire of vacations? Because they are always fresh-picked, never stale, and leave a good flavor on the tongue. As soon as their consumption is finished, the dreams don their rose-colored glasses and remember in excess the good, allowing the bad to sift through, undigested. In any case, I think Baton Rouge is comparable to a fried monkey toe. The first bite is deceptive-batter, fat (the easy flavoring) and spices. Then you realize you are eating a monkey's toe, and you think 'What the hell am I doing, eating a monkey's toe?"

Yes. I live in Orteil de Singe, LA.
Does anyone have any gum?
m*

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