"Sit down, Sam," the frizzy red-haired lady firmly told her young son. The boy, who looked about eight or nine years old, gave his mother a mischievous grin and raced across the subway car to grab one of the silver poles and spun himself around while the beige and orange shades blurred before his eyes.

"Sam!" she shrieked, grabbing him and tossing his backpack into the seat next to her. "Please stay there and just hold on to your card. We'll see the White House."

What a fantastic specimen. This pair seems to be Midwestern. Kansas perhaps? Certainly an enjoyable breed, but I would rather see a Texan. I like them a little louder with more garish clothing.

Ahhh, yes. Another tourist spotting. While other Metro commuters busy themselves with fresh copies of the Washington Post or the latest figures from the Office of Management and Budget, I have another hobby: I watch tourists. Each morning and evening, as I ride the red line in and out of the city, I have taken to eavesdropping, snooping and spying on the visitors to my native land.

Growing up in Bethesda, MD, approximately one mile from the District line, I became well acquainted with the regions two industries: politics and tourism. Government workers have never been so exciting--mostly policy wonks who thrive on twelve-plus hour days. But tourists can be great fun, especially the D.C. ones. I love their clothes, their speech and above all, their innocence.

I suppose that most tourists are similar around the globe, but D.C. tourists rank above travelers to any other city. People don't come to Washington to relax or catch a show or see Elvis' house. They flock to the capital to learn, celebrate America and be the best gosh darn patriotic citizens they can be--even the foreigners, which I will never understand. During their delves into American heritage, these people really appreciate D.C. as the gorgeous marble city that it is. They appear almost childlike to me. At times I even get the impression that they think wearing a fanny pack and brown knee socks is perfectly normal behavior for a rational adult. That is exactly what makes them so appealing. And so I watch.

Here I offer a brief introduction for novice tourist spotters:

Start your day of tourist-spotting at Metro fare card machines.

The mother lode of tourists is not the Air and Space Museum or the Washington Monument, but rather the region right next to the foot of Metro escalators. D.C. workers complain incessantly of the constant clogging of the Metro system by clueless tourists, but blame the geniuses who created the most confusing form of mass transportation in the nation, maybe even the world. The system charges different amounts for every trip, implements other prices at rush hour and forces passengers to use their cards to get both in and out of the stations. Locals have no trouble with this, but out-of-towners tend to stand around the machines helplessly flailing their arms, many hoping their more technically inclined children will figure out what to do. For an especially good view, I recommend a position close to any station's sole pass machine. Adjacent to the fare card machines, but so much more confusing, even locals refuse to go near them. Of course, the tourists never notice this.

Just in case a family does manage to acquire the right number of cards with the right amount for their family to reach a desired destination, D.C. puts up one more obstacle. To enter a station's gates, one must slide the card into a slot with a precise force. Tourists, much to my amusement and their dismay, are usually unable to perform this task with grace. Harried Hill workers tend to groan at these naive masses to just get through the gate or get out of the way, but I think the scene is kind of endearing.

The family vacation or the school trip.

Although people from all over the world come to D.C., each sporting a different accent and style, tourists generally come in two flavors: the family unit and the unending gang of noisy, rowdy kids. The target is a matter of personal preference. The locals tend to have more interaction with families, but I personally enjoy the pure entertainment value of high school seniors.

The other day at lunch I observed a fine example of the latter model when I ran into twenty Brittany Spears clones and what I can only describe as their male counterparts. The whole group of heavily made-up, big haired girls and perfectly combed boys wore navy blue jackets emblazoned with the words, "Wyoming Nation" and proceeded to roll their eyes at everyone they saw.

Distinguishing characteristics.

Although most tourists are easy to pick out of a crowd--such staples of tourist gear like cameras and fanny packs instantly reveal their true nature--there are a few slippery ones who try to mask their true selves. Summer interns still adjusting to inside-the-beltway mores may fool other tourists, but locals can spot them for the alien creatures they are.

Hint #1: D.C. is not a place where people take stands for fashion. Notorious for uncoordinated outfits that fail miserably in dealing with the swampy heat of Washington summers, professionals stick to suits (for men) and suits (for women). People who put concerted thought into their garments or wear anything not considered "classic," like the only woman wearing capri pants during the morning rush, scream "tourist."

Hint #2: Everyday I encounter hordes of families in identical T-shirts and the unending flow of boy scouts in identical badges and uniforms. These are the obvious examples, but demonstrate another key tourist watching principle. Tourists tend to dress similarly to the people they are with. Matching clothing is always a dead giveaway.

Hint #3: The true litmus test for tourists is escalator behavior. Natives stand to the right without fail. Tourists do not comprehend this concept.

Happy spotting everybody. But no need to take pictures--they do that on their own.

Victoria C. Hallett '02, a Crimson editor, is spending the summer working for Democratic presidential candidate Bill Bradley in Washington, D.C.