A particular class of tourist
Welcome to party town. I’m a little short on capital letters right now, but given the start of Carnaval two nights ago, I should be able to find some extras, once the tourists are through with them.
My first winter in the city, I had “anticipation” written all over me, when the horns started blowing and the parade routes were published. Finally, taking part in a big festival. I hadn’t calculated just how cold the whole process might be, and after my first time around there was no reason to repeat. I became blasé, and settled into the routine that marks me as “local”, in a way that my accent belies (every time I speak).
But forget about me. This remains a “destination” for thousands of people, and leading the parade are the students from elsewhere. Elsewhere is synonymous with Ontario, due to proximity. Oh, and a lower drinking age. Mainly, the lower drinking age…
I have spies. In the hotel industry, this is “make money fortnight”. Full floors, extra staff, the ability to bill agressively for damages to rooms. Because, even if the kids don’t tell ma and pa the whole story of their vacation, the envelopes bearing credit card charges do provide footnotes.
Under the influence of winter, the kids don’t dress well, do learn that alcohol has emetic properties (particularly in the warmth of the hotel) and add to the burden of policing. My own kids have adapted to the pressure of slack age verification, but the tourists are here for a good time, not a long time. At least, the part they remember.
