Stranger in a Known Land

I've pretty much become a stranger in my own town. Well, it's not really a town, more an inner suburb of a sprawling metropolis that is becoming more style over substance every year; unnecessarily, as it has always been blessed with the most natural beauty. This area in which I've either lived or worked (or both) for more years than I care to remember is now attracting its own tourists from other parts of the city... country... world. You can pick them from a mile away: couples & families pointing at the gays & the punks & the freaks, but these people probably know more about the attractions of the main strip than I do, have eaten in more of the "hot" restaurants. I am happy in my quiet little corner & only venture into the fray from time to time prompting the question: Am I the real tourist?

They are conspicuous by their cars gridlocking the main drag, both by the makes & the fact that no local is foolish enough to drive their car into the centre of town. This place used to be considered too dirty, too gritty, too dangerous for any respectable types to want to visit, yet now here they are trawling the markets for quaint knick-knacks & local products like tote bags that some hippie chick who doesn't shave everywhere that perhaps she should has woven from her own dreadlocks; here they are trying to navigate their way through the swarms of activists passing out flyers about bringing down the government; here they are congratulating themselves for being so on-the-pulse as to spend a Saturday afternoon in the new weekend destination du jour.

Here they are setting upon this place like voracious ants on a weakened & dying cockroach. One might say it's good for the local economy, that is, someone who's not trying to rent or buy somewhere to live at a reasonable price.