Nothing New Under the Sun: Tourism, Trauma, and the Beatles I Never Liked

Why the music we blast, the drinks we sip, and the walls we build say more about us than we’d like to admit.

I write about what I know.
I write about what I have experienced.
I write about trauma.

This article was born out of a rather unexpected invitation—to join a multilevel marketing business. Yes, one of those "be your own boss" schemes wrapped in sunshine and passive income. As I listened to the sales pitch, something gnawed at me. The way travel was sold—as freedom, as lifestyle, as a ticked box—felt strangely hollow. It made me think about how tourists, especially from wealthier countries, engage with travel. Not for the joy of discovery, but as another badge of achievement. That triggered a cascade of thoughts about what travel means today, particularly among certain British tourists, and how it connects to deeper issues—conditioning, entitlement, and even trauma, not just for the traveller, but for the towns and locals left to deal with the aftermath.

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No, I don’t like The Beatles. I never did. I never will. And I’m not going to pretend otherwise just because the world thinks I should, or because certain circles of friends expect me to conform.

I’ve often felt the pressure to agree that The Beatles were magnificent, or that music sung in English—especially British music—is somehow the pinnacle of all musical expression. That no other music could ever compare. I cannot, and will not, subscribe to such arrogance. Because that’s exactly what it is: arrogance.

And I’ve encountered it repeatedly. Perhaps coming from a country many would call small or even insignificant taught me to be open—open to cultures, languages, perspectives. I grew up with an insatiable curiosity, devouring literature from around the world and listening to music in dozens of languages. Despite the Communist regime, we were exposed to a remarkable variety: English, American, Latin American, French, Italian, Indian, Russian, Bulgarian, Czech, Polish, Turkish, Greek, Yemeni, Chinese… the list goes on. It was a natural, effortless flow of cultural richness.

I never felt the need to understand every word in order to enjoy the rhythm, the energy, the soul of a song.

So when I came to the West, I was genuinely surprised to hear comments like:

“Why bother with other countries when the best music is British?”
“Why explore anything else when I could spend a lifetime just listening to British music and never run out?”
“Why listen to music in other languages when I can’t even understand them?”

To me, those questions speak not of pride, but of limitation.

I am trying to understand why this is true and what is behind the veil. What I think it is… is conditioning. If the only thing you hear on the radio (yes, I think this started back then), and the ones around you listen to this and this only, then I surely do not blame people for their lack of curiosity. Or do I?

People from the richer European countries (including countries from the ex communist block now part of the EU) travel a lot. Because of this, you’d expect them to be exposed to different cultures. And when I say cultures, I include music. But take Spain, for example—millions of tourists descend every year. And yet, a small percentage go to flamenco shows or local cultural events. Most prefer the music offered by the hotel’s entertainment team while sipping a cool drink in an air-conditioned bubble. They drag their feet from the beach to the pool and back to the lounge, maybe squeezing in a paella if it’s “on the buffet.”

Of course they do—it’s hot, and comfort matters. But why the lack of curiosity?

Here’s a thought: maybe it started with the English clubs. You know, those iconic bastions of empire built by colonisers in every land they claimed. Controlled spaces where they could feel “at home”—protected, superior, untouchable. In many ways, the modern-day all-inclusive resort or Brit-pub-on-the-beach is the poor man’s English club. A post-colonial microcosm of “us vs them.”

Create a barrier. Keep the local world out. Recreate Britain in the sun. Maybe nothing ever really changes.

And this isn’t just a personal gripe. The anti-tourism movement is growing in Spain, especially in places like Palma de Mallorca and Barcelona. Local graffiti says it best: “Tourists go home.”

A resident in Málaga said:

“They come, they drink, they disrespect. They pay Airbnb but don’t go to the corner store. Our rent doubles, our bars vanish, and our neighbourhood becomes a circus.”

A young artist in Seville shared:

“We play flamenco in the street and people walk past like we’re invisible, unless we’re part of a hotel show. But then, they film us like we’re zoo animals.”

It’s not just about noise. It’s about erasure. A slow replacement of culture with commerce. The trauma of being unseen in your own land.

And here’s the ultimate irony: many of these tourists are the same people who proudly share “Save the Planet” slogans, repost Greta Thunberg clips, and lecture others about environmental consciousness—while flying five times a year to get drunk under palm trees, trashing towns that have no say in the matter.

So this is an invitation.
An uncomfortable one, maybe.

Next time you book a flight, ask yourself:

• Why am I really travelling?

• What am I hoping to feel, find, or learn?

• Do I want to meet locals or avoid them?

• Do I support the culture I visit—or just consume it?

And perhaps, just perhaps… leave The Beatles at home and let someone else’s music into your heart.

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If you’ve ever said “I’m a citizen of the world,” then prove it. Listen. Taste. Talk. Choose locally owned. Support traditions that aren’t served buffet-style. And if you're truly brave, go to a flamenco bar without understanding the words—and let it move you anyway.

Because maybe, just maybe, curiosity is the most powerful passport we’ll ever have.

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