Dances with Dolphins

Dear fellow citizen, in the middle of August, my fellow man in swimming trunks and flamingo float, on this vacation I came home and saw the future.

For a long time, I thought my homeland would be immune to the excesses of tourism: an island, in the open sea, surrounded by more photogenic islands and a climate that would tire a saint's patience seemed like enough filters to ensure that only those who truly wanted to come would pass. But little by little, summer by summer, the landscape began to change, rising serenely from the level of "finally, they appreciate us," to "good," to "you should stop already," and finally, to "2025."

How to characterize the "2025" level? Well, the main distinguishing feature was that, for the first time, a citizen of Hindustan tried to sell you a "typical" souvenir from the island (a sweatshirt I stopped to admire in the window of a shop right in the middle of the city's main street, precisely because I found it as typically Azorean as a sombrero or a kimono). Then there were the small beach areas, previously frequented almost exclusively by neighbors, flooded with groups of French or Italians, chaotic and noisy to the point of making us feel, after all, civilized like Nordics—and with a much better tan. Finally, the price list... Who would have thought that that faded café backing onto the beach area from my childhood would one day sell a coffee for €1.50 and a small bottle of water for €2.50? With the same plastic chairs from Olá! and the same floor sticking to your flip-flops. That a friend from the mainland would confess to us that he spent more on a family lunch than on his first entire vacation here 20 years ago? That we'd be asking unsuspecting tourists "from" 195 euros to "swim with the dolphins"? What if the dolphin isn't in the mood? Had a bad day? Didn't like us? And by the way: is it just a matter of swimming, or will the dolphin do a table dance ?

"Ah!" exclaims the reader, who now only reads this scribe out of irritation, after a hearty sip of the Aperol Spritz made with 7-Up – "you had to come to your hometown to realize how irritating tourism is, didn't you?" "Oh," says the columnist, taking the glass of Aperol soda and taking a sip as he can't contain the stench, "tourism is so irritating." Almost as irritating as our way of going through life in perpetual complaint. But that doesn't mean: a) that, with the exception of certain cloistered nuns, we aren't all tourists from time to time; b) that the very popular movements that oppose mass tourism forget that, deep down, what they're calling for is an end to the democratization of tourism and a return to the time when only the rich could travel and vacation abroad; c) that it is not the engine of the national economy, responsible for 12% of GDP (some organizations talk about 19%) and that, if they want to end it, they had better be prepared to become poor or quickly go to work in the factory (I don't know what. There aren't many left. But, come on, to the factory).

The question, therefore, isn't that; the question is—I say, signaling to the helpful Hindustan employee and asking for a glass of water at a friendly price—what's the limit? To what extent does the tourist bring us a positive balance? When does the business revenue stop compensating for the investment?

The most bitter critics will say: when there's nothing left. When the Portuguese have to immigrate to a place they can afford, just like the Spanish, the Greeks, the Maltese, the Italians, or even the French or the English, who complain about the same thing. That wild tourism will eventually destroy everything. That there are no limits to neoliberal capitalism. But there are; they've always been inscribed in its essence: those of capital itself. The limits are the limits of the tourist's pocket. It's the day they realize that, for two and a half euros for three sips of water, it's better to stay home or go elsewhere. That the dolphin, yes, sir, all very intense and beautiful, but months have passed and not a single WhatsApp message , not a single postcard.

Capitalism works because it's driven by a force, pure and simple, infinite: greed—Gordon Gekko explains in "Wall Street" since 1987. It's not driven by good intentions, which we all have, but which, as we know, pass more easily than a low-cost flight to the next bachelor party in Albufeira. It's not driven by rational or sentimental logic; it's driven by the same visceral force that makes every living thing strive, at every moment, to be and have more—see how plants and trees compete for the sun and the earth's resources, even though they are also capable of functioning in a network. And greed contains within itself the code for its own self-destruction: after eating so much, one day there's nothing left.

While we complain about tourists, we fail to realize that our own fellow citizens are primarily responsible for our complaints about tourism: they're the ones who drive up prices, they're the ones who lower quality. As this happens all over the world, as affordable destinations, truly low-cost air travel, and "experiences" untainted by hordes of travelers become increasingly scarce, the tourism craze is approaching its peak and its end. You read it here first. It will be replaced by space tourism and virtual reality experiences, artificial intelligence, and the metaverse, where we no longer swim with dolphins, but receive massages from elves and cyborg mermaids, while watching gods and dragons battle and chewing Aperol-mint flavored gum. Until then, it will simply be that we'll be swapped for the destination next door, the first one to offer a more attractive price-quality ratio.

It's the beauty of greed. One day, these places will be ours alone again. Not because of any social conscience, not because of any effort at environmental protection, not because humanity will suddenly ascend to a higher state of understanding and balance, but simply because it will have become a bad purchase, a bad deal.

But when that day comes, let's agree on one thing, cafe owners, restaurant owners, tour operators, people in general: drink, eat, say goodbye to the dolphin, do whatever you want – but don't complain.