Friday, 31 July 2015

A Tourist Or A Traveller?


I feel an oxymoronic distain for the huddling, sweat sprouting tourists that consume the Colosseum to an extent not even achieved by the Romans themselves. I felt trapped in a herd of culture craving sheep, but uncool sheep, with bum bags and seeping sun screen smears.  
     As I attempted to follow in the Vatican City slip stream as we were shown into the Sistine Chapel, I found my complaints arrowed and directed toward the others on their similar pilgrimages almost too contradictory to comprehend. The other sweat swaddled sheep have equal rights to marvel at Michaelangelo's breath grabbing brushwork as I. Although some choose to do so firmly plugged into headphone tours, which I think paradoxically detach a person from what splendour they travelled so far to experience.
     So what is the solution? Should no-one visit the major cities that are so inconveniently interesting enough to entice you onto an aeroplane. Paris, Rome, New York City, Bangkok: off bounds due to over population of tourists. Perhaps limit the number of part time patrons seeking a refreshing summer beverage of culture squash? Single file: tourists only enter city when another leaves. 
     There are of course equally incredible, eye massaging, brain boosting corners of this earth that comparatively remain untapped resources of the sweet, enriching squash that we could all disperse to. This is definitely a viable option, but people are fair in their desire to visit the more well known capitals. I certainly loved lapping up the tasty offerings of Rome, and wouldn't have jumped ship (literally and figuratively to another country) simply because other people are enjoying it too. Pizza is worth more than that to me. So whats a traveller to do? I suppose for now I will try to make my peace with the bum bag brandishers; learn to put a city loving invisibility cloak over all the neon tank tops and ear plugged people who congregate directly in front of the piece I desperately peer around to see.  

Monday, 13 July 2015

Midnight Mischief


 Saturday, 3am.Women limping, men pimping. Aching, bruised feet numbed by the body burning shots slung back before taking on the post party storm of stumbling clubbers. Men seemingly strutting home with their night's proud prize or sulking in the arms of their equally sexless chums.      
 Not being my usual willing addition to the pissed parade was oddly sobering during my excursion to the airport at this peak party time. I gleaned a new perspective of the drunken pilgrimages back form the holy temples, that take the from of clubs in this Scottish capital.
 A Night At The Museum film feeling takes hold when the statues- who during the sunny hours are tourist attractions, looked at from a respectful distance- are brought to life, transforming into amusing bull rides for groups of blurry eyed compadres. Rickshaws that provide family fun to meander the Edinburgh streets with, are now lad carts providing an environmentally friendly drag race for some home bound banter.
 It seems that in the night hours, social, even legal rules make way for a little bit of loose lipped fun after being kicked out of your favoured watering hole.You can get away with so much more midnight mischief when the day walkers are tucked in with duvets and dreams. May this nocturnal crew continue to utilise the empty eerie hours of darkness to the best of their beer goggled abilities.