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Being There

- June 17, 2007 - - -

Myrtle Beach does not exist.

Myrtle Beach is in fact a copy of a place that does not exist.

Nearly everything in Myrtle Beach is a paltry derivative of some original form. For instance, most of the country has golf courses, in Myrtle Beach there are endless rows of putt-putt courses complete with sewage treatment blue waterfalls and variety of kitschy themes.

And where most towns attempt to draw in big name musical acts for their tourist venues, Myrtle Beach is content with impersonators, which can be found on any given night at any number of lounge venues hacking through pastiches of everything from Prince and Justin Timberlake, to a mock Grand Ol' Opry. - -But I refer to Myrtle Beach as a copy of a place that doesn't exist because on some level Myrtle Beach is just an imitation Vegas. But Las Vegas has already begun its transformation from imitator of itself to imitator of the world. Just consider the themed hotel resorts -- The Venetian with its canals, The Luxor with its Egyptian theme and of course New York-New York -- all of which are geared toward recreating aspects of other places together in one easy to reach spot.

Call it real-world virtual tourism.

The cynical take, for those of us that enjoy traveling to the actual destinations, is "hey, it keeps the annoying tourists out of the real locations." And while I refuse to wholly give in to that notion, I nevertheless admit its appeal.

It is tempting for travelers to sit back and criticize your typical American, British or German on holiday (since those are in my experience the greatest offenders in this category) as if the traveler had somehow earned the right to be there -- by virtue of, let's face it, our own invented self-superiority -- which simply isn't true.

When I was younger I saw a movie, The Man From Snowy River which is set in Australia and involves a sort of feud between high country and low country dwellers (among other things). Both sides are snobs toward the other, the low country folk are rich and land holding while the inhabitants of the high country are mainly poor, but work the actual land -- a fairly typical dichotomy in the western world circa 1900.

In the film Kirk Douglas plays an old wizened high country dweller who at one point tells the young protagonist, who is caught between the two worlds, "you have to earn the right to live up here."

And that's a tempting philosophy to cling to, but it has some problems. For one thing, at what point have you earned the right to live there? Who decides what is necessary to earn the right to live there? And the list goes on.

Still, anyone who's been up to the top of an Angkor Wat temple to watch the sun set knows the appeal of the notion that perhaps, just to cut down on the crowds you understand, perhaps there ought to be some sort of trial in which you have to earn the right to be there. Everyone but you and I of course.

However, despite recognizing the inherent hypocrisy in the notion of earning the right to be anywhere, there is, I believe, a fundamental difference between a tourist for whom Myrtle Beach is an appealing destination, and, well, the rest of us.

"Traveler" is the suitably generic term I use to distinguish those who are not simply tourists passing through in air-con comfort. But the real difference between a tourist and traveler is philosophical.

A tourist attempts to see a destination much in the way we watch an enjoyable television program -- peacefully and without too great of discomfort. Their philosophy (as I understand it from observing them) is to actually see a destination with their own eyes, rather than simply watch or read of it.

These individuals recognize that just watching Rick Steves' thirty minute tours on PBS is not the same as actually walking through the Piazza San Marco in Venice -- but that's as far as they are willing to go. God forbid the air-con fail or the drinks lack ice. -For this sort of approach to travel (and let me just say that I don't think everyone on a package tour is necessarily that shallow) the imitation destinations like Myrtle Beach or Las Vegas are ideal.

The images dancing before your eyes are after all, at least on some level, virtual.

Thus the tourist's expectations are largely met in a virtual destination -- very little danger, the water is drinkable, the sights damn near the same and there's ice in the drinks.

On the other hand, travelers don't generally seem to be content with just seeing. There is a more full frontal approach if you will.

And for those that enjoy small children throwing up on them on crowded buses, accept dysentery as part of price to be paid for the joy of the foreign and who welcome the dodgy food, the suspect ice, the insects, the garbage, the poverty and all the other experiences which, for better or worse make up world travel, there still remains, well, the world.Which is why there's an international airport near you -- even in Myrtle Beach.

[None of the above photos are mine, click individual images for details]

- - - diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/06/being-there.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/06/being-there.html deleted file mode 100644 index e7253fa..0000000 --- a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/06/being-there.html +++ /dev/null @@ -1,350 +0,0 @@ - - - - - Being There - by Scott Gilbertson - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

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Being There

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Myrtle Beach Airport, South Carolina, U.S.

- – Map -

- June 17, 2007 - -

Myrtle Beach does not exist.

Myrtle Beach is in fact a copy of a place that does not exist.

And where most towns attempt to draw in big name musical acts for their tourist venues, Myrtle Beach is content with impersonators, which can be found on any given night at any number of lounge venues hacking through pastiches of everything from Prince and Justin Timberlake, to a mock Grand Ol’ Opry. - -But I refer to Myrtle Beach as a copy of a place that doesn’t exist because on some level Myrtle Beach is just an imitation Vegas. But Las Vegas has already begun its transformation from imitator of itself to imitator of the world. Just consider the themed hotel resorts — The Venetian with its canals, The Luxor with its Egyptian theme and of course New York-New York — all of which are geared toward recreating aspects of other places together in one easy to reach spot.

Call it real-world virtual tourism.

The cynical take, for those of us that enjoy traveling to the actual destinations, is “hey, it keeps the annoying tourists out of the real locations.” And while I refuse to wholly give in to that notion, I nevertheless admit its appeal.

It is tempting for travelers to sit back and criticize your typical American, British or German on holiday (since those are in my experience the greatest offenders in this category) as if the traveler had somehow earned the right to be there — by virtue of, let’s face it, our own invented self-superiority — which simply isn’t true.

When I was younger I saw a movie, The Man From Snowy River which is set in Australia and involves a sort of feud between high country and low country dwellers (among other things). Both sides are snobs toward the other, the low country folk are rich and land holding while the inhabitants of the high country are mainly poor, but work the actual land — a fairly typical dichotomy in the western world circa 1900.

In the film Kirk Douglas plays an old wizened high country dweller who at one point tells the young protagonist, who is caught between the two worlds, “you have to earn the right to live up here.”

And that’s a tempting philosophy to cling to, but it has some problems. For one thing, at what point have you earned the right to live there? Who decides what is necessary to earn the right to live there? And the list goes on.

Still, anyone who’s been up to the top of an Angkor Wat temple to watch the sun set knows the appeal of the notion that perhaps, just to cut down on the crowds you understand, perhaps there ought to be some sort of trial in which you have to earn the right to be there. Everyone but you and I of course.

“Traveler” is the suitably generic term I use to distinguish those who are not simply tourists passing through in air-con comfort. But the real difference between a tourist and traveler is philosophical.

A tourist attempts to see a destination much in the way we watch an enjoyable television program — peacefully and without too great of discomfort. Their philosophy (as I understand it from observing them) is to actually see a destination with their own eyes, rather than simply watch or read of it.

These individuals recognize that just watching Rick Steves’ thirty minute tours on PBS is not the same as actually walking through the Piazza San Marco in Venice — but that’s as far as they are willing to go. God forbid the air-con fail or the drinks lack ice. -For this sort of approach to travel (and let me just say that I don’t think everyone on a package tour is necessarily that shallow) the imitation destinations like Myrtle Beach or Las Vegas are ideal.

The images dancing before your eyes are after all, at least on some level, virtual.

Thus the tourist’s expectations are largely met in a virtual destination — very little danger, the water is drinkable, the sights damn near the same and there’s ice in the drinks.

On the other hand, travelers don’t generally seem to be content with just seeing. There is a more full frontal approach if you will.

And for those that enjoy small children throwing up on them on crowded buses, accept dysentery as part of price to be paid for the joy of the foreign and who welcome the dodgy food, the suspect ice, the insects, the garbage, the poverty and all the other experiences which, for better or worse make up world travel, there still remains, well, the world.Which is why there’s an international airport near you — even in Myrtle Beach.

[None of the above photos are mine, click individual images for details]

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- -

Thoughts?

Please leave a reply:

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All comments are moderated, so you won’t see it right away. And please remember Kurt Vonnegut's rule: “god damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” You can use Markdown or HTML to format your comments. The allowed tags are <b>, <i>, <em>, <strong>, <a>. To create a new paragraph hit return twice.

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- - - - - - - diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/06/being-there.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/06/being-there.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 23c8a3b..0000000 --- a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/06/being-there.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,49 +0,0 @@ -Being There -=========== - - by Scott Gilbertson - - Sunday, 17 June 2007 - -Myrtle Beach does not exist. - -Myrtle Beach is in fact a copy of a place that does not exist. - -Nearly everything in Myrtle Beach is a paltry derivative of some original form. For instance, most of the country has golf courses, in Myrtle Beach there are endless rows of putt-putt courses complete with sewage treatment blue waterfalls and variety of kitschy themes. - -

Myrtle Beach, SC Spring Break 2007, image by Curtis and Eric, flickr CC

But I refer to Myrtle Beach as a copy of a place that doesn't exist because on some level Myrtle Beach is just an imitation Vegas. But Las Vegas has already begun its transformation from imitator of itself to imitator of the world. Just consider the themed hotel resorts -- The Venetian with its canals, The Luxor with its Egyptian theme and of course New York-New York -- all of which are geared toward recreating aspects of other places together in one easy to reach spot. - -Call it real-world virtual tourism. - -The cynical take, for those of us that enjoy traveling to the actual destinations, is "hey, it keeps the annoying tourists out of the real locations." And while I refuse to wholly give in to that notion, I nevertheless admit its appeal. - -It is tempting for travelers to sit back and criticize your typical American, British or German on holiday

(since those are in my experience the greatest offenders in this category) as if the traveler had somehow earned the right to be there -- by virtue of, let's face it, our own invented self-superiority -- which simply isn't true. - -When I was younger I saw a movie, The Man From Snowy River which is set in Australia and involves a sort of feud between high country and low country dwellers (among other things). Both sides are snobs toward the other, the low country folk are rich and land holding while the inhabitants of the high country are mainly poor, but work the actual land -- a fairly typical dichotomy in the western world circa 1900. - -In the film Kirk Douglas plays an old wizened high country dweller who at one point tells the young protagonist, who is caught between the two worlds, "you have to earn the right to live up here." - -And that's a tempting philosophy to cling to, but it has some problems. For one thing, at what point have you earned the right to live there? Who decides what is necessary to earn the right to live there? And the list goes on. - -Still, anyone who's been up to the top of an Angkor Wat temple to watch the sun set knows the appeal of the notion that perhaps, just to cut down on the crowds you understand, perhaps there ought to be some sort of trial in which you have to earn the right to be there. Everyone but you and I of course. - -However, despite recognizing the inherent hypocrisy in the notion of earning the right to be anywhere, there is, I believe, a fundamental difference between a tourist for whom Myrtle Beach is an appealing destination, and, well, the rest of us. - -"Traveler" is the suitably generic term I use to distinguish those who are not simply tourists passing through in air-con comfort. But the real difference between a tourist and traveler is philosophical. - -A tourist attempts to see a destination much in the way we watch an enjoyable television program -- peacefully and without too great of discomfort. Their philosophy (as I understand it from observing them) is to actually *see* a destination with their own eyes, rather than simply watch or read of it. - -These individuals recognize that just watching Rick Steves' thirty minute tours on PBS is not the same as actually walking through the Piazza San Marco in Venice -- but that's as far as they are willing to go. God forbid the air-con fail or the drinks lack ice. -

For this sort of approach to travel (and let me just say that I don't think everyone on a package tour is necessarily that shallow) the imitation destinations like Myrtle Beach or Las Vegas are ideal. - -The images dancing before your eyes are after all, at least on some level, virtual. - -Thus the tourist's expectations are largely met in a virtual destination -- very little danger, the water is drinkable, the sights damn near the same and there's ice in the drinks. - -On the other hand, travelers don't generally seem to be content with just seeing. There is a more full frontal approach if you will. - -And for those that enjoy small children throwing up on them on crowded buses, accept dysentery as part of price to be paid for the joy of the foreign and who welcome the dodgy food, the suspect ice, the insects, the garbage, the poverty and all the other experiences which, for better or worse make up world travel, there still remains, well, the world.Which is why there's an international airport near you -- even in Myrtle Beach. - -[None of the above photos are mine, click individual images for details] diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/06/index.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/06/index.html deleted file mode 100644 index 06f20d5..0000000 --- a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/06/index.html +++ /dev/null @@ -1,107 +0,0 @@ - - - - - Luxagraf - Topografical Writings: Archive - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

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June

Archive: June 2007

Being There - Jun 17, 2007 -
Sailing Through - Jun 15, 2007 -

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- - - - - - - - - diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/06/sailing-through.amp b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/06/sailing-through.amp deleted file mode 100644 index 7facb70..0000000 --- a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/06/sailing-through.amp +++ /dev/null @@ -1,189 +0,0 @@ - - - - - - -Sailing Through - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Sailing Through

- June 15, 2007 - - -

It was the middle of the afternoon, we having settled in to watch a bit of the Blues Brothers -- afternoon films being my favorite form of procrastination -- when, just after Belushi remarks that the modern American mall "has everything", the screen blacked out to the sound of bleating sirens and a message began to scroll across the screen in a dull white Arial-derived font -- something about severe thunderstorms.

We decide to go for a walk. The sun feels like a curse that's been hanging over you since birth. Not a cloud in the sky.

And so it goes. Here in Charleston, SC. The rumors are true. I moved back to the south, Athens GA to be exact -- more on that later. But I hate staying in one place for too long, so after a month or two in Athens I headed up to Charleston to visit a friend.

The south is curious place. If you've never been here I couldn't hope to explain it, but it's not so much a place as an approach. A way of getting somewhere more than anywhere specific. Perhaps even a wrong turn.

Here's what we know for sure: Californian is not the south. Texas is also not the south. Charleston throws seersucker suits in the mix, but hey, nothing's perfect.

There's mayonnaise. And then there's Duke's. Even at the baseball game there's Duke's.

But it was the heat that started it. Thunderstorms and heat.

Apparently the Charleston emergency broadcast system has never heard the story on the boy who cried wolf. Or they just didn't walk away with much. Not only is there not a cloud in the sky, there was a tropical depression big enough to have a name that didn't warrant any alerts when it blew through yesterday.

It seems safe to assume that the local elements of FEMA are run by the same type of highly qualified individuals that staff the higher government offices of this strange, confused land.

I first came to Charleston about a month ago, I've come and gone twice since then. The weather was mild when I first arrived, an onshore breeze to rattle the Palmetto leaves, tufts of cloud hanging over the sea. We lay on our backs floating in the brine and watching the sun arc the sky.

One weekend we wandered the shipping yards ogling the tall ships, a festival of them, blown in on favorable winds you might say. We failed, despite our best efforts, to be shanghaied off into the ocean, pressed into five months before the mast on our way back to Italy.

Failing kidnapping, we turned to tequila and night-swimming, always a heady and dangerous mix, but we pulled through in spite of the hiccups.

It took me nine years to get here. I enjoyed them. Every bit of them. Stay tuned.

- - - diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/06/sailing-through.html b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/06/sailing-through.html deleted file mode 100644 index 6ae5b54..0000000 --- a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/06/sailing-through.html +++ /dev/null @@ -1,343 +0,0 @@ - - - - - Sailing Through - by Scott Gilbertson - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

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Home → - -
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Sailing Through

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Charleston, South Carolina, U.S.

- – Map -

- June 15, 2007 - -

It was the middle of the afternoon, we having settled in to watch a bit of the Blues Brothers — afternoon films being my favorite form of procrastination — when, just after Belushi remarks that the modern American mall “has everything”, the screen blacked out to the sound of bleating sirens and a message began to scroll across the screen in a dull white Arial-derived font — something about severe thunderstorms.

sunset over the marsh We decide to go for a walk. The sun feels like a curse that’s been hanging over you since birth. Not a cloud in the sky.

And so it goes. Here in Charleston, SC. The rumors are true. I moved back to the south, Athens GA to be exact — more on that later. But I hate staying in one place for too long, so after a month or two in Athens I headed up to Charleston to visit a friend.

The south is curious place. If you’ve never been here I couldn’t hope to explain it, but it’s not so much a place as an approach. A way of getting somewhere more than anywhere specific. Perhaps even a wrong turn.

Here’s what we know for sure: Californian is not the south. Texas is also not the south. Charleston throws seersucker suits in the mix, but hey, nothing’s perfect.

duke's mayonnaise There was a piece in the New York Times a while back that argued that the South begins not at the Mason-Dixon line, as history would have us believe, but where the restaurants switch over to sweetened tea. But most Times writers have never left Manhattan and won’t recognize the South even when they’re dipped in tar and run out of it. The truth is the South begins and ends wherever you can find Duke’s Mayonnaise on the shelves of your local grocer.

There’s mayonnaise. And then there’s Duke’s. Even at the baseball game there’s Duke’s.

But it was the heat that started it. Thunderstorms and heat.

Apparently the Charleston emergency broadcast system has never heard the story on the boy who cried wolf. Or they just didn’t walk away with much. Not only is there not a cloud in the sky, there was a tropical depression big enough to have a name that didn’t warrant any alerts when it blew through yesterday.

It seems safe to assume that the local elements of FEMA are run by the same type of highly qualified individuals that staff the higher government offices of this strange, confused land.

I first came to Charleston about a month ago, I’ve come and gone twice since then. The weather was mild when I first arrived, an onshore breeze to rattle the Palmetto leaves, tufts of cloud hanging over the sea. We lay on our backs floating in the brine and watching the sun arc the sky.

tall ships festival A kind of wanderlust seizes me whenever I am near boats — the world was, after all, discovered by men and women of the sea. And I don’t mean those Spaniards with their metal helmets, I mean the much older explorers departing from east on dugout canoes with spears for fishing and courage of a sort that they took with them to their graves. They reached the islands — Hawaii, Tahiti, Fiji and so many more — before their European counterparts had even consider the mast, let alone pressed anyone into service before it.

Failing kidnapping, we turned to tequila and night-swimming, always a heady and dangerous mix, but we pulled through in spite of the hiccups.

It took me nine years to get here. I enjoyed them. Every bit of them. Stay tuned.

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Thoughts?

Please leave a reply:

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- - - - - - - diff --git a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/06/sailing-through.txt b/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/06/sailing-through.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 2474a9b..0000000 --- a/bak/oldluxpages/jrnlold/2007/06/sailing-through.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,38 +0,0 @@ -Sailing Through -=============== - - by Scott Gilbertson - - Friday, 15 June 2007 - -It was the middle of the afternoon, we having settled in to watch a bit of the Blues Brothers -- afternoon films being my favorite form of procrastination -- when, just after Belushi remarks that the modern American mall "has everything", the screen blacked out to the sound of bleating sirens and a message began to scroll across the screen in a dull white Arial-derived font -- something about severe thunderstorms. - - - - sunset over the marsh

We decide to go for a walk. The sun feels like a curse that's been hanging over you since birth. Not a cloud in the sky. - -And so it goes. Here in Charleston, SC. The rumors are true. I moved back to the south, Athens GA to be exact -- more on that later. But I hate staying in one place for too long, so after a month or two in Athens I headed up to Charleston to visit a friend. - -The south is curious place. If you've never been here I couldn't hope to explain it, but it's not so much a place as an approach. A way of getting somewhere more than anywhere specific. Perhaps even a wrong turn. - -Here's what we know for sure: Californian is not the south. Texas is also not the south. Charleston throws seersucker suits in the mix, but hey, nothing's perfect. - -

There was a piece in the New York Times a while back that argued that the South begins not at the Mason-Dixon line, as history would have us believe, but where the restaurants switch over to sweetened tea. But most Times writers have never left Manhattan and won't recognize the South even when they're dipped in tar and run out of it. The truth is the South begins and ends wherever you can find Duke's Mayonnaise on the shelves of your local grocer. - -There's mayonnaise. And then there's Duke's. Even at the baseball game there's Duke's. - -But it was the heat that started it. Thunderstorms and heat. - -Apparently the Charleston emergency broadcast system has never heard the story on the boy who cried wolf. Or they just didn't walk away with much. Not only is there not a cloud in the sky, there was a tropical depression big enough to have a name that didn't warrant any alerts when it blew through yesterday. - -It seems safe to assume that the local elements of FEMA are run by the same type of highly qualified individuals that staff the higher government offices of this strange, confused land. - -I first came to Charleston about a month ago, I've come and gone twice since then. The weather was mild when I first arrived, an onshore breeze to rattle the Palmetto leaves, tufts of cloud hanging over the sea. We lay on our backs floating in the brine and watching the sun arc the sky. - -One weekend we wandered the shipping yards ogling the tall ships, a festival of them, blown in on favorable winds you might say. We failed, despite our best efforts, to be shanghaied off into the ocean, pressed into five months before the mast on our way back to Italy. - - tall ships festival

A kind of wanderlust seizes me whenever I am near boats -- the world was, after all, discovered by men and women of the sea. And I don't mean those Spaniards with their metal helmets, I mean the much older explorers departing from east on dugout canoes with spears for fishing and courage of a sort that they took with them to their graves. They reached the islands -- Hawaii, Tahiti, Fiji and so many more -- before their European counterparts had even consider the mast, let alone pressed anyone into service before it. - -Failing kidnapping, we turned to tequila and night-swimming, always a heady and dangerous mix, but we pulled through in spite of the hiccups. - -It took me nine years to get here. I enjoyed them. Every bit of them. Stay tuned. -- cgit v1.2.3-70-g09d2