Selfie Tourism and the Adults Under the Influence
When the dopamine hit becomes the destination.
I’ve been living in tourist towns for the better part of my adult life. Chicago, San Francisco, Brooklyn, London and now Florence. I’ve seen the worst of humanity on full display come shoulder season. At times, it feels like a siege, with tourists plowing through a city leaving garbage bins overflowing, attractions and restaurants overcrowded, and residents over it all.
Even during our year of travel around the world, where we tried to blend in and not attract attention as much as possible, some of the behaviors we witnessed ranged from questionable to deplorable.
In Marrakesh, I was in awe over how a pair of women treated The Jardin Marjorelle like it was a personal runway as they cycled through one wardrobe change after another to pose for pictures.
In Budapest, I stood there as tourists climbed and sprawled across the Széchenyi Chain Bridge, searching for the best shot.
In Bali, I was saddened when I visited the Gates of Heaven, only to realize it was the worst contrast of Instagram vs. Reality.
So when I read the headlines earlier this week that a tourist had damaged a painting while taking a selfie at the Uffizi Gallery – just across the Arno from where we live – I was not surprised. Headlines like this have become commonplace each summer. But it left me sad and angry and also worried for the children of our future.
Selfie tourism has become a serious problem over the past decade. But like many ugly cultural habits, the crowds of tourists working through their selfie bucket lists are only a symptom of a deeper, more damaging condition: addiction to the dopamine rush engineered by social media and encouraged by tech companies. Front-facing cameras, editing tools, and even curated selfie folders are all part of a system designed to reward short-term gratification.
I’m not exaggerating. There’s plenty of science explaining what happens to the prefrontal cortex when we chase dopamine hits. And those hits have made us act irrationally in pursuit of a fleeting thrill. What happened at the Uffizi Gallery—where a man recently tried to mimic the pose of Grand Prince Ferdinando de’ Medici in an 18th-century portrait, oblivious to his surroundings—is just the latest example. Just weeks ago, at the Palazzo Maffei museum in Verona, a tourist slipped and crushed a delicate Swarovski-covered chair while attempting his best ‘sit’ pose over the sculpture.
If you’re looking for more examples of reckless—and sometimes deadly—behavior fueled by selfie obsession, there’s an entire Wikipedia page dedicated to it.
Selfie tourism culture often does not seek presence or insight. While the flood of tourism has aided local economies, it harms our brains and the communities it moves through.
What’s the opposite of selfie tourism? For me, it’s an account that Oliver Burkeman describes in his brilliant book Four Thousand Weeks. In it, he recounts a vivid exercise an art professor assigns to her students: they must go to a museum, pick a single artwork, and stare at it for three hours straight. No taking notes or photos; only toilet breaks allowed.
Burkeman uses the story to illustrate how true engagement with time—or any experience—emerges only when we tolerate discomfort and the temptation to “escape” it. Initially, staring at one piece feels agonizing, but eventually it leads to a deeper presence and richer awareness. The lesson: we often think we've “seen” something with a quick glance, but real insight takes time.
But selfie tourism culture doesn’t have that time to spare.
We might never know if the tourist who damaged the artwork at the Uffizi Gallery knew much about The Grand Duke of Tuscany, or that the portrait he damaged was one of Anton Domenico Gabbiani’s most iconic works—or if the tourist simply saw a pose that would look good on social media.
We might never know if the tourist who crushed Nicola Bolla’s “Van Gogh Chair” understood that the sculpture represented the artist’s commentary on the commodification of art and history—or if he just thought his friends back home would get a laugh from his juvenile humor as he hovered his rear end over the crystal chair.
I'll never know if the tourists on the massive cruise ships that used to squeeze their way through the narrow Bay of Kotor in Montenegro were there to experience the place—or just there to take a couple of selfies of the imposing mountains and pick up a cheap souvenir in the Old Town.
By no means am I an arbiter of culture. But living without a smartphone, and choosing to not walk around Florence or any other place with a camera around my neck, has opened up the world to me. I linger longer in piazza della Signoria and take a closer look at the statues in Loggia dei Lanzi. I watch how others experience art. I hear so many languages being spoken. I watch crowds move like ants marching. I hang around Ponte Santa Trinita and study the tourists who are lined up to photograph Ponte Vecchio just to the east. I see what they’re eating along the bridge. I hear their conversations. I look hard at the Ponte Vecchio and wonder how many people have actually stepped foot inside its shops.
Living without a smartphone, or a camera, has allowed me the pleasure of learning new things and taking in experiences as they are, without digital distraction or the urge to document them. Without wondering if people in my life would find it “cool” that I was here, there or anywhere.
I can’t recall more than a few times over the years when I embodied selfie tourist: the photo my wife and I took overlooking Kīlauea Point on Kauai; the failed family selfie attempt on a bridge in Bruges because our middle child refused to pose for one; the one we took at a fish spa in Crete.
But none of those selfies were part of some bucket list. Each moment was part of a longer, slower travel experience we like to take. (I believe there is a nuanced difference between selfies and selfie tourist culture, but I won’t get into here.) Again, I’m not trying to come off as a saint, here—I’ve already chronicled my smartphone struggles—but when it comes to selfie tourism, it’s just never been my thing.
A conversation about this topic with my wife recently helped me see it from another angle. She was most shocked that these embarrassing selfie tourist moments involved adults, not children. Adults who are putting their personalities—and their quest for social validation—ahead of any kind of principle.
“These people are no different than those who are driven by other substances,” my wife said. “They are under the influence.”
And, sadly, the Uffizi Gallery’s new stance on the situation—calling for setting “precise limits” on visitors taking selfies—feels like a band aid solution to a deeper cultural wound.
My biggest concern is the downstream impact this toxic, selfish selfie tourist culture will have on our kids and the next generation. How will they act as adults with smartphones on holiday? Will they have developed the discipline and emotional regulation to navigate a tech-led world and resist the urges to prioritize social currency over real-life experiences?
Well, I believe a lot of that depends on how their parents live—how they’ve experienced the rest of society.
As the saying goes, you can’t give what you don’t have.
I’ll be sharing more stories every Sunday — the highs, the screw-ups, the awkward new routines — as I adjust to life with a flip phone. If you’re wondering what it’s like to live slower, simpler, and maybe even saner, stick around.