Not so CRUISY
KERRE WARNS US ABOUT THE POTENTIAL HORRORS OF CITY TOURS
Iwas torn. Our little group in Buenos Aires had decided to take a half-day tour of the city. There would, of course, be merriment and fun, and I didn’t want to miss out on that. On the other hand, it was a beautiful day and I didn’t want to spend it sitting in a bus for hours. We’d already enjoyed a half-day tour of Buenos Aires, and I didn’t really think I would learn much more from another sightseeing trip. I wanted to get my hair blow-waved before we went out for dinner and a tango demonstration too. I’m also very wary about these sorts of trips.
I’ve definitely been on some terrible tours before.
In San Francisco, the guide refused to let anyone talk or use their mobile devices. When my daughter Kate and I tried to slip away at one stop-off point, he chased after us and interrogated us as to why we were leaving midway through the tour. I had to invent a family bereavement and early flights home. The guilty Catholic in me started to worry that I’d bring death upon one of my dearly beloved relatives for telling such a dreadful lie. He didn’t believe me, but Kate and I managed to escape and flag down a taxi, making our getaway.
In Athens, the guide was such an arrogant, chain-smoking, nasty piece of work that we all revolted and even though we’d signed up to do a couple more sightseeing tours with her, we couldn’t bear the thought of being in her company for a second longer and cancelled them. It meant missing out on seeing Ephesus, but she would have ruined the experience anyway.
Being talked at for hours might suit some people and these sorts of tours do let you see the city expeditiously, but I’d had my fill of history factoids. So after much dithering, I decided to opt out and spend the afternoon relaxing and enjoying Buenos Aires my own way.
Almost immediately after I’d waved goodbye to the group, I started receiving texts. The guide was atrocious. He smelt strongly of drink and because this was a public tour, not the private one we’d enjoyed earlier, he repeated the same information in three different languages. Some of the crew had remembered headphones, so they were able to zone out on podcasts and Spotify, but the rest were trapped – dying a slow death of boredom and resentment.
They were on the bus for hours and when they stopped off at a café for overpriced empanadas, the girls tried to run for it. They asked about taxis, but because they were so far out of town, the woman behind the counter said they’d probably have to wait an hour before anyone came to rescue them. The ‘river cruise’ part of the tour, when it came, wasn’t a gorgeous jaunt in a luxury yacht with Champagne on tap – my idea of fun. Nor was it on crystal blue waters under a cloudless sky. The river was brown and lacked any appeal, although, as I understand it, utterly vital to the city.
The team was bundled together for a quick sprint on a utilitarian sea vessel before being herded onto the bus and delivered back to the hotel as shattered wrecks five and a half hours after they’d set off. They were deeply envious of my day, but like survivors of shared bad experiences tend to do, they had concocted great war stories.
Merriment and fun was had over dinner, but I’m so glad I followed my gut instinct and gave the tour a miss. At 53, I only have so much time on the planet. I really don’t want to spend it on a bus, being talked at for hours.