I was standing in line at a quaint beach shack on the coast of South Carolina. Locals scattered around various tables in their swimsuits and flip flops, sipping icy beverages and chewing cold sandwiches. They smiled at passersby and perhaps pondered what the rest of their day was going to entail. It’s not exactly foreign to me. Though coming from Chicago, I’ve indulged in the beach plenty in my short, provincial life. However, I have never experienced humidity quite like this before. I’m relieved when it comes my time to order because my body is aching for a refresh from the blistering heat. Sweat soaks my tank top and my face burns to the touch. I can taste salt in my mouth from my swimming endeavors earlier. Something I’m not used to. It comes my time to order and I make the fatal mistake of asking for a “pop.” The woman behind the counter gives me a funny look, her glasses accentuating the confusion between her brows. “Oh you’re a northerner! One soda coming right up” she replies, ignoring my “funny” word choice. I could see the distaste written on her features once reality set in and I was now a yankee crashing her southern party. After a few more similar experiences to this one, I quickly realized how locals felt about tourism and northerners in downtown Charleston. And it wasn’t positive.
Once upon a time, Charleston was a small town. Neighbors were your friends and lent you eggs and flour if you ran out while cooking. Rent was low and smiles were common. King street was cleaner and smells of bread and chocolate wafted into the streets from small business bakeries. You slept peacefully through the night, the sounds of sirens and fast cars never jolted you. The restaurants were casual and the waitress with the long blonde hair and tanned skin remembered your order from last week. She double checks anyways, “Cheeseburger and fries with a chocolate milkshake right?” Newly developed apartments don’t obstruct the view of the harbor and getting stuck in traffic on the bridge for hours was an anomaly. Early morning coffee and a bagel was 5 dollars not 15 and waiting in line for it didn’t take a year. Everyone knew everyone.
Or so I’m told. I’ve experienced the newly developed Charleston through the lens of a northerner, only having moved there for school. I see crowded dirty streets and windows of homes closed off from the public, rather than open. I smell shit from hot and exhausted horses carrying heavy tourists that wanted a taste of the southern way. The city is still beautiful, still my current home, but gone is the small town everyone once knew and loved.
Can it be found again? My favorite place to go in downtown Charleston is a small locally owned bar called Tobin’s Market located a little farther away from all of the noise on King. The workers were kind and asked me questions about my little life here. “How are you liking school?” “Is Chicago better or do you prefer the south?” Questions I don’t hear at more central locations. Different local bands played ballads outside on a rickety, wooden stage that sat in front of plush white couches. I never came across any college students other than my own friends that I brought along and the boy that grew up here who showed me the place. Although I may not have been present for the pre-tourist Charleston, Tobin’s seems to possess a little bit of that authentic southern charm we’ve been missing. Tobins gives me hope that there are still places around town that have not been overwhelmed with tourism and media.
Maybe the heart of Charleston is still there, hiding somewhere.
I sit now at a little gelateria in Florence, Italy. Although, it is not exactly little. It sits directly in front of the Uffizi museum with crystal clear double doors that provide you a view of the Piazza. My waiter speaks English and laughs at my attempts to speak Italian. “Vorrei un affogato?” I say as a question, not quite sure if I am pronouncing it right. Luckily, the waiter understands what I want. An affogato is a scoop of crema gelato drowned in a shot of espresso. It reminds me of a frappuccino from Starbucks but with richer cream and hazelnut tasting coffee. I paid 7 euros for it. In the town I have been living in, a small city inside of Umbria, an affogato would cost 3 euro, if they even have them. A group of American boys sit across from me, laughing loudly at something on their phones. Outside the glass doors I sit before stands meticulous marble statues, staring at me from across Piazza della Signoria. I wonder what they see when they look at me. A blonde haired, blue eyed college student. One who clearly doesn’t belong judging by the way I only know how to say thank you and goodbye in the native language. But maybe I do belong, because the piazza is shoulder to shoulder with American tourists, damaging the small paved streets and monuments with loud shuffles. They are quite literally standing in history, but are more taken with the shops on the next street over than the hard, chiseled men above them. Locals are few and far between. What happened to this historical city that carried so many secrets in its cobblestone? I can smell the avocado toast a woman is eating from the restaurant next to me. What’s Italian about that? Florence has begun to cater to Americans since we occupy most of the city majority of the time. Tourism has invaded the Florentine streets and cuisine. English preoccupies their mouths, Italian gone and lost.
A while ago, Florence was once a village. Cafès and gelaterias only served custom Italian cuisine and art was restored for history not tourist attractions. The people dance in the streets getting drunk on culture. It was simpler then. Less crowded. Prices were lower and smiles wider. Their own version of Italian rolled off their tongues, speaking in a dialect only known to Firenze. Small businesses flourished and connected with kind citizens. Brandy Melville and Zara didn’t exist. Americans were nowhere to be found. A quiet peace. Something I wish I could have witnessed. Unfortunately, during my short time in Florence, I was unable to encounter any local cafès not corrupted by tourism or inflation. I stuck out my ears to hear whispers of Italian or rich war stories from thousands of years ago, but was left empty handed. Perhaps if I had more time, I could have escaped the center circle that traps the Americans and discovered an off-the-beaten path corner restaurant untouched by their greedy hands. An authentic, real place beneath the exhaustion. Perhaps I’ll just have to go back.
This realization has led me to the question of: can something be over-loved? Charleston and Florence both beautiful in their own right, have almost seen their ruin because of how many people want to visit. Or even move there. I have heard countless stories of young travelers that come across Florence and love it so much they never come back to the states. Or me, who visited Charleston once and decided I wanted to spend the next four years of my life there. If they were less stunning, less rich with history, would they have kept their integrity? When does it end? How do we start appreciating their original purpose? Their stories? I think it begins with small, local businesses. Ignoring chains and putting money into places that maintain as much historical relevance as possible. Although it may not be much, it’s a start. I may even have to leave Charleston and Florence behind, to alleviate them from some of their pain, and help them find their way back home.
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