Memory like tourism

When responding to Jeff's New Orleans' post, I thought of a poem I wrote quite a few years ago.

For me, digging through my own history/memory has been similar to my experiences while traveling. There haven't been many times when I was willing to do the work necessary to really see. It seems that we (USA) are having the same trouble dealing with post-Katrina New Orleans.

Here's the poem:

Memory like Tourism

She visits each place in her memory like a rich tourist who can afford nuances without effort. Dressed in a silk pantsuit, she travels with hand-crafted leather bags which hold her entire wardrobe. Porters lift and carry each piece for francs or yen or pesos. Cooks in the kitchens slave over crackling hot-oiled pans. Wait staff deliver tender fish fillets on silver dishes with domed covers to keep any dirt or germs away from her mouth. A maid turns the crisp sheets open and tucks the starched ends tightly underneath.

She visits museums, churches, and ruins; she sees only clean lines of famous painters and relics of a glorified past. Beneath the glory, in cramped but spotless quarters, workers sweat as they polish the frames, utensils, and menorahs. A man smashes his finger as he moves a Renoir from a basement; he clears space for the next exhibit.

Her visits to childhood, to yesterday, sample emotions like her tourism. Hidden underneath the guided tours are hosts of events she does not care to think about.