I am the Overtourist. I’m here to overtour your picturesque town or world-class city. Shooting water pistols at me only hydrates and emboldens me.
I have no idea how anything works here. I will pause in the middle of crowded sidewalks, amble in rushing zones, and fail to possess the correct app, ticket, identification, or change. I will wait to decide my deli order until I’m at the front of the line so I can ask the sandwich maker to explain the difference between mortadella, soppressata, and capicola, and that’s before I start asking him about the bread options.
I am here to sample the substances you’ve recently legalized: psychedelic mushrooms, raw milk, and Indiana Pacers jerseys. I will try all of them at once and hallucinate while vomiting in my Pacers jersey at the precise intersection whose closure most disrupts your morning commute.
Where are your public toilets? I have come to make their lines so long you will never be able to pee again. This might be the way you die, like a cartoon character, the whites of your eyes filling from the bottom with yellow.
