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situation to unfold. It was just after six in the morning—midnight in Paris, I thought, for no reason —but activities were already well under way, and the breakfast room had just opened. I sat down on a bench. I was dazed, my ears were still buzzing violently, and my stomach was beginning to hurt. From the way they were waiting, I was able to identify some of the group members. There were two girls of about twenty-five, pretty much bimbos—not bad-looking, all things considered—who cast a contemptuous eye over everyone. On the other hand, a couple of retirees —he could have been called "spirited," she looked a bit more miserable—were looking around in wonderment at the interior decor of the hotel, a lot of gilding, mirrors, and chandeliers. In the first hours in the life of a group, one generally observes only "phatic sociability," characterized by the use of standard phrases and by limited emotional connection. According to Edmunds and White, 1 the establishment of micro-groups can only be detected after the first excursion, sometimes after the first communal meal.
    I started, on the point of passing out, and lit a cigarette to rally my forces. The sleeping pills really were too strong, they were making me ill, but the ones I used to take couldn't get me to sleep anymore; there was no obvious solution. The retirees were slowly circling around each other. I got the feeling that the man was a bit full of himself; as he was waiting for someone specific with whom to exchange a smile, he turned an incipient smile on the world. They had to have been a couple of small shopkeepers in a previous life, that was the only explanation. Gradually, the members of the group made their way to the guide as their names were called, took their keys, and went up to their rooms —in a word, they dispersed. It was possible, the guide announced in a resonant voice, for us to have breakfast now if we wished. Otherwise we could relax in our rooms; it was entirely up to us. Whatever we decided, we were to meet back in the lobby for the trip along the khlongs at 2 p.m.
    The window in my room looked directly out onto the highway. It was six-thirty. The traffic was very heavy, but the double glazing let in only a faint rumble. The streetlights were off, and the sun hadn't yet begun to reflect on the steel and glass, so at this time of the day, the city was gray. I ordered a double espresso from room service and knocked it back with a couple of Efferalgan, a Doliprane, and a double dose of Oscillococcinum. I lay down and tried to close my eyes.
    Shapes moved slowly in a confined space: they made a low buzzing sound —like machines on a building site, or giant insects. In the background, a man armed with a small sword carefully checked the sharpness of the blade. He was wearing a turban and baggy white trousers. Suddenly, the air became red and muggy, almost liquid. As the drops of condensation formed before my eyes I became very conscious of the fact that a pane of glass separated me from the scene. The man was on the ground now, immobilized by some invisible force. The machines from the building site had surrounded him; there were a couple of backhoes and a small bulldozer with caterpillar treads. The backhoes lifted their hydraulic arms and brought their buckets down together on the man, immediately slicing his body into seven or eight pieces; his head, however, still seemed animated by a demonic life force, an evil smile continued to crease his bearded face. Hie bulldozer in its turn advanced on the man; his head exploded like an egg. A spurt of brain and ground bone was splashed against the glass, centimeters from my face.
    1   "Sightseeing Tours: A Sociological Approach,"   Annals of Tourism Research,   vol. 23, 1998, pp. 213-227.

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    Essentially, tourism, as a search for meaning, with the ludic sociability it favors, the images it generates, is a graduated encoded and untraumatizing apprehension system of the external, of