Concerning Greed: Now Arriving in the Land of Conspicuous Consumption

I have just recovered from a particularly exhausting weekend showing visitors around the city. Eliza and I entertained guests from Mexico for a couple of days, and now have mixed feelings about the meaning of the entire trip. Sure, it is always good to see family and friends. But in this case, it was watching family and friends, as they descended voluntarily into the bowels of the American addiction to excess.

On Saturday, we set out for the usual car site seeing tour, with the first stop designated as the Golden Gate Bridge. I by-passed the traffic laden Bay Bridge, and drove the more distant, but faster, route across the bay at Richmond Point and through Marin County. I searched my inventory of history and local lore to point out places on the way that might be of interest to the guests, who rode in the backseat more concerned with car sickness than the sites of Mt. Tamalpais or the views of the Bay. Eliza translated; sometimes I spoke broken Spanish to seem a bit less American. The hospitality these two had shown us on a past trip to the Yucatan I had not forgotten, and pledged to show the same. But it seemed, for them, that this trip was more about the shopping than culture or site seeing. We acquiesced, because, after all, it is America, and what is a more American experience than traipsing up steep hills all afternoon heavy with shopping bags?

We stopped first at the Golden Gate Bridge, joined the busy crowds for the obligatory photo-ops. We eyeballed the plaque explaining the monotonous construction of the building. The cables are really that thick? I have been to show other guests this bridge, at this very spot, an absurd number of times since moving here 14 months ago. This time was no different, as equally beautiful and pleasant as it was foolish and touristy. But with a warm and sunny February day in San Francisco, who could complain?

From there it was on to Lombard Street. We were making good progress, knocking out those sites one “simply has to see” in order to get down to the truly enjoyable of San Francisco. The culture that isn’t necessarily marked in pop-up maps or hotel pamphlets. From Lombard, we headed at their insistence to Fisherman’s Wharf. I half expected them to see how spuriously constructed the whole area was, grow disgusted with it, and beg that we forgo the contrivances for some place better. Then we could begin showing them “the city” we know.

But Fisherman’s Wharf is a trap for those who seek highly accessible tourism—nicely packaged local culture within a few blocks—and who hope to shell out cash at every corner. And we know there are those Americans whose greatest joy in traveling is not site seeing, eating, or art, but simply the exhilaration of flaunting their cash spending ability as conspicuously as if they were aristocrats parading through pre-revolutionary Paris. As it would turn out, these were our guests. We labored up and down the sidewalks of Jefferson Street for hours, watching them go in and out of every shop. Buying chocolate, video games, tee shirts with moronic slogans and cheap designs. We walked and paused. Browsed and bought. Conspicuous consumption abounding. There is no culture here, save that of American consumerism. Though there are delicious sourdough bowls of chowder. And look, they sell it in cans too. First rule in the business of tourism: Why sell just the experience, when you can package a take home version as well?

But it wasn’t only at the Wharf we found our guests enraptured with the abundance of American goods, and their cheap prices. It continued into North Beach, once we dropped off bags from the first round and geared up with more clothing for the cold night. I scored a prime spot on Columbus Avenue and my favorite of streets, Beach Blanket Babylon Boulevard. Not five steps from the car, they disappeared into some ethnic shop, and returned with a necklace. The price they were not shy about. We ate at an Italian Restaurant, and browsed those few stores still open afterwards. Never did they walk out of a shop without buying something.

The next day, it started again, though the style of shopping switched from tourist boutique to domestic practicality. First to the Berkeley Bowl, then to Walgreen’s, the Elephant Pharmacy. Cosmetics, toys, snacks, and all those worthless little knick-knacks one never sees anyone spend money on. The kinds of things my grandfather always thinks make great stocking stuffers. How would they have felt in a dollar store? We ended this shopping-spree at the Mecca for such consumption: Target, where cheap American goods come in abundance, and in a variety of shapes, colors and sizes. Manuel eyeballed the escalator going to yet another floor, with a fancy rig that carries your cart with you, and says to me: We don’t have this in Mexico. Does that make him less fortunate? Here was their grand finale, two carts full of badly made clothing, shoes, etc., much of which was likely manufactured in sweat shops back. Full circle.

I reflected on this trip for the next few days, wondering why it would be so shocking to see two citizens of the developing world come to this country and drop absurd amounts of money on insignificant junk. And that they would elect to do this above anything else. It seemed they were completely disinterested in the city, the culture, the people. If this is American tourism, why not build a giant shopping compound in the desert, and let tourist get lost in it for days? That would surely free up space in the cities, where those who actually live there can get around more easily, without a double-decker bus claiming a block’s worth of parking spots.

I am no stranger to American consumerism or this kind of conspicuous consumption. I see it every day; in fact, I am vocal about it too. We are, in America, by far the leading consumers in the world, and have profoundly integrated this lifestyle of consumption into our cultural canon. But I am not ready to loose the grip we hold on our own very real, very rich culture. It is not superior, nor is it even as rich (if such a subjective judgment can be made) as many far older places in the world. But it does exist, and it’s a culture that defines the more admirable traits of our national character.

These visitors showed little interest in this. They were apathetic to the Italian history of North Beach, as we ate pasta on Columbus Ave. They rarely looked up to notice the Bay Area’s geographic splendor. The local music, the Latin culture of The Mission, the revolutionary ghosts in Haight-Ashbury, the Victorian houses, Chinatown and the Chinese contribution to the San Francisco culture. Barely a nod.

The reason is that this—the real American culture—does not make it abroad. It Mexico, they see little to nothing of artistic America, historical America. They see only consumer America. I could notice this when I was in Mexico. Our ambassadors are Wal-Mart, Home Depot, and Starbucks. They are the ones marching the globe and “teaching” other cultures about us. They don’t see Jazz music or the Creole South. They see Britney Spears and GAP. It is no wonder that a visitor comes here looking for that “culture” they have been exposed to back home. This is the image of America we are projecting in the world. When we, as Americans, travel, we do so often because we’ve been teased by some element of a foreign culture, which is portraying itself positively. We don’t travel to see famine, poverty, blood revolutions, or bigotry. We travel in spite of the worst aspects of a culture. We travel to experience French cuisine, the wildlife of the Amazon, the temples of Jerusalem, the ruins of Angkor Wat. Why, then, would we want the world to see us for those, the saddest of our vices: Materialism and Geed?