Rick Steves non sta venendo.

That’s right folks, Rick Steves is not coming!

At least that was my hope. I was in Cortona, Italy on an extended stay when I heard Rick Steves rumors involving a fact finding swing, creating another cog in his money-making, “Travel Europe” machine. “Hai visto Rick Steves?” went the murmurs in expresso bar in the square and at the restaurants at dinner. No, I had not seen Rick, but I knew people who had; a blessing and a curse.
I’m the first to encourage everyone to get out of Dodge and roam the planet at every opportunity. The problem I have with Rick? His unabashed Americanization of every destination he tramples. Take nothing but advantage, leave nothing but dissappointment. There is a time and place for vacation and for adventure, it’s just unfortunate that the byproduct of his tours accomplish neither. He is a master at creating the “lunchables” on the travel menu, everything in their little spots on the plastic, portion-controlled travel tray. The end result is pre-determined, for visitor and resident, usually underwhelming for both. The biggest adventure on a Steves Tour might be a hotel without a lift, with vacation appreciated as the great air-conditioning on the bus.
How would I change it? I wouldn’t. I just draw a big red line around Europe and go everywhere else. And when I do stray into Steves territory, I seek out the fringe, staying off the main thoroughfares and ducking into the undocumented eateries, only to be tempted to be the one to expose the best of them.
Travel is a two-way street, best experienced without one’s nose in a tour book or smartphone app. The vibe Rick develops and the expectation that snowballs as a result is tough to embrace. On one corner, the winemaker that got the tour book mention is quick to tout the notoriety along with the expectation that profits will follow. Meanwhile a superior winemaker down the street struggles for an audience. Rick Steves travelers are programmed to not delve too deep, so it’s all good. I actually think Rick’s TV show might keep tourist on the couch and away from cluttering up the table at my favorite Cortona cafe. No, I’m not telling you where it is. Rick might find out, put it in his next edition, fill it with folk lost in their itineraries and I’ll never get a seat, if I ever return. And we wonder why they call us the “ugly Americans.” I cringe when I think about what we’re about to do to Cuba…