"Look around you, son, can't you see? We are surrounded by fucking tourists!"

“Look around you, son, can’t you see? We are surrounded by fucking tourists!”

I looked around slowly, then at her 72-year-old sparkling eyes without saying a word. “We’re sitting at a seaside restaurant, you know…”

“No, no, I’m not talking about these people here, now. I’m talking about the whole fucking world!”

Photo by Oscar Bonilla

“They come, they go, and what do they get from it? Some pictures, to brag about? Being there, or here, or wherever? Who to brag to? To other tourists doing the same fucking thing? Why? Who knows… This is what everyone else is fucking doing, no?”

I nodded my head, waiting for what’s to come.

“I’m telling you, boy! I’m walking on this planet for seven decades and some more, and I haven’t been a fucking tourist, not for a single day! I’m a fucking traveler! No! Even better, I’m a fucking awesome voyager!”

“Who likes tourists, anyway? ‘Oh, look this is me in front of Eiffel tower! Isn’t it amazing? And this is us in front of the Louvre pyramid! One week in Paris we managed to see everything! We even managed to get around a bit in the suburbs too! Ohh, and those wines! Exceptional! Bonjour, mon ami!’ Goodnight darling, you didn’t see shit,” she graciously ended the pretend. I laughed.

“Don’t laugh son, this is serious stuff! People live their whole lives like that, not just their trip to Paris. If this life was a weekly trip to Paris, would you spend one of your seven days, logging steps around Louvre? ‘C’mon Jane, darling! Museums are so boring! …and you never liked them anyway!’ says the jealous friend. But the truth is, deep down, ‘Jane, darling’ knows her bitchy friend is bloody right. It’s a fucking tragedy, son!”

“I love using this word, these days! It’s so fucking liberating! You should try it!” she digressed.

“I mean, there’s nothing wrong with doing so, I applaud. But think for a moment, son. Most Parisians themselves have never been to Louvre, but ‘Jane, darling’ has! And she even has a fucking photo to prove so! Whaaat? Of course she framed it and hanged it on the wall for her friends to see when they are having cocktail-and-bragging parties! Poor Parisians!”

“But you know what? Parisians are Paris’ fucking breathing essence! They are Paris itself! Yes! And the ones who've never been to the Louvre, even more so! If we were to fill up Paris with New Yorkers, Paris would be Paris no more.”

“I’m a fucking awesome voyager, son! A thousand times over! If life was a week in Paris, I would rather have two bottles of wine with the gardener of the Louvre laid on the grass outside, than spend the day waiting in queue for the previous group to leave the room, just to have a glimpse of Mona Lisa! Leonardo, I’m sorry, not today! I’m here to experience Paris, not to fucking consume a masterpiece as if it’s a take-out-on-the-go pack of french fries! Pop that bottle now, my dear Jean-Paul, and let’s just lay here on the grass!” she ended with a naughty smile on her wise face.

On our side, over the counter, there’s a part of the wall where dear Mrs Jane—as everybody calls her, my wise elder friend, has hung several framed pictures from her undoubtedly interesting life. She has told me the story with the French gardener before, and how she even ended up having a private nightly tour in the Louvre! I’m looking on the wall to locate this specific picture while thinking “…she even has a fucking photo to prove so!”

“Hey, don’t judge me boy! It helps with the customers! Okay…, maybe just a little bit of bragging from time to time also…, you know…, for the boost! Hahahahaha!” she broke out with a warm, rusty, and completely unapologetic laughter!

Many times have I seen her talking with customers in front of this framed photo collection. They stand still with their eyes, mouth, and ears wide open, moving only their heads from side to side, staring once at the photos on the wall and once back at her. Then, she throws a piece of deep wisdom, everyone laughs, they hug, and off they go!

“Yes, but how did you get to meet Jean-Paul, in the first place Jane? You went there as a tourist, didn’t you?” This was her cue.

She turned to me, with a low, conspiratorial voice, “hmm, you are playing the ignorant tourist on me now, young man?”

“Raise your glass, you tourist!” she commanded loudly!

Now she’s standing, glass raised towards the customers of her restaurant, as if she’s addressing the parliament.

“Wait!” she commanded even more assertively! The last clinking forks stopped.

“The real question is, are you a tourist or are you a traveller in life? Let’s drink to that, dear guests!”

With intentional, almost ceremonial movements she poured a little wine on the floor, tapped with reverence her glass three times atop the wooden table, and then took a generous big gulp of the rest!

They loved her! In an instance the place got fired up! Claps, and cheers, and hitting glasses! She sat back to her seat, slowly.

“You see, my dear friend? Tourists. Aroused by the highlights. Like insects drawn to the lamp. No Jean-Paul for them! Not in this trip in Paris, at least! If you wanna find Jean-Paul, or Susan, or the fucking magic lamp with the genie, you need to walk your own route into the alleys, to follow the smell and get lost in the pursue, to see and feel the fucking city through your own fucking body and eyes! It is there, where the Jeans and the Pauls of this life are hiding my friend! But, no! Tourists don’t have time to get lost! They are in a hurry to go and stand in line for hours only to get a fucking photo with Mona Lisa! We are surrounded by fucking tourists, I tell you, son! …and to answer your cunning question, yes. I did go to Paris as a tourist, but the third day I left the group and haven’t returned since! Hahahaha!”

I turned my head, as I was laughing along her. An elder gentleman, holding a glass of sparkling wine, was approaching with a polite and confident stepping. She had seen him already.

“Shhh, pour me some wine now,” she whispered and pointed at her empty glass, “…it looks like a traveler is coming our way!”

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