Suicide Tourist

The Professor is out west, acting the tourist. Here is a story about a a different type of tourist, from 2008:

It was a strange confession.

Our house guest was from Ireland, she was pausing for a couple days rest and recreation from her epic “To the Left of the Midwest” sojourn. She had been in a rut and decided that this change of scenery would be just the thing needed to open her perspective on the world. Over dinner we had been talking about the trip—it had been a rousing success so far—but she seemed a little bothered when talking about her stay in Seattle.

“One thing was really weird… Oh god, I actually WENT to Kurt & Courtney’s house. I sat outside on the bench and looked at the garage where they took that picture of his leg sticking out, then I felt a bit silly and left again.”

“His death really affected our boys too, but they didn’t talk about it much; I do remember them being very quiet,” I replied.

“I cried for about six months after he died. My parents were surprisingly patient for the first week or so: I remember my mum hugging me on the edge of my bed and my dad coming up the stairs with two mugs of tea, mumbling ‘what exactly is it that’s happened again?‘ I would have given ANYTHING to be at the vigil they had in Seattle when he died… Although not really, as when my rebellious friend suggested that we ‘fly over there’ I just said ‘… er, I don’t think my mum would let me’. I was fourteen.”

“Was your pilgrimage the final stage of grief?” I asked.

“No, I was just a suicide tourist.”

A real life story, augmented with material taken from the essay Well, what, nevermind by Annie Atkins in The Anti Room , September 26, 2011.