Mass tourism is ruining Italy.
Such is the growing complaint—from Italians at least—tired of the hordes of tourists descending like locusts in their baseball caps and cargo shorts, trampling through the country's wealth of artistic and cultural shrines.
Yet, I confess, this summer in Italy, I am part of the swarm.
I am a tourist. With devouring eyes, I trek to the meccas: St. Peter's in Rome, Michelangelo's David in Florence, the Doge's Palace in Venice.
Along the way I am assaulted (invasive security checks in Vatican City), insulted (accused of pilfering digital tickets), dehydrated (two water fountains for the entire, sun-baked expanse of the ancient Forum), and fleeced ($44 for a single-day museum pass).
So why do we, the pathetic tourists, keep coming?
In St. Mark's Basilica, a tucked-away depiction of corpses floating past Noah's ark.
In the Colosseum, a carved inscription from the Emperor Vespasian, bragging about constructing the stadium from the spoils of war.
In the Sistine Chapel, Michelangelo's vision of humanity aswirl in color, sin, and redemption.
For the son of a Pittsburgh steelworker, standing in front of the world's great art and ancient architecture was once an unimaginable luxury. And yet mass tourism, with all its faults, has made the impossible possible.
Italians put up with the tourists, I suspect, because in their hearts they are a generous people, willing to share their treasures—and a bit of spiritual enlightenment.
And we tourists—some of us at least—are grateful.
