The Involuntary Tourist

My nasty cold has kept me in today.
On my day to tour I'm going to miss the worlds largest ball of string.
But I'd rather that than suffer the consequences.
I believe in sharing my feelings, not my germs.
I was bored.
Here's your share...



The Involuntary Tourist


I never asked to leave home.

As a child I remember a desire to ride in the new family car.

That landed me in Chicago for three days.

The highways were new then and people put bumper stickers all over their rear windows to show all the places they’d seen. I only wanted to see out.


Surrounded by relatives I’d never met.

Speaking tongues I’d never heard.

Slurred accents,

horrible cooking smells,

old ladies pinching my cheeks.

Nightmare on Cicero Street.

For three days.


I remembered we toured a captured U-boat in Chicago.

It was fascinating, since we didn’t have one at home.

When I got back I built one out of plastic so I’d never miss it.


When I left home at seventeen I moved only a few miles and stayed there for years.

My mother was always urging me to see the world.

Which was easy for her to say.

She’s from Belgium.


Not until the Navy, jerked the reins from my clutching fingers.

I requested station on the Ohio, river that is.


I was driven round the world.

Here and there,

and there and here,

and over hill,

and over dale

and over there,

across the pond

and over yonder,

must I go on?


Against my will, with bulging pockets of funny money I was forced to tour.


Encumbered by a bulky camera,

a windbreaker in case it rains,

a map so I can stand out.


When you’re 6-foot, white and heavy set

in a world of 5-foot, dark skinned string beans,

why not wear the Hawaiian shirt.


I drank the coffee at the Citadel,

saw Flamingos at the Fairia,

ran from the bulls of Malaga,

and drank a toast to Tourmalinos.

I visited the homeport of that captured U-boat,

and feast my eyes on the fabulous fraulines of the Reperbaun.

I lost my shirt in Monaco,

but bought a new one in Madrid.

Nice is nice this time of year.


And then this morning to my despair,

I find my act has gone somewhere.

Again.


Far from my home I happenstance,

assured in my clean underpants.

Out in a world Im not related,

and in a mood Im not elated.

The street conversation so democratic,

Oh my god Im so dramatic.

I cant help it.

I descend from the occupied countries.


In a lobby,

in a hotel,

in a strange an ancient land

they gather one by one

and two by two.

Until the crowd arrives.


A gaggle of Grecians

a cubby from Cann,

a flock from the Fatherland

I could go on and on.

Apostolics and Muslims,

Jesuits and Japs,

Arabians, Europeans

and an oddball in chaps.

Until the bus arrives.


Fully equipped with the essentials.

Bulging pockets of funny money,

encumbered by a bulky camera,

a windbreaker in case it rains,

and a map so they can stand out.

They’re going to Giza to see the worlds largest ball of string

or the biggest pile of rocks or something they haven’t got at home.


Terrance Howl
Cairo 2004