Like any true, pure fan of something — a fan who has lived through the lens of the object of their fandom, to a point that no one else could possibly understand — I get really stressed out when I think about all the other fans.
To suggest that a city or site can be “done,” like dishes, the laundry, or homework, reduces said city to the limits of the do-er’s consciousness or experience. And to suggest that reality ends with your experience is to be narrow-minded, or ignorant.
I am never sure what it is exactly that makes Chekhov’s former Moscow apartment so entrancing. Maybe the answer is not in the aura, but in the stuff itself: the pens and blankets and desks and hardwood floors.
Where President Obama balances between will and inevitability, we find Buster Keaton, on commencement day, not charging ahead to shape a future, but pausing, vacillating, everywhere at once. Bumbling, stumbling, crashing forward.