But I digress. This isn't a tirade about flaggers or a critique of the hand gestures they learned in flagging school or the assumptions I'm convinced they're making about driver/passenger IQs or even about road construction.

This is actually a word or two about the price of living in a beautiful place.

Somewhere along the line, the word "tourist" got a bad rap. It doesn't matter where you live, it's the same. When I lived in Arizona, we laughed at "swivel heads," or so we called them. You know what I'm talking about: drivers and passengers that can't stop turning their heads from side to side for fear of missing something. Same thing when I lived in Los Angeles and would get behind a car driven by someone holding a map of the stars' homes. Same thing in Ninilchik, where, for eight months of the year, we don't have to wait in line to cross a bridge, get a mocha, check out videos or wait to fuel up.

And we don't pay a fee to park by the beach so we can go clamdigging.

From Memorial Day to Labor Day that all changes. For those four months, I grit my teeth, breathe deeply and count the days until September rolls around.

Flash forward or backward as the case may be, I can't remember exactly and there we were on the Rainbow Connection, bound for Seldovia to see the chainsaw carving competition. A mixture of adults, kids and a couple dogs were on board. Like everyone around us, Sandy and I were sensibly dressed in layers of clothes, not quite sure what the weather held. Like everyone around us, Sandy and I had our cameras hanging around our necks and on our shoulders, eager to see some sights. We didn't realize it then, but we looked pretty much like the birding couple from Pennsylvania and the retired teachers from Texas.

Heading toward Gull Island, the first point of interest, Sandy and I spotted several cute little creatures bobbing on the surface of Kachemak Bay. Wanting to ensure others saw what we saw, my husband leaned toward a nearby couple, pointed and whispered, "Sea otter."

They turned, but not toward the otters. Instead, they looked at us with a not-to-be-misunderstood "butt out" expression.

First, we were surprised.

Then I whispered to Sandy, "We look like tourists."

"I don't want to be a tourist," growled my husband, who was born and raised in Alaska and has spent hundreds of hours on Kachemak Bay.

A few minutes later, nearing Gull Island, everyone crowded on the deck, eager to photograph the cloud of birds filling the air. Uncomfortable with our shifting identity, we stayed inside, distancing ourselves from the "real" tourists.

By the time we got to Seldovia, our self-images were totally garbled. Where did this new harbor ramp come from? We walked into the wrong restaurant, unable to recall where we'd had lunch on our last visit a couple years ago. What did the woman from the chamber of commerce I was hoping to meet look like? Was that her?

The truth was we were tourists. Camera-toting swivel heads. Not wanting to miss anything. Not knowing where anything was. Not knowing anyone.

So we did what tourists do. We asked lots of questions. We pointed. We took pictures. We smiled a lot. We tried to be humble. We tried to be friendly. We found the woman I wanted to meet. And we even ran into some people we knew.

It was a good reminder that there's no sin in wanting to see another part of the country, visit someplace new, see sights never seen and meet people never met. Stretching that a bit, it's a compliment the place we live and move and have our being is so powerfully attractive that others are drawn to it. I think of that every time I pass the pull-out at the top of Baycrest Hill and see people taking pictures.

I'll try to remember that when my husband and I are waiting for vehicle after southbound vehicle to cross Ninilchik River bridge so we can finally go home. And I'll try to remember that when I have to stand in line for a mocha.

But I can't promise I'll be any nicer to the flaggers.

McKibben Jackinsky can be reached at mckibbenjackinsky.@homernews.com.