We are all The White Lotus, a huge resort for wealthy Americans. We serve them, they pay, favored by a dollar with Lincoln bodybuilder, strong and bold. The “Amerikans” are back, rich and happy, they swarm through our cities, they sit at the otherwise half-empty tables of our restaurants leaving tips that make the waiters sleepless, they camp out in the suites that were built for them. They are attracted by the low prices, by our food, by the many films shot in our area (including Netflix’s Ripley set in a black and white Italy like Dolce Vita), by the recent G7 showcase in Borgo Egnazia which filled the half the world’s TV of images of a somewhat fake Apulian village, from an idea of our lifestyle which is a self-fulfilling prophecy: I imagine therefore it cannot fail to exist. It’s the summer of dollars, the Wall Street Journal also certifies it.
The phenomenon, it must be said, does not only concern Italy but the entire Mediterranean. Portugal, which has even more competitive prices than ours, invoices at a fast pace and Lisbon seems like Disneyland in comparison. The same goes for Spain and Greece. The Pigs, described by the iron-clad Nordic economies as relatives perpetually in trouble, are the driving force behind the tepid economic recovery of the Twenty-seven. Sea, pizza, a cold and light white wine. It gets worse, in the end.
And we, the middle fish of the chain
economic, in turn, we look for places where our euro makes us rich, finding beaches in Albania, blessing revisable Spritz in Montenegro. The good old tourist colonialism that ultimately keeps the world going.
