I hope I'm not a tourist attraction - I'm sure that they come

Host: The sky above St. Andrews was a soft grey, the kind that blurred the horizon between sea and cloud. The wind whistled through the ancient stone alleys, carrying with it the smell of salt and history. Along the cobblestone street, a small café perched near the edge of the cliff, its windows fogged with warmth and conversation.

Inside, the light from a single candle flickered on the table where Jack and Jeeny sat. Beyond the window, the sea crashed against the rocks, steady and eternal — as if the world itself were breathing.

Jack’s coat was damp, his hair disheveled by the wind. He stared out toward the cathedral ruins, his grey eyes reflecting the stormlight. Jeeny, with her hands cupped around a steaming mug, watched him with a soft curiosity that cut through the silence like music.

Jack: “You know what’s funny? People come here and say they want to ‘see St. Andrews.’ They take photos of the ruins, the cliffs, the university gate… but they never actually see it. They come for the name, the story, the royal rumor. They want the myth, not the place.”

Jeeny: “Maybe both can exist. Maybe the myth and the place are the same thing — two ways of loving something.”

Jack: “That’s the kind of romanticism that keeps tourists buying souvenirs. People don’t love what’s real, Jeeny. They consume it. They turn beauty into a brand.”

Jeeny: “You sound like you hate it.”

Jack: “I don’t hate it. I just don’t trust it. Look around — this café, the cobbles, the ruins. It’s all part of the show now. Even Prince William knew that when he said it. He hoped he wasn’t a tourist attraction — which means he already was one.”

Host: The wind howled outside, rattling the windows. The candle flame bent, then straightened, holding on like a stubborn truth. Jeeny took a breath, her eyes glinting with the light.

Jeeny: “But isn’t that beautiful, in its own way? That people still come, still feel something? Maybe it doesn’t matter if it’s a brand, or a photo, or a fantasy. Maybe what matters is that they’re still drawn to beauty. To belonging.”

Jack: “No. It’s selfish. It’s not about belonging — it’s about owning a moment, capturing it. They don’t honor the place — they collect it.”

Jeeny: “And what if that’s just another form of love? Maybe love is always a little selfish. When people come here, they’re looking for a piece of themselves in these stones. They want to remember that they once stood where something beautiful once happened.”

Jack: “That’s not love. That’s possession. It’s the same instinct that builds museums and turns villages into Instagram feeds. You know what happens when everything becomes a tourist spot? Authenticity dies.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it changes. Maybe authenticity isn’t about preserving a place untouched — maybe it’s about how it touches people. You think the locals here don’t change because of the visitors? They adapt, they grow, they share. It’s not death — it’s dialogue.”

Host: A gull cried outside, its voice echoing against the stone. Jack rubbed his temple, his brow furrowing, as if he were fighting against an idea too large to ignore. The candlelight wavered across his face, highlighting the lines of weariness that had settled there.

Jack: “Dialogue? You think the souvenir shop across the street is a dialogue? That the busloads of people taking selfies by the Old Course are listening? They’re not. They’re performing. The town becomes their backdrop — a stage for their vacation reels.”

Jeeny: “You’re right — but every stage has an audience, and every audience sees something different. Isn’t that what art does too? It transforms the real into the felt. The same St. Andrews you see as exploited, someone else might see as sacred.”

Jack: “That’s the problem. We’ve lost the difference between the sacred and the spectacle.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe the sacred has always been a spectacle. Think about the cathedrals, Jack — they were built to awe people. To make them feel small and alive all at once. Maybe what you call tourism, I call worship.”

Host: Her voice was gentle, but it cut through the air like a bell. Jack looked up at her, the sea reflected in his eyes, and for a moment, his defenses slipped.

Jack: “You really believe that? That people flying in from halfway across the world just to take a photo are worshiping something?”

Jeeny: “Not consciously. But maybe subconsciously, yes. We all travel for the same reason — to remember we’re not the center of the world. That there are places older, stronger, wiser than we are. Maybe they don’t realize it, but every click of the camera is a kind of prayer.”

Jack: half-smiling “That’s poetic. But it’s still naive.”

Jeeny: “And your realism isn’t?”

Host: The tension between them shifted, like the tide — no longer clashing, but turning, pulling them toward a deeper current.

Jeeny: “Do you remember when we first came here, Jack? You stopped at the beach, and you didn’t say a word for almost an hour. You just stood there, staring at the sea. Tell me that wasn’t awe. Tell me you weren’t a tourist in your own heart.”

Jack: after a long pause “Maybe I was.”

Jeeny: “Then why can’t they be?”

Host: The candle burned lower, the wax pooling, reflecting the light like a tiny ocean. Outside, the wind had softened, the waves now rolling in slow, rhythmic sighs.

Jack: “Because I don’t want the beauty of this place to become a commodity. It’s too pure for that.”

Jeeny: “Then teach them, Jack. Don’t just judge them. Show them what you see — the history, the stillness, the grace. If beauty becomes a commodity, it’s only because no one’s guarding it.”

Jack: “Guarding beauty... that’s a heavy burden.”

Jeeny: “It’s not a burden. It’s a duty.”

Host: A moment of quiet followed, the kind that feels sacred. The light from the candle flickered one last time, then went out, leaving only the sound of the sea.

Jack: softly “Maybe William was right, then. Maybe no one wants to be the attraction. Maybe we just want the world to look past us — to see the place, not the person.”

Jeeny: “Yes. To see the beauty for what it is — not who it belongs to.”

Host: The door of the café creaked open, and a gust of fresh wind entered, carrying the scent of salt and wild thyme. Jack and Jeeny stood, walking toward the edge of the cliff. The sea stretched beneath them, silver and infinite, like an old soul that had seen it all and forgiven everything.

For a moment, they stood there in silence, watching the waves, the sky, the town below — not as tourists, not as owners, but as witnesses.

And as the wind rose, lifting the mist from the sea, St. Andrews seemed to breathe — beautiful, ancient, and quietly, still believing in the people who came to find it.