Column: Laguna’s love-hate relationship with tourists

Laguna Beach in Latin must mean paradox.

Beautiful, infuriating paradox. This beachside jewel that attracts 6 million visitors a year relies on tourists, yet holds them at arm’s length.

Privately, residents do everything they can to avoid tourists in the summer.

Go to Main Beach? Oh, heck no, too many tourists.

Heisler Park? No, absolutely not, tourists.

Downtown? No, damn tourists.

And yet tourists keep Laguna employed, so there is no outright hand-biting.

It’s more like provocative nibbling.

Laguna changes during the summer — of that there is no doubt. But not all of it is bad.

Yes, there is more traffic, trash and boorish behavior. But there are some good things, subtle things, that keep it interesting. More often than not, summer in Laguna is a shimmering mirror of its visitors: grateful, spicy and otherworldly.

Foreign tongues paint the air in abstract colors, inscrutable yet mesmerizing. It’s a reminder that Laguna is like Switzerland, playing no favorites. It’s a seven-mile mecca that draws an international smorgasbord attracted to the same things: impossibly soft sand, on-demand leisure and infinite shades of blue.

So many bodies are on Main Beach that there isn’t enough selfie space; everyone is filling the oceanic backdrop and becoming a perpetual, unwitting photobomb.

After a while, the faces and sounds start to blur because they are so unrelenting.

Instead of trying to make sense of the macro, you focus on smaller details.

Shirtless young men still have a tendency to wear their shorts low enough to show off their underwear, as if the name of another man wrapped around their waistband is somehow seductive.

Other young men will bring bulbous foam boards and try their skill at surfing, picking an empty break away from the locals. They have that much sense, at least.

Everything is a bit wonky.

Non-volleyballers play volleyball, hurting their wrists in the process.

Motorcycle packs rev their engines, infuriating everyone.

Honkers honk, and violators violate.

The beach patrol keeps busy with regular citations for open containers.

Strollers, coolers and mini-vans. Stiff suburban flip-flops are finally broken in by sea salt and barnacles.

There is ice cream everywhere, dripping and spilling no matter how fast people lick.

Dogs are popular, of course, dragged around on leashes, panting in the heat.

The homeless are largely pushed to the edges of our vision or have retreated to the canyon encampments. There seem to be new panhandlers this summer. You can tell they’re new because they haven’t figured out the good spots yet.

Amid the frenzy, you take refuge in a familiar face, maybe a known shopkeeper or bartender.

“How are you?” you ask, more fondly than usual.

“Hey,” they say, “busy.”

Shopkeepers have their game face on. They need to stay on point. Small talk is a luxury.

And maybe that’s the crux of it: Residents lose their leisure during the summer to tourists, and the resentment is palpable.

One of the obvious signs you’re dealing with tourists is that they patronize the wrong restaurants. I couldn’t help myself late Saturday afternoon when I walked past an older couple staring blankly at the curbside menu of a particular establishment.

“No, not here,” I said quietly. “Go two doors down to that one or the one next to it.”

I rattled off a couple of extra for good measure.

“Thank you,” they said.

Either way, almost everyone gets business. The bars fill early and often because of inexhaustible supplies of cucumber, ginger and red chili salt.

And every summer, our weak spots get exposed.

Park Avenue is not closed yet and it shows. No one is there, except eight cars hogging their parking spaces. The only thing Park Avenue is during the summer is a pedestrian fatality waiting to happen. No one, and I mean absolutely no one, pays attention to the crosswalk signal.

Cars regularly stop on Coast Highway because of the illegal pedestrians. It’s a known problem. The same applies to Forest Avenue.

Again, it’s a paradox. We love tourists but watch where you walk.

Maybe it’s just Laguna being Laguna.

Maybe it’s better to just lick the ice cream and enjoy the view while it lasts.

Then secretly rejoice when it’s over.

DAVID HANSEN is a writer and Laguna Beach resident. He can be reached at hansen.dave@gmail.com.