To Bad Tour Guides

They are both volunteer and overly enthusiastic. They have studied all the Wikipedia pages about their topic and followed all the links. They are determined to know more than any other tour guide. If visitors took a test when they left, their charges would score highest.

But be warned: they are highly inappropriate.

Sometimes it is language. The docent at the art museum was especially fond of the Jackson Pollock wall with two paintings. He can’t explain why he likes Pollock so much, he isn’t really sure what he is looking at, but it makes him feel both anxious and happy. And though he’s been warned, he gets carried away describing Pollock’s philosophy and though he doesn’t say the swear word exactly, he does claim that “Pollock had a real F-you attitude.” And when he could have said “urinate” instead he said “Pollock liked to piss on his paintings.” The security guard clears his throat, but it’s too late. The guide will be reprimanded after the complaints come in. Again.

Sometimes the guides linger too long at the wrong spot. We are taking a walking tour of Boston, marveling how so much of what we heard about in history classes took place in this little area. And all the rooms they happened in are so tiny. We pass by a cemetery that isn’t officially on the stop, but the guide is a head of schedule because it’s a cool day and the group is quiet. He jumps up on a small wall and begins talking about who is buried there, and doesn’t see the couple behind him. Two men, maybe partners, maybe brothers, maybe friends. But the argument is heated enough that they don’t see the seven people staring at them. They are far enough away that we can’t hear them, but it’s clear one is doing all the talking. He feels misunderstood or slighted. The other looks like he has heard this all before and grows tired of hearing it again, turns to walk away. “Oh, that’s right!” the other says. “Walk away.” We look up at the sky and down at our shoes, over our shoulders. The guide jumps back down, “Shall we continue?”

 Some guides don’t seem to realize that children frighten easily. In fact, they don’t seem to realize there are children at all. At the dinosaur exhibit, talking about the T-Rex, he describes how their jaws would seize their prey at the neck, how the other dinosaur might fight to get away, but often not for long. He uses the words, “murder” and “flesh”, “rip” and “tear”. “They would eat the babies.” By now the dads have covered their kids’ ears, moms are pushing small containers of goldfish as distractions. The guide is having too much fun.

Some are just dangerous. We are paddling along with a guide who sounds a lot like Spicoli from Fast Times at Ridgemont High. He’s very careful to have everyone sign the waiver, but laughs nervously when he says it means we can’t sue him. In the bay, a manatee swims under our kayaks and he says not to worry, they don’t “usually” tip the kayaks over. And of course, they won’t mean to hurt you; they’re gentle. But they are so big. My son is several yards away from me. Beneath the water, the shadow moves closer to him. Maybe my reaction is stronger than other parents. Maybe not. I look at Keith and we both watch it glide closer and then underneath. And then past. And then away.

Whit watches it the whole time. He trusts the tour guide and is not nervous. He feels like maybe the manatee chose him to get close to. He is still and speechless. When the manatee passes by, Whit turns to the guide and they both give a small nod. “Cool, man.” They smile and paddle towards the dark tangle of the mangrove trees.