How overtourism stole the soul of tourism by Marja Heikkinen

There was a time when walking through the narrow alleys of an old Mediterranean town meant brushing your fingertips against sun-warmed stones, catching the scent of jasmine spilling from a hidden courtyard, and maybe exchanging a nod with the widow next door who’s been hanging laundry on the same line for 50 years. But now? Now you dodge selfie sticks like a soldier in a minefield and pray you don’t trip over a British stag party ordering "authentic tzatziki" in perfect Cockney.

Overtourism has become the polite euphemism for cultural bulldozing. Yes, it has made certain travel conglomerates, cruise companies, and Airbnb barons richer than Croesus with a marketing degree. But let’s not pretend this is a win-win. It’s not even a draw. This is a slow-motion robbery where locals lose their homes, their dignity, and often their reason to stay. And the thieves wear Hawaiian shirts and carry rolling luggage.

Politicians will tell you that the influx of tourists brings prosperity. And sure, someone’s getting richer. Probably the same guy who bought out half the city’s old apartments and now rents them at nightly rates higher than a local earns in a week. But for the rest of the people who live there, who build lives there, this prosperity is as fictional as the smiling fisherman on the travel brochure.

“Look at the GDP,” they say. “Look at the job creation.” Fine. Let’s look. Jobs in the tourism sector are often seasonal, poorly paid, and exhausting. Meanwhile, rents skyrocket. Local businesses close because they can’t afford to compete with souvenir shops selling mass-produced evil eyes made in China. Doctors, teachers, bakers, even postmen, those who keep a city functioning, are pushed out to the edges, exiled from the hearts of their own communities.

Here’s the cruel irony: the more a place is loved by visitors, the less it’s livable for residents. That “authentic experience” so hungrily sought by tourists is eroded every time another family-run taverna is replaced by a themed café with a menu in six languages and a sign that says “NO CASH.” The old man playing bouzouki in the square? He’s now a performer on the municipality’s cultural payroll, playing the same three songs five times a day, pausing only when someone drops a coin or a drone buzzes overhead.

The city becomes a stage set, and its residents unwilling actors, speaking in polite tones to avoid bad TripAdvisor reviews.

And let’s not forget the land itself. Natural beauty, too, is a casualty. Beaches are trampled, hills eroded by hiking hordes, coral reefs bleached by sunblock and ignorance. Even the air grows weary. The carbon footprint of cheap flights and cruise liners would make even the most indifferent tree hugger weep.

You can’t love a place by devouring it. But that’s what mass tourism does, it consumes, often without conscience. It reduces mountains to photo ops and sacred temples to hashtags.

The worst part? The locals learn to disappear. Not just from the physical city, though many do that, moving away when they no longer afford to stay but from the cultural conversation. They stop complaining, because what’s the point? Their cities are not theirs anymore. They become props. Or worse, service providers with permanent smiles and bent backs, pretending it’s all fine for the sake of someone else's dream vacation.

It’s a strange kind of colonization. The ships don’t carry soldiers they carry sunburnt families and beer-fueled bachelor parties. But the effect is the same: the disempowerment of the native population and the reshaping of a place in the image of the outsider.

I’m not calling for a total tourism shutdown. I’m not suggesting we wall off Venice or ban flights to Santorini. But there has to be a balance. A conscious, respectful approach that prioritizes the people who live there, not just those who pass through. Real regulation, sustainable planning, and yes, limits. Not every place can or should, be a global attraction.

Because when a city becomes a product, it loses its soul. And eventually, the tourists will feel that too. They’ll leave with their trinkets and photos, but without ever having touched the real place, the one that’s now been priced out, paved over, and silenced.

Maybe it’s time we locals started rating the tourists for a change. One star for blocking my doorway while filming a TikTok. Five stars for buying bread from the old baker and learning his name. Fair’s fair, after all.

Let’s not sugarcoat it. Overtourism is not a blessing in disguise. It’s a crisis dressed in Hawaiian shirts, one that demands honest reckoning, not polite brochures. Otherwise, we’ll wake up one day and realize we don’t live in cities anymore, we live in curated attractions with no room left for life.