Intrepid Lonely Planet writer Robert Reid has a great statement about the perils and pleasures of guidebook writing on his website (you’re looking for the page title ‘This Is Work’). Also check out his great “Moustache Blog” about his travels in Russia.
His thoughts on the influence of guidebook authors dovetails nicely with the current post on Killing Batteries, though Leif phrases it as “The sickening power of the guidebook author”.
Maybe it’s because these guys have both worked in super-sketchy Eastern Europe, or that they write for the company with the strongest name recognition in the budget-travel world, but I think they have more sickening power than I do. The words “Rough Guides” have never inspired any Mexican tourism professionals to fall to their knees and grovel, alas (although I have been told how beautiful I am on several occasions, which is quite nice). And the words “Moon Handbooks” have actually led to a door being slammed in my face and double-locked in Albuquerque, but I think that says a lot more about Albuquerque than it does about the publisher.
Aside from that little interlude, though, I have been treated with respect, but not outright fawning–and really, that’s ideal. Equally important, I’ve been given all kinds of weird gossip, advice and guidance–some of it spurious, but mostly useful and occasionally titillating.
See, most people can’t help themselves from revealing their little travel tips. In Taos, I happened upon a drunk man pondering the recent death of a friend on a dangerous curve over the river. He was in a very philosophical mood for a bit, but he turned practical when I happened to mention the work I was doing: “Hey, there’s a great secret waterfall up the road from Arroyo Seco…” he began, and he went on to give me precise mileage and landmarks. I didn’t have time to check it out, though, so his secret hangout spot with his old high-school buddy has not been revealed in the pages of Moon Santa Fe, Taos & Albuquerque.
And that’s why I do this job: I absolutely must give advice if someone asks. If I had found this guy’s secret waterfall, and it was super-cool, I would’ve had to tell the world. People always wonder how I walk that line: Do I “spoil” a place by revealing that I like it? I bet I have all kinds of little secret spots I never share with anyone…
Oh, gimme a break–of course I tell. That’s my job, and I’m such a know-it-all expert that it gratifies me no end to think I’m giving my readers the scoop.
How did I get to be like this? In grade school, of course, I was always the “I-know-I-know-I-know” kid with my hand in the air, but then I quit that in mid school when I realized people would like me better if I kept my mouth shut. I suppressed my answer urge for years, and then, just after college, I was given a fateful opportunity in Amsterdam: I was hired as the cafe operator/sandwich maker/welcome party at now-venerable Boom Chicago. At the time, Boom was in its second year, and it was supposedly part of my job to wrangle unsuspecting hungry tourists in to see the show. I was terrible at this. Sales is not my game. Part of the luring, though, was through my being friendly and giving tourist advice.
I’d been in Amsterdam for exactly two days when someone asked me if the Rijksmuseum was worth a visit or not. “Of course, but avoid the crowds by checking out the dollhouse section!” I must’ve read that in some other guidebook…or God was speaking through me. So, this happened on a daily basis, with me blithely giving advice about a city that I’d only just arrived in. I’d like to publicly apologize to all those people I directed toward the bike route in Amsterdam Noord by saying the path was really well marked. It wasn’t, I discovered when I finally went up there about a month into my stay. And those people may very well have wanted to come back to see the Boom Chicago show, but were probably just too damn lost to make it. So, a public apology to the Boom executives as well, although it’s kind of their fault for hiring me. But don’t worry–by the time I actually wrote a guidebook to Amsterdam, I really had visited everything and looked for bike-path signs.
Incidentally, one of the people I ended up being very friendly to that summer was a broke and exhausted writer for the Let’s Go guide to Europe. He publicly revealed this fact early in our conversation (“I’m writing for Let’s Go, and it totally sucks, and I’m totally broke and exhausted!” was kind of how it went). Then sales mode was quite easy: many free beers and lots of advice later, the author was already penning a draft review of Boom. The final writeup was several lines longer than the description of the Eiffel Tower. I never did check to see what he said about the bike route in Amsterdam Noord, but I always think of that guy when I’m tempted to gripe about my job to strangers while I’m on the road.
Looking back, I see it’s lucky I ended up in this job. Otherwise I’d be one of those annoying people who give you wrong directions, just because they don’t want to say they don’t know.