There are these beautiful places: beautiful because they are exotic and exotic because they are mysterious. They are famous places and rustic secrets; Paris, Vienna, Rome, Siena, and each brings its own charms to the table, creating a persona either real or imagined, that is portrayed to the world via film, literature, art, music, and spoken tales.
It's possible to visit these places we hear and read about, although our experiences will differ from those of Shakespeare, Moliere, Thoreau, or Charlie Chaplin. But where their stories end our own can begin. When we travel to visit these places we develop our own narratives, create our own characters and plots and are anxious for the day we return to normalcy and relive our own narrations, while adding to the fantasies of others who have not been, and rekindling the fond fires of those who have.
Unfortunately for my kind, these fantasies are but one side of the story. It's in the fiber of my body, like lungs or eyelids, that when I find one of these magical places I want to know why it works, how it's made, why it feels so special, and how I can bring this experience to everyone. This brings a course of analysis and critique. I do what I can to find the source of this enchantment and unfortunately for myself in the very process of understanding its beauty I destroy that which I sought to understand.