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Cameron’s Travels

My co-author and frequent collaborator, Cameron Hewitt, is well-traveled, smart, and insightful. And, while he and I are in perfect sync in our travel styles and priorities, he gives voice to the next generation of "Rick Steves travelers." Join me in enjoying his reports right here. —Rick

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Greece on Greece’s Terms

When I returned from my recent guidebook research trip to Greece, my friends and colleagues wanted to hear all about it. My standard response: “Greece is an amazing place to be on vacation. But it’s a very challenging place to write a guidebook.”

I adore Greece. And yet, the same features that make it lovable also make it a nightmare for pinning down essential details. After two intense weeks of traveling through Greece, researching and writing up some new destinations for the next edition of our Rick Steves Greece guidebook, I came away with a new appreciation for the Greek approach to life… even if it resists being captured on the page. Hard as you may struggle and grouse, ultimately you have to take Greece on Greece’s terms. 

For example, on the tiny Cycladic island of Folegandros (population: just over 700), Spiros the cabbie drove me high up to the islet’s mountainous spine, to a remote settlement that’s strung out along a couple of miles of dusty road;  little more than an isolated farm every 100 to 200 yards, it barely seems to qualify as a “village.” From up here, you can see virtually the entire island: its jagged folds, tidy terraces, cozy coves, and parched, windblown hillocks.

I came all that way to visit the only museum on the entire island. But Spiros — who, it quickly became apparent, had never actually been there — had trouble finding the place. He drove up an extremely remote road, with more rocks than gravel, until it dead-ended, then sent me hiking on foot, beyond where any car could go, toward a remote farmstead…which, I imagine, Spiros thought must have been the museum. Instead, I was met by a bald, musclebound, understandably grumpy young man who clearly had come to this out-of-the-way location quite intentionally, to escape the modern world. Guessing from his muscle shirt that he probably was not a museum attendant, nevertheless, I smiled stupidly and asked, “Museum?”

He took pity on me, and far more politely than he needed to, he gestured me back in the other direction. I walked past Spiros, who was smoking a cigarette next to his taxi, and carried on toward a very humble pile of rocks on the horizon which, I now realized, had a handpainted sign out front reading MUSEUM. (Spiros ran after me like a confused puppy dog.)

Finally reaching the Folklore Museum of Folegandros, I was cheerfully greeted by Irene. Speaking flawless English, she explained the layout of the humble yet fascinating complex: two historic farmhouses (one from the 18th century, the other from the turn of the 20th), plus a scattering of stone outbuildings and facilities (threshing floor, laundry tub, rainwater cisterns), all lassoed within a rugged stone wall.

She pointed out a lone, scrubby lemon tree, around which had been constructed its very own chest-high wall. Lemons were essential here; when sailors returned from long voyages, they’d drink lemonade to help stave off scurvy. Seeming to speak as much about the people of Folegandros as about their citrus trees, she said, “Life is very precious on this island. So we build walls to protect it from the elements.”

Turns out, this is a real humdinger of a museum, thanks largely to Irene’s commentary — hard to believe, it was actually worth the short, if complicated, trip to the summit of the island. And so, to write it up properly for our book, I needed to confirm the details.

I asked Irene about the “opening hours” I had found online: Open each evening, from 5 p.m. until 7:30 p.m. Irene paused. “Yes, more or less.”

“More or less?” I prodded.

“Well,” she explained. “I come on the bus. So it depends on the bus schedule. In the summer, it’s like you said. In September — starting just two weeks ago — they change the schedule a little, so it’s more like 4:30 until 7. And then, of course, two weeks from now we’ll close until the end of April, because I’m going to Athens for the winter.”

This endearing timetable perfectly suits such an endearing museum. And it makes so much sense: The hours are not arbitrarily set by some faraway office. Rather, they are dictated by Irene’s commute, because Irene — and only Irene — keeps the place open. And if Irene is sick, or wants a break, or has to make a special trip to Athens during the summer…well, then, the museum closes.

This nuance is difficult to capture in a guidebook listing, of course. I feel a weight of responsibility to not let my readers down; I shudder to think of someone making the same journey I did, only to show up and find this museum closed because Irene’s bus was on the shoulder-season timetable. These are the details that it’s my unenviable duty to sweat, on your behalf, in my travels. And perhaps the most psychologically taxing aspect of my job is figuring out how to make the “real world” of Greece jibe with the needs and expectations of our American readers…including our stubborn tendency to assume that schedules are sacrosanct, rather than provisional.

I came across a similarly endearing refusal to be pinned down to a specific timetable in other places, too — even ones that are far less off-the-grid than a remote farming village.

For example, Mykonos is one of the most popular, most crowded, most expensive of the Cycladic Islands. It gets millions of visitors each year. And it has only a scant handful of museums. At one of these, I confirmed the hours printed in our book against the posted hours outside: Spot on! Then I double-checked them with the clerk inside. She waved dismissively at the posted hours and explained: “Ah, right. Those were the hours when the other lady was here, last year. But now I’m here, so the schedule is different.”

And what about next year?

“Well, that depends on whether I’ll be back.”

So, then… do you expect to be back?

“I think so, but you never know. Could be someone else, with their own schedule.”

Again, even as it stymies my data-gathering mission, I find this terrifically endearing. Each of these little museums is a one-person show. And so, naturally, what time they are open depends on that person. If she has to pick up a child at 5…then the museum closes at 4:30 this year. This strikes me as unassailably organic… and so sweetly Greek.

The same goes for ferry schedules. Planning a complicated connection between islands, with a change of boats at an intermediate island, I got some advice from the ticket clerk: “That first boat is always 30 to 40 minutes late,” she said. “But you’ll be fine, because you have two hours to catch your next boat. That boat is always on time.”

Sure enough, that first boat was precisely 35 minutes late… and the second, right on time. Which made me wonder: If everyone who actually works with these boats knows that the schedule is wrong, then why not change the schedule? Ah, but that’s a very American mindset…not a Greek one.

Greece doesn’t always give you the answers where you expect them. But generally, if you’re persistent, you will find them. At the opposite end of Greece, near the mind-bending monastic landscape of Meteora, I dropped by the Kalabaka tourist information office — in a huge, prominent building right on the main roundabout.

I bombarded the smiling TI clerk with my list of questions about how someone without their own car might successfully navigate the six monasteries. She was cheerful and eager to help; unfortunately, it quickly became clear she did not speak one word of English. Her primary function, it seemed, was to hand out a town map and gesture to a wall of brochures.

Unfortunately, I spoke about as much Greek as she spoke English. She grasped that I was working on a guidebook (probably because I kept waving the book around, pointing at it, pantomime-scribbling in its pages). So she pointed out the door behind me and said, “Kah-tel.” With each new attempt I made to clarify bus schedules and taxi fares, she grew more insistent: “Kah-tel! Kah-tel! Kah-tel!”

Finally I realized she was directing me to KTEL, the Greek bus company. Stopping by the town bus station was on my list regardless, so I thanked her, gathered up the piles of maps and brochures I’d harvested, and headed a couple of blocks down the street to the bus station.

Stepping inside the small office, I was greeted by a pleasant clerk who, it turns out, not only spoke perfect English, but instantly understood what I was doing and spent the next 20 minutes talking through all of the complicated details I was trying to unravel.

Part of me — the grouchy part — wonders why they don’t just close down the TI entirely, post a sign on the door saying (in English) to direct all questions to the KTEL office down the street, and give that clerk a big raise. The rest of me has learned, over many such frustrations over many years of visits, to simply shrug it off…and be glad that, when I really needed it, Greece came through. On its own terms, of course.

Returning home from Greece, I spent a few more weeks pawing though my big bag of collected brochures and business cards, and thumbing through — page by page by page — the towering stack of little black notebooks where I scrawled details like the peculiarities of Irene’s personal bus schedule, the variable likelihood of tardiness among certain boats, and the pointer to skip Kalabaka’s TI and head for the KTEL office instead.

My challenge: to inject those organic, gangly, uncontainable Greek tidbits into the rigid, unforgiving mold of a guidebook listing template, in unmistakable black-and-white text, so that next year’s readers know what to expect.

Gathering these details in Greece is as squirrelly as anywhere I’ve been. Writing them up clearly and accurately is a whole separate hurdle. So I did my best. Usually this involves evasive language like, “these are the likely hours — call first.” Or even, in some cases, explaining in the book exactly why all those hours are so cagey. But this takes time.

Finally, this week, I wrapped everything up and passed the Greek baton to our hardworking editorial department. Inevitably, sometime in the next couple of weeks, I’ll get a follow-up email from an earnest editor: “I found these other, apparently official hours on the museum’s website. Can we just put those in the book instead?”

The answer: Not a chance. Greece simply doesn’t believe in online hours, or really, in the concept of “hours” at all. It remains a persistently, admirably analog culture — where the only way to know for sure when something’s open is to have your hotelier call up their friend who works there and ask them, today, what the situation is. (This is exactly what I did before I even considered heading up to the Folk Museum of Folegandros.) And if the bus is running late… well, then, so is the museum.

Frustrating as it can be, that feels just right for this quirky, wonderful land.

For more behind-the-scenes tales about researching and writing guidebooks, and much more, check out my travel memoir, The Temporary European. (Here’s an excerpt about the day-to-day grind of guidebook research.)

And keep an eye out in 2025 for the next edition of our Rick Steves Greece guidebook.

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An Ode to the Cats of Greece

My wife and I very nearly adopted another cat yesterday in Greece. This is not the first time this has happened, because Greece is the terrain of adorable cats.

I almost said “stray cats,” which I suppose is technically true. But, for the most part, the cats we’ve been enjoying the company of don’t strike us as hard-up, scrappy tomcats. They appear, by and large, to be healthy and well-fed. Some are even pleasantly plump. All around the country, we’ve been spotting little “cat service stations” where locals put out food and water. One of them even came equipped with toys. Communal cat care appears to be the paradigm.

The potential adoptee in question approached us while I was snapping photos like mad at sunset, along a ridge lined with windmills above the whitewashed old town of Mykonos. This kitten was making the rounds from tourist to tourist for pets and head-scratches, when he turned his attention to us. After about 30 seconds of quality cat time, I began to wonder about the practicalities of legally transporting a cat Stateside… and how Poi and Welly, back home, might feel about a new little brother.

By the time he moved on to the next cluster of tourists, we’d given him a name: Mykonos, of course, or “Miko” for short.

This was far from the first time we’ve had this experience in Greece. Many years ago, at the Acropolis of Lindos on the island of Rhodes, we met an improbably friendly orange-and-white cat who somehow managed to upstage the dramatic ancient ruins upon whose steps he was basking. We still talk about “Lindo” as the one who got away.

The morning after we met Miko — just today, in fact — we made another feline friend, who lingered at the porch in front of our hotel. Getting to know her over breakfast, we named her “Elena” (after the hotel) and once again began Googling “quarantine rules for cat entering US” over our coffee.

This is a common theme for cat-lovers in the Greek Isles. You see feral cats all over the warm world, but Greece seems to have a particular affinity. We confirmed this over dinner with Antonis, a Mykonos tour guide.

“Yes, we Greeks love cats!” he said. “They are truly part of the community. You get to know specific ones and enjoy seeing them in the streets. Cats are favored over dogs for many reasons: They are very clean. They are quiet — no barking. They generally don’t bite or cause much trouble, and help keep rats and mice under control. Some people who work in the old center even bring their cats to work with them, let them wander the town, then take them home each evening.”

This is a far cry from the “inside-only” ethos that many American cat owners (including us) embrace. Keeping a cat indoors, feeding them a steady and predictable diet, and providing them with regular veterinary care is, no doubt, far better for the life expectancy of any cat.

But what about the quality of life? Recently, my wife and I adopted a new pair of kittens. Here they are, if you’ll indulge a proud cat papa:

As we’ve sorted out our cat-rearing philosophy, we’ve learned how many experts note that keeping a cat indoors 24/7 prevents them from pursuing their natural instincts to explore and prowl and hunt. They become couch potatoes; they gain weight; many develop odd behaviors and tics, which in some cases are treated by putting them on antidepressants.

In short, keeping a cat indoors lengthens their life, but runs the risk of making them neurotic. Just a few years ago, my wife and I nursed another pair of cats through their golden years. While we never regretted it for a moment, anyone who’s given a late-teenaged cat injections, infusions, pills, and inhalers (yes, inhalers) has to wonder if this is truly the natural order of things.

If we went through the effort to bring Miko or Elena or Lindo home with us, would we truly be “rescuing” them? Or would such a drastic change in lifestyle cause them more trauma than benefit? They appeared to be very healthy, led happy lives, and are looked after by the community. Maybe they already belonged to someone, or, at a minimum, they collectively “belonged” to the people of Mykonos. “I don’t ‘own’ a cat,” Antonis told us. “But I love cats. And I feel like, living here, I have many cats.”

Who’s to say that the US approach of pampered, medicated, geriatric cats is better than a short-but-sweet existence of carousing through whitewashed lanes? If you’re doing it right, travel challenges your assumptions. Often, it surprises you with a fresh take on something you thought you’d “figured out” long ago…even something as seemingly trivial as a cute kitten. I do believe there are many situations from which cats need to be rescued. (All four of our cats have been rescues.) I’m just not convinced the Greek Islands are one of those places.

And, I’ll admit, another reason for writing this post is purely as a gratuitous opportunity to share photos of the countless cute Greek cats I’ve encountered in my travels.

Here’s a true story: One time, after a particularly cat-intensive journey through the Greek Islands, I brought home all of my photographs for the company database. Soon after, my colleague responsible for cataloguing and keywording those photos came to my office. “Could I ask you a personal favor, Cameron?” he said. “Can you please, please stop taking so many photos of cats?”

I still take lots of photos of cats… certainly too many. However, I have stopped providing them to the database. I’ve been keeping them to myself… but now I’m pleased to share them with you.

Greek cats seem to have a knack for hanging out in picturesque locales.

One day, I was walking up a very tight whitewashed lane, when I looked up to  see the legs of a napping cat poking out over the ledge directly above me.

He must have heard me snapping photos, because soon he woke up and peered over the ledge at me, with that air of perturbed judgment that only a cat can master.

Restaurants are, understandably, a particularly popular place for cats to hang out. At one charming café in Megalochori, on Santorini, the family of tabby cats (mom, dad, and five kittens) was clearly a big draw for tourists like us. And yet, nobody wants them sauntering across the tabletops. And so there was a delicate balancing act: They could curl between the legs of diners, even hop up for a nap on a chair…but never on the table.

“But, Cameron!” you may be saying. “Don’t you realize all that’s going on in the world? Strife and warfare, a generation-defining presidential election coming down to the wire! How can you be talking about cats at a time like this?”

Yes, the world feels like it’s unraveling. But that’s just when we all could all use a “moment of zen”…an escape from the blood-pressure-jolting headlines.

Travel broadens your perspective and makes you a better global citizen — and my current trip, overland through the Balkans from Sarajevo to Greece, has done that more for me than any I can remember. But travel also provides much-needed peace and gratitude. It can remind us to slow down our relentless pace, to clear our minds of stressors beyond our control, and to be present in the moment… scratching an adorable cat on the chin, as she tightly presses her eyes closed and revs up her whirring purr motor.

There will be time enough when I get home to worry about all that’s going on in the world. But for now… I’m just enjoying the hell out of these cats of Greece, for as long as I have with them.

Bye, Miko! Have a great life.

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The Watchers of the Night Watch

On the upper floor of Amsterdam’s Rijksmuseum, a grand hall is filled with iconic Dutch masterpieces. Among its many treasures, Rembrandt’s Night Watch occupies a privileged position, hovering ethereally at the end of the hall, as if a shimmering high altar of Dutch art.

This large canvas — fourteen and a half feet wide by twelve feet tall — was commissioned in 1642 as a group portrait. The Night Watch depicts a militia consisting not of highly trained soldiers, but of shopkeepers, merchants, and local bigwigs. In mid-17th-century Holland, things were changing rapidly. A generations-long battle for Dutch independence from Spain (now called, without hyperbole, the Eighty Years’ War) was drawing to a close. By the time the members of the Night Watch assembled for this portrait, Spanish forces had been pushed deep into Belgium, allowing Amsterdam and other Dutch cities to flourish. Militias like the Night Watch, once necessary for municipal defense, had become merely ceremonial…social clubs for wartime cosplay and business networking. Amsterdam was a booming hub of commerce, on the cusp of a Golden Age. And upwardly mobile merchants — like the pepole in this painting — were already making their fortunes.

And yet, what vaults this canvas to greatness is not its subject matter, but  its shrewd, innovative artistry. Rembrandt, then in his mid-30s, took a conventional group portrait — staid, static, perfectly lit — and turned it on its ear. Instead, Rembrandt captured a mob scene: members of the Night Watch are scattered across the frame, looking this way and that, in motion, interacting with one another, sliding between dark shadow and glaring light, in some cases leaving their features mostly obscured. Individual personalities leap off the canvas. And I perceive something subversive, even sarcastic, in Rembrandt’s take. You can imagine him responding to critics — perhaps a cloth merchant, annoyed that you can only make out half of his face — by saying, “You said you were a militia. Is this not what a militia looks like?”

The painting is, no doubt, striking. And yet, on this visit, I found myself even more captivated by something else.

Rembrandt’s fragile masterpiece has been placed within a gigantic plexiglass case, giving the painting room to breathe during a recent restoration. And that case is surrounded on all sides by visitors from every corner of the earth — creating a parallel mob scene even more chaotic than the one depicted on the canvas. Museumgoers press their hands and faces against the smudged glass, as if medieval pilgrims seeking proximity to a holy relic. They become human tripods, stretching their arms to their limits as they hold phones and cameras high, angling them this way and that, trying with futility to resolve the glare separating them from Rembrandt’s greatness.

Something about this spectacle strikes me as absurd: The case, thrusting far out into the room, is filled with more than two thousand cubic feet of nothingness. It’s an airlock, insulating Rembrandt’s 17th century from our contemporary world. It’s an empty void in the very center of the most crowded room, in the most overtouristed city, in the most densely populated country in Europe.

Circling around the side of the cube — to the only part of the hall not jammed with people — I look at the canvas, distorted from this sharp angle…and then back at the scrum facing it. The Night Watch, while engaged in boisterous motion, are strong, proud, and confident; the Watchers of the Night Watch — we 21st-century tourists — have an air of disheveled desperation. Suddenly, I put myself in the shoes of the Night Watch, and see us Watchers through their eyes. What must they think of us?

The members of the Night Watch look out over a sea of faces, who came here from unimaginably remote corners of the earth. We Watchers traveled in a matter of hours a distance that would have cost the Night Watch many months’ journey — tedious, hazardous, quite possibly fatal. We dress far more casually than they do, in garish colors, revealing very nearly the full length of our arms and legs, clad for comfort above all, not a frilly white ruff or chimney-pipe hat to be seen. Observing us constantly pull small, black, mirrored rectangles from our pockets and handbags, and attend to them with intense focus, the members of the Night Watch must wonder what could possibly be so fascinating about these little devices.

There is one thing we Watchers have in common with the Night Watch: Their world was changing at a dizzying pace. And ours is, too. Just a few years ago, this grand hall — today so congested, so steamy, so deafening with rancorous conversation — was entirely empty. We Watchers weathered a pandemic of global proportions, stayed away from each other for months or even years, lived in a swirling eddy of fear, boredom, and anger. During those many long months, the members of the Night Watch looked out over an empty hall. In this vacuous space, they could have easily engaged in conversation with Frans Hals’ cheerful drinker, with Jan Steen’s merry family, even with the world-weary self-portrait of their own depicter, Rembrandt. It was so silent that, as Vermeer’s gentle milkmaid serenely tipped up the base of her jug, you could actually not hear the milk trickling into the bowl. Shhhh!

But now, thanks to a miracle of modern science, we Watchers are back, in force. And the Night Watch has never seen crowds like this. We Watchers are determined to make up for lost time, catching up on two years’ worth of unhad experiences. It has been, in a way, beautiful to observe the persistence of humanity’s determination to fulfill our deferred dreams. And yet, it has not taken long to realize that such persistence can also be destructive.

Outside of this hall, beyond the walls of the Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam is struggling with an unprecedented influx of visitors. We 21st-century Watchers are determined to immerse ourselves in the 17th-century core of the city…the Amsterdam that the Night Watch would recognize. All through the concentric-circle Canal Belt, block after block, canal after canal, Amsterdam has preserved its Golden Age landscape: skinny townhomes with elaborate gables and practical little winches, standing tall over even skinnier streets that tiptoe between the houses and the canals. Here and there are more elaborate mansions of the über-wealthy, and fanciful gilded towers that rocket skyward, filled with jovial carillons that jingle-jangle cheerful tunes throughout the day.

But today, this precious, unique cityscape is overwhelmed. Those narrow brick lanes are cluttered with wayward tourists, not paying attention as they wander about in a self-interested fog, seeking the ideal backdrop for their selfie or the perfect framing for that church tower, stepping in front of bicycle commuters — oblivious to the persistent brrrrring!-brrrrring! of handlebar bells — or very nearly stepping off a ledge into a brown, murky canal.

Throughout the Canal Belt, graceful bridges span those canals. And today, across several of those bridges snake long lines of tourists, stretching all the way from one bank to its opposite, patiently waiting in a well-organized queue. Walking past, I asked a random line-stander what, exactly, he was waiting for. He explained that he and his girlfriend had sought out a very famous shop that they had seen on Instagram and TikTok. They had been waiting for about 45 minutes, and he estimated they were getting close.

“So, what kind of food do they sell?” I asked.

He seemed unsure: “Some sort of sandwich? My girlfriend could tell you?” These felt more like questions than answers, quickly followed by a self-reassurance: “But I know it will be very good.”

“I’m sure it must be,” I said, and carried on across the canal. There I passed the front of the line, where carefully positioned stanchions did their best to preserve the flow of foot traffic, allowing passersby to pass by the queue without stepping into bike traffic, constantly monitored by attendants who told each customer where to stand. “Instagram sensation line supervisor” is, apparently, a whole new occupation in 21st-century Amsterdam.

Amsterdam also struggles with its global touristic brand as a city of vice. A history of conflict and suffering taught the Dutch to be pragmatic and open to other worldviews. From the Protestants-versus-Catholics wars that led to the creation of the Night Watch, all the way to the horrific loss of life during Nazi occupation and the Holocaust, the Dutch have learned that tolerance is the opposite of violence, and vice-versa. And Amsterdam’s status as a maritime shipping center — a crossroads of peoples and cultures from around the world — has deepened locals’ affinity for accepting diverse backgrounds and alternative lifestyles.

That’s why it was logical for Amsterdam, in the second half of the 20th century, to become a bastion for permitted marijuana use and legal sex work. This began as an expression of Dutch values and a social experiment in pragmatic crime reduction. But it also made the city a hub for marijuana and sex pilgrims — a breed of tourists who, by and large, tend to be rowdy, loutish, and troublemaking. (When you begin to require signs explaining the fines charged for urinating into a canal, you’ve crossed some sort of Rubicon.) That’s why, in recent years, city authorities have begun to roll back the parameters of marijuana use, and are constraining — and may even relocate — the famous Red Light District. With the “Stay Away” campaign, specifically targeting rowdy young men from Great Britain, city authorities are spending money to actively discourage certain visitors from coming to Amsterdam.

As Amsterdam’s popularity has exceeded its capacity — as Europe’s best-preserved 17th-century city has become the poster child of “overtourism” — local residents and city leaders alike have had enough. Recent legislation has forbidden groups in the Anne Frank House and Red Light District; placed a strict cap on new hotel construction; and severely constricted the Airbnb market (with methods so draconian, they are also closing down traditional B&Bs). And yet, the visitors still come — a United Nations of tourists who don’t flinch at paying €300 or €400 a night for a room in a mediocre, midrange hotel in that dreamy Canal Belt.

Amsterdam is a leading example. But all across Europe, we are back where we were in 2019: It’s very trendy to fret about “overtourism.” (For example, the New York Times just covered this topic yet again.) These concerns are legitimate, but it seems to me that we’d rather complain about this issue than tryto do anything about it. So…what can we do about it?

Is the answer as simple as not traveling to these “overtouristed” places? Maybe so. One solution could be to seek out alternatives to the most overwhelmed destinations. The Netherlands has more than its share of gorgeous, historic cities — just as beautiful, if smaller — just a short journey from Amsterdam. Lovely, largely undiscovered Leiden, a gabled university town that gave birth to Rembrandt and asylum to the Pilgrims, is less than 30 minutes by train from Amsterdam. And if you say on that same train another 20 minutes or so, you’ll pull into tranquil Delft, with its Vermeer canals, soaring steeples, and blue pottery.

This year, I have spent time in Amsterdam and in Venice — two of the leading cities of overtourism. But I’ve also spent time in places that are far less crowded: Germany’s Rhine and Mosel rivers; gorgeous Slovenia; off-the-beaten-path corners of the Balkans. Also just this year, Rick has traveled to several great, if relatively untouristed, cities in Germany (Leipzig, Dresden, Hamburg), and to several towns and cities in Portugal, and has marveled at the lack of crowds. Just this spring in Bacharach, on Germany’s Rhine River, I was chatting with a local shopkeeper who asked me, worriedly, “Where are all the American travelers? We used to be so busy. Not anymore.”

Anytime I post about Slovenia — a striking undiscovered gem of a country —people in the Comments worriedly scold me for running the risk of “ruining” this precious place. I’ve got news for them: I’ve been preaching the wonders of Slovenia — shouting it from the rooftops, in fact — for well over 20 years. And, while a few areas (Lake Bled) are no longer “undiscovered,” there’s still more than enough Slovenia to go around.

The more I travel, the clearer it becomes: There is an overabundance of lesser-known, virtually untouristed places all over Europe that could help us, collectively, spread around the demand without sacrificing quality of experience.

And yet, we Watchers are stubborn. And, quite frankly, we are not particularly original in choosing where to travel. We have our bucket lists… we have our Instagram bookmarks… we have that overwhelming FOMO. We want to go where the people are, and then, all too often, complain about all the people.

I realize that it’s easy for me, as a professional traveler who’s seen the Night Watch, the Mona Lisa, the Sistine Chapel multiple times, to suggest that others skip those icons of Europe in favor of a deeper cut. And, if we’re both being honest, you’re probably going to ignore that advice anyway.

And so, if you insist on going to an immensely popular place, all you can do is to be prepared. Book far ahead — far, far, far ahead — to get your choice of accommodations, tables at the most best restaurants, and time slots to visit the big sights. Do your best to make your visit coincide with less-crowded spells; often that means touring popular sights early or late in the day. (One afternoon, I passed an hour-long line at an Instagram-famous fry shop; the next morning, I took advantage of a much shorter line…and savored the exact same cone of truffled-mayo-and-parmesan-topped fries after just a 10-minute wait.) Or — better yet — avoid peak season entirely, and travel instead off-season.

More important than all of that practical advice — which is, frankly, self-serving — I believe it’s critical to travel conscientiously. Be aware that the places you visit are feeling the strain of their own popularity…and do what you can to avoid adding to that strain. Be mindful of local. Give up your seat on the tram to the local mom with the baby. Invite the Dutch shopper to cut the line at the grocery store. Don’t be the tourist wandering in front of a moving bicycle, as you squint into your black, mirrored rectangle. Be present, be curious, be thoughtful, and be respectful.

Is it my duty, as a travel writer,  to not tell people about Amsterdam — even to actively discourage them from coming here? Or is it my duty to acknowledge that they will come here, regardless…and to equip them to do it more thoughtfully and sustainably?

Understandably, many people these days — locals and tourists alike — are frustrated by overtourism. But let me offer another point of view, from a different poster child of overtourism: Dubrovnik, Croatia. Isn’t it interesting our our contemporary “problem children” tend to be major ports, at the historical crossroads of cultures? Amsterdam, Dubrovnik, Venice, Barcelona, Athens, Lisbon. But maybe it’s not just a coincidence…

On a recent visit to Dubrovnik, I stood on the Old City’s main drag with my local friend Roberto, observing the crush of cruise-ship passengers, who filled it so completely that going for a simple stroll down the block was impossible. I began to grouse, when Roberto stopped me.

“Yes, but Dubrovnik has always been like this,” he said. “We are an outpost. A trading center. A shipping port. A crossroads. For generations — for centuries — people have come and gone through our city gates. It is what defines the life of our city, in fact! You see these crowds and say, ‘What a problem.’ But there have been many times, through our long history, when you would have found these streets every bit as crowded as today. The faces, the clothing, the reasons for visiting may change. But the humanity is the same. Whether by galleon or by cruise ship, Dubrovnik is a place where people come.”

Which brings us back to the Night Watch — encased in their hermetically sealed glass box, designed to keep all that humanity at arm’s length.

When the members of the Night Watch look out upon us Watchers, what do they see?

I imagine that if they were to climb down off their canvas and stroll through the Canal Belt — nearly four centuries after they departed this mortal coil — the differences would be apparent: What the people filling those streets are wearing and doing and saying. The bicycles, the automobiles, the motorized party barges chugging along the canals.

But — beyond the 17th-century cityscape itself — they may also detect many similarities. The Amsterdam of the Night Watch was no ghost town; it was, as today, a thriving hub of entrepreneurs and peasants, sailors and artists, Dutchmen and outsiders, all filling those same, narrow, brick-lined, canalside streets.

And what about those long lines — those visitors from afar, spending an hour of their precious vacation for an Instagram-famous cookie, sandwich, or cone of fries? Perhaps the members of the Night Watch would understand those people better than I do. In the 1630s — less than a decade before Rembrandt painted the Night Watch — Holland was seized by “tulip fever.” Flower bulbs from the Ottoman lands became a subject of unbridled speculation, escalating prices to unimaginable, ludicrous highs. A few dozen tulip bulbs could make someone a millionaire, by today’s standards. Is a cookie truly worth spending an hour in line? You might as well ask: Is a single flower truly worth as much as several acres of land?

In fact, the members of the Night Watch — shrewd businessmen that they were — might be more impressed by the success of their city than shocked by the crowds. They built a city that attracts visitors; visitors bring money; and Amsterdam is, by any measure, a prosperous place. Is this not entrepreneurial success?

There’s no doubt that overtourism is a genuine concern. Both for the comfort of us travelers, and for the sanctity and sanity of the permanent residents of these places, it deserves to be taken seriously. But maybe these crowds are not such an outlier; they simply represent another chapter in the ebb and flow of a vital, thriving, always-evolving city of the world.

In the end, the most realistic approach may be to recognize that Amsterdam — that city of entrepreneurs, movers-and-shakers, faux-militia members building their fortunes — benefits greatly from tourism, even as they pay a different kind of price for that success. And as conscientious visitors, we can recognize our place in that awkward ecosystem. We come, we enjoy, we learn, we trade our money for fond memories…and we do our best to leave the city no worse off than when we arrived.

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Iceland on TV: The Making of Rick Steves’ Europe Season 13

In early 2020, I was very excited: We were going to make travel TV in Iceland!

For the first time, Rick Steves’ Europe was set to film two brand-new episodes on the land of ice and fire, for the upcoming Season 13. Rick and I had worked hard on the script, brainstorming wonderful little Icelandic experiences — both grand and intimate, from cinematic glaciers to cute puffins, and from steaming volcanoes to funky back-streets Reykjavík. Producer Simon Griffith was hard at work making arrangements and getting filming permissions from the national tourist board. And camera operator Karel Bauer was all lined up to join us for the two-and-a-half-week Icelandic road trip. It was sure to be an epic adventure…and a fantastic show.

And then, of course, it didn’t happen.

All through COVID, when Rick and I would check in, we’d promise each other that we’d head to Iceland as soon as we could. But it took some time: There was a pandemic to weather; a travel company to keep alive; and then, when things finally opened up, two years of backlog to catch up on.

But finally, in early 2023, the time came to resurrect our Iceland plans. Rick and I dusted off the script, Simon began to reach out to our Icelandic contacts, and Karel started practicing his drone skills. At long last, we were heading to Iceland.

Pre-Production: “It’ll All Work Out”

But first, we had to make arrangements. And if I’m being honest, Iceland didn’t make things easy. It may be a tiny island — with fewer than 400,000 residents, about the population of Honolulu or Cleveland — but it’s extraordinarily popular. We’re a scrappy little public television crew of four people, making the most of a modest budget. But Iceland is accustomed to multi-million-dollar Hollywood productions, with casts and crews in the hundreds: Game of Thrones, various Star Wars installments, and anytime producers need someplace desolate to stand in for a faraway planet (Prometheus, Interstellar, and so on). It quickly became clear that even if Iceland is a fairly small pond, we were minnows… not whales.

For our July shoot, we figured making plans in January would give us plenty of lead time — which it would be, for any other location. But Iceland’s tourist season is as short as it is intense, and we were landing right at its busiest point. Even several months out, we struck out finding three or four available hotel rooms in some of the remote corners of the Island. Scrambling a bit, we eventually managed to secure accommodations…just barely, in some cases booking the last few beds we could find online.

Iceland’s tourist board connected us with a wonderful local fixer, Sunna, who began reaching out to the many locations where we hoped to film. But progress was slow…too slow. As the shoot approached, we voiced our concerns to Sunna and other Icelandic contacts: Would it all fall into place in time?

With a striking consistency, they all told us the same thing: Don’t worry! It’ll be fine in the end. Sunna explained that this is something of a national motto: Þetta reddast…literally, “It’ll all work out.” I had heard this phrase from time to time during previous visits to Iceland. But now we were living it.

And it makes sense: Iceland has always been a true frontier. The elements are harsh; the winters are long and unforgiving; the landscape itself is constantly trying to kill you, with volcanoes or hissing steam vents or glacier avalanches or sneaker waves.

And yet, the Icelanders — those quintessential pioneers, descended from Viking Age settlers who took it upon themselves to tame an uninhabited, seemingly un-inhabitable land — have learned to persevere. Icelanders have no choice but to be flexible, to take things as they come, and to help each other out as needed. One way or another, things work out.

Simon and I — after many stressful weeks of false starts and hurry-up/wait  — tried to take this assurance to heart. And in the end, Iceland rewarded our leap of faith. Things did work out, wonderfully. We appreciated this motto, and philosophy, so much that we made sure to film one of our Icelandic friends explaining it to Rick: Þetta reddast.

Reykjavík: I’m Soakin’ Local!

In the waning days of June, we convened in Reykjavík to begin filming our Iceland special: producer Simon, camera operator Karel, and (soon after) Rick. We used our first couple of days, before Rick’s arrival, to run around the city — and into the countryside — to film some b-roll: footage to illustrate what we described in our script.

On our night of arrival, howling rain flung frigid rain sideways, instantly soaking head-to-toe anyone foolish enough to set foot outside. It was instantly, painfully clear: Even being here in the “peak of summer,” working around the weather would be our biggest challenge.

I got so drenched on my first day in town, I headed to an outdoor outfitter for some extra rain gear. The sales clerk patiently explained (as he clearly had to hundreds of tourists before me) that that “waterproof” is a spectrum, not a binary. A proper pair of truly weatherproof rain pants would cost me upwards of $250. (Instead, I bought an $80 pair, figuring it was better than nothing.)

We scrambled around Reykjavík, chasing sun breaks in a desperate attempt to make this wet city look as pretty as possible. We lucked into a rare bit of blue sky to show off the landmark Hallgrímskirkja and Iceland’s parliament square — only to have dark clouds close in just as we were wrapping up shooting.

At one point, when sunbeams gave way to a deluge in a matter of 30 seconds, Simon muttered, “Forget about four seasons in one day…this is four seasons in one block!” This resulted in one of my favorite sequences in the show, as Rick says, “This is Iceland in July” (showing people sunbathing in lawn chairs). “…And so is this” (showing wet people miserably bundled up in Gore-Tex parkas).

Once Rick arrived, we continued our do-si-do around the weather. We scouted scenic locations where Rick could film his “on-cameras” (talking directly to the viewer).

We also planned to film a segment with a local guide, who could help Rick (and our viewers) better understand the distinctive lifestyle. Our goal was not simply to wallow in well-trod Icelandic cliches, but to offer real insight into what makes Icelandic culture unique.

Saga, who runs a tour company called Viking Women,  joined us on a Saturday morning to guide Rick through the downtown flea market. When she showed him some Icelandic sweaters, his enthusiasm seemed hammed-up for the cameras. But it turns out, it was totally genuine; he even bought a sweater to take home (which left Simon’s jaw on the floor, as Rick almost never buys souvenirs). Rick explained that he has fond childhood memories of visiting relatives in Norway, which left him with a lifelong affinity for Nordic woolens — especially ones with pewter buttons.

Then we headed to the fish counter, where Saga encouraged Rick to sample some local specialties: dried-cod jerky (harðfiskur) and, of course, Iceland’s notorious fermented shark (hákarl) — which tastes like rotten fish with a pungent, lingering ammonia aftertaste. From behind the camera, Simon, Karel, and I were astounded, knowing that Rick had just the night before suffered through a nasty stomach bug…and now was going back for second and third takes on a bite that’s hard to choke down even when you’re feeling tip-top. He’s a true pro.

Then Saga and Rick strolled together through the back streets of Reykjavík. Hitting each point on our “wish list” for this interaction, Saga taught Rick a little Icelandic; showed off some street art, a Reykjavík specialty; explained the brightly painted, corrugated “iron” cladding that Icelanders wrap their homes in; and pointed out the many propped-open windows, which Icelanders use to keep the air moving when things get stuffy (thanks to the abundant natural geothermal energy they use for heating). It wound up being one of the best — and longest — segments in the show.

One item that didn’t work out quite as planned was the Blue Lagoon. That famous lava-rock spa is a touristic icon of Iceland. But we were torn: While the Blue Lagoon is an unforgettable experience, it’s also extremely expensive and almost entirely frequented by tourists. In our Iceland guidebook, we explain that most Icelanders skip these fancy “premium” spas and instead go for a dip at their community swimming pool — fed by natural thermal springs, just as hot as the Blue Lagoon, more fun and interactive, and about one-tenth the price.

Originally, we thought we’d film Rick in both settings, to illustrate the range of options. But the Blue Lagoon turned out to be the most restrictive location on our list. When they finally responded to our many requests for permission, they were (understandably) concerned about the privacy of their many paying customers. Therefore, Rick could be swimming in one distant corner of the Blue Lagoon, cordoned off and with zero interaction with other bathers.

Meanwhile, we’d also made plans to film Rick at a very local-feeling pool in suburban Reykjavík, called Árbæjarlaug — my favorite of the half-dozen or so pools I’ve tried in the area. (TV scouting is hard work…but someone has to do it.)

Upon arrival, it was clear that we were the only out-of-towners at the pool — not just that afternoon, but very likely the entire week. It was ideal for showcasing this unique facet of Icelandic life: Rather than heading to the neighborhood pub after work to gather with friends and family, Icelanders convene at a thermal pool. Rick and I got in, splashed around, and made some new friends, while Simon and Karel dutifully filmed. (As if on cue, just as Rick and I slid into the hundred-degree water, the skies opened up in a frigid, pouring rain. Imagine the contrast: Rick and I, swimming around with the Icelanders…piping-hot and soggy; Simon and Karel, huddling under a giant umbrella, desperately trying to keep the camera dry…freezing cold and soggy. We definitely owed them one.)

To cap this experience, Rick came up with a line to say into the camera — submerged up to his shoulders, positioned next to a waterslide with giggling kids. He explained the difference between premium spas (like the Blue Lagoon) and the neighborhood-pool option, finishing with the line, “And today, I’m soakin’ local!” (“I’m soakin’ local!” instantly joined Þetta reddast as our official motto for the shoot.)

With all of this wonderful interaction in the can, we realized we didn’t really need to show Rick luxuriating in the Blue Lagoon after all. We’re not shills for private attractions; rather, we’re advocates for travelers, equipping them with a sense of their options so they can make the best decision for their time and budget. So, one evening, we zipped out to the Blue Lagoon to shoot it from a distance, just to acknowledge it, but kept most of our coverage focused on the local pools. In the end, things worked out for the best. As they say… Þetta reddast.

Into the Countryside: Golden Circle, South Coast, and the Westman Islands

Work done in Reykjavík, it was time to head for Iceland’s big draw: its stunning countryside. Up until this point, we’d been dodging bad weather; if you watch Rick’s back-streets Reykjavík tour with Saga, you’ll notice they’re both drenched to the bone. While not ideal, this was acceptable for in-city sightseeing. But we were counting on bright, sunny skies to properly showcase Icelandic natural beauty at its finest. And on that count, we got very lucky: Right around the time we left the capital, the weather shifted, bathing us in sunshine for nearly the entirety of the shoot.

We drove the full Golden Circle (Reykjavík’s most popular side-trip) twice, on two separate days, to cover it well: the national park at Thingvellir (with a gorge that illustrates the tectonic fissure between Europe and North America); the simmering geothermal field at Geysir; and the thundering waterfall, Gullfoss.

Gullfoss was also the location of a particularly memorable mishap. We knew that Karel’s drone would be a must — to capture that epic scenery from a bird’s-eye view. We’d dutifully jumped through the administrative hoops (with Sunna’s help) to make sure we were legal. Before the trip, I read several warnings about the difficulty of using a drone in Iceland, due to the near-constant high winds. But we’d figure it out… right?

We wrapped up a very long day filming the Golden Circle at the epic Gullfoss waterfall, which tumbles into a narrow, dizzyingly steep gorge. This seemed the perfect occasion to get some aerial views using our drone. Karel set it up and took off, zipping high up to capture unbelievably dramatic footage looking down over the falls and canyon.

But then, within moments, the controller began to fire off multiple, simultaneous warnings: First, a “High Wind Warning” popped up on the screen. And then the “low battery” signal began to beep insistently. “Hm, that can’t be right,” Karel said, as Simon and I looked on nervously. “The battery was at 100% when I sent it up.”

To keep the camera steady, the drone makes constant, minute adjustments for the wind. And in Iceland, the wind blows so hard, and so erratically, that the drone’s battery was being drained at a dizzying rate simply to stay stable and airborne.

“Can you get ‘er back?” Simon asked, calmly as he could.

“Maybe,” Karel said. “She’s fighting me.”

We watched helplessly, holding our breath, as the distant, blinking light in the sky struggled to return to us — now heading directly into the battering wind. As the “low battery” alarm reached a critical point, Karel said, “It won’t make it back here, but I think I can drop it on the far side of the gorge.”

Yes, the gorge. We were on one side of the gorge below Gullfoss. And our drone was quickly descending on the far side.

“It’s down,” Karel said, finally. “But I think it’s OK.” We squinted through the waterfall mist and spotted a couple of twinkling lights, in the distant scrub. It was the drone. Not here with us, unfortunately. Not being rushed away by the waters of the Hvítá river far below us, fortunately. But on the opposite side of the gorge…quite inconveniently, just a few hundred yards right in front of us, but possibly unreachable.

“Can we get over there?” Simon asked. I was already on it, panning-and-zooming on Google Maps on my phone. It did appear that we could drive along one bank of the gorge; cross over to the other side; drive back on unpaved roads along the far side; and maybe… possibly… conceivably get to a place where we could park and hike to where we thought the drone had landed. I dropped a pin at its presumed location, we headed back to the car, and we set out.

The drive itself took close to 30 minutes — much of which was along unpaved, jagged gravel roads that pressed our two-wheel-drive car to its limits. We parked where the road ended and headed out on foot toward that dropped pin at the edge of the gorge, with the waterfall’s mist rising from the horizon.

And as we walked, something beautiful happened: We realized we were traipsing through a stunning corner of unspoiled Icelandic nature. We were following a very old, virtually unmarked footpath — one that, clearly, exceedingly few hikers used. It curved between gloriously colorful fields of purple lupine flowers, over rocky but passable terrain, under a big sky.

We’d had a very long day’s work, so we were tired — but that also came with a sense of deep satisfaction. Whether or not we retrieved the drone, it had been an amazing day. And this unplanned hike through a stunning landscape was a bonus, which may or may not terminate at a treasure. It felt like a true adventure.

As we approached the edge of the gorge, Karel’s pace quickened. He began to almost run. And then, sure enough, hidden among rocks, there it was: the drone, intact, in one piece, battery depleted but fully functioning.

Better yet, we were standing directly across the gorge from where we’d started, a good 45 minutes earlier — enjoying a completely different view of Gullfoss and its canyon that 99.9% of tourists will never see.

That experience taught us a few things about filming in Iceland. First, you must respect nature, here as nowhere else. We attempted to use the drone a few more times, and each time, the “low battery” light would kick on much faster than we expected. (And on future flights, Karel was much quicker to bring ‘er on home.)

But it also reinforced the idea that things work out as they should. We hadn’t planned for that extra drive and hike at the end of an already very long day. We returned to our hotel much later than we’d have liked. But in the end, we came away with a glorious memory. Once again…  Þetta reddast.

The errant drone was the biggest of just a few bumps we’d encounter on what turned out to be, by and large, a smooth shoot. The weather began to cooperate, and Rick and I had the wonderful experience of turning all of those big ideas about how to share Iceland with our viewers into reality.

One thing Rick was especially excited for was Thórsmörk (literally, “Thor’s Woods”) — a stark glacial valley accessible only by Super Jeep. We loaded into a monster truck, and our driver expertly forded several glacial rivers as we bounced around in our seats. It is, I believe, the first and only “off-road” experience ever filmed for Rick Steves’ Europe.

We visited the stunning Seljalandsfoss, Iceland’s most glorious bridal-veil waterfall, on a particularly fine day — with bright blue skies and sunbeams casting rainbows on the mist. And we filmed at the famous black-sand beach of Reynisfjara, just before howling winds kicked up a sandstorm.

On our final day with Rick, we enjoyed an epic all-day trip to the Westman Islands — a volcanic archipelago just off the South Coast. While Iceland is well discovered, these islands are the closest thing to a “Back Door” — frequented by a manageable number of in-the-know travelers, and within day-tripping distance of the capital (by plane) or South Coast (by boat).

In one very busy day, we wanted to tell the Westman Islands’ volcanic story — a dramatic 1973 eruption just above the main town — and show off its abundant bird life, especially puffins. Our guide and sidekick was Ebbi, who along with his wife, Íris, runs a local tour company, Eyjatours. With Ebbi’s and Íris’ help, we were able to pack everything in.

We wanted to show how islanders climb and swing on long, dangling ropes to reach bird nests perched in the crags of sheer cliffs. Ebbi normally demonstrates this for his tours, but we asked if he knew any local kids who might enjoy showing off their skills. Íris contacted a teenager named Aðalbjörg, who met us at the cliffs. Ebbi explained how islanders traditionally used these ropes to harvest sea bird eggs — a rare source of nutrition on this very sparse island — while, in the background, we watched Aðalbjörg swinging back and forth like Tarzan. It’s worth stressing that she was not “performing” for our cameras; young islanders are raised to swing on these ropes…even if, these days, it’s more for cultural heritage than for the eggs. In fact, while we were filming, a few young boys rode up on their bikes and — entirely unprompted by us — began swinging around on a smaller nearby cliff, just for fun.

Then we drove out to the far edge of the island, to a green hillside where puffins roost. We sat on the grassy, hummocky hillside — looking out over the Atlantic — as Ebbi lovingly explained how migratory puffins spend their summers in vast numbers on these islands. We watched as adorable puffins careened through the air above us, then came in for an awkward landing.

“These hills are full of burrows, where puffins build their nests,” Ebbi explained. And just then, I heard a strange, almost otherworldly growling noise coming from below my butt.

“Ah,” Ebbi said. “I think you’re sitting on a burrow. There’s a puffin in there. I imagine he’s not happy.” Sheepishly, I scooted over a few feet, having had the new-to-me experience of irritating a puffin.

Cameron Scotland Island Hopping Staffa Puffins

Returning to our mainland rental cottage late at night, we were thrilled at having captured the Westman Island and South Coast on film. And now, it was time to head out on the rest of the Ring Road.

The Ring Road: Europe’s Most Epic Road Trip

Back when we were planning this journey, we knew that — given the long distances, and our ambition to cover Iceland completely and thoughtfully — it would be a longer-than-usual shoot. For most 30-minute TV shows, Rick and the crew spend six days filming. For Iceland, we’d film two such episodes, which would also be combined into a one-hour special. But rather than the standard 12 days, we’d need closer to three weeks.

Rick is a very busy man. And much as he’d have enjoyed doing the entire trip, that was more Iceland than he had time for. Early on, we came up with a plan: He’d join us in Reykjavík and its key day trips, including the South Coast and Westman Islands. And then, for the rest of the Ring Road — driving all the way around Iceland — Simon, Karel, and I would set off on our own.

The question was: How could we explain this to viewers? Wouldn’t they notice that Rick simply disappears three-quarters of the way through the show? Or should we try to “fake it” — film some on-cameras in places that resembled the far corners of Iceland? (This practice is standard for some “travel” TV shows. I’ve been told that at least one host films all of their on-cameras in their own backyard, while the crew does the rest of the filming on location…hostless. But that’s not Rick’s style.)

Simon came up with a solution: We’d be up-front with our viewers, explaining that Rick was heading out — and instead, they’d be following along with me as I did my guidebook-researching rounds. (You’ll notice that, in every shot I appear in, I’m clutching my little black notebook and scrawling notes — a subconscious reminder of why I’m there.)

I was, naturally, extremely nervous about taking on this assignment — including having the camera pointed at me. But Þetta reddast, as always: It worked out beautifully, thanks to Rick’s generous and insightful coaching, and working with the best imaginable crew in Simon and Karel.

The three of us waved goodbye to Rick and hit the road, circling the entire island counterclockwise on the Ring Road. With Rick, we’d already covered over 100 miles of the Ring, from Reykjavík to Vík. That left nearly 700 miles to go — which we covered in six days. We had many four- or five-hour driving days in a row, interspersed with frantically busy bursts of filming natural wonders and fascinating folk museums, with mostly one-night stays en route.

This being early July, daylight was endless — making it easier to work and drive late into the evening, but all too easy to not even realize how tired we were getting until we were flat exhausted. Often we’d pull into a hotel at 9 or 10 at night — still broad daylight — only to be told that every restaurant within an hour’s drive was already closed. On multiple occasions, dinner consisted of a trio of hot dogs at the nearest gas station.

That said, it was a fantastic road trip — fitting for the wondrous Ring Road. Each stop, each day, and each turn in the road was more stunning than the last.

In the Southeast, we hopped on an inflatable boat for a cruise between icebergs in a glacier lagoon. It was the one stop on the entire Ring where we had rotten weather…and it was still gorgeous. (The family who joined us on the boat were doing the same itinerary as us, but in the opposite direction…and told us they’d had rain and cold every single day.)

Driving up the east coast — along the Eastfjords — we had to be choosy about where we pulled over to shoot the dramatic landscape. Coming around each bend, Karel’s eyes would pop out of his head. “Wow, Simon. That’s a great shot.” Simon, steady behind the wheel and knowing we had a tight schedule to stick to, would give it a quick assessment. If he agreed, we’d pull over and set up the camera. But more often than not, he’d keep on driving… knowing that an even better view was likely to unfold soon. Through a little trial-and-error — and having a clear sense of exactly what we were hoping to capture on film — we developed a good instinct for which views were worth braking for, which merited a U-turn, and which were skippable.

Reaching the northeast corner of Iceland — as far as you can get from Reykjavík without a boat  — we rounded the bend and looped back west along the North Coast, stopping at Mývatn — a giant lake surrounded by mind-bending geological formations…Iceland’s answer to Yellowstone.

We took a short detour up to Húsavík, famous for its whale-watching industry. We were greeted by a dynamo named Orly, who serves as a one-man chamber of commerce for his tiny town. Orly explained how the traditional fishing fleet of Húsavík has been transformed into whale-watching boats, as we filmed people gearing up and chugging out to look for orcas and breaching humpbacks.

Húsavík is also familiar to some travelers as the setting of the Will Ferrell/Rachel McAdams Netflix movie about the Eurovision Song Contest — which was nominated for the Oscar for Best Song. In fact, Orly himself produced the live performance of that song, right here in Húsavík, that was broadcast globally during the Oscars ceremony. He took us to a fine viewpoint over the harbor, which also happened to be the location of a surprisingly good museum about the movie and the contest, and the Jaja Ding Dong Café, inspired by the film. The owner and proprietor of all this? Orly, of course.

While most of this (aside from the whale watching) was beyond the scope of our show, it illustrates the many fascinating and wonderful Icelanders we met as we toured their island. Even so far from “civilization,” this is a welcoming, endlessly entertaining place. (And I was able to graft some of what got left on the cutting-room floor into the new edition of our Rick Steves Iceland guidebook. That’s only fair, considering that the bulk of our Iceland coverage  was shaped by working on that book, over many years.)

One segment that did make the cut was our visit to the Herring Era Museum, in the fjordside village of Siglufjörður. On a previous visit, I was captivated by the story of how, from 1903 to the 1960s, salted herring powered the Icelandic economy… representing fully one-half of Iceland’s total export income, and arguably leading to financial independence and full sovereignty. Our wonderful local guide Edda met us out front to show us the cutting and salting stations, then brought us inside to tour the dorms where the “herring girls” spent their time, waiting for the fishing boats to arrive so they could do their work. When filming travel TV, it’s so important to include local voices. And hearing Edda bring this obscure-to-us history to life, proudly describing the Rosie the Riveter-style herring girls, made it a segment to remember.

On our way back to Reykjavík, completing the Ring Road loop, we made a few more stops — including the turf houses at Glaumbær, and the glorious scenery of Snæfellsnes Peninsula.

Our shoot was nearly finished. But Iceland wasn’t quite finished with us. Way back when we began in Reykjavík, we were already hearing news reports of small, mostly undetectable earthquakes shaking the western half of the island. It seemed that the slumbering volcanoes beneath the Reykjanes Peninsula — south of the capital, near the Blue Lagoon and international airport — were about to awaken.

As we drove around the Ring Road, we kept an eye on the news for the imminent eruption. And a few days before our trip wrapped up, sure enough, the earth opened up and began to spew molten rock. By that time, we were hundreds of miles away; even as our loved ones back home reached out to make sure we were OK (frightened by the “Iceland in Flames!” headlines), we knew that the eruption was distant, isolated, and effectively harmless.

As we entered the home stretch back to Reykjavík, finishing up our 800-mile journey, we kept our eyes peeled on the horizon. And sure enough, as the skyline of the capital came into view, beyond it we noticed a strange-shaped “cloud” that wasn’t a cloud at all…but a smoke plume from that volcano.

On our final night in Reykjavík, we watched the distant eruption from our hotel window, about 20 miles away — and marveled at how, even being so close, we felt totally safe. And the next day, our drive to the airport took us within a few miles of the smoldering eruption. Pulling over to get some footage, we realized it wasn’t that exciting, after all…just some distant smoke. It was a good reminder of how, even when an event grabs international headlines, the reality on the ground can be far less dramatic. And it left us with one last example of that motto: Þetta reddast…it always works out.

After our return, our ace editor Steve Cammarano stitched together that two-and-a-half weeks of footage into a tight and compelling one-hour tour of Iceland. The rough cut broke a record… tipping the scales at more than six minutes too long. But with a few judicious trims, and Steve’s editorial mastery, we wound up with a show that’s exactly the right length. And later, Steve whittled all that Iceland down even more to create the first two episodes of Rick Steves’ Europe Season 13.

In the end, we are thrilled to have captured a well-rounded look at this remarkable hunk of Europe, adrift in the North Atlantic — from volcanoes and glaciers, to puffins and whales, to fjords and mountains, to a fascinating and endearing Nordic heritage shaped by a hardscrabble history. This is Iceland. And I truly hope that you enjoy experiencing it on your screen as much as we enjoyed making it.

Rick Steves’ Europe Season 13 — starting with those two episodes on Iceland, then Poland, cruising on a Burgundian barge, and the great cities of London, Paris, Rome, and Istanbul — airs in the fall of 2025 on public television stations nationwide (and streaming on PBS Passport).

Or you can check out the one-hour Rick Steves Iceland in its entirety.

Planning a trip of your own? Pick up  our bestselling Rick Steves’ Iceland guidebook.

I’ve written tons of other blog posts, all about my travels around Iceland.

And if you enjoy these behind-the-scenes stories, pick up a copy of my memoir, The Temporary European — with a chapter about making our Romania TV show with Rick, Simon, and Karel.

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Honest History Matters

Looking back on my recent travels, I’ve been thinking about what makes a country great. “Greatness” can mean strength and power. Or it can signify wisdom, maturity, respect, and an honest reckoning with the past.

In my travels, I observe a disparity in how various lands think about their history: Some societies acknowledge the more challenging elements of their past, while others only embrace the most flattering version of themselves.

As fractured as we are these days, I genuinely believe that good, caring, intelligent people can agree to disagree on a broad range of issues. Should the government take a heavy hand, or a light one, in collecting taxes, regulating guns or abortion, and guiding the trajectory of a society? What role should the USA play on the world stage? How much immigration is “too much,” and how should we treat those immigrants? You have your opinions; I have mine; sometimes they don’t align. That’s life in a healthy democracy. That’s what elections are for.

However, one thing that I believe is not a partisan issue — or, at least, shouldn’t be — is the fundamental truth of history. Facts matter. What happened, happened. And whether those events were good or bad, the only way for a society to evolve is to be honest about its past, warts and all. That’s why, when those who seek or hold political power begin to selectively reinterpret the past — dispensing with inconvenient truths — I find it alarming, not as a Democrat or a progressive, but as a patriotic American.

This is not a distinctly American challenge. Every country’s story is filled with both moments of virtue, and moments that are regrettable, even “evil.” As I travel from place to place, I’m struck by how each society makes intentional choices about how to reckon with their history. And over time, I’ve also seen how this can vary depending on the swing of the political pendulum.

And so, to provide some international context for the debates we’re having in 2024 USA, join me on a trip to a few case studies of how other societies have gotten this right…and, in my view, ones that have gotten it wrong.

Poland:  The Museum of the Second World War

In Gdańsk — the northern Polish city where World War II began — museum curators designed what was to be Europe’s definitive museum of the Second World War. It told the complicated story of wartime Poland, yes; but expanded its view to encompass a global perspective on the war, and how it affected various lands and peoples.

However, shortly before the museum’s scheduled opening in 2017, the ruling Law and Justice government — which felt the exhibit “wasn’t Polish enough” — intervened. They replaced the director with a political appointee, and installed a new mission to stir the patriotic souls of Polish taxpayers. New exhibits, mainly profiling Polish heroes and victims, were hastily squeezed into any available space. The intentionally ambiguous, thought-provoking final room was re-envisioned and now shows a rabble-rousing film (called “The Unconquered”) espousing a naively, almost offensively pro-Polish point of view.

Revisiting the museum not long ago, I stumbled upon one exhibit that I suspect was added by the politicized director. At the entrance to a room filled with portraits of Jews who were murdered by the Nazis in Polish territory stands a wall labeled “Poles in the face of the Holocaust.” Posted information and touchscreens explained how Poles saved the lives of Jews, despite the fact that Poland was the only Nazi-occupied land where such assistance could be punished by death.

This is an inspiring story, to be sure. And there were many righteous Poles who came to the assistance of their Jewish neighbors. But there were also many Poles who colluded with the Nazis, and many more who turned a blind eye to their atrocities. Is it expecting too much for these facts to be acknowledged in the museum, as well?

Soon after, in 2018, the Law and Justice party made it illegal to state that the “Polish nation” was in any way responsible for the atrocities of the Holocaust, under punishment of prison. Under diplomatic pressure from the US Department of State, the law was later softened to remove the criminal component. However, a civil court can still prosecute “whoever claims, publicly and contrary to the facts, that the Polish Nation or the Republic of Poland is responsible or co-responsible for Nazi crimes committed by the Third Reach.” And so, an important part of Poland’s World War II story goes untold.

(It’s worth noting that Poland’s Law and Justice party was defeated in late 2023 by a centrist coalition; as new, more moderate leadership reshapes Poland, it will be fascinating to see if those changes ripple down to the displays of this museum.)

A few days earlier — at the opposite end of Poland, in the town of Wadowice — I toured the museum at the birth house of St. John Paul II. The slickly produced, inspiring, touching museum did a beautiful job of telling the life story of Karol Woytyła, who lost his parents at a young age, entered the priesthood, and eventually became the spiritual leader of one billion Catholics and a critical figure in the final ideological battles of the Cold War.

The museum tells this story so well, in fact, that I didn’t realize until after I’d left that it had omitted some important topics — specifically, the child molestation scandals within the Catholic Church that were covered up under Pope John Paul II’s watch.

Chatting with some Polish friends about this, I was reminded that these things aren’t as black-and-white as they may first seem. Yes, the Pope should have done more. However, John Paul II recognized that he was in a unique historical position as a high-profile crusader against Soviet oppression, and that he played a critical  inspirational role in the democratization of his homeland, Poland. Perhaps there were pragmatic reasons for him to avoid publicly addressing a scandal that would have undermined so much of what he was trying to accomplish.

I’m not entirely persuaded by this reasoning. But it certainly got me thinking more deeply about the full complexity of that chapter in Polish (and Catholic Church) history. I don’t believe “canceling” John Paul II is the answer. Rather, his legacy deserves a complete and nuanced discussion. And I regret that this museum is so reluctant to have that conversation.

History is made by “great” people who, like all people, are flawed. Even the greatest among us have blind spots and vulnerabilities; arguably, it’s a person’s ability to navigate complicated realities and make impossible choices that propels them to greatness.So then, why are we so afraid to be honest about those flaws?

Germany: Documentation Centers and Holocaust Memorials

Let’s cross the border, to a country that dispenses with the kid gloves when handling its own history. In my travels, I have encountered few societies that more conscientiously grapple with their checkered past than Germany. Yes, Germany.

Even to this day, when many people think of Germany, one of their first associations is along these lines: backed a lunatic dictator; tried to take over the world; murdered millions through genocide and conquest; destroyed much of Europe.

Resenting Germany for their crimes in World War II and the Holocaust is understandable, even deserved. But in my 25 years of traveling around Germany, I’ve been impressed by their willingness to be open, candid, and contrite about their history. They even have a term for it: Vergangenheitsbewältigung, “coming to terms with the past.”

Throughout Germany, I’ve visited perhaps a dozen different “Nazi documentation centers.” That’s a buzzword for a museum that offers a thoughtful, entirely transparent, and no-holds-barred assessment of Germany’s culpability in its crimes of the 20th century. It’s a fascinating exercise in the defendant presenting an ironclad case on behalf of the prosecution. Germany’s documentation centers confront visitors — both German and foreign — with abundant, meticulously collected evidence, always compelling and often gruesome, of their own crimes. No excuses are offered, and there isn’t a whiff of defensiveness — just a matter-of-fact mea very, very culpa.

In the German capital of Berlin, immediately adjacent to the landmark Brandenburg Gate and just down the street from the Reichstag stands a sprawling monument consisting of 2,711 stony slabs. The Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe, occupying this privileged position in the very heart of Germany’s leading city, is just one of countless memorials, large and small, all across the country, that constantly remind Germans of their historical crimes.

It’s hard to imagine that a country could ever “do enough” to make up for such heinous acts. But as a frequent visitor here, I’m impressed. Even younger Germans — now generations removed from these atrocities — may grow a little weary of these constant reminders. And yet, they recognize that this is their legacy.

The Netherlands: Dutch Resistance and Colonialism

Next door is a country that was occupied by Nazi Germany: the Netherlands. And on a recent visit to Amsterdam, I was struck both by how the Dutch are honestly reckoning with their role in history…and how they still have a ways to go.

The recently re-envisioned Dutch Resistance Museum traces the story of the Netherlands under Nazi occupation. It’s an exercise in stirring the Dutch patriotic soul with tales of both suffering and valiant resistance — much like the World War II museum in Poland. But, to its credit, the Dutch museum also owns up to aspects of that story that some might prefer to dismiss.

Early on, the exhibit takes pains to introduce us to Anton Mussert, who led the NSB, the local version of the Nazis. And it unflinchingly explains that 25,000 young Dutchmen volunteered to join the Waffen-SS, accepting Hitler’s invitation to stand with him in “Germanic Brotherhood.” After the war, at least 120,000 Dutch collaborators were arrested.

Of course, questionable Dutch deeds extend much farther back than the 20th century. As one of Europe’s great colonial powers, the Netherlands was fabulously wealthy in the 17th and 18th centuries. Amsterdam’s ornate city center — with its concentric canals, stately townhouses, grand museums and palaces, and gilded carillons — was financed primarily through plundered resources, the exploitation of human labor at the far ends of the globe, and Dutch participation in the transatlantic trade of enslaved human beings.

This is an aspect of Dutch history that many visitors (and, until recently, even many Dutch people)  gloss over. But that is now changing. In 2023, the former Tropenmuseum (“Tropics Museum,” built nearly a century ago to show off colonial riches to Dutch citizens) was re-envisioned as the “World Museum.” Many of those same artifacts from former Dutch holdings — as far afield as Indonesia (the “East Indies”) and the Caribbean (the “West Indies”) — are still on display. But now they are given proper context, explaining the lives of the people exploited by the Dutch, from their own perspectives.

On the one hand, it’s impressive to see the Netherlands making these strides: For example, then-Prime Minister Mark Rutte (in 2022) and King Willem-Alexander (in 2023) have both formally apologized for the Dutch role in the slave trade. On the other hand, like any society, not everyone is comfortable with the changing times. The Dutch sidekick to Santa Claus, Zwarte Piet (“Black Pete”), is still usually performed by a white man in Blackface — and in a recent poll, more than half of Dutch respondents continue to support Zwarte Piet’s traditional appearance. And in November of 2023, an anti-immigrant party took the highest total of seats in the Dutch parliament.

Progress sometimes comes in fits and starts…but it’s progress.

New Zealand/Aotearoa: Waitangi Treaty Grounds

On a recent trip to New Zealand/Aotearoa, I visited the Waitangi Treaty Grounds on the Bay of Islands. This is essentially the birthplace of the modern nation of New Zealand, where local Māori tribal leaders signed a treaty with emissaries of the British crown to establish formal colonies on the island. Today you can walk across the grassy field where the treaty was signed, but only after you’ve toured a powerful, beautifully curated museum.

The museum is the best implementation I’ve seen of a “dual narrative” approach — equally weighting the perspectives of both the Māori and the English to tell a complete story. In fact, for most of the exhibit, you see the Māori point of view on one wall, and the English point of view on the opposing wall. It’s fascinating to experience the history of this island through the eyes of its two dominant groups, simultaneously — a parallax view that is both informative and moving.

In the darkened hall that displays the actual treaty, exhibits detail how the document was translated misleadingly into the Māori language. Key concepts like “sovereignty” were phrased in such a way to give Māori leaders the impression that they, and not the Queen of England, were still essentially in control of their island.

I was impressed and inspired to see a society that — rather than try to spin past events in a way that would present the European settlers in a flattering light — plainly acknowledged their misdeeds: We misled the people who were here first. And we were wrong.

New Zealand inspires me. It’s perhaps the planet’s most forward-thinking nation when it comes to the rights of its indigenous population. This national conversation began in earnest in the 1970s — on the one hundredth anniversary of the Treaty of Waitangi — and much progress has been made. While “reparations” is an abstract and hard-to-sell idea when it comes to the descendants of enslaved Black people in the USA, in New Zealand, it’s a reality: Vast tracts of the country’s land has been formally returned to Māori control. While there’s certainly more to do, New Zealand is making real strides in owning up to its historical crimes.

And this trickles down to everyday life, as well. Increasingly, Kiwis from both Māori and European backgrounds are embracing the indigenous name for their archipelago: Aotearoa. Kiwis, regardless of their background, greet each other with a cheery “Kia ora!” — evoking the Māori origins of the land upon which they all reside together today. As an American, this inspires me to do better — so much better. (And if we need a role model closer to home, we need only look to our northern neighbor —  Canada has made impressive gains in better acknowledging the rights of its First Nations peoples.)

Hungary: Slide from Democracy

Now let’s cross hemispheres again, to a place that may be one of the worst-case scenarios for a society retconning its own narrative: Hungary.

Since first taking power in 2010, Prime Minister Viktor Orbán and his party, Fidesz, have aggressively revised history to suit their nativist political agenda. An exhaustive list of examples could fill volumes. But even just as a traveler who drops into the country every year or two, I’ve seen the effects firsthand: streets and squares renamed for obscure historical footnotes;  the vast plaza surrounding the Parliament building completely transformed with new monuments and memorials; and, perhaps most alarmingly, a wholesale revision of the national school curriculum to ensure that the version of history taught to every Hungarian student is perfectly in line with the Fidesz agenda.

And what is that version of history? Essentially, it’s the most flattering possible view of Hungary. Fidesz history presents the country either as a heroic warrior, or a tragically maligned victim of foreign aggression, full stop. Orbán’s story of Hungary is designed to instill unquestioned pride and patriotism: We have always been in the right, just as we are today.

Here are just three examples:

On Liberty Square, Fidesz erected a melodramatic monument to the “victims of fascism.” It’s overloaded with symbolism suggesting that Hungary was a peace-loving land, minding its own business, until Hitler invaded in 1944. In front of the monument, locals have assembled their own makeshift counter-monument — documenting how, in fact, Jews were terribly mistreated by Hungarian authorities, and tens of thousands were deported to certain execution by Hungary’s pre-Nazi leadership.

A couple of blocks away once stood a beloved statue of the communist reformer Imre Nagy, casting his judgmental gaze over the Parliament. However,  there was a problem: Nagy may have led the 1956 Uprising against the USSR (and was later sham-tried and executed). But he was also a communist himself, who sought reform from within. The Fidesz worldview simply can’t tolerate such nuance. Nagy was a communist; all communists are bad; therefore, we must remove Nagy’s statue from this favored location. Under cover of darkness and without any warning, one night in the waning days of 2018, it was relocated far from the Parliament.

Up at Buda Castle, Orbán has moved his office into the former National Dance Theater and is busily redeveloping the castle quarter, transforming it into his new seat of government. Old buildings — destroyed in World War II and never rebuilt — are being re-created from scratch, with little rhyme or reason. It’s a hodgepodge that randomly juxtaposes buildings from this and that era, based on how pretty or grand or imposing they look rather than their actual role in history — an almost too on-the-nose embodiment of this cherry-picking approach to Hungarian history.

Orbán has become a darling of certain corners of the American right.  Perhaps those Orbán supporters should travel to Budapest, talk to Hungarians on the street, and observe how his approach has eroded two decades of fragile progress in recovering from totalitarianism…including the distorted, oversimplified way that Hungarians are encouraged to view their own complicated history.

Bristol: The Empty Plinth

A couple of years ago, on a dreary late-winter morning, I wandered around Bristol, England, piecing together the story of Edward Colston. This fabulously successful Bristolian grew the wealth and reputation of his home city, largely through his participation in the slave trade.

Colston is one of many historical figures who became a flashpoint during the global Black Lives Matter protests in the spring and summer of 2020. You may recall how a giant statue of Colston was toppled by protesters, dragged down the hill, and dumped into the harbor. (Later, the statue was dredged out of the harbor and displayed in a local museum.)

On my visit to Bristol, about two years after this event, I found myself following breadcrumbs of Colston’s legacy around the city. The plinth that once held Colston’s statue — and boldly declared him “one of the most virtuous and wise sons of [the] city” — stood empty. In a parish church, stained-glass windows honoring Colston had been removed; a nearby information panel explained this decision. And in a city history museum, Colston sneered out from a composite painting of prominent Bristolians. His image was identified completely, and accurately: “Slave trader; merchant and philanthropist.”

Back home, we’ve had debates about whether and how we should remove statues honoring problematic historical figures, whether they be Confederate generals or slave-owning Founding Fathers. You may believe that tearing down these statues is just as bad as what Poland or Hungary is doing. But observing Bristol’s approach demonstrates that it’s possible, even responsible, to remember these figures — completely and honestly, in all of the ways they both aided and harmed others — without honoring them. The challenge — one that Bristol rose to — is to find a constructive way to preserve history without remaining beholden to it.

Should we replace those statues with carefully worded plaques, offering a more complete and nuanced explanation of their role in history than simply “virtuous and wise”?  Should the statues be collected into an open-air museum (as Budapest did with its communist statues, in Memento Park), so those generals can preach their racist ideology to each other, removed from polite society, without needlessly confronting passersby? Should we create a Museum of American Racism — a series of Slavery Documentation Centers — that detail the shameful crimes of our past, as a reminder and a warning to Americans in the present and the future?

Again, Bristol inspires me to do better.

Back Home: The United States of America

After hopscotching around our globe, we return home to the United States of America. With the benefit of comparing notes with other societies, how does the USA measure up?

When we’re at our best,  we make strides toward reckoning honestly with our past sins. The Museum of African American History in Washington, DC, for example, does a beautiful, complete, and even-handed job of telling the story of Black Americans and their ancestors.

Juneteenth — a celebration that originated in the Black community to commemorate the abolition of slavery — is now a federal holiday, and more and more organizations (including Rick Steves’ Europe) show their respect by closing their offices for the day.

And even in my own lifetime, I have observed the USA doing a more honest job of acknowledging our genocide against Native American tribes — though nowhere near to the righteous degree of New Zealand/Aotearoa or Canada.

However, in recent years — as the political pendulum swings to dizzying extremes — I fear that we are facing a rising tide of people who would prefer to simply edit out the most uncomfortable details in our national narrative.

In some states, textbooks are being rewritten to downplay our heritage of slavery and racism. These days, ambiguity and intentional omission trump clarity and specificity in explaining to our children exactly how certain people have been treated by our country, and still are, and why.

Critical Race Theory (CRT), paired with the deathly curse of “woke” — both concepts that originated in the Black community — have been appropriated and cruelly weaponized. Terms like these have become an excuse for (mainly) white Americans to shut down any healthy conversation about our shared national narrative that makes them uncomfortable.

Look: I’m not interested in wading into the “woke culture wars.” In fact, I’m sticking to my guns: The importance of history can and should be a nonpartisan issue. History matters, to everyone, even if they don’t realize it. And an honest and frank acknowledgement of the facts of history, by any society, is always a good thing. History tells us where we’ve been, and it helps us figure out where we’re going.

I believe this even more strongly having traveled to places where people grapple constructively with their history, and to places where people would rather hide from it. And I’m here to tell you: Societies in the first group are stronger, healthier, smarter, more successful, and more respected on the world stage than places in the second group. Honesty can be painful, but it’s how we grow and become better.

If you believe that contemporary Germans owe it to the world — and the six million Jews their ancestors murdered in gas chambers — to continue to reckon with their past crimes; if you think that child molestation scandals deserve to be acknowledged in a retelling of the life of John Paul II; if you respect the Dutch for including the stories of collaborators along with stories of victims and uprisers in their Resistance Museum; if you admire the Kiwis for acknowledging that their island was deceptively taken from people who’d been on Aotearoa for centuries earlier; if you think it’s a shame that Viktor Orbán removed the statue of a great communist reformer just because he was also, technically, a communist; if you appreciate Bristol’s nuanced approach of remembering Edward Colston without honoring him — then you should also be willing to face the discomfort of teaching our children about America’s shameful heritage of slavery and racism, and so many other topics that deserve open and frank conversation.

When you brush aside inconvenient realities, they don’t simply go away. They just fester, impacted and infected. They wait there, only getting uglier and worse, slowly beginning to stink, until they’re eventually kicked up again by some future generation — and have become an even worse problem to deal with.

It’s very easy to see blemishes when looking at other cultures, from afar. It’s much harder to see them when we look in the mirror. But we owe it to ourselves, and to future generations, to avoid the temptation to slide into denial. So the next time someone tries to dodge a conversation about less-than-noble elements of our past, consider asking them: Why does it make you so uncomfortable to reckon honestly with our nation’s history? Because that’s what healthy, functioning societies do.

In fact, it’s what makes a country great.