Overrated Tourist Attractions — And Why We Keep Going to Them Anyhow
In DepthLast month, while visiting Copenhagen, I got a text from a friend: “Did you see the goddamned mermaid statue?”
I had. The goddamned mermaid statue, a tribute to the famous fairy tale by Danish author Hans Christian Andersen, is, along with the gorgeous Tivoli Gardens and the fascinating anarchist micro-nation of Christiania, one of Copenhagen’s top tourist attractions. Unfortunately, it’s also completely underwhelming. The most visited sight in the city, the bronze figure sits perched atop a rock in the harbor, perpetually surrounded by photo-snapping travelers who are unloaded by the busful alongside the promenade. Removed from its literary context, it’s hard to imagine the statue stopping anyone in their tracks, as there’s little to distinguish it besides a plaque explaining its connection to a beloved story. A number of vandals apparently share my contempt: the statue has, at various times, been decapitated, doused with paint, and even crowned with a dildo.
Before we even went to see the mermaid, my fellow travelers and I knew it would amount to nothing much—it’s clear from the many photos of the statue online—and yet we felt compelled to go, as did hundreds of other visitors that day.
Any list of popular tourist destinations will yield plenty of duds and disappointments amid the legitimately exciting sights. What’s interesting is that overrated attractions are often predictably so—but still people pucker up for the germ-smeared Blarney Stone, or pose at Pisa for the requisite holding-up-the-Leaning-Tower photo. We schlep to Stonehenge, pay the steep admission fee, and then peer from afar at the rocks, rendered tiny and uninspiring from behind the barriers that keep visitors at a distance. We crowd into the Louvre to catch an in-person glimpse of the Mona Lisa’s smile, which we could’ve seen much more clearly via a Google Images search, sparing ourselves the frustration of trying to spot the painting through a forest of glowing smartphones held aloft.
Even Times Square—to be sure, a singularly energetic locale—has tourists to thank for its bustle, not New Yorkers, who give the neighborhood as wide a berth they would a subway rat colony. But most natives acknowledge that their out-of-town friends should at least poke their heads in long enough to see Minnie Mouse and Hello Kitty throw down.
But why, really, do travelers feel obliged to drive several hours to a Loch Ness they know is devoid of cryptids? Why did we visit the mermaid, rather than, say, spend an extra hour smoking hash in Christiania’s green light district?
Generally, there seem to be two schools of traveler: the quasi-frantic sightseer, awake before dawn and armed with a list of destinations, perhaps culled from thorough guidebook research conducted beforehand, rarely veering from the well-trod tourist circuit. And then there’s the wanderer who meanders through neighborhoods at random, ducking in and out of cafes and bars, seeking a sense of how the locals live.
The former type undoubtedly seems less adventurous, cycling through a series of landmarks that might as well exist in isolation from the cities they’re in. But it’s understandable if fewer folks are comfortable with the freewheeling approach: Americans get the least paid vacation time among citizens of developed countries, and many workers receive none at all. With a mere week or so out of the entire year to explore the wider world—if they can even afford that, which many Americans feel they can’t—it’s not surprising that there’s pressure to pack in as much as possible. If you know you’ll have to wait 365 days for your next chance to get out of town, neglecting to visit top attractions can feel wasteful. My friends and I knew we wouldn’t be in Denmark again any time soon, we figured, so yes, we might as well see the goddamned mermaid.
In addition to this sense of obligation, safety concerns are also a factor when it comes to the freewheeling approach. I’ve long been a fan of the New York Times’ Frugal Traveler column—the current writer, Seth Kugel, is solidly in the “mosey through neighborhoods” camp, and shows true ingenuity in sticking to a tight budget. But I’d argue that as a white man, Kugel has far more options when it comes to where he can mosey. How many women and people of color, I wonder, would feel comfortable embarking on a solo bike tour of Kentucky’s back roads, striking up conversations with groups of men in parking lots, and accepting an invitation to sleep in a stranger’s hunting cabin, as Kugel recently did?