Why Madame Tussaud's No Good

Leaving and More

A non-revelatory observation: meals tend to be more enjoyable when they are free. Perhaps even less shocking is the notion that when your benefactor intends to pay up to £25, you will really enjoy said meal. And how great it was! There was wine, pizza, delicious appetizers and merriment aplenty.

The one disturbing aspect of La Cucina, the Italian restaurant we went to was its bathrooms. Not in terms of cleanliness—it was pristine and gleaming white. It was just confusing. First, they never labelled the door to the bathroom, instead using pictures. Which, for whatever reason, was confusing. Anyway, when I went inside the bathroom, a voice boomed out:

“Are you OK?”

A pause. I did not begin my business in the bathroom at that point, I was so disturbed by the question. Is there someone hurt here, I wondered. Because I was pretty sure I was A-OK. But the bathroom was very clearly empty. While these thoughts collided through my head, a string of gibberish emerged from the same place.

I was well and truly confused at that point. What the hell is going on here? I decided to work through my confusion by pissing. This series of “Are you OK?” followed by gibberish replies repeated twice more, until, as I began washing my hands, a clinical monotone proclaimed, “Italian Lesson 13—At the Restaurant.” Why would a restaurant terrify people while they’re going to the bathroom? Haven’t they seen Psycho?

*****

That was on Friday, the last official day of our seminar. The lead-up to our dinner was an abridged performance of Twelfth Night. That was a play that really grew on me. The first time I read it, I thought it alright but not particularly interesting. But upon discussing it and performing it, I realized how much more subtle and nuanced it really is. It’s a play about craziness, madness, spontaneity, social roles; it’s probably my favorite Shakespeare comedy (of all the ones I’ve read/seen).

*****

Irony Note: on the bus back from London yesterday, I heard a tourist complaining about other tourists. “They’re so loud,” he said (keep in mind that I can hear him from five rows back). “They love the most inauthentic attractions, like Madam Tussaud’s (footnote 1),” he said (when I passed him to get off the bus, I noted his FDNY baseball cap and Yankees T-shirt—trying much?).

For all the humor of blatant hypocrisy, the Angry Tourist (he had one of those large red splotchy faces that can only project 1) anger 2) sullenness) alludes to some very interesting issues about being a tourist. While most of us aren’t that outrageous, I’m sure we’ve thought similar things on occasion. “Oh, I don’t want to go there—it’s so touristy.” I’ve seen at least two or three tourist guidebooks advertise themselves on how to avoid going to the touristy things. “Don’t be such a tourist,” I’ve heard people admonish each other (I’ve been similarly reprimanded). Tourists hate tourists.

There’s a perception that what being a tourist is about is about experiencing another culture, in order to see the different ways life can be lived. Well, if that’s the case, one should avoid places like Madame Tussaud’s and do things “real” Londoners do, just as one should avoid the Statue of Liberty and do things real New Yorkers do, etc., etc. The reason that these places are so touristy and hence undesirable is because there is no indigenous culture. The lack of indigenous culture is due to the tourists watching the place in question: if you’re watched, there’s no way you will act naturally and hence authentically (for an example, ask a friend to do some absurdly simple task like tying his shoes, and remind him that he is being judged—whether for better or worse, he’ll do things differently. Repeat with more people, and the effect will be magnified).

The awareness of being watched means you’ll cater, in some way, to those doing the watching. Hence tourist traps and souvenir shops. But tourists have a strange way of not wanting to be catered to; we want to experience life exactly as a Londoner or New Yorker or Angelino because our lives have become temporarily wearing or boring or needing adventure. The paradox, of course, is that it’s impossible to escape this effect completely, since most of the places with distinctive cultures have been catalogued already and are well-traveled by tourists. Furthermore, the more you focus on it, the more obsessive your search for authenticity becomes, at the expense of utility. Example: a classic witnessed debate in New York City: enter a family of blond-haired Midwesterners, considering whether the Italian place they were standing in front of would offer an authentic Brooklyn-style pizza. I was eating in the place right next door, and watched them assess the place for twenty minutes in absurd detail, consulting their guidebooks, and arguing whether the inclusion of the place in the guidebook made it worthy or a mere tourist trap. The pizza, meanwhile, looked perfectly fine, and the proprietor appeared to suffer patiently.

The worry is legitimate, but misplaced. The reason we shouldn’t go to Madame Tussaud’s is because it’s totally uninteresting, not because a bunch of other people like it. The problem with tourist traps is their higher prices, not the crush of fanny-pack sporting people who go there. Who knows what other Londoners do? Have you taken a poll? Just do whatever you’d like.

******

So as you might have gathered from the above disquisition, I was on the bus back from London to Oxford yesterday. Besides the Angry Tourist, we were also treated to the Russians. They decided to have a real shit-shooting session for the entire bus ride (the shit-shooting session is one thing that translates across all language). One of them had an annoying throat-clearing habit and also enjoyed hitting his knees with his hands.

At one point, during one of his sentences, one said, “Mel Gibson,” and both cackled. The other followed with another long sentence with “Morgan Freeman” providing the punchline. Apparently the first guy agreed with him, for he offered a “Da” and countered with “Samuel L. Jackson” as a joke; both laughed heartily. And, as the coup de grace, “Keira Knightley” drawing the largest laughs of all. What unites them so, besides their common celebrity status as actors? I don’t know. They don’t really do the same types of movies. I can’t particularly remember them being in the tabloids recently. I was really quite mystified, and after pondering it for a while, I still am.

*****

While at London, we went to see Les Miserables. That was a fun but not great show that was way too long. Other unsavory aspects of the theatre included: poor sightlines (and the acknowledgement by selling binoculars) and poor acoustics. The sets were magnificent if a little long to roll out into place, and the singing great.

A few problems about the script bothered me. First, I’m not generally a fan of musicals in which every single line is sung. Second, the villainous pick-pocket is a completely useless character and should be cut. Third, I hate the kid’s death, because it rings as a blatant attempt for audience sympathy.

Overall fairly good.

*****

There were two other things that were unambiguously excellent. First was the hamburger I had by pure chance for dinner. Shout out to Burger Shack (or Shak, or BurgerShak or some derivative) on Charing Cross (or Oxford)! Your meat is tender and delicious and your ciabatta rolls offering the perfect texture! And your fries are good too! Probably one of the best burgers I have had in a long while, and I knew it from the first bite.

The other excellent experience was the Underground. The signs and loudspeaker announcements are friendly. The lines are simple and easy to figure out. And the trains themselves are immaculate and well-ventilated. What a great system; it’s a wonder to me why anyone would drive when the Underground seems so good. Maybe I caught it on a good day? Well, I’ll find out tomorrow; I leave Oxford for London for a few days as a transition between Shakespeare and Paris.

It was a really great experience in Oxford, and I’m glad to have met everybody.

(1) If you don’t know what this is, it’s a famous wax museum that I cannot imagine anyone but a mentally handicapped tourist with equally mentally handicapped children going to, let alone enjoying. Despite his other flaws, he is right on this point. Oh, and the chatty footnote technique is a blatant theft from David Foster Wallace and some of Chuck Klosterman. Thanks guys! (They don’t give a fuck.)