Posts Tagged ‘tourists’

ALMOST CARRIE ~ In Common

Friday, February 10th, 2012

For every tourist who pukes on my bus (Almost Carrie, 1.27.12), there is another who is a true delight. After seven years of tours and 55 people per bus, the faces blur, but I do maintain a small collection of favorites. And despite the obvious frivolity of my job, there are still moments when I pause, struck by some strange and wonderful sampling of unfettered humanity that Sex and the City seems to unearth.

There was once a couple that got engaged during my tour—the woman in shock, the man down on one knee in front of “Carrie’s” stoop.  It didn’t matter that I would never want that kind of proposal; once I was there, witnessing the moment, all judgement evaporated.  The joy I felt—that all 55 of us felt—was palpable, and the tears and grins and toasts we shared were as full and genuine as if we were family.

There was the lady who took me aside to tell me that Sex and the City got her through chemo, and I could tell by her expression that she was not exaggerating, that she had needed something to cling to and Sex and the City, thankfully, had been it. There we were at Oneails Bar—pink drinks in hand—talking about her cancer as if we were the only two people on earth.

Then there was the girl who, through some cruel twist of nature, had been born with no feet, yet loved Sex and the City and its extravagant shoes every bit as much as the rest of us. She sighed gently when the bus driver asked if she wouldn’t mind walking to her seat when the handicapped lift got stuck, and later, when he got it straightened out, she waited patiently for it to croak up and down at every stop.

Recently, in the slow winter months, with the weather raw and my buses only half-full, I’ve gotten the chance to spend more time with individual tourists. One woman, Tracey, asked if I’d pose for a picture with her—which many people do—but she was the first person in seven years to later email me the shot:

And two weeks later there was Shamika, a girl so charismatic that she arranged a portrait for the entire group. We were only 15 that day, a tiny showing. Fifteen strangers from all over the world, driving around New York on a bus, with only one thing in common. Somehow, though, that one thing was enough.

Emily Sproch is a writer and a Sex and the City tour guide. Each Friday, she chronicles the fine line between reality and fiction in her column “Almost Carrie.”

ALMOST CARRIE ~ Tourists vs. Locals

Friday, January 27th, 2012

There is a cartoon quality to the relationship between New Yorkers and tourists, a Road Runner and Wylie Coyote tug-of-war that causes steam to pour from locals’ ears and visitors to run screeching over cliffs.  It is an exaggerated, farcical, co-dependent relationship, and one that was flamed this week by Travel & Leisure magazine’s annual “America’s Favorite Cities” survey.  The public has spoken, and they’ve voted New York as the number one rudest city in the USA.

Of course, we’ve heard this all before, and as a tour guide I see things from both perspectives. I empathize with New York’s over-eager, confused visitors, but I also get furious when they don’t stay to the right of the escalator. Because I wrangle tourists for a living, though, it’s imperative that I bite my lip. Tourists pay my bills.

Rudeness works both ways, however, and I think it only fair to point out that yes, while New Yorker’s may be rude, New York’s visitors can also be awful.  Looking back through my years as a Sex and the City tour guide, I have boiled the worst offenders down to two categories:

1. Tourists who treat New York as if it were Las Vegas.

These are the folks who come here to PARTY and are under the mistaken assumption that everyone else is here to do the same.  Sure New Yorkers like to have a good time, but they take pride in the fact that their excessive drinking goes down with a little bit of culture, some jazz or an experimental dance piece to chase that third martini (Travel & Leisure ranked us #1 in theatre, performance art, and classical music).  New Yorkers are also notoriously private—that whole theory about how living in such close quarters makes people want to keep to themselves.  So when a New Yorker is drunk or hungover, they try to hide it, fighting to keep their eyes open and their dinner down on the long subway ride home.  The party crowd, though, has no such dignity.  Women get on my tour in the morning clutching their stomachs and running back and forth to the bus bathroom.  I once had a passenger who threw up three times in the doorway of Buddakan when we hopped off for a photo op.  Buddakan might be slightly cheesy and past its prime, but it’s a lot classier than that.  And last year a group of drunk bachelorettes (drunk before the tour started), asked a police officer if they could take turns wearing his hat. The officer in question was in the midst of conducting mandatory vehicle checks for the 10th anniversary of 9/11.

2. Tourists who won’t shut up about how awful New York is.

Because New York is so large and so notorious, people everywhere feel they have the right to editorialize about it.  What they seem to forget is that some people actually live here, and insulting someone’s hometown is not just rude, it’s mean.  A woman from Memphis recently said to me, “Ugh, I could never live here.  Where would my dog run around?”  Can you imagine going on vacation in Memphis and saying to a local, “Ugh, I could never live here.  Where would I get a decent cappuccino?”  You’d be murdered (this is not just hyperbole—Memphis’s murder rate is twice as high as New York’s).  The endless chatter from some folks about how dirty/loud/smelly/crowded New York is gets grating, especially considering that the person bitching has undoubtedly walked through only one neighborhood (Times Square), eaten at one restaurant (Serendipity), and seen one show (Jersey Boys).  That’s like going to Maine, eating at Red Lobster, and then complaining that the local flavor is just not as authentic as you’d hoped.

 

Carrie, drunk as a skunk at Vogue, still tries to make a dignified exit.

Emily Sproch is a writer and a Sex and the City tour guide. Each Friday, she chronicles the fine line between reality and fiction in her column “Almost Carrie.”

ALMOST CARRIE ~ Sex and the Stereotype

Thursday, August 11th, 2011

Carrie & the passionate, brooding Russian. He also puts cherries in his tea and is good at ballet.

When you’re a tour guide and you work in a city like New York, you meet people from all over the world.  Each day, as I speak with individuals from far-flung nations about the unique aspects of their lives—their travels, their careers, their families, their homelands—I can’t help but notice:  All those clichéd and slightly offensive cultural stereotypes are, more often than not, true.

Take the Germans. I mention the Germans first because they are, quite literally, first.  They are the first to arrive for every tour, the first to board the bus, the first in line for Cosmos.  Other nationalities are forever running to catch up, arms flailing, coffee dripping, bags askew, but never once in seven years have I had to wait for a German.  They also look, the men and the women, like Kurt Von Trapp (which is not a bad thing since Kurt has lovely skin and a great head of hair). And yes, they often appear perturbed, even if they are having a good time.  I know this because they frown at me and say, “I am having a good time.”  Plus, they are wonderful tippers; their tens and twenties are as crisp as their starched shirts.

The Australians are quite the opposite.  A sloppy people on the whole: sloppy vowels and big, sloppy, Labrador retriever grins.  They are forever ambling about the globe, living out of their backpacks, using up their scads of vacation time and buying American junk for half the price it is back home.  The Aussies are friendly and fun, and the men are, quite frankly, the sexiest in the world.  They are rugged and relaxed and what makes them even hotter is that they’re often with women who aren’t nearly as attractive as they are.  It’s jarring; in this country we see beautiful women with not-so-beautiful men all the time, but usually not the other way around.  Both Aussie sexes are equally outgoing and warm, and, in direct contrast to the Germans but true to form, they leave horrible little crumpled up tips and handfuls of loose, dirty change.

The Scandinavians are gorgeous, blonde, and so hip they make the most savvy New Yorkers feel like hayseeds.  They hang out at bars in Bushwick that don’t even have names yet and which can only accessed by underground retro disco sewer tunnel.  Their haircuts alone are works of art, sculpted and asymmetrical in a way that no human being should be able to pull off.  Also, they are so liberal and open that my Sex and the City tour becomes an outing for the whole family.  Mom, Dad, 13-year-old Tilde, and 8-year-old Sven all chitchatting about funky spunk and fuck buddies.  Truth be told, little Sven is so beyond me that it doesn’t even feel that weird.

And more!  So many more stereotypes to behold.  The women of London, God bless them, are like every Jane Green character come to life: mildly unhappy in that oh-so-amusing and self-deprecating way, plus they all think New York is brilliant. The Brazilians really do have those fake boobs you’re always reading about, and yes, the Japanese are wearing gym socks with high heels and making peace signs in every picture.  If I take a photo of a Japanese woman and she doesn’t flash a V, I get nervous and wonder if she’s feeling ill.

That’s the thing about stereotypes; just when you think you’ve got them all figured out, someone fails to live up.  Just the other day, a woman threw a hissy fit because she didn’t like her seat.  She stomped her foot and flicked her hair and told me that my boss would be hearing about how unhappy I had made her.  The shocking thing wasn’t that a grown woman was throwing a tantrum, it was that the woman was from Sydney.  In the sweltering heat, with 55 people staring at me and a crazy customer making a scene, all I could think was, “You shouldn’t be acting this way, you’re Australian for god’s sake!”

 

Emily Sproch is a writer and a Sex and the City tour guide.  Each Friday, she chronicles the fine line between reality and fiction in her column “Almost Carrie.”