And it's not his clothes or his gait which give him away—it's in the way that he takes in the city, with eyes wide and senses dilated with newness. He gives off the scent of wonderment, which with time has faded from those more familiar with the city.
He is drunk with the sights and sounds of the place, even as he walks soberly down the street. The city hits him again and again with her buildings made differently and streets curving unexpectedly. He is even enticed by the city's smells, cross-hatched filaments of metal and stone and human.
And all the while the city's inhabitants seem to glide through unseeing, their senses liberated from this place that so ensorcels the visitor.
The traveler laments: but they cannot recognize the beauty of their own city. He thinks, I appreciate her as she deserves to be appreciated, in her overwhelming totality.
He believes it is like seeing a striking woman across the room, who is on the arm of a man who has known her too long and no longer sees the beauty at his side.
But, while it's true that the man with the woman on his arm can see her objective beauty only in flashes now, that does not mean she is unloved. His perception of her simple charms and obvious dimensions has been transformed by the persistent flow of their daily lives. To him she is not an object, but the deep warmth in their house, the embodied rhythm of their days, alternating annoyance and amusement, the eyes that are his witness. Longterm intimacy is the inverse of objectification. He knows her like the city-dweller knows his home.
The tourist is the new lover who can perceive the city's face more clearly and is moved by it. The seduction is quick, the liaison brief, and he has the luxury of falling for first impressions.
And so the resident recognizes the traveler in the streets. One is dizzy with first love; the other's mind is elsewhere, because he's made of these streets and thus always in the arms of his familiar beloved.