Exactly thirty summers ago, during a family expedition through the mountainous regions of the American West, we stopped at one of those privately owned minor roadside attractions that children universally love and parents universally dread. This one happened to be a cave with credentials too modest for consideration even as a lowly state park. Still, it announced its presence boldly and authoritatively, with gaudy billboards posted at regular intervals along an otherwise pleasant mountain road. 

The billboards should have been a tip-off that we were approaching a stellar specimen of classic postwar Americana: a genuine tourist trap. Such places have their uses: they offer economic sustenance for the owners and transient amusement for irritable kids. Even parents can come out ahead if they play by the rules. By lavishing a few extra greenbacks on postcards, imitation Native American artifacts or little plastic snow-domes with natural wonders crudely depicted inside, they stand a fair chance to emerge as heroes in the eyes of their covetous offspring. Vacationing parents who know how to satiate the wanton material cravings of a youngster can buy themselves precious peace of mind -- at least until they approach the next tourist trap.

Anyway, we pulled off the road that summer day, thirty years ago, and proceeded to tour the roadside cavern, which I’ll dub The Cave of the Breezes to conceal its actual identity and spare myself a potential lawsuit in case anyone from the Rocky Mountain region actually reads these words. It was a fair-to-inadequate sort of cave from what I remember, sufficiently dark and clammy but largely devoid of any dripping mineral deposits resembling stalactites or stalagmites. A cave deficient in stalactites or stalagmites already has two strikes against it. I was always easy to please, so I didn’t mind tramping through this undistinguished underworld for half an hour with a band of fellow tourist-trap victims. But my cousin Steven wasn’t amused. As we reached the end of the tour, our guide made the fatal mistake of asking if we had any questions. Steven was quick to comply, and his question still reverberates inside my skull three decades later: ‘Yeah, when does the good part begin?’

It was one of those consciousness-raising moments that changes your view of life for all time. First of all, I couldn’t believe that my cousin, a normally modest and introspective fourteen-year-old, had suddenly revealed himself to be a world-class wise guy. I was the sort of kid who never sassed my elders, and Steven’s sudden flash of cool irreverence jolted me with a one-two punch of shock and envy. Meanwhile, the poor guide quickly smoothed the ripples and probably quit his job later that day to become a bartender or a professional yodeler. But Cousin Steven’s question was such a brilliant one, intoned with such ripe intimations of existential angst, that it stayed in my head more lastingly than any of my own best quips, which I always promptly forget.

‘When does the good part begin?’ Isn’t that the question of all questions for those of us wandering through the great tourist trap known as life? We’re enticed by glittering billboards promising amusement, excitement and sensory gratification, not to mention love, success, high self-esteem, low cholesterol, chronic gladness and all the other sundry enticements that conventional billboards overlook. We salivate with anticipation; we slam the car door behind us and eagerly pay the price of admission. We pay with interminable years of schooling and homework, the indignities of adolescence, the drudgery of our first lowly jobs. But now we’re inside; we look around; we expect to see something worth seeing. 

How to describe our disappointment, then, when we realize we’ve entered a long, featureless, mediocre cave devoid of stalactites and stalagmites, let alone crystalline pools or jewel-encrusted arches? Just one jewel-encrusted arch would ease our minds, but no, this cave won’t produce. Our silent guide leads us through the first few chambers, then quietly slips away; we’re on our own. Some of our companions meander away from the pack; minutes later, we swear we can hear their voices in a distant chamber, marveling at the spectacular formations they’ve found. ‘Look at this!’ ‘Fantastic -- here’s another one!’ How did they do it? Why did we miss out? Where was the secret passageway to the enchanted chamber? We look around and can’t find anything but cold, solid limestone walls. WHEN DOES THE GOOD PART BEGIN? Up ahead our silent guide has reappeared; he points to the illuminated sign we knew we’d see eventually: EXIT.

Most of us leave the cave without ever having found the enchanted chamber. Yet some of us managed to enjoy our tour despite its failure to live up to its promise. (Even a mediocre cave is better than no cave at all.) Those of us who wondered when the good part would begin probably enjoyed it least of all. We asked the right question -- but we never delighted in the meandering walk, never listened for the trickle of water down the slippery rocks, never felt the damp subterranean air cooling our lungs. We were continually preoccupied with the expectation of something better, so we missed out on what WAS. 

Well, maybe the good part will begin when we cross through the doorway beyond the Exit sign. Let’s hope this cave has a first-rate gift shop.

Cynic's Pick of the Week

Oh no! Tiger Woods didn’t win the U.S. Open! Is he slumping? Is he past his prime? Is he washed up at 25? I’d guess he was just having trouble with his putter. It happens to everyone, Tiger.