Travelling Alone

"What did you think of the film?", she asks. It's hard for me to respond; the words aren't forthcoming. Not from a lack of film vocabulary or an absence of taste or opinion, quite the opposite, in fact. The problem is that I would equate the question with asking me what shade of brown I would choose on a colour scale of browns. Much like my current taste in music, which is exclusively twenty-minute duelling guitar riffs, my film preferences are pretty selective. Cold, uncompromising, and disturbing arthouse films are all that can satisfy my patience and intellect. That probably explains why my film script has taken a battering in rejections from production companies. I was certain TG4 would give it real consideration, but, perhaps, my Google Translate Gaelige might not have impressed them. I have even considered making it myself and uploading it to Youtube, even though the plea for likes and subscribes disgusts me. 

The idea for my film came to me on a plane, when I was trying to turn my travel memoirs into edifying, spiritual prose. The noise and movement of the passengers seemed particularly distracting that day, and it dawned on me that everyone there, except me, was an asshole. I realised they were all just grazing, braindead consumers, out to gobble up as much food, booze, and tourism as they could. Inspired anew by the epiphany of how awful everyone else is, I began writing excitedly, desperately trying to keep pace with my thoughts. I had been blinded by self-obsession, which led me to focus solely on my travels and the beautiful lessons they had thought me. I now knew that the journey's meaning didn't really come from my experiences, but from how they differed from all the glass-eyed, zombie-like dopes who were doing the same thing. Within a couple of drafts, I had removed myself from the picture entirely, or at least placed myself in the background — the conscientious, interesting traveller, the sensitive soul — present in his absence. 

For now, the film reel runs only in my mind. Sans narration, you are accompanied only by an eerie, off-beat piano sound track, as sad and unnerving as the story of a child murder.  Snippets of ye-auld interviews from the twentieth century and an array of sounds bites from both haute couture and pop culture dazzle and discombobulate you. All the old chestnuts are there: Noam Chomsky, Isaac Asimov, Gore Vidal, Michel Foucault, Martin Luther King, that time Bill O'Reilly screamed "We'll do it live!" at his producer, Margaret Thatcher, FDR, Madonna, Che Guevara, Pope John Paul II, Gandhi, Mother Teresa, a clip from I Love Lucy, Britney Spears singing Hit Me, Baby, One More Time. The music and soundbites create a discomfort only interrupted by black flashcards with emancipating, disrupting platitudes, all leading to an atmosphere of trepidation, that "Oh, this is definitely an arthouse film" feeling we are all familiar with. If it were legal, I'd lock the viewers into the theatre until the film had ended.

A spiralling montage of the conventions of tourism  — or, if you insist, "travel" — makes up the entire second act. We see McDonald's and Starbucks [sic?]; a currency exchange; the queue to get through security; museum tickets and guided tours; overpriced crap food; "Do you speak English?"; a fat, ignorant tourist; a billion people at a famous painting; the famous gimmick; the selfie; the queuing; the perfume stalls at the airport; chocolate, booze, and cigarettes; the customer service person who pretends to like you; the customer service person who can't pretend to like you; shoving your bag into other bags in the overhead locker; "sit back, relax and enjoy this turbulent, cramped, and dehydrating flight"; "No hablo lingua franca".

  

The mosquito bite; the run of the mill social media update; the tragic soul who says "get your travel on"; the Economist in the stalls; the economist reading the Economist in economy; selfie sticks; the gormless loud-mouth, who narrates his trip for everyone within earshot; the unbeatably large museum; the Irish pub; the person who paid that little extra bit and now seems to be doing something more interesting; the educated, rich American ex-pat in an affluent part of Paris, who uses the word 'prologue' with no irony when telling a personal story. 

The film reaches a crisis point when we look at fifteen minutes of planes crashing or landing dangerously. Over the footage, scientists and sociologists tell us about the negative effects of tourism on other cultures and the environment. It fades out to black and bravely stays there for three minutes accompanied by only a soundtrack of a lonely wind. When it fades in again, calm, transcendent music lifts our spirits. We see a morning shot of the Spanish Steps left entirely to the birds. A jogger strides with no impediments down the empty paths of Champs de Mars, and the Mona Lisa reclines a little, enjoying a little me time. The ghosts of perished gladiators return and fight to the death in peace in the Flavian Amphitheatre, and Big Ben observes the time without being observed himself. The Grand Canyon echoes only with the voices of the wind, and Stonehenge stands, as it always has done, without being questioned about its past. The Great Wall of China can let its guard down against the fear of invaders, and the Pyramids of Giza can allow themselves to crumble gracefully. Anne Frank's house is less conspicuous without a long line of people trying to get in, and the Terracotta Army hide away from human eyes as they did for centuries. The jungle reclaims Machu Picchu, and the Leaning Tower of Pisa can take respite from the phonies who pretend to support him. And I can enjoy all these places unencumbered by the masses. Fucking tourists.