I am the Overtourist. I’m here to overtour your picturesque town or world-class city. Shooting water pistols at me only hydrates and emboldens me.
I have no idea how anything works here. I will pause in the middle of crowded sidewalks, amble in rushing zones, and fail to possess the correct app, ticket, identification, or change. I will wait to decide my deli order until I’m at the front of the line so I can ask the sandwich maker to explain the difference between mortadella, soppressata, and capicola, and that’s before I start asking him about the bread options.
I am here to sample the substances you’ve recently legalized: psychedelic mushrooms, raw milk, and Indiana Pacers jerseys. I will try all of them at once and hallucinate while vomiting in my Pacers jersey at the precise intersection whose closure most disrupts your morning commute.
Where are your public toilets? I have come to make their lines so long you will never be able to pee again. This might be the way you die, like a cartoon character, the whites of your eyes filling from the bottom with yellow.
By the way, I bring my cello everywhere I travel, especially on crowded trains. It demands its own seat even though I have not purchased an extra ticket. If you ask me to move it so you can sit, I won’t understand, because I do not speak your language.
I will throw my lavish wedding in your town. I will book all the taxis and hotel rooms and consume all the available food, water, shelter, and oxygen for two weeks because I’ve also purchased the exclusive world rights to celebrations lasting a fortnight. In fact, I am marrying your town. It is taking my name. Now forevermore, I will pay for its implants and injections and make love to it on each street corner that is in your direct line of sight.
When I see a geisha, I will corner her, wipe the makeup off her face with a moist towelette, and photograph her, posting the result with the caption: “Geishas: They’re just like us.”
I have come to view your finest works of art, starting with the Mona Lisa. I am seven feet tall, brawny, and skilled in boxing out. I will occupy the space directly in front of da Vinci’s masterwork until I solve the riddle of her smile, swinging my ample ass to block any attempts to usurp my position. There are no three-second violations at the Louvre—I checked the rule book. Next, I will dominate the Van Gogh room at the Musée d’Orsay, squirting a packet of ketchup over my ear in a gesture I will deem homage as I shove to the front and pose for duck-face selfies next to his self-portrait. I’m still in training, but I believe meeting me could have turned Van Gogh at least one degree more insane.
The Beyoncé tickets are cheaper here, and with the money I save on them, I will buy your specific apartment to stay in and also purchase all the apartments in the city that are in your price range. I need merely glance at your local wares to increase inflation in your general vicinity. Maybe try the suburbs?
I am here to climb your highest mountain, kayak the waters along your craggiest coast, and spelunk your most profound cave. I wear flip-flops and carry no water. I have made no preparations whatsoever in terms of athleticism, gear, or orienteering, and I demand that you rescue me, at length, and at your own expense in a way that involves helicopters and international news crews.
I will direct a television program that will become a perennially beloved classic with a linchpin scene involving the main character flinging a pizza onto the roof of your house. Visitors will flock to your cul-de-sac to recreate the scene for decades. The pizzas will pile on top of your roof, and then the ravens will come. Next, a director everyone is calling the “new Hitchcock” will film his remake of The Birds in front of your house in a cost-saving measure Variety will call “a shrewd avoidance of a bloated animal training budget” and even more visitors will arrive. Fans of the TV show and fans of the film will disdain each other and engage in raucous fistfights on your driveway, especially on days you are due to drive the middle school carpool. The filmed brawls will disseminate through all social media channels, attracting yet more visitors.
Your warning labels and instructional placards are in a language I don’t wish to acknowledge, so I am here to touch your boiling hot springs. I am here to sit on your antique chairs. I am here to obstruct the areas on the bus designated for your seniors. I will pet the bison, jaywalk or refrain from jaywalking against local custom, tromp on your delicate cryptobiotic soils, empty the sewage from my mega cruise ship at your dock, and fail to patronize your local businesses because, since I’ve been here, your prices have become too expensive.
Still, your town and I are married now, and I insist you call me “Daddy.”
