I'm reposting this essay from four years ago - now that overtourism has returned - in the hope that some people might embrace its message.
https://lithub.com/standing-room-only-on-overtravel-and-the-joy-of-the-unsung/
Tuesday afternoon last week Hania and I made our way to the 39th Street ferry terminal – not far from where, one fateful day in 1975, I boarded the QE2 for Europe – and sailed across the Hudson to Hoboken. Though a native New Jerseyan, I had never been to the hometown of Frank Sinatra, which, in the last few decades, has become a hip, and pricey, alternative to Manhattan.
We strolled the wide sidewalks of the main street, passing shops and restaurants. There were few chains, and few empty storefronts. Young people walked good-looking dogs. Turning down a side street, we found a small bookstore in a neighborhood, fittingly, of Irish pubs.
Around 5 we made our way to Leo’s, an Italian restaurant whose walls dripped with framed photographs of Sinatra. Soon my two brothers (life-long Jerseyans) walked in the door with their wives and joined us at a round table in the corner.
We ate a wonderful meal – penne ala vodka, eggplant parmigiano, cheese ravioli – during which someone asked us if we’d brought our masks. Are people up here still paranoid about COVID, I wondered. Then we were told of the smoke that had descended from wildfires in Canada. Coming over on the ferry, and looking back at the Manhattan skyline, I had noticed a haze, but thought it was just the accumulated smoke from all the marijuana cigarettes.
Last Tuesday, Hania and I walked the High Line, gazing north toward a skyscraper out of which a diagonal observation deck jutted. I waited until two people who looked like locals passed by, and asked them what the building was called. I thought I’d like to go there for the view.
“This is terrible because we’re locals,” the one woman said sheepishly, “but I don’t know. And I used to work in that area.”
A little while later I learned from a visiting Brazilian couple that the building was called The Edge.
We had lunch at Chelsea Market – pastrami sandwiches at Friedman’s – and then cookies and tea, which we consumed at one of the outdoor tables. As we were leaving, I saw the women I’d approached earlier sitting nearby.
“Just for your information,” I said, “that building is called The Edge.”
They laughed, then invited us to join them. They were mother and daughter; Hannah was now living in Queens; her mother in Asbury Park, though she’d been born in Lviv. We talked about Eastern Europe, the Jewish exodus, the Jersey shore, Miami, which is where Hannah thought she belonged. It was a lovely moment, and at the end of it we exchanged cards.
I’m off to New York tomorrow, the city that has sent me rejections – with the occasional acceptance – since 1974. Thought I’d visit before the 50th anniversary. Back here on the 12th.
Speaking of shocking things in the newspaper (scroll down), Sunday’s Miami Herald featured a photograph of Brad Paisley shaking hands with Volodymyr Zelensky. The meeting of the two men may have looked a bit odd – though Paisley has been vocal in his support of Ukraine – but the shocking thing was the country singer’s posture, with his right hand extended in a shake with Zelensky’s and the left one stuck firmly in his pocket.
I first learned of the manual etiquette of Slavs by reading Vladimir Nabokov. On seeing a photo of American officials, all with their hands in their pockets, standing with their Soviet counterparts, the great writer was appalled that the former did not understand that the latter would see the posture as a sign of disrespect. Years later, teaching English in Warsaw, I learned that my students would not dream of talking to me with their hands in their pockets.
It's commendable that Paisley made the effort to visit Ukraine, but it would have been nice if he’d taken some time to learn about the culture.
A recent starred review in Publishers’ Weekly of a work of fiction quoted two lines from the book: The first, a racist comment from a peripheral character and the second, another character’s statement about the prevalence of racial hatred. And I wondered: Do writers win points these days simply by citing the currently approved obsessions? Wouldn’t readers be more impressed by the sharing of some telling observation from the author, a brilliant apercu perhaps, or an unusual or interesting use of language?