Fed up with beautiful, ancient architecture, symmetrical faced women, and the Mediterranean coastline, I wandered the city.  I weaved through pockets of tourists, gargling in their native tongues.  French here, German there, some dialect that sounds like a fork against the bottom of a steel pot behind me – I wanted to shut them all up.  Put the whole city on mute and backhand any stiff-nosed native who looked down on my broken Spanish.   

There’s nothing special about a city.  Not after people have trampled through it for many years.  Walking through Spain, I don’t see ancient conquest and historical cobble stones.  I see architecture for architecture’s sake.  Modern labels on antique goods, horse drawn carriages guided by GPS – it all stinks.  Stinks like unfiltered cigarettes and stale bread.  Reeks of foreign clothes, and imported money.  You can smell these things in any old city.

I assume even the great places stink.  Walking over the grave sites of Christians at the Coliseum, you probably smell French Cologne and overpriced hotdog breath spewing out of American mouths.  The history has long since been washed away. 

I’m not complaining.  That’s the way it works.  The gracefully erected architecture remains, but the culture has been rubbed away like a phone number on a sweaty palm.

I fell for it.  I pinched my map between my chin and my chest, blocked traffic, and took pictures.  But when I looked at those pictures, all I saw was old rocks with new name badges.  Hand painted signs made to appear ‘vintage.’ Price tags turned upside down to avoid causing trauma to lower class travelers.  It’s all a hoax.  A scam for idiots like you…idiots like me who bring new money to an old city, only to drop it at the kings feet.

Go on Google.  Google any place in the world.  Click ‘Images’ and save yourself a few grand.  That’s the best way to see these highly touted parts of the world – online.  You can visit the Cathedrals in Rome at three in the morning with Budweiser on your breath.  You can shake your appendage at high definition photos of the Sphinx, or the Queen of England for that matter.  No one will stop you.  No one will scoff at you for not being fluent in their guttural, unevolved dialect.  The police won’t maim you with clubs.  You’ll get to see the world and it won’t cost you a cent.

Sure, you’ll miss a few things.  Not the things you’re thinking about.  Not the lights of the big city, not the sunrise pulling itself over the horizon, not the fine cuisine.  You’ll miss the illicit things.  You’ll miss the vaguely unlawful acts that you would have probably missed on vacation as well. 

You only spot these things once you’ve had enough of a place.  When you’ve smelled the funk of an old city long enough to detect the presents of…of nothing.  Nothing special.

Once the exaggerated rush has blown by, you’ll start to recognize the nuances that move with the city.   The scam artists and discrete prostitutes.  You’ll recognize shifty eyes, pickpockets, and business men with women who are no their wives.  This is the only part of a destination that I get any real joy out of.

Today for instance, I witnessed a minor scam.  Less than a scam really – mere men, hustling to make a living.  Five or ten of them.   Africans with dominant, over-toasted skin and wild, white eyeballs etched with red veins.  They had strategically set up stations amongst the more elegant shops.  Canvas sheets laid out on the ground, covered with premium knockoff purses, hats, and jewelry.  These types of hustlers never speak the language of the region, but they’re always good with numbers.  They know numbers in a hundred different languages.

I watched the Africans talking from the side of their mouths the way that petty lawbreakers often do.  When the senoritas walked by, they spit prices out like unpracticed auctioneers.  “Veinte Euros, veinte Euros, Channel bags, veinte Euros.”

Women with money walked by, clutching their own designer handbags tight, turned off by the dark chocolate skin.  Rookie tourist stopped and admired the bags.  They asked the Africans questions and held the purses up in the sunlight.  The answers they received were always in monetary form.  The asking price tended to drop as women returned the bags to the canvas sheets.

There were five or six stations like this in each plaza.  All African, all hustlers, all with cheap, knockoff merchandise.  They sold.  They pocketed cash.  And then, in unison, they all snatched their mobile shops off the cobble stone street.  It was quick.  Each man grabbed four corners of his own sheet, with the products still in the middle, and slung the whole bundle over his shoulder.

Lunch time? 

No.

Some type of religions prayer hour? 

Nope. 

POLICIA.

Yup.

A Spanish police car, in no hurry, rolled through the plaza.  The officers in the car looked on, unconcerned as the Africans make their escape.  The police car continued down the street.  Another five Africans and their temporary shops vanished into thin air.

Not twenty seconds after the cop car was out of sight, all six bootleg shopping stations reappeared.  Back to work.

Those are the type of things you’ll miss.  The great arches and paintings can all be seen digitally, much closer, and without the stink human contamination.

Save your money.  Avoid the hassle.  Travel is overrated.