I remember my first time traveling abroad.
I landed in Munich and was absolutely captivated by the sights and smells and sounds that surrounded me. But, I had made a promise to myself before I left. I would not be that annoying American tourist who is heard from the back of the bus, that stops to take pictures, that gets in the way of pedestrians, and overall, I wouldn’t be someone who stands out.
I wanted to blend in as seamlessly as possible. Anyone who passed me on the street would see me walking with purpose and determination and come to the conclusion that I was a native German and, in some way, respect me more. They would acknowledge my disdain for other tourists and see me as one of them.
Theoretically, this works. In practice, I think it is actually a detriment; one that robbed me of crucial moments that actually serve to gradually assimilate a person into a new culture.
I landed in Munich and was driven down to Garmisch-Partenkirchen. That night, me and a few dorm mates flocked into the city to explore our new surroundings while we fought jet lag together. Power in numbers. While walking the Zugspitzstraße, the fading sunlight seemed to dance on the buildings, glittering and dusting the town in a warm haze that felt quite spellbinding. I marveled at the simple beauty of what I witnessed; the architecture was nothing fancy or baroque. Instead, it felt ancient and useful. We arrived in late summer and the flowers were in full bloom, trees were beginning to produce fruitful seeds and the grass itself felt healthy and vibrant.
Everywhere I looked, people walked. Or biked. But few drove. Then we arrived to Garmisch’s Marienplatz. Within the cobblestone square, cars were forbidden. Everyone walked happily, window shopping and strolling. Conversation rang out from the outdoor picnic tables sitting outside restaurant windows.
Yet, still I fought the urge to sit and take it all in. I tried to be as quiet as possible. I didn’t want to be seen or heard speaking English. Conditioned from a lifetime of hearing about tourism horror stories and reading about asshole Americans ruining things abroad, the last thing I was about to do was push that image any further. And so, while my friends enjoyed themselves, I withheld being present in favor of being what I thought was a good steward. I think I took only one picture of the entire night sadly. It remains only a faint memory these days.
On public transit for the first month, I refused to speak a single word. I learned to say “Einzelfahrt” and “Tageskarte” perfectly, practicing in the mirror obsessively for days until I was satisfied that I could convince a German bus driver I wanted either a one-way ticket or a day pass. I would sit quietly on the bus, acting like I didn’t know my English-speaking friends who sat right next to me.
In this way, I feel I robbed myself of those first experiences. While my friends were able to relax, take in the scenery and then live presently, I was in my head and wary of being loud. They adjusted much quicker to life abroad whereas my journey took much longer.
I was only fooling myself by being so withdrawn and reticent to speak. It was a silly venture to begin with as, if a German tried speaking to me, I would have to embarrassedly ask them if they spoke English. Maybe from afar I seemed a native, but once inspected, it became clear I was just another tourist.
Things changed when I first arrived in Italy.
I had been living in Europe for about two months when we decided to take a week-and-a-half long getaway to Cinque Terre. I was finally starting to settle into life and had learned to open up a bit when out on the economy. Recognizing that there was no shot I would be able to look Italian, even from someone who wasn’t wearing their glasses, I decided I should try being a normal tourist for once.
I was no longer afraid of looking dumb— I had gotten very good at that since language barriers had become an issue— instead, I was beginning to accept and enjoy it. As it turns out, there is a way to be a tourist while still remaining respectful and well-liked by the populace.
We rented a car and drove the Riviera Coast as well as the major inland cities. We saw Florence, Pisa, Lucca, Bologna, Viareggio and Livorno among others on our road trips. We took a boat tour of Cinque Terre: seeing Monterosso al Mare, Vernazza, Corniglia, Manarola, and Riomaggiore in one day.
I gave in to tourism life. I stopped every few feet for pictures and videos, I drank wine with Italians late into the night, I ate at every restaurant possible and asked the server just to bring me their favorite dish so I could try something new. The gelato, espresso and focaccia budget was flagged by Capital One as a possible fraudulent charge; I refused to stop. My white, pale skin could be seen sitting on the coastal rocks, burning to a crisp and turning beet red as I convinced myself I could tan like the Italians. I stood out in every possible way.
I wore the most American attire possible and embraced my roots for once. As a result, I was so completely present and relaxed on this trip that it stands out as one of the great highlights of my life.
This trip was an integral learning experience for me. Now I understood. Tourism is not necessarily the enemy. It was hubris. Hubris that caused other tourists to act as though they owned the earth they walked on. Hubris that malingered into disrespect and disdain. Hubris that refused anyone to feel like they might be embarrassed, to prove that they might not have all the answers always.
When I travel now, I am unafraid of doing tourist activities or being myself. I traveled to NYC for a week and did only the most basic, eye-rolling activities in Manhattan. And it was for no reason besides personal interest. I had always wanted to see the skyline from the Empire State Building, so that’s exactly what I did. While I tried to mix in some true New Yorker activities, I didn’t feel as though I wasted my money at all. Those touristy things are always there for a reason.
There is a healthy compromise between being a respectful tourist and having fun. Too many are similar to me, scared to do the things they really want to do in an effort to prove they are different than everyone else. In the end, they simply circle back around to conformity; bereft of enriching moments.
This is simply a practice of honest living. Sometimes embracing being a tourist is the best and most respectful course of action. You are, after all, a tourist.