The falls themselves are majestic for exactly five minutes, then instantly no more interesting then the back of a seat of a vehicle heading on it’s way out of town. This is the major struggle of a Niagara Falls desperate to empty the pockets of those attracted to those first five. The end result is a laboured night life and a sprawl of wacky tourist adventures that wear a person into submission rather then attempt to legitimate please. Tight fit businesses that belong on the back street of Las Vegas where underaged youths can pass the time while their bourbon fueled father tries to win his way into an income bracket that can support his mid life crisis. Businesses themed with a chaotic wackiness something like a child imagines inebrieation to be; Haunted Houses, 3-D Movies, and zany exhibits with classic sideshow promises. A place where lack of substance is made up for in snack variety.
Everywhere you go locals hate tourists. That means most places you go, people hate you. This self-defeating cycle is further absurd because as a culture we hold those who travel so highly, yet mostly we think of tourists as herds of people entertained by mediocrity. We put value in travelling the globe, yet if a person walks confused into your hometown bar with sunglasses tan lines and a map in hand, you’d roll your eyes at the biggest idiot alive. This is the service that travellers come to expect, so much so they resort to attaching a system of small flags to their luggage in hopes of minimizing the social flogging.
I used this paradoxical fallacy to my advantage when playing up the dumb tourist facade in a town with an economic climate allowing that allows two competing full sized replicas Robert Wadlow “The World’s Tallest Man” to tower on the sidewalk.
I went for a haircut in Niagara Falls a few blocks from the noise and around in a part of town that resembled nomal society. The kind of place that I knew would be owned and operated by a man that counted on my money but loathes my out-of-towner existence. I saw him there in his barber’s smock and tradition pushbroom mustache. There was the odd flash of red in his receding grey hair; he was old but not defeated. His barber’s diploma said Joseph. I proclaimed loudly “I’m here from out of town!”
But as I hopped into his swivel chair I changed the subject, I dominated narrative, turned it towards uncomfortable topics like religion and WWII. “Hey Joe, what’d do you think about the size of Japan’s army these days?”
Finally Joe interupted me in hopes of steering the conversation back to the safe waters of small talk. “So young fellar’, what’d you think about the falls?”
“Psst. The falls… I didn’t bother.”
“Wha’What’d you mean?”
“Not interested in the falls.”
“…but you came all this way. You should at least take a peak.”
Now at this point Whether or not I actually spit on his floor is unimportant, but I let him know I was disgusted!
“Listen Joe, I didn’t drive all the way to Southern Ontario to watch water fall over a cliff!”
This hurt him deeply I could tell. Because though strong for his age, and as hateful of tourist as he surely is, there’s still a pride that runs through men like Joe’s veins. A pride as fierce as the river water and gravity. Joe blinked rapidly in confusion “What the heck did you come here for?”
“I came here to see your wax museums. Specifically to see the legends of grunge music brought to wax life.”
“… and how were they?”
I defintely spit this time “Atrocious. Eddie Vedder’s head was over sized and melty and the flannel shirt he was wearing wasn’t even made of wax! It was just a regular flannel shirt. Water I can see falling off of things whenever I want to whereever I am in the universe. But Kurt Cobain, I never had the chance to see Nirvana live. That wax replica was my chance, and Niagara Falls ruined my dreams!”
And that my friends is how I paid for the worst haircut of my life.
