Airbnb,
a symptom itself of the disease that tourism is rather than the cause, has been
ceaselessly and, largely unchallenged by governments, destroying historic city centers
around the globe for years.
City
centers have been emptying from their respectful residents only to be replaced
by short stay visitors encouraged to act
as idiots.
Indeed,
to be a tourist is to exemplify senselessness, to lose touch with the social
reality around you, whether it is a favela somewhere in Brazil or yet another bankrupt
grumpy morning in Athens.
Performed
childishness aims to the pursuit of happiness, to pure and uninterrupted joy, to
limitless pleasure, occasionally to the releasing of your inhibitions too, just
like Lars von trier’s Idioterne
fictional heroes; a naive simplification that was embedded in the Constitution
of a young and promising nation some two centuries ago – isn’t it that we
identify youth with immaturity?
We
do, for a good reason: happiness is a mere illusion and its pursuit nothing
more than a wild goose chase. It’s only by seeking truth from logical fallacies
that one manages to draw a distinction between zōē and bios
and the inconvenient truth is that tourism kills:
our
imagination, the planet.
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