Living in a tourist hotspot made me realize I miss being a tourist.
Last year, I went to Venice for my birthday. I always celebrate getting older by going somewhere new. Coming out of the Venezia Santa Lucia train station to be greeted by a view of luscious, pastel-hued homes lining the Grand Lagoon was like stepping into a watercolor fever dream. Like a newborn baby deer, I stalked through the narrow streets clumsily, peering over bridge railings to watch the gondoliers drift by.
In Southern Italy, where I live, the streets are called via or viale. In Venice, the streets are named calle and fondamenta. Down South, we have pizza fritta with our aperitivo. In Venice, there are baguette bites called cicchetti.
So many differences. So much newness. And so many people. Even in frigid March, Venice was crawling. Crowds often send me into Daffy Duck tantrums, so I rushed over the Rialto Bridge, dodging past the people taking selfies, prepared to panic. But my anxiety barely stirred. Surrounded by the stunning canals and gondolas, the crowds were but a mere stone to be stepped over on my way to the next beautiful piazza.
With just 24 hours in Venice, I could only marvel at a place where one’s daily commute involves taking water taxis. Coming from one popular tourist destination to now Venice, I wondered how long it takes for locals and ex-pats to get used to their surroundings. How long before the beauty of Venice transforms from an awe-inspiring postcard to wallpaper?
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I could hazard a guess.
Living in a Postcard Town
I live in a postcard town, too. In fact, I’ve always lived in postcard places, including Florida’s Gulf Coast, New York City, Japan, Ireland, and now, for over a decade, a beach town in Italy. That first summer, when the days began to shorten, my relatives said to me: “Surely, you’re not going to stay? It’s miserable here in the wintertime.” I didn’t care. I’d moved to Italy from Ireland, where I’d been wearing my winter coat well into June.
In my seaside haunt are beach umbrellas and whizzing Vespas, seaside spaghetti alle vongole for lunch, and fresh-fried bombe at night. One day, I bought a Panama hat at the street market and plopped myself on the beach, conveniently, just 150 meters from my apartment. For years, I wore that hat whenever the sun shone, even though my new friends teased me: “You can tell you’re a tourist when you wear that hat.”
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At first, I laughed. But each time I heard it, the word “tourist” began to grate just a bit more. Today, it’s one of my worst triggers. No matter how well I speak Italian, the assumption is always that I’m a tourist. But surprisingly, I sometimes find myself wishing I were a tourist again.
The Unfettered Joys of Being a Tourist
I first moved overseas in the late 2000s, when the early travel blogs resembled ex-pat memoirs (mine included), and the eternal “traveler vs. tourist” debate had moved to the internet.
Don’t be a tourist, be a traveler!
Quit your corporate job!
Teach English in Japan! Volunteer in Ghana!
See the world as it really is!
This debate’s smug, unspoken message was that tourists only test the water’s surface while travelers dive in.
After many years of living in postcard towns, I now believe the true alternative to being a tourist is being a local, whether born-and-bred or transplanted. In my daily life; I find myself longing for a rainbow-colored honeymoon. While heading to work or running errands, I often see tourists getting the very best of my town without any of the realities of living here. While I’m out doing chores and passing out on the couch at the end of the day, tourists are heading to the piazza and choosing a restaurant based on travel site rankings or just plain whimsy. As much as I enjoy learning about another culture from the inside out, living like a local, I sometimes yearn for the joys of simply wandering around a new city—unfettered by the realities of living there.
Daily indignities are a source of humor when you’re a tourist and become tales you regale your friends with over dinner back home. When you’re a tourist, the locals seem friendly, you can’t read the unpleasant things the newspapers are saying, and no one knows who you are or recognizes you on the street.
Whether you’re a traveler, a local, or a tourist—the truth is, no label is better than the other. It’s a wonderful thing to be a born-and-bred local. Traveling long-term and immersing yourself in a new place is wonderful too. And it’s great to be a tourist, where everything can be magical, even just for a short time.