March of the lost souls

There’s a peculiar heartbreak you witness while drifting through Europe’s alleys and piazzas: the guided tour herd. You know the type — a pack of lost souls shuffling behind a raised umbrella or waving flag, headphones crackling with historical trivia they’ll forget before the next bathroom break.

I watch them sometimes, those poor feckers, marching on like obedient little soldiers behind their tour general, resigned to their fate. Some wear the look of quiet rebellion—the old lad glancing wistfully down a side alley, the woman eyeing a sun-drenched café with the silent longing of a prisoner dreaming of escape. But no. They stay the course. Why? Because they paid for this shenanigan, and by God, they’ll get their money’s worth, even if it kills the last shred of joy in their holiday.

There’s a dark humor in it. We travel to feel free, to get lost, to drink bad wine in good company, to make questionable decisions in foreign languages. But somewhere along the line, some of us trade that adventure in for laminated itineraries and bathroom breaks on a schedule.

So here’s my standing request: if you ever catch me in that parade, headphones in, eyes glazed, name tag swinging — do the decent thing. Shoot me a look, a smirk, maybe slip me a glass of wine and whisper, “Run.” And if I still don’t break away? Well… shoot me for real.