I don't want to see your "Euro Summer"

Why curated travel content feels more like performance than perspective and what we’ve lost along the way.

I said it, I don’t want to see your “Euro summer.”

Nope.

I know — how could I say that? A travel writer, no less. Someone who’s waxed poetic about town squares in Prague and overnight trains winding down the length of Vietnam. A girl who has “wanderlust” baked into her bones, or quite literally “traveler” tattooed on her wrist. But, I don’t want to see it.
Not the version that’s been curated, filtered, outfit-planned and scheduled like a press tour.

I don’t want to see it.

I didn’t plan to write this. It kind of clawed its way out of me. That’s what happens, I guess, when your eyes glaze over from seeing one too many “My Euro Summer” announcements with Aperol spritzes and shell necklaces and “Everything I bought for ___” hauls that look suspiciously mass-produced.

“Travel is the best education” is not just a Pinterest quote to me.

It’s a pillar of who I am. My parents lived by it.

They pulled us out of school to see the world, to get us into the world. There were plenty of side-eyes from teachers and missed quizzes. But we grew up believing that airports could be classrooms. And because my dad worked for an airline, we had travel perks that made it all more possible. I’m endlessly grateful for that. That version of travel — that version of learning — shaped me.

We didn’t do resorts. We didn’t bake on beaches next to other Americans hearing nothing but English, talking about their fantasy football leagues in a country that had no idea what that meant. We didn’t go somewhere “abroad” only to end up in an air-conditioned simulation of home. And I’m not trying to sound smug about that. It’s just the truth. When friends went to Sanibel Island or Cancún, we were wandering around Budapest or haggling in markets or getting very lost in Kyoto. There was discomfort. There were unfamiliar smells. There were maps that didn’t make sense and dinners that came out wrong and quiet, extraordinary moments of wonder. That was the point.

So much of what we call “travel” (by today’s social media standards) is just luxury escapism. Vacationing under the guise of “experiencing culture.” That’s because those kinds of trips aren’t travel. They’re vacations. Nothing wrong with them in theory (see next paragraph), but let’s call it what it is. A resort in Mykonos won’t teach you anything. And The Hilton won’t give you a worldview. It’s fine to want comfort and luxury, but stop confusing escapism with exploration.

Look around — Spain, Italy, Greece — many are overwhelmed, exhausted by tourism. Anti-tourism protests are popping up across most of Europe. And while yes, many of these places rely on tourist dollars to survive, it doesn’t mean they should have to sacrifice their culture to do it. If the Greek language disappears for three months so you can order your spritz without confusion, shouldn’t that make you… uneasy? Isn’t there a better way to do it? A more responsible, more reverent way to step into someone else’s world?

Maybe you’ll go to a local market, have a “sweet moment” with an elderly Greek woman, and write about it, post about it — maybe she smiled and handed you an olive or something. But I’ll say this gently and clearly: that is not the education of travel. That is a brief, curated performance of being in someone else’s culture. Don’t romanticize real people just because you’ve dropped into their lives for a week, or a moment. They live there. You’re passing through.

And maybe you’re not “traveling,” really. That’s fine. You’re on vacation. Just say that. Own it. You wanted a tan and a negroni with a view. But let’s stop dressing it up in the language of personal growth and global awareness. You could’ve done that in California, or the Hamptons.

I don’t want to hear about the “perfect for Greece” linen set you bought that you’ll wear twice. I don’t want to hear about your outrageously expensive boutique hotel with an infinity pool that serves breakfast poolside. Are they beautiful? Yes. Could they be enviable? Sometimes. But that doesn’t make them admirable. It reeks of something else: performance. Wealth, or the appearance of it. Instagram doesn’t care if it’s within your budget — it only cares if it’s on-brand.

You’re not a traveler. You’re a tourist. And those are different things.

Real travel isn’t meant to be glossy. It’s meant to be gritty. It’s meant to shake you up, spin you around, leave you slightly nauseous but deeply moved. It’s supposed to disorient you. Make you question what you think you know. Make you ask for help. Make you feel small, awestruck, overwhelmed, humbled, alive.

That’s the kind of travel that teaches you something. That makes you feel small and alive and connected all at once.

But the version we’re sold? The one where you book the same hotels, pose in front of the same blue doors, caption the same shots of croissants or gondolas or Santorini rooftops? That’s not travel. That’s a backdrop.

We live in a hypocritical world. You vote for sustainability, for human rights, for climate protections — and then you burn jet fuel to sit in a pool 3,000 miles away, drink wine shipped in from another region and post it with a filter. You love the idea of culture, but you avoid the mess of it — the sweat, the confusion, the unknown. You want the cobblestones, but not the discomfort. The postcard, not the place.

Here's the truth:
It’s okay to want ease, but don’t confuse that with depth.
It’s okay to be a tourist, but don’t pretend you’re traveling.

Traveling takes guts.

Touristing just takes money.

So no, I don’t want to see your Euro summer. Not because I don’t think it’s beautiful. I know it is.

But when millions of people descend on a handful of postcard-perfect cities every summer, it's not neutral. It's not just content. It's impact. It’s displacement. It's culture being pushed out to make room for consumption. It's locals unable to afford their own neighborhoods. Its languages drowned out by English. Menus rewritten. Histories softened. Streets reshaped and queued up for Instagram.

And somewhere in all that, something quietly erodes over time.

So yes, travel. Please, travel.
But do it with your eyes wide open.
Do it with humility.
With reverence.
With a sense of what it means to be the guest, not the main character.

You can start small.
Stay at a hostel — or if not, rent an apartment from someone who actually lives there. Better yet, stay with a host and learn firsthand about the city, the culture, the language. Use the kitchen. Go to the local grocery store and cook a few meals. Stop into the mom-and-pop shops. Don’t bring two checked bags — one is more than enough. Wash your clothes in the sink or at a local laundromat. Use public transportation when you can — get confused, lost and disoriented — you can always ask for direction and you can always get off.

Visit during the winter, not the summer, or the “off-season.”

Sure, have a few preplanned restaurants on your list, but just explore. Let your feet take you somewhere unexpected. Sit down at a place that wasn’t designed for you, or for Instagram.

Learn a few sentences in the language and use them.

The best kind of travel doesn’t just change you, it honors the place you went.

And if you’re going to leave a mark —
Let it be light.
Let it be grateful.
Let it be quiet.
Let it be in awe of another.

Thank you for being here, until next time 💌
xx Raye

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