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While visiting family near the Ligurian coast, I spent an afternoon in Sanremo, craning my neck at seaside villas built by Russian and English aristocrats chasing winter sun. The palms that now line the promenade— a gift from Tsarina Maria Alexandrovna in 1874 after her winter stay on the coastal town—still shape the town’s postcard image. Tourism, isn’t only an economy; it is a landscaping force whose edits can outlive the traveller.
I felt the same imprint while working in Amsterdam during the silent months of 2021, when twenty‑million tourists vanished overnight. The streets, cafés, and squares felt like they belonged to locals again. No dodging selfie sticks, no long lines—spaces once crowded with outsiders began to breathe again, rediscovering rhythms that felt both familiar and fresh.
Farther afield, tourism’s footprints stretch from medieval routes to modern mega‑projects. On Spain’s Camino de Santiago, centuries of pilgrims have compacted the soil into a ribbon so visible that satellites can trace its edges, and a record 440,000 walkers in 2023 widened the corridor. At the opposite extreme, Venice’s €6 billion MOSE barrier now diverts cruise ships to offshore terminals, an engineering pivot meant to spare the lagoon’s fragile stones from the daily wake of floating high‑rises. Tourism doesn’t simply harm or help—its decisions decide which paths solidify, which waters stay calm, and which stories the landscape keeps telling.
Digital platforms have become architects, too. Guided by likes, views, and algorithmic suggestions, they shape how and where we move—channelling us toward the same newly minted “landmarks.” The Joker Stairs in the Bronx had to be reinforced and patrolled after TikTok made them a pilgrimage stage. A Paris boulevard once known for cafés now hosts crowds reenacting “Emily in Paris”. Cities compress into neat, repeatable snapshots, and the efficiency is seductive, yet it risks reviving an old colonial reflex: arrive with a script, expect the locale to conform.
Not all changes take more than they give. Kyoto now nudges travellers toward outer‑ring temples, easing pressure on its fragile core and spreading revenue more widely, while in Kenya, community‑run conservancies channel bed‑night fees into elephant corridors and village schools, keeping ownership local. Such experiments prove the story is still written in pencil: travellers can learn the paragraph they’re entering, ask who owns the punctuation, and plant seeds that root both guest and host in shared ground.
Estelle
P.S. This edition only scratches the surface. Tourism is too vast, too layered to tackle all at once—its implications stretch across economic systems and inequalities, ecological footprints, cultural narratives, and beyond. But if you’re here—whether subscribed or just about to be—know that there’s more coming your way!
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