There's a joke about Europeans abroad:
British people when they see another British person: "Oh no. Tourists." Germans when they see another German: "What are you doing here? I discovered this place." French people when they see another French person: "Good. At least there's decent food."
I've been the German. I've felt that little deflation when "my" secret spot had other visitors—as if a village that's existed for 600 years was mine to discover.
At some point, "off the beaten path" became the only respectable way to travel. If you went somewhere popular, you were a tourist. If you went somewhere obscure, you were a traveler. The whole thing became a status game disguised as authenticity.
But here's what I've come to think: the beaten path is beaten because it's good. The Amalfi Coast is crowded because it's staggering. Paris is overrun because Paris delivers. Millions of people across centuries aren't wrong.
And there's something to be said for returning to familiar places rather than constantly chasing new ones. Your fifth visit to a city isn't diminished—it's deepened. You stop orienting and start inhabiting. You have a usual table. You know which bakery to skip. That's not failure. That's relationship.
My favorite stop in Europe is smack dab in the heart of Piazza Navona, which ranks in the top 6 things to do in Rome just not the one with name recognition like Pantheon, Trevi Fountain and Spanish steps. It's to eat something like ice cream from Tre Scalini.
I still love the obscure detour. But I've stopped pretending it's more meaningful than sitting in a piazza that's been full of people for 400 years.
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