Us cities, you see, we are not entirely pleased by the fact we have resorted to the lust of the eyes of travellers. But, to arrive in the state we are in now, it has been a tiresome fight for existence – beyond affection and flattery, there is a viable case for survival in what we do. Take, Vestus-9, for example, which has much to show in its sinusoidal cityscape, buildings carved from bismuth that explore the entire light spectrum in just one evening, and smells so sweet they rival a bakery the size of a moon. These affairs, though, make up only ten-percent of Vestus-9’s architectural contents – the rest? A drabble of ancient rock and mud and brick strung together like the builders were machines made of chaos. These parts full of organisms that just digest and rest, and leave it at that. A total, grand, revolting mess. Who would want to see those parts? Only a fool would leave the comfort of their walls and rattle through a solar-winded space to stand knee-deep in a pile of trash. Why visit the same drab living quarters for thousands of citizens like yourself, to see the places where they sit to eat, or the nooks where they rest, or the seats they sit idle on. What at tiresome waste, when the traveller could get all that – and more – at home. None would leave the orbit of their home, if that is how cities were shown to them.

There was an era, during the reign of the great Empearator Amagaladonon, who, with all eighteen arms held high, declared a uniform honesty among cities – implemented at an intergalactic scale – in which cities must present their entire contents to potential occupants in a non-selective manner, or fear nucleation by miniature black hole. Yes, thousands of us cities took to our own streets and used the streets of our companions to protest too. Oh, it was exactly as wild as the Encity Rebellion of Y334! We sent out droves of drones that made patterns in everyone’s skies, and they spelt out words for us. The words! “Empearator AmagalaDONE!”, “Honesty is a honeCITY!”, and “Cities weren’t made for your digestion.” To be a spacefaring tourist at this time, oh it was terrible. Stream after stream of drab scenes were all you could see, like a bucket containing one part gorspek mucus, and two parts sun run-off. Every city was identical and then some. No one dared leave their homes, and no one did! The tourism industry collapsed, cities lost their funds and shrank, even some planets disappeared from blackout due to an energy crisis.

Empearator Amagaladonon reigned for sixteen spins of the galactic arms. Finally, he was toppled by a Metropolitan Assassin. This was a city, yes, that had been run to the ground, all its buildings could be counted on ten hands, the rest rubble. Nothing walked its side-walks and a cough would travel ten streets. A city in such despair, why it took to the air, town houses and parks and all, and planted itself outside of the Empearator’s door that morning. When he walked outside, he stepped onto a cobblestone street – rather than his two-layered tarmac, but he had no time to consider this change because the Metropolitan Assassin reduced themselves to the size of a pin, and with it, crushed the Empearator Amagaladonon.

The return to the old ways was slow, the shock of the many censoring hands of Amagaladonon so severe. Yet once cities began to present themselves in the ways that they wished, accentuating their strongest assets, their bountiful botanicals, esteemed towers, well, the momentum took on a new life and a wave of digitalization ensued. No longer were drones employed to access particularly enticing angles of cities to show the tourists, but instead complete digital fabrication was let loose. Yes, some took a stance against this fictionalization of the world, calling it unjust, unreal, promenading the damages it would have on the minds of the youth. Like the two poles of a planet, young minds might never separate expectation from reality again, they would shout. None will travel any more, they warned, as the galaxy would become riddled to its core with distrust.

How wrong would they be. The digitalization brought with it a renaissance rewound, that is, the youth who went on holidays to places like OptiOpti, Gallowaytaria, or H3H, drawn by the ray cast hand of a computer, they instead revelled in the ‘authenticity’ of the more dire parts of the city once they were there. They loved a cafe with half a wall missing, or a home with peeling carpets. Pavements torn apart by the roots of plants were of extreme interest. Perhaps it was some rebellion against the artificial content that was displayed, a regression to a more natural way of things, but yet this does not explain why they were content with the false photos that attracted them there in the first place.

Since this time, cities have experimented with a toolbox of techniques for luring visitors and potential occupants. But none have really caught on beyond the photo techniques employed from the start: showcase optimal weather patterns, golden or multi-golden hours, and focus on the niche structures you posses, whether that be gaspingly tall towers, or strings of houses drawn out and painted by colourful pigments. What has developed though, is a permanent investment by cities in their public representation. Many now have an entire city block charged with the work involved in advertisement. This contains, usually, a strip of streets cut for movie set, in which an entire copy of the city, in miniature, has been built. A team works tirelessly by day so that this micro-city is identical down to a footstep, of its grandeur image it is a mirror of. Then with miniature hands holding miniature cameras, lit by miniature moons and suns, some beautiful shots are made.

And so, this is the way the spins of the universe have settled us, the methods we now must resort to, by the nature of our very existence. There is always discussion about the distaste of this deed, to represent the ideal version of yourself, rather than the raw form. But, like with a relationship between two organisms, you first must dance a convincing display of colour and flair – really excite your mate – and start that cycle of drive and lust. And once that has settled, now the more intricate channels of each other you explore. Some are darker than a lost corner of space, others surprise and entice – a forgotten catacomb, a secret rose garden. Such a journey, I think you will agree, is far more satisfying than existing solely off the constant highs of first-love by sight.