The case for tourist traps
As a Louisiana girl, I harbor an annual fantasy of family hikes through golden fall foliage in the mountains: flannels and boots, wholesome snacks, cheeks pink with the kisses of alpine air. School schedules usually thwart this dream, but a few years ago we managed to eke out a quick trip to the Great Smoky Mountains National Park near Gatlinburg.
I’d planned for hazy bike rides through Cades Cove and rainbow trout dinners, historic pioneer sites and deep-forest waterfalls. Our kids took one step onto the main strip and began begging for mini-golf, bulk candy shops, and Ripley’s Believe It or Not.
Tons of other families packed the strip. We pushed our kids past the crowds at mass-produced souvenir shops and chain restaurants with admonishments about tourist traps versus authentic experiences. “I can’t imagine wasting all your time and money on such a generic vacation,” I told them. One of the kids quipped, “Yeah, but at least they’re actually having fun.”
I will never be the person who loves amusement parks or arcades. I will always be the person standing in line at Disney, thinking, For the price of these stupid passes I could actually be in Europe. But when we finally bought wristbands to the outdated, mediocre “adventure park” perched above the Gatlinburg strip, our kids lit up. They pressed against the windows of the dangling tram as it rattled up the mountain. “Look how high we are!” they squealed. They ran through fake snow sputtering from an exhausted-looking machine. They filled bags with neon candy and gobbled down funnel cake so processed it may have actually been plastic. They cashed in ten million prize tickets for slime. In short, they absolutely loved it—more than the breathtaking mountain vistas and handcrafted Appalachian spoon dolls.
What is the end of travel, anyway? What is the best way to spend our precious time and money? My strongest instincts (er, opinions): to learn about another culture, to immerse yourself in the unfamiliar so new truth can pierce you, to experience the richness of authentic encounter. Yet there’s something even more important, especially when we travel with our family or friends—relationship. All of the rest serves the unmatched joy of simply being together.
I understand the desire to avoid tourist traps; I don’t want Instagram clichés or restaurants with 9,000 reviews, either. But sometimes disdain for tourist traps can be a furtive thief of the very joy that makes travel worthwhile.
It’s been about seven years since our Gatlinburg trip. At least a few times every year since then, our kids bring it up. Remember that giant gumball we bought? Remember the fake snowman we made? Remember the pancake place where we ate?
Yes. I remember it all—even the most forgettable—because I remember us there, together.
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