There's No Map in the Sky: A Guide to Tourism in New York

Imagine this, if you will. You’re at work. It’s 1:41 and you have a meeting at 2. This meeting won’t be over until 5 and you need to run to the bank. The bank is less than five minutes away, ergo this quick errand is entirely doable. So, you head out. You walk briskly to your car, hop in, and start the engine. You're pumped up and ready to take care of business. And suddenly, there I am. Standing in front of your car, staring at the sky.

You wait a moment to see if I move. I don’t. You sigh dramatically, hoping I’ll get the hint. I don’t. You look around, hoping to find some way around me. There's none. You’re starting to get pretty pissed so you honk at me. Now that I realize you've noticed me, I pull out a map and ask you how to get to Dash. You know, the Kim Kardashian store? Annoyed, you point me in the right direction. Instead of moving, I hand you a camera and ask if you’ll take a picture of me. I want everyone to know that I was here. Standing in your way. Fucking up your flow.

So, how does this whole scenario make you feel? Do you hate me? Do you find me incredibly obnoxious? Do you wish I would go back to the fanny-pack wonderland from whence I came so you could take a 19-minute break and not return to work in a homicidal rage?

Welcome to my world.

You see, I've gotten a lot of flak for expressing how I feel about the tourists who turn my lunch break into a game of Frogger. Granted, the majority of this criticism comes from people that don't live here. They remind me that it comes with the territory. And they're absolutely right. I'd be a jackass if I moved to Oklahoma and then constantly bitched about all the tornadoes. But then again, someone's gotta get on TV and tell everyone what the twister sounded like when it went through the trailer park. And that someone is me.

Last year around this time, something magical happened. This showed up right outside the Flatiron Building.

Beautiful, isn't it? I was devastated to learn that this ingenious idea was actually the work of an anonymous prankster. At least that's what the media called it. A prank. Honestly though, is it that outrageous that slow movers go in one lane and fast movers go in the other? Doesn't every highway in America provide both options? If you're in a hurry, get in the left lane. If you're not, get in the right. It's just that simple. In fact, let's explore this traffic analogy a little more, shall we?

Let's say you're driving down the highway and you realize you have no idea where you are. Do you slam on the brakes in the middle of the fast lane so you can pull out a map? Because if you do, then you deserve to get hit by the semi that slams into you a few seconds later. However, chances are you do what any normal person would do in this situation and you pull over. You get out of the way of moving traffic so you can collect your thoughts and come up with a plan. So, Mrs. Bonnie Hapshatt of Elk City, Idaho, I ask you this—why the hell aren't you pulling over when you're lost on my highway? You think that just because the millions of people that live and work in New York aren't in cars that traffic rules don't apply? Walking as a mode of transportation?! Pshhh! What buffoonery! Well, you know what, Mrs. Bonnie Hapshatt? I hate you. I hate you, Mr. Hapshatt, and your moon-faced Hapshatt children. And everyone else here hates you too.

I work in SoHo. I've worked in SoHo for nearly four years now, save for the eight-month stint at another job about two blocks south of Penn Station. Penn Station is infuriating because of the lost, luggage-wielding morons who stare at the sky as if a map will appear from the heavens, but SoHo is a far more hateful beast. Not only do we get our fair share of sky-starers, we also get the shoppers. When tourists come to New York, they're just dying to spend some money in SoHo. I'm totally fine with that. SoHo's awesome and, quite frankly, I don't blame them one bit for wanting to be here. However, if a tourist, once again, slams on the breaks because of a shiny distraction, then that tourist must be fully prepared for the upcoming impact from a semi, or in this case, an irate editor on her way to Duane Reade.

There's also the tourist who decides to make a sharp left turn into Uniqlo or Steve Madden, for instance. This behavior is essentially the same thing as cutting someone off on the highway. So, go ahead and call me a bitch, Amber Oakdale of Branson, Missouri. Your entourage of airheads will surely be impressed that you got sassy with a local when she shoved past your oblivious ass.

I know it seems as though I hate absolutely every tourist that visits New York. This is not true. In fact, I do notice the group of tourists that pulls over when lost. And as my special way of saying thank you, I pull up next to them to ask if I can help. Sadly, these tourists usually don't speak English, so my kind gesture usually leaves me feeling guilty because I'm almost certain I've inadvertently sent them to the Bronx. But it's the thought that counts, right?

In conclusion, all I'm asking is that tourists remember that people live and work here too. Remember—if you wouldn't do it on the highway, don't do it on Broadway. And to all the Mrs. Bonnie Hapshatts and Amber Oakdales of this world, don't resent me for making you feel unwelcome. Thank me for enhancing your cultural experience in New York.