I was a corporate attorney who loved luxury hotels just as much as I loved immersing myself in history and culture, but my friends and I were focused on living our best lives. Shopping, partying, dining and putting ourselves first. We loved meeting locals and making new friends, but the priority was to indulge, and nothing more. After all, that was what travel marketers told us: travel is about you—your comfort, your escape. Do you!

That’s actually how I kicked off my keynote speech at Impact Conference in Victoria earlier this year, sharing the story of my 15-year journey from a privileged, US passport holder with disposable income to a travel reporter passionate about sustainable tourism.

The core of my message? The travel industry has strayed from its human side—and we are all implicated in acknowledging that and changing course.

Beyond Resort Walls

My perspective began shifting when I stepped foot in the Caribbean in 2006. A burned-out lawyer, I took a solo vacation to St. Lucia lest I lose three weeks of accumulated PTO. It was my first time visiting the region and my first truly solo vacation as an adult.

I chose an upscale all-inclusive resort, which was all that seemed available when I researched accommodations online. Maybe it’s what you did when visiting the Caribbean, I thought. While there, I stepped outside those walls — into a weekly fish fry, then a solo day hop over to neighboring Fort de France, Martinique. Meeting Martinicans, enjoying fresh fish at a local restaurant that tasted like a home cooked meal and swaying to echoes of zouk music threw me back to the vivid, communal life I knew growing up in Côte d’Ivoire. I quickly realized that the resort walls weren’t just about security; they were an intentional economic and social barrier.

The essence of St. Lucia, Martinique and other Caribbean destinations was clearly not behind resort gates—even if travel websites wanted us to believe it. It was in the neighborhoods, the local businesses that thrive when you shop there, the cultural events and the people. And I was going to find more of that on my trips.

That decision took me to Jamaica, where I stayed at a Jamaican family owned hotel. The small, fully local staff quickly took me in and showed me their favorite places to relax, to catch live reggae festivals, swim in their favorite rivers, or get a late night soup roadside.

It’s a shift that eventually led me to live, write, and report across the Caribbean and Central America for years before the phrase “digital nomad” became mainstream. And when you live long enough in tourism-dependent destinations, you witness and grasp the power of this industry—to build or destroy.

The Human Side

I met women like Marva in Hopkins Village, Belize, who taught me how to make hudut and shared what it means to keep Garifuna traditions alive as development and US migration increasingly threatened local businesses.

I met David, a 20-something mountain guide in the Dominican Republic, whose small eco-adventure company became the top entry on Google for climbing Pico Duarte with a guide—the tallest peak in the Caribbean—after I featured him in my Moon Dominican Republic guidebook. It brought him so much business he had to hire an English-speaking virtual assistant to help him with bookings, as he wasn’t fluent and didn’t know how to use all those digital tools.

I share this not to boast, but to show that there are many like David who are in tourism and show promise, but lack resources to fully integrate in the industry because they are not their government’s priority. Many more I’ve met lack the resources or training.

I saw successful community-run enterprises, too, from Belize to the Dominican Republic, with members who share profits equally and also pump allocated funds back into building a local clinic or funding their children’s education.

Tourism, I realized over time, isn’t neutral. It can open doors, and economic opportunity for those who live in the countries we enjoy—but only if we are willing to consider more than our own indulgence and only if the right policies are in place to make the sector more inclusive.

The Luxury Race

And yet, somewhere along the way, we’ve lost that human side of travel. Greenwashing, increased exclusivity with a multiplication of resorts and extractive marketing on steroids eclipse the lived experiences of the very communities that make travel worth taking in the first place.

Travel is still focused on selling you lush dwellings to “escape reality” while culture and land are more neatly packaged and curated than ever, especially from the luxury-focused companies—but at what cost? Environmental destruction, exclusion of communities from natural resources and even a way of life—just so we can indulge on vacation, then fly away from it all never to return. All of this, amid a climate crisis to which we already contribute.

The more I read press releases about the latest upscale hotel opening or offering, the less it feels like connection and more like a sanitized version of place. Resort brands creating enclaves loudly claim they are “giving back,” and employing people, yet we continue to see reports of big leakage.

And high end hotel chains are mushrooming across the Global South, walling off of beaches and the creation of economic enclaves that leak the tourism revenue while marginalizing the very communities that give destinations their character.

But as long as the privileged traveler gets to indulge and arrivals reach their peak, there is no concern voiced from any major group or member of the travel industry.

“Consider Us” as Equals

On the flip side, Indigenous tourism offers so much opportunity for the industry to step up, yet its organizations put double the effort for governments, big media and private sector to see them as a baseline of what the right kind of travel exchange should be about.

I remember what Johani Mamid of Mabu Buru Tours in Broome, Australia, shared with me for a story on Aboriginal tourism in Australia – a specific line that ended up on the cutting floor post-edit:

“We’re not saying to give us handouts. We’re saying actually consider us–consider that we can play a fair game in this space as well, as long as we get treated as a fair player.”

I recall, too, pitching a story in the past about an island being systematically bought up by billionaires, soon displacing generations of residents and destroying one of the world’s most important birding sites in North America. The outlet’s response? Something along the lines of “that’s not really a new thing.” That reply echoes in my mind because it perfectly encapsulates how normalized extraction has become in our industry.

The essence of travel is increasingly being morphed to suit western palates and sold as exclusivity rather than connection (although you’ll be promised the latter). But travel, at its core, is about meeting other people, learning from them, and seeing ourselves reflected in their struggles and their joys. Serendipitous travel, full of memories and authenticity, is messy—not dangerous, but filled with the real elements of heritage and culture, unpackaged and there to experience when we’re welcomed into a space.

Somewhere along the way, that human side has been eroded, buried under profit margins, and social media gloss to which many have contributed. What do you do when you witness an influencer prancing around in a pretty dress in a places of Black memory (true story), for the ‘Gram, and the tourism board executive holds the camera? I suppose all that matters is the post’s impressions?

Livingstone Zambia: From Victoria Falls to seeking and finding Sishemo, a women-run upcycled glass jewelry studio.

And now we’re seeing the backlash unfold. From Barcelona to the Canary Islands and Lisbon, locals are marching in the streets against overtourism, housing shortages, and neighborhoods hollowed out by short-term rentals.

At the same time, a rising tide of anti-immigrant sentiment—from the US to Europe—fuels resentment toward outsiders. Pair that with failing infrastructure in tourism-dependent nations—say, extended rolling blackouts in the Dominican Republic or in Madagascar as of late—where tourism paradoxically grows, and it’s no surprise that frustration is boiling over. Imagine being displaced, disconnected, or left in the dark (often literally) while visitors cool off nearby in air-conditioning and hot showers… that’s when tourism’s extractive path becomes impossible to ignore.

Economic, Social Realities

I’m not naive about economic realities—many destinations now have few alternatives to tourism. The global pandemic put that on display for all to live, see and feel. But does economic necessity justify the status quo of marketing already-strained destinations to death while ignoring the effect on residents? Does it justify continuing to treat locals as second-class citizens over tourists, and how long does the industry believe this will work before it all implodes?

And when local housing dwindles or its costs skyrocket due to digital nomad influx, why is it celebrated as ‘economic opportunity’ without addressing displacement? Or when there’s a story about “community-led tourism” published in a major travel outlet, why do we act like it’s a huge deal when it should be the baseline and recognized as the right kind of tourism?

Better yet, why are travelers and writers who claim to be pro-sustainability cheer on when a luxury brand builds in a protected area, encroaching on wildlife and once ancestral lands just so tourists can see gorillas pass by their front porch and brag about it?

Tourism done right looks like tour operators with B-Corp certifications walking their talk—not using their credentials as cover to push the next ‘newly opened’ destination. It’s tourism boards prioritizing destination stewardship over arrival numbers (remember that post-pandemic promise), and marketers building genuine relationships with media who understand impact rather than just chasing impressions. It means digital nomad platforms acknowledging their role in displacement rather than just profiting from lifestyle migration.

I’ve thought of exiting the industry—but not the act of travel itself—on multiple occasions as a journalist who’s been in this space for more than 15 years. I’ve aimed to infuse positive impact through my work, supporting what’s local, pushing back against extraction and checking my own privilege.

But I decided to keep going, because I’ve seen what happens when tourism is done right — when it preserves heritage, opens doors, and treats local voices as equal players.

A great example of this is the Best Tourism Villages initiative that UN Tourism runs and that I’ve looked into and written about as an exclusive the past couple of years. It inspires me to see these communities around the world who have figured out how to make tourism elevate and preserve what’s theirs while connecting with others.

On the other hand, I also know and have seen first-hand what bad tourism can do. Many of us have, yet few are vocal about it.

So for World Tourism Day, rather than simply ask how we can stop the industry’s absurd commodification of “communities,” let’s instead push harder for what we can each do to continue to amplify real people-to-people connections in tourism—not the ones packaged neatly for your entertainment—and push for better policies from our respective seats.

Let’s reject aesthetics over substance. (I can dream)

And let’s courageously push back when a brand claims sustainability yet builds a high footprint operation within a protected area.

Because “no change is too small” — as environmental scientist and activist in Venice, Jane Da Mosto, told me when we had coffee in Venice, a few months ago. This was after I shared how disillusioned I felt with the travel industry, including travel media.

She’s right: Every choice, every voice, every decision that elevates the more equitable, conscious kind of tourism is needed. Even if we’re just a small circle of people across the industry, globally, who refuse to be a part of the extraction, exploitation and displacement of our brothers and sisters around the world in the name of tourism.

So that’s what I’ll continue to do. I’ll keep using my platform to elevate what’s working, push for conscious choices, and demand economic justice in tourism.

I hope you’ll join me—because it’s never too late to put people first.

Happy World Tourism Day.

For more honest conversations and insights on tourism, head to my Tourism Lens Media channel and my newsletter.

Cover image: With the Indian Creek Maya Arts Women’s Group in Toledo, Belize, after a day of cultural activities, from a Maya cooking class to traditional crafts and a hike.

But if there’s one thing I’ve learned from my decade abroad as a travel journalist and as a digital nomad who’s lived in several countries, it’s this: If you’re actively planning a move abroad from North America — this year or next — there are destinations you need to know about. Because more residents in these places are literally saying: don’t come.

Moving overseas isn’t just about picking the place with the best beaches or lowest taxes. It’s also about understanding the impact of your presence on the people who already live there.

Lately, more locals are protesting, staging demonstrations, and openly pushing back against tourists but also against foreign residents who they say are displacing them from their historic neighborhoods.

Let’s talk about eight cities or countries you should pause on before making a relocation decision in 2025 — and why. This list could be longer, but my aim is to get you thinking about your move before you jump on the American exodus bandwagon.

1. Mexico City, Mexico

Locals are fed up with skyrocketing rents in neighborhoods like Roma and Condesa that they say have been gentrified. Signs read “Gringo Home,” while protests have blamed short-term rentals alongside the government, as some areas have seen housing prices rise 50–70%.

Ironically, the current president of Mexico herself promoted digital nomadism — partnering with Airbnb and UNESCO in 2022 – when she was the mayor of Mexico City. But locals say the result was a short-term rental boom that has displaced residents.

Some experts say the protests were not about housing, but really a pushback against cultural erasure, as most long-term foreigners are digital nomads who have no intention of integrating or learning Spanish… eventually transforming the area into businesses that cater to them and their palates.

Takeaway: Don’t move to Mexico City and contribute to a housing and cultural displacement crisis.

2. Accra, Ghana

The Year of Return campaign which kicked off pre-pandemic was one of the most brilliant tourism and relocation pushes of the century — bringing African-Americans “back home.” But in the capital, property began being marketed in US dollars, rents skyrocketed, and average Ghanaians were priced out.

Cost of living in Accra is high, while there have been reports of some internal land disputes–not widespread but existent–perceptions of American entitlement, and economic inequality. It’s a very nuanced situation.

There are reports that the economy is improving under a new president, but you’ll want to visit and move forward with caution.

Takeaway: Visit, yes. Relocate? Understand the complexity first and how you’ll be a positive contributor.

3. Cape Town, South Africa

South Africa’s new digital nomad visa requires at least $37,000 annual income (which has been a moving target) for a stay of up to 36 months. Meanwhile, Cape Town has 25,000 short-term rentals, and local leaders are proposing new taxes on them.

Even more of note, there is local resentment among some that visitors are using their tourist visas to stay long-term rather than apply for the new digital nomad visa.

Takeaway: Beautiful, yes. But housing pressures make this a sensitive move. If you do, do it legally.

4. Lisbon, Portugal and Barcelona, Spain

Both cities have reached a breaking point. Portugal ended its Golden Visa and is reviewing its popular D7 visa as a result of this growing crisis.

Lisbon has seen protests over unaffordable rents. Barcelona residents are staging increasingly direct protests against tourists and pushing to ban short-term rentals by 2028.

Takeaway: Years of unchecked overtourism and foreign investment have broken the housing systems here. Expect resentment if you move in, but preferably don’t contribute to the problem and consider secondary cities in Portugal.

5. Tbilisi, Georgia

Since the war in Ukraine, tens of thousands of Russians relocated to Georgia, driving rents up 200%. Locals were calling it a “digital colonization” when I visited in 2023, with landlords preferring foreigners over nationals. That may have cooled off by now but it’s something you’ll want to look out for when visiting.

Takeaway: Gorgeous landscapes, a rich culture and spirituality— but check on the vibe for a few months in the capital before deciding.

6. Costa Rica

Nosara, Tamarindo, Puerto Viejo… once affordable beach towns are now facing soaring rents, foreign-dominated real estate, and rising crime. Rapid, unregulated development is also putting stress on Costa Rica’s environment and communities.

Takeaway: Eco-tourism hotspot? Yes but affordable long-term living? Perhaps not so much anymore–ask locals how things are at the moment, listen and visit multiple times before committing.

What to Keep in Mind Before Moving Abroad

These aren’t “never move” destinations. They’re mostly “not right now” places or destinations you should think about carefully— where overtourism, gentrification, and inequality are fueling local resentment.

If you’re serious about moving abroad:

• Spend months living there, over at least a two to three year period, first before deciding.
  
• Listen to locals — not just influencers.
  
• Remember that even if you don’t feel you are wealthy, your U.S. dollar or euro gives you an economic advantage that empowers you over locals in low to middle income countries.

Relocation isn’t just about what you gain. It’s about what you’re bringing with you–will it be integration in the culture and real exchange, or life in a bubble that contributes to communities losing more of what is theirs?

Are there are places you think also belong on this list, based on your experiences? Share in the comments.

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Considering moving to Belize — which is facing similar tensions in tourist and US retiree areas — but want to do it consciously? Grab my 7-Day Belize Cultural Itinerary for an honest, on-the-ground perspective and a one-week overview trip that connects you with Belizeans.