7. Authenticity

 As much as I feel like I am an extranjero here (an outsider) I don’t know how I feel about the word ‘tourist’.  Over my time here I have encountered a lot of viajeros, real travellers. My cousin and his friends, who are from Israel and have been travelling in South America for about four months, passed by Buenos Aires and I went to their hostel a few times to say hi. In their common room I started talking to about twenty different young travelers, all making their way either up north or down south. They all asked me questions like, “Where did you come from and where are you going? We are heading to Ushuaia do you want to come?” and that’s when I got the gripping realization…I am stuck here in Buenos Aires..after all I am still a student, not a traveler.
            When I got my week of liberty during Spring Break I encountered even more of these viajeros and for a short week I got to feel like one of them, lugging my large backpack around, buying groceries and cooking at the hostel to save money, travelling by bus, being in the sun for hours, re-wearing the same clothes, and changing places by the day in order to be able to see as many colorful mountains, waterfalls, and small pueblos as I can. I remember talking to the 25 year old owner of the hostel I was staying at in Tilcara, a small village in the province of Jujuy. He had invited his guests in the hostel to take a night walk with him to his friend’s small house in the mountains in celebration of the full moon. On the walk back to the village, I asked him about the type of people he receives at his hostel in general and if older people ever came to stay there. He contested that when older people come, they are usually older people with younger spirits, and that sometimes when older people come that he can tell would not fit the vibe he tells them there is nor more room. “All I do is give people soap, a bed, and breakfast, that’s all. And sometimes I can tell that some people who come expect a certain service that I do not provide, and I would rather not host them, because I know that they would only have complaints.” Additionally he told me, “I prefer to host travelers (viajeros) rather than tourists. Travelers never complain. I have travelled to Bolivia, Peru, Guatamala, Venezuela, Brazil, and I have stayed in some hostels where there is not even hot water. I know the place that I have here is very nice,” he told me. I have to agree that it was one of the nicest hostels I had stayed in during that trip.
It made me think about what he was trying to tell me. As I met more people, I realized he was right. The traveler needs a place to sleep and shower that is just another one of his transitory homes. The tourist is looking for a ‘hotel experience’, the tourist wants to feel like a guest.
            There is something very interesting in this distinction between the viajero, the tourist, and then…the student? The temporary resident? The extranjero like me? I don’t know how I would really be classified in Buenos Aires.
            What is it that the viajero is in search for and how does it differ from the others? What is it that he wants to see or accomplish in his travelers? For the traveler, travelling becomes his occupation, not a vacation. He knows that he is now a vagabond. He is travelling in order to feel homeless, and to fully enter a state of constant unfamiliarity that is as far as you can get from the cotidiano. 
McCannel says that that “sightseers are motivated by a desire to see life as it is really lived, even to get in with the natives, and, at the same time, they are deprecated for always failing to achieve these goals. The term “tourist is increasingly used as a derisive label for someone who seems content with his obviously inauthentic experiences” (592). In my opinion, it really all depends on what kind of ‘sightseer’ you are.  We students came here to speak and befriend Portenos, study their history and language, and live amongst them in their city, with intentions to really seek the “authentic experience”. Travelers however, viajeros like my cousin know all too well that as tourists who migrate by the day they will not gain any sense of real life in the places they travel. They are happy with obviously inauthentic experiences because they know that is all they can get as outsiders. They are not in search of knowing the “real Buenos Aires” or the real Argentine, but rather they want see beautiful landscapes, and walk through foreign villages in which everything is different. I think that McCannel’s “back-front ditchonomy” holds true in life in general as well as in tourism, however not every type of tourist is in search of seeking a view from the back. It is true that all tourists want to see things that are foreign to them, however the way that they look at these things and what they think of them completely varies from one type of tourist to another.  
 

Bruce Chatwin in The Songlines breaks the travel narrative trend of appearing as a really awesome guy. He does not feel like the hero of his own stories and he certainly doesn't feel like the hero of anyone elses. The only picture of him we have of his character is through how annoyed all these rugged and isolated Russian and Austrailian men find him.  Which is completely opposite of the other travel narratives we have read - which make the traveler the hero of their own story. Instead most of the book hints at how inadequately prepared Chatwin is for his surroundings, and how much he longs to have a place in them - which won't happen because on first sight almost everyone hates him - and I really want to know why. He seems like one of those perfectly nice - if not a little particular - guys that you just want to beat up, but in the end are really endeared by. Is this intentional? Does everyone hates Chatwin for his special notebooks? Or always wanting to take a break? Does he just look like a nerd? Or is it for not really having a purpose beyond observing?

Almost everyone he meets is weary of him - mistrusting his interest in the aboriginals even more than the first degree tourists - whose fascination is loathed but makes sense. Whereas the old man living in the desert definately hates him for not having suffered - and for lack of manliness. Perhaps these two things are the combine to create Chatwin's offputting prescense. For him their lives are games - which is why Chatwin's Russian friend gets so upset when Chatwin wants to stay in the house and take a break instead of continuing to travel. Because Chatwin wants to understand - but through other people not actually going the distance himself. And it feels like he is aware of this - because he does mention everytime people get used to him ,or give him privledged information. And he is proud of not being afraid of snakes in the desert (probably because he doesn't have a concrete danger/experience of what snakes in the desert can do) and of cooking and of making his little snake proof bed. Which makes Chatwin endearing in a way entirely opposite than Flaubert. Chatwin is a sort of anthropological Douglas Adam's Arthur Dent.  - for even as he gets better in the desert he remains entirely unequipped for his situations and is sitll overwhelemed by basic conditions.

"For lunch we had beer and a salami sandwich. The beer made me sleepy, so I slept until four."

So cute in contrast to his lone gunman - Russian samaurai/cowboy traveling companion.

And at the end of it all his ideas are very sweet, if not fated. I love the idea that animals won't kill eachother to protect their domain, the defeated will submit and show their wounds and the hurt will recognize the victory and spare the defeated. And it is very Machiavelian to kill your competition out right - which is interesting. I wonder how often those hurt wolves come back and kill their victors in their sleep.

Yesterday I watched "My Way" - a new Korean World War movie that spans 3 or 4 different wars during WWI as a travel narrative focusing on the relationship between a Japanese and Korean man who grew up together as competitors. The story is insane - and based on one small fact of reality. While being an impossibly intense movie - one of the two most intense war movies i've ever seen. But one scene - between the two competitors stands out.

The two are told to fight to the death, and - to ruin the scene one of them wins but does not stab the other. This moment of mercy between lifetime enemies - in light of Chatwin's theory of animal mercy presents humans as more humanes when they are animalistic - abandoning their countrie's ideals, and protecting themselves and their brothers instead of their nation.


Also - my friend told me to check out Bangarra - which is the dance company.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_YLJOyjhBTM&feature=related

Reading The Songlines by Bruce Chatwin, I understood a completely different sense of Aborigines culture. The beautiful weaving in-and-out of the story, between the author’s personal encounters and coming-to-terms with the idea of songlines, Chatwin ultimately pains Australia as a country and continent of secrets, customs, and values—in the most spiritual sense.  With this concept of “trodding on the earth lightly,” the Aborigine people, surprisingly to Chatwin, do not believe in using the earth for its resources as heavily as others do, for the less one uses the earth, the less one needs to give back to the earth, striking an example that stated that the Aborigine people would cut themselves so that they could sacrifice a small amount of blood to the earth as “payment” rather than them sacrificing their own lives. Furthermore, their ideologies on consumerism and production should be put into question.
 
Firstly, the idea of painting other person’s Dreamings somewhat confused me. With such a personal connection and sacrilegious potentiality, it seems as though the paintings solely meant, at least by the passage given in the story, a transaction for the rich, upper-crust society in Australia—people with no connection to the culture whatsoever. In the story, the woman wants Stan to paint his own Dreaming, to which he cannot, for that she yearns to not only by his painting of the Honey-Ant Dreaming, but furthermore, trek to the man who can paint Stan’s Emu Dreaming. She wants the collection, not the experience. Overall, I find the people of Australia who are referenced in the story hold more footing than people from other countries. When looking at Mrs. Lacey or Hanlon, the two characters seem to keep their character throughout their parts of the story. Having the audacity to read Marx’s vision on the alienation of labor before a meal, Hanlon exemplifies this renegade attitude towards monotonous production and contrived labor. The people of Australia mean business, in the most personal means. Connecting the Australian people to the Aborigines, I see the connection in work ethic and personality towards work. Whether they are making pictures of their Dreamings, or more primitively, simply carrying-out the roles that each sex is decided in terms of survival, either hunting or gathering, the work relations among the Aborigines appear more matter-of-fact than having this veiled vision of “making a choice,” to which Marx would state that, as a worker in the corporate system, would take on all practices of labor alien to one’s own self, eventually losing touch with nature and community. 

Living in Florence, especially in the historic center where my apartment is situated, is like living in this “staged authenticity” MacCannell discusses in his essay. Florence is a small modern city that is closely and painstakingly preserved in its main centers and piazzas. Sometimes you feel like you are in a place that has not changed since the Renaissance. Obviously it has changed, but they want you to feel like it hasn't, so they preserve this Renaissance state all the time. For example, when we arrived in Florence, the San Zanobi column in front of the Duomo was being restored. A few weeks ago, it was unveiled, and was followed by restoration of the Column of Abundance in the piazza closest to my apartment, Piazza della Repubblica. Additionally, they started construction of the sidewalks of the main street I take to get to the bus station every day, Via Camillo Cavour. The sidewalks looked completely fine beforehand, but it is a main street for tourists, who crave this idealized, preserved image of Florence.

Walking down the streets of Florence is getting more and more difficult by the day. As soon as the weather turned for the better, walking to class is accompanied by a constant avoidance of being a part of someone's photo of something quintessentially Florentine. The Old Stove, the American bar outside my window has gotten rowdier and rowdier making even sleeping more difficult. Visiting Rome made me realize that Florence is so concentrated with tourists due to its small center. Rome is much more spread out, giving tourists room to disperse and explore, while Florence is too small for such dispersal.

From my time here, I learned quickly that buying anything near to the Duomo is not a good idea. They all have this fake authenticity, that if you are in Florence you'd obviously like to have a 5 euro gelato accompanied by a 3 euro cappuccino. Within the first weekend, we found a bar that sometimes has live music across the Arno River which we have since frequented on many occasions. It is filled with books and has the appearance of being a library during the day, though I have never seen it for myself, and is one of the most real Florentine spots I have frequented. I have not run across many other American students there, and it makes me feel more like I am in a local environment. I have a theory that if you listen hard enough anywhere in Florence, you can hear Rihanna playing. Here, I can't hear Rihanna playing and for me, that is what authenticity means to me here.

Still, in Florence it is difficult to completely get out of an American-centered environment. I found it incredibly refreshing when two friends and I decided we did not want to follow the pilgrimage to Barcelona for spring break and instead opted for our first stop to be Budapest. When we talked to some locals there on the second night, they asked us, surprised and shocked, “Why did you come here?!” The truth was, we wanted a more authentic experience other than clubs on the beach and more American tourism. We got a real sense of a different culture than ours, we sat in an incredibly smoky bar scattered with Hungarians drinking the cheapest beer I have ever purchased, didn't hear anyone speak English on the street, and actually ran across people who didn't speak it, a rare feat, I feel, these days. While we still saw the “front” tourist sites in Budapest, we did travel into the “back” areas, relying on our hazy knowledge of street names with far too many consonants in them to pronounce and met locals, a truly diverse experience from mine here in Florence.

 

I partake of my sacrament in darkness, smoke, and strobe lights. The pressing sweat-dampened bodies of fellow devotees surround me, moving in time to thrumming basslines like rhythmic voodoo rituals designed to send the worshipper into communion with their respective gods. At times the venue is the same: one night, I am crammed shoulder to shoulder in a cathedral like space, beer in hand, stone arches and domes meeting in shadowy billows above the heads of the dancers, collecting the incense of cigarette smoke and party balloons. Another night I walk through an unassuming door and suddenly am in a decrepit mansion, DJ's spinning in their own special asps built into what would seem to be a window seat and fenced behind wrought iron gates, above a dingy floral wallpapered living room, next to a master bedroom furnished with a king sized bed and cabinets, worshippers sprawled across it, standing in corners, and dancing in every dimly lit space. Every space bleeds into the other, each bar blends into the next, but the same holds true: these spaces full of secret solidarity speak of the back regions of Berlin that most tourist do not have the privilege of seeing if they do not know of them. 

It is really important to realize that I, being essentially a tourist in coming to this country to begin with, never realized the full extent of the beauty the underbelly Berlin features. In my previous experience, the only real reason I would visit Berlin was for its historical importance, along with some superficial considerations: the affordability (with regards to my status as a student), the opportunity to learn another language than English and Spanish, the architectural and artistic movements that Berlin is known for. In addition, Berlin is not necessarily known for its beauty or its accessibility. A sprawling city, one's travel back from a long night of exploring Berlin's back regions will most often be devoid of other travelers save for the occasional prostitute (legal in Berlin). Pictures of the same city will most likely focus on the derelict beauty of peeling music posters, graffiti, street art, and abandoned buildings left by war and desolation. The expectation is that I will bring back beautiful picturesque visions of a faraway country that resemble a travel pamphlet. However, I find that these back regions of Berlin, the graffiti, the peeling posters, the cigarette smoke, the dingy, decrepit corners of this grimy city, are beautiful and the true reason Berlin is one of the best cities in the world. 

MacCannel mentions that the "motive behind a pilgrimage is similar to that behind a tour: both are quests for authentic experiences" (593). He also goes on to say "that not all tourist have regarded back regions as socially important places" (593). I trust that MacCannel is specifically mentioning this with relation to traveling, but I'd like to touch on the authenticity being a personal endeavor as well. I know that though I am simply a tourist for the time I am here, and will never know what it is like to be a German living in Berlin and speaking fluent German with all its intrinsic linguistic connotations due to my fundamental nature of being American. It is for this reason, therefore, that the authenticity that I am looking for comes from the development of certain mental capacities that I would have never considered or ever really thought possible when I was still in the States. I find it repulsive to know that there are tourists who have no real interest in exploring these back regions, because it is my firm belief that in order to fully understand one facet of a culture, you must understand the less than popular and grimy side of the city. Though typically one does not have enough time to explore both ends of the spectrum, there must at least be a certain desire to explore this side of the city you are perusing, if not simply out of respect. 

The back regions and pilgrimages to the distant cities of the world exemplify the internal battle of the pilgrim in his search for the value of authenticity.  Though the agreed upon superficial component is obvious, these quests can extend deeper than what can be seen from the brief brush with the foreign, the untouched, and the unknown. Whatever the quest may entail, the back regions of every place are important in ones pursuit, whatever it may be. 

It feels odd to consider the touristic space when our whole goal is to transcend it.  Or maybe its not so odd, as we actually exist within its continuum- neither here nor there, floating somewhere between the local and the foreign, constantly surprised by what Ghana has in store for us even as we walk now familiar streets and frequent now-familiar places.  Very few of my fellow students have seen the real Ghana.  I know I certainly have not.   In staying in our compound, air conditioned and  isolated, we feel the pull of the “real” Ghana, and the guilt of not seeing it, but we do not know where to look for it.
Is the real, non tourist Ghana the one we found while we wandered the streets of Cape Coast Township, in the shadow of the famous slave castle.  If it was, it was nothing remarkable, nothing postcard perfect or exotic.  It was real people living their lives, as we stumbled in and out of their stories with cameras in hand, foreign accents and good intentions.  Or maybe we passed it as we walked on a canopy rope bridge in the rainforest, swaying over the man-made precipices and praying that the ropes really could hold a full grown elephant.  I hadn’t known until the that slices of the real Ghana were shades of green that outnumbered the names I had for the color.  I thought then that maybe the real Ghana tasted as oddly sweet and bitter as freshly cracked cocoa fruit.
Or maybe the true is our Ghana, the one with dusty Accra roads and honking taxis, but also with many obrunis and neighbors who knew our names and faces.  I think I once held hands with the real Ghana as the security guard grasped my wish and said a prayer for my safe return from Spring Break.  Maybe now Ghana knows my name and sends me its blessings.
It might be that I cannot see the intimate Ghana until I go and come, ko-bra, ko-bra, and think of flying home to Ghana as just flying home, when that hard dorm mattress is the one that I cannot wait to collapse into and I am missing the rhythm  of Twi and Ga around me.  I will have a chance to test this hypothesis soon, as I leave Ghana for Spring Break, to go home to India, to sleep in bed I still think is mine, even after more time gone than I had spent there. 
I am very rarely interested in tourist attractions, even for all the colors that take my breath away and bring the exotic so close to me I can breathe it in.  My own experience abroad has only ever been the intimate setting of a home, the sweaty skin smell of someone else’s kitchen.  Ghana is a whole new level of the touristic experience, with a stark separation between us and them.  I am learning to seek Ghana in new places; it requires that I be braver, and more adventurous. 

(The picture is my own, of the security guard at Solomon's, where I live.  I've been doing a series of portraits of the Guards.)

Though I found MacCannell’s thesis and main arguments to be interesting, I feel that his elaboration on Goffman’s “front-back dichotomy” (597) is too clear-cut to completely apply to Buenos Aires. This city, and South America on a larger scale, are not “highly developed tourist settings” (601) compared to places in Europe. More often than not, tourists and porteños find themselves occupying the same places together, neither infringing on the reality of the other, but rather, enhancing it. We brush shoulders on the colectivo (bus), sip coffee in the same cafés, lay next to each other in the parks, and dodge the same dog crap along pock-marked sidewalks.
 
Simply put, most spaces here are not usually clearly divided into “front regions” and “back regions,” instead oscillating somewhere between the two (590). Though thoroughly touristy destinations like Caminito in La Boca (Remember those colorful houses?) exist, the fería in San Telmo attracts a good mix of different people. Whereas most cities have strains and connected bustling areas for tourists to explore and seek their “authenticity,” such places here seem to be more isolated, allowing for greater exploration of local authenticity.
 
However, that being said, this past weekend I explored what may possibly be Buenos Aires’ best examples of “front” and “back” regions, strangely intermingling with one another since they lay side by side: Puerto Madero and La Reserva Ecológica (The Ecological Reserve). Puerto Madero was a booming port at the turn of the century that was abandoned shortly after its creation and left to fall to ruin until the government saved it. The area has now become extremely developed (think residential sky scrapers), not to mention expensive, and is very controversial among porteños because of its artificiality. Right behind this small area lays La Reserva Ecológica, a beautiful reserve filled with meadows, parrots, cheap food, and frolicking children. The reserve is definitely a popular place for people that live in Puerto Madero itself, but it draws in tons of peoples from other barrios and, in my opinion, contains the “authenticity” that its neighbor lacks.
 
First, the transition from the dusty railroad tracks to Puerto Madero was astounding. Suddenly, clean red brick buildings, manicured lawns, and expensive restaurants surrounded me. All of Buenos Aires’ quirks and beautiful architecture gave way to a nouveau riche graveyard. The area completely lived up to my expectations based on the advice of porteños; there was nothing in the area except overpriced food and hordes of tourists taking jumping photos on the famous Puente de la Mujer (Bridge). This indeed was “the case wherein mystification is required to create a sense of “real” reality” as MacCannell expressed (591). As I walked farther into the area, I reached an intensely landscaped park, increasingly disliking the area with each step, until I descended a set of steps and landed near the Reserve. Whereas the area behind me had “announcing and revealing” (591) a truth untrue to the city’s character, this beautiful, luscious emerald sea was a reality. Though the region did not necessarily reveal any “secrets” to me, I was finally able to “move off stage, or into the “setting,” and have the “real truth…begin to reveal itself” (592). The truth being that Buenos Aires contains a diverse mix of people that together can enjoy nature and never take for granted the reality of a beautiful landscape that lay before them.

As students in our respective locations, do we act as tourists? And what is the distinction between that and a traveler? At what point in our four-month stays do we finally ‘assimilate’ and reach the “back regions” of a certain place?
 
Dean MacCannell’s deepening on Erving Goffman’s theory about “front” and “back” regions of a visited place provides a structural view of just how tourism functions. Reading this text brought me back to my first week here in Buenos Aires, where everything was new and I embodied everything that was a tourist. I got the cheesy bus tours and guided visits to certain quintessential spots in the city, the so-called stage settings of front regions. But I don’t think that labeling them this way can discount my genuine experience and excitement while visiting them. My initial days here, I just wanted to get to know my way around to gain confidence that I could function in my new home. After the first two weeks or so, I started to crave something more, something beyond those first feelings of enthusiasm, weariness, and wanderlust in the city.
 
I finally began my “religious pilgrimage,” my “quest for authentic experience” as a way of fixing this craving (593). I wanted to enter new social settings, true porteño ones, the back regions of Buenos Aires.  I wanted to leave “false fronts” and enter “intimate reality” (592).  After a full month of living here, it’s hard to say if I have accomplished this mission or not.  Certain experiences are to my satisfaction, but if it is “very difficult to tell for sure if the experience is authentic in fact” as an outsider (597). So who is to say if my craving has genuinely been fulfilled?
 
My questions then continue with the following: can a space be both a front and back region? As in, not a front region that appears to be an authentic back region, nor a back region that is “set up to accommodate outsiders” (602), but rather a space that has both poles flowing through it, where the bridge that exists between them can be walked while within one’s surroundings. I sense that some of my time in different places around the city have been of this sort: a social structure where both the tourist (or the traveler, the student) can coexist with the native, where one is not invading the other’s designated space, but rather enjoying each other’s company. I have found porteños to be extremely welcoming, helpful with my Spanish and general functioning, and even telling me of places that could be considered a back region, and thus, by suggestion, a region for everyone.
 
So perhaps it’s better to resist the “touristic motivation” driven by a desire for the hidden, authentic spaces and just meander until you find a place suited to you, whether it be a front or back region, or a mixture of both.
 
(The above photograph is of La Puente de la Mujer, a bridge by famous Spanish architect and structural engineer Santiago Calatrava. I love this bridge because it is a little piece of my hometown in Buenos Aires; the Milwaukee Art Museum in Wisconsin was also designed by Calatrava [I recommend looking it up to see the similarities, to really get a grasp on his unique style]. Crossing it was so comforting, it was like being on Lake Michigan, but with dirtier waters; it was a back region of Wisconsin placed in a front region of Argentina.)

I really identify with MacCannell's thesis about the traveller's self-constructed mecca and the desire for a time that goes into the deeper waters of experiential awareness. As much as I, and others, want to be part of the “real” culture here, by being mere outsiders this becomes not only difficult but sometimes impossible. I want people to be understanding of my lack of knowledge about the language and how I need to act, I want them to help me feel comfortable. These desires conflict with my wanting to be seamlessly woven into the fabric of German society.

However, while travelling has often been a spiritually fulfilling experience, it is a bit different here. Only on a few occasions, and very recently, have I been to the areas frequented by “tourists.” 'Hooray!' I think. 'I am part of authenticity!' But that doesn't feel true either. I am existing on this narrow plane of liminal space- not quite a Berliner, not really an outsider looking for the magic belly of the beast. Because of this weirdly isolating space I occupy, standing in line at a club to have the fate of one's night decided or interning with a local artist can either feel authentic or a conjured NYU event.

This last Friday when I visited a number of Haulocaust memorials I was practically basking in the opportunity to feel comfortable as one identity- an outsider. I did not feel the pressure of feeling like I had to “know what I was doing” because I lived there, but rather, I felt the ultimate freedom to experience a place, made for natives and visitors alike, that only exists, as MacCannell would put it, in the “front.”

It was here at the Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe where I had a very tourist-American, but also very unique spritiual experience. There were other tourists there running in between the stone blocks trying to scare one another. In the process, I was mistaken for somebody else a number of times and found myself wandering around in temporary fear of being frightened by a yelling teenager popping out from in front of me. While I would probably have expected to be annoyed at such an interruption to my deep meditation on the Haulocaust and its victims, I found the experience of being lost, scared, and confused inside the memorial to be on the whole more authentic than any morbid thoughts I may have conjured up.

Image taken when D and I went to the Memorial for Murdered Jews of Europe

I found Dean MacCannell’s article Staged Authenticity: Arrangements of Social Space in Tourist Settings to be really interesting. Mainly because the African continent can arguably be one of the exceptions to some of the many theories he presented. Africa is not only generalized and spoken of as a country rather than the continent that it is, it also has such a vivid and preconceived image of “authenticity” that scares most tourists away. I remember telling my friends and family that I had decided to apply for NYU-Accra. Not only did most of them not know where Ghana was located in Africa, but many of them tried to hide the worried look on their faces as the African generalizations began swarming their minds.

For the most part I haven’t found Ghana to be hiding much of anything from me. From the open gutters that I see men and children peeing in every day to the mass amounts of flies lingering on the fruit that I buy from Mary, there really isn’t a sense of disgrace when it comes to some of the actions foreigners may not be used to. Sure there are always those select few places like the expensive hotels and expatriate community that try to put up a front but I think that stems more from the fact that these people are incredibly wealthy and looking to turn a foreign place into the home they were so used to.

I think to think that among all the cell phones and internet Ghana has been able to keep to her traditional customs while slowly integrating the new westernized influence that is almost inevitably happening. The dancing, texting, eating, fashion, driving, and personal interaction are the ways in which I see the real Ghana, the authentic and no-so-stereotypical West Africa that so many of my friends and family worried about before. It is almost like the reverse of what MacCannell was talking about. All we hear about in America and all over the world is the backroom dirty work that goes on in the continent of Africa, but once you get here, you realize that there is a reception and lobby in front of all the hearsay and generalities. A welcoming place that not only gives you an “authentic” experience, but isn’t even aware of it.

Just a few days ago NYU-Accra held a special screening of a documentary called An African Election. It was about the 2008 presidential elections here in Ghana. The entire film was incredibly informative about the campaigning, citizen’s opinions, voting, counting, the electoral commission, and the high tensions that rise during election season. It was during this documentary that I noticed how important and special voting is to some of the people. While I’ve heard in past that many do not vote because of the long process I have noticed that everyone is well informed of the candidates and follows politics very closely. I think this was my moment of true authenticity when the movie took a dark turn after the elections had to turn to a second round vote. Violence broke out and the competition started getting to everyone. It at this point that I think the entire audience sat at the edge of their seats wondering the same thing, could this election prove the African stereotype to be true? Will it only end in violence and riot? This is the point where Ghana proved that many of what people think is the authentic African experience most definitely is not. Ghana came together as a country and elected President Atta Mills. It was through celebration and understanding that I learned what Ghana is really capable of; unity.  

  

The desire to be in the “back regions” of a place as opposed to just looking at it from the front goes far beyond the idea of tourist nature and into the realms of human nature in general.  We constantly want to know how thinks work: Who IS that man behind the curtain and should we really be paying him no attention?

The question of authenticity in tourist experiences is one by which I am constantly plagued.  On a recent trip to Florence I got into an argument of sorts where I found myself defending the side of people who visit a place and simply follow the guidebook.  If the guidebook says to go see Michelangelo’s “The David” and then you go do it, is there something wrong with that?  Perhaps you don’t know the significance of the statue, perhaps your only feeling that surrounds your experience there is that it was “cool” to see it…but you have to start somewhere right?  Dean MacCannell notes in his article “Staged Authenticity: Arrangements of Social Space in Tourist Settings,” “the insight gained by touristic experience has been criticized as less than profound…but the tourist setting per se is just beginning to prompt intellectual commentary” (598).  Tourist settings are just that; a starting point, a place from which you will either be inspired to continue your quest for knowledge about a particular subject or not. 

This is not to say that taking a picture of you and the David and then leaving to get gelato across the street is really taking advantage of your starting point. (You’re probably “authentic” Italian gelato is also probably way overpriced).  According to D.J. Boorstin (author of “The Image: A Guide to Pseudo-Events in America”), the tourist “’expects everything to be done to him and for him’” (600).  This is where the danger lies: in allowing yourself to pay too much for gelato (or a crêpe in my case).

Let me tell you, the crêpes by the Eiffel Tower are by far the most expensive and the WORST crêpes in Paris.  But if I were only in Paris to see the Eiffel Tower and leave, I would probably have my crêpe there and would be misleadingly satisfied.  I would not have known that crêpes are supposed to be made from batter right before your eyes and not just simply re-heated from a pre-made stack (or at least the best ones are).  Or that instead of getting a fancy one topped with Nutella and almonds, you can go simple to be satisfied and just get the cheapest one that is always at the top of the list: butter and sugar.  I learned these things though having now been to many, many crêpe stands all over Paris. I don’t know if that’s me having traversed through all the tourist aspects of getting crêpes in Paris or if I’m simply a super tourist who has been here long enough to have extensive crêpe knowledge and experience.  (The above picture is from one of the times I had a crêpe in an actual crêperie as opposed to just a stand).  However, I have a feeling that the best crêpes are the ones that my Host-Mom makes with her crêpe machine.  I have yet to try those.  I did however make my own crêpes with my friend Maya one night and they were très delicieuses!  Perhaps I am getting closer to figuring out the authentic Parisian experience.  Or perhaps I am just eating a lot of crêpes.
 

In Dean MacCannell’s article, “Staged Authenticity: Arrangements of Social Space in Tourist Settings,” he places tourist locations on a degree of authenticity. He argues that tourists often fail to see everything the way it should be seen. However, he states that some tourists do try to go beyond others in an attempt to understand and appreciate a specific society and culture, “exposure of back regions is a casual part of their touristic experience. What they see in the back is only another show: it does not shock, trick, or anger them, and they do not express any feelings of having been made less pure by their discovery” (MacCannell 1973: 601) . Over the last month in Florence, I have tried to experience authentic Italian life and culture, “all tourists desire this deeper involvement with society and culture to some degree; it is a basic component of their motivation to travel” (MacCannell 1976: 10).  I definitely fall under this category that MacCannell is talking about. I mean, I am here for a semester; won’t I stop being labeled as a ‘tourist’ at some point? I didn’t want to be led around by a tour guide; I wanted to become a part of Italian society.  Therefore, I decided to go to Florence’s Chabbad House one Friday night. Chabbad Houses, which are located all over the world, allow Jews to gather to celebrate the Sabbath together. I’m not going to lie I was a little nervous. I knew the Jewish community here in Florence is not that big, but I thought it would be a great opportunity to see what Jewish life here is really like and to meet locals. It turns out that the Jewish community here is even smaller than I had thought. Dinner was made up of twenty Americans who were either traveling or studying abroad in Florence. The rabbi didn’t even live in Florence. He commuted once a week from Milan, where he heads the Jewish community. On my walk home for dinner, I wondered if trying to immerse myself with the Jewish community here really qualifies as authentic. It was the first thing I had thought of because I knew it would be the easiest and most comforting. I should have none that by choosing an act connected to religion would not result to success or authenticity. It is obvious that people need travel in order to seek out new experiences and ways of life for themselves. I guess I will have to try harder.
 
 

Authenticity and Abu Dhabi are not put into the same sentence very often.  The opposite combination, Abu Dhabi and fake, however, is very commonplace. People like to discuss how the Emirates, or the Gulf region as a whole, “has no culture.”  Or at least, no “traditional culture.”  They always cite the figure that only 10-15% of Abu Dhabi residents are even Emirati, point to English and Urdu as more used than Arabic, and talk about how drastically life has changed since oil was found 50 years ago, to show that Emirati culture has been pushed aside. Yet I think that this ever-prevalent discourse is a bit unfair, and I have two things to say to it:  first, that the Emirates have created a new, international and cosmopolitan culture, and second, that many aspects of pre-oil Emirati life are still to be found, just not shoved in the face of outsiders. 
 
As for the newly formed international culture, this is one of the parts of living in Abu Dhabi that I have appreciated and learned from the most.  Looking out my window I can see food shops from half a dozen countries, I walk outside and hear multiple languages, and upon meeting new people one of the first things asked is, “where are you from?”  Granted, the same things can be said for New York, but in Abu Dhabi it is vastly different.  Most importantly, because people are here long-term, there aren’t just a lot of tourists from all over, but people from every nation imaginable are residents of Abu Dhabi, and the city is theirs (though citizenship is nearly impossible to attain).  Furthermore, there is little assimilation in Abu Dhabi; when you move here you do not take on many Emirati customs, but instead become a part of the hodgepodge of internationality that is the Emirates.  Almost everyone here is a foreigner and we take weird comfort in that.  You can feel the pulse of the world in Abu Dhabi, as you can in New York, but here you realize that something more than the “West” exists.  That said, things are very different here for the migrant workers and the ex-pat businessmen and us students, and while I’m not privy to the inner-workings of the former, in my experience, the world has never felt smaller.
 
Considering Emirati culture itself, I think the main mistake people make when criticizing ‘culture’ in this region is to think that it is something frozen and immovable overtime.  However, Abu Dhabi shows how dynamic culture can be, how it involves more than praxis, but attitude and outlook as well.  Yes, young Emiratis do not live the Bedouin lifestyle of their grandparents’ childhoods, but the attitudes and values of family and society, the love for traditional dress, food and religious practice, and faith in their leaders remains strong.  It is true that foreigners do not easily access Emirati culture, and it is largely clouded in mystery, but the separation alone highlights that there is still a difference.  Numerous things that I have learned about the culture from research and discussions with Emirati friends are fascinating and inspiring to me, and though rapidly changing in many ways, I feel its presence and appreciate it.
 
In the end, it is hard to think about ‘authenticity’ in the Emirates, because the essence of the place is hard to assess.  Abu Dhabi is authentically international and Abu Dhabi maintains authentic or traditional attitudes.  These things can not be observed solely by the ideas of ‘front’ or ‘back’ space that MacCannell suggests, because Abu Dhabi is so multi-layered and dynamic, more so than any other place I’ve ever known.

Goffman’s theory of the front and back regions in society and MacCannell’s elaboration and further specification of this were so fascinating and spot on to the authenticity of life and particularly travel experiences. Living in a homestay has given me such an interesting “back” view of Argentine daily life and customs. When living with someone for four months, the barriers come down. My homestay madres (I’ve had three now) have no opportunity for mystification when they first get up in the morning and we’re shuffling around each other in the kitchen, looking for maté; that’s their real lives and I have the unique opportunity to be a part of it. Different stages, however, exist within the homestay. Dinner each night is probably as frontal as homestay living gets – our madre chooses the menu, the time is set; it’s pretty staged.
 
There’s a definite shift in people’s behavior the moment they notice that I’m from the US and indeed not Argentine. It always happens the moment I speak; no matter how good my Spanish gets, the US accent gives me away. I can tell that people immediately put on barriers and become more formal. I oftentimes feel judged for all the horrible Americans they’ve had to encounter overemphasizing their broken Spanish loudly while they’re just trying to have a café con leche and medialunas or speaking down to them like a cleaning lady. It’s hard representing oneself when there is so much baggage that comes along – United States, Florida, female, Jewish. I feel tired just listing it.
 
I disagree with their notion that a sightseer is trying to have an authentic experience, but a tourist wants a caricature of the society. When I’m living in New York, I never go see the Statue of Liberty, heck, I only visit museums when I have very little homework. Alternately, having lived in Argentina, I know the citizens don’t go to Teatro Colon or the Recoleta graveyard just to stroll and rekindle their memories. The landmarks of one’s culture are not places where people spend time. They are, however, important backdrops to the city that create theje no se pa (I’m sorry French speakers) of each place. Though landmarks become trite and touristy, they helped to build the city into what it is. The Recoleta cemetery is a mark of the outrageous wealth of Argentina in the 19th century and the importance of family within their culture. The cheesy milongas come from a fascinating history of the mixing of immigration slang through the Lunfardo dialect and people who didn’t speak the same language communicating through dance. Cities needed these at one point to build the culture and now they are fossils to teach those who don’t understand. 

The image is from the Boca neighborhood, once authentic, now a rather touristy place to visit.

Everyday I witness “Staged Authenticity.” On my way to campus, I have to pass the Duomo and Piazza Signoria. Here at Piazza Signoria is the copy of the statue of Michelangelo’s The David. There are lines of people waiting to take a picture of the smaller and fake version of this masterpiece. Little do they know that the real thing is only a few blocks away from them in the Academia. To them the copy is enough because they are “in Italy” and don’t have time to see everything the country has to offer. However I don’t believe they are actually “seeing Italy” in an authentic way. They are outsiders looking in, and think that they will understand the country from a distance.
Italy has worked with tourists for hundreds of years. For example the pilgrimages who travel to see the relics in Italian cathedrals were the prime source of the churches profit. “Pilgrims attempted to visit a place where an event of religious importance actually occurred” (593). The cathedrals were built larger and grander in order to attract and fit more people inside during these journeys. Today it isn’t any different, however instead of experiencing a religious event, they are just there to see the history and art.
I do agree with Dean MacCannell’s idea in Staged Authenticity that “Touristic consciousness is motivated by its desire for authentic experiences, and the tourist may believe that he is moving in this direction, but often it is very difficult to tell of sure if the experience is authentic in fact” (597). The difficulty in determining authentic and inauthentic in Florence is that the Italians don’t want to share their experience. The tourists continue to look on the surface because no one will let them into back regions. Tourists have to keep their distance in order to avoid any conflict, therefore this cycle of looking only at the facade of the region repeats itself.
I feel that the closest way to understanding an authentic experience is living in the country for a long period of time. Here you can get to know the reason for their behavior and communicate with them about non touristic topics. Studying Abroad is a special opportunity to see Italy from the back regions. “Being “one of them,” or at one with “them,” means, in part, being permitted to share back regions with “them.” This is a sharing which allows one to se behind the others’ mere performances, to perceive and accept the others for what they really are” (592). However I have noticed that some students don't integrate with the locals and stay among their fellow Americans and won't get be “permitted to share the back regions with them.” This is That is why I am grateful for my home-stay because I have learned a lot more about authentic Italian customs from a family that is very willing to share their culture with me..  
I have started to appreciate the value of authentic products in Italy. I believe tourists travel to Italy to experience the “real things” such as hand-made pasta, local wine, or real gelato. However they may be ripped off if they don’t notice the quality of their purchases. I recently learned that the beautiful fluffy Gelato that you see in Piazza Della Repubblica is not authentic. The bright color gelato is “gelato industriale” where it is a powder mix made by a machine. Italians usually avoid this tourist trap and only eat “gelato artigianale” at local places. This gelato is hand made, with no harsh chemicals. This staged gelato experience is one of many traps that Italians offer tourists in an effort to make more money.  While the visitors think they experiencing real gelato they are in “a kind of living museum for which they have no analytical terms” (596).