The palms plugged with tar; the mulberry trees pruned so as not to produce unsightly pools of rotting fruit; the countless faux-Italian restaurants; the souvenir shops flogging cheap sunglasses, lavender soap and oil; the zero-hour contracts; the luxury homes left empty in winter: these were all the product of tourism, and they were making me feel dirty.

Tourism as we know it is relatively young. Thanks to cheap air travel, people who traditionally holidayed at home were suddenly given the chance to soak up the sun in Lanzarote or taste unknown culinary pleasures in Saint-Tropez. Although, in the early days, many travellers were distrustful of foreign food. Whenever I board a plane, I’m reminded of the group of miners who travelled to Italy in the 1960s with backpacks filled to the brim with Fray Bentos gravy pies.

Tourism bought money to previously deprived towns. It allowed families that had once eeked a living as subsistence farmers to work just six months of the year. It led to the restoration of historic cities and helped conserve endangered species. No wonder, then, so many people refused to acknowledge the downsides. Today, the impact of over-tourism is impossible to ignore. Instagram culture has played its part: an influencer with a big following has the power to turn a quiet idyll into a churning maelstrom of beaming couples and semi-clad models. But social media is not entirely to blame. After the 2008 final crash crash, mass tourism became an essential lifeline and was welcomed with open arms by local councils as a way of cushioning the impact of the global recession.

This over-reliance instilled a consumer-first ethos that placed the needs and desires of tourists above those of residents. During my trip, I met several local people who viewed over-tourism as a dangerous rumour. “We love you guys,” one girl told me with what appeared to be genuine enthusiasm. “We can’t say we don’t like tourists; this place wouldn’t be here without tourists”. I also met several people for whom tourism had become utterly suffocating – both economically and psychologically. Many of them miss the untarnished beauty of the beaches they knew in childhood; others bemoan the absence of local culture.

In the summer, this town is transformed into a playground for muscled youngsters who want to drink in beachside bars, work out in the hotel gym and party into the early hours. Meanwhile, most of the young people who live here are forced to work insane hours for six months of the year. By the time October comes around, everyone has shut up shop, and there’s nothing to do. “Businesses are encouraged to ‘make the most’ of the tourism waves,” Gilda Bruno, an arts and culture journalist writing for publications such as VICE Italy, tells me. “The same drink that would cost you two euros up until the start of the tourist season would be increased by 50 cents, if not more, in matter of days, to ensure bars and restaurants would gain the greatest possible profit from the first ‘tourist invasion’ of the year.”

When people hear the word ‘overtourism’, they usually picture narrow streets overflowing with tourist vehicles. But what about the stuff we don’t see? During my trip, most of the young people I met told me they planned to leave their hometown as soon as they had the chance, having grown so disillusioned with the options available. The innumerable restaurants and bars along the Lungomare are already struggling to find staff. In the absence of local people, many of these establishments end up hiring workers from less-visited towns inland who, because they’re desperate, accept low-pay-high-hours contracts. “Only idiots stay here,” one (admittedly rather drunk) local in his late 20s declared. “There’s nothing here for us – unless you want to live with your parents.”

But finding a place to live isn’t just a problem for young people. Tourism raises rent prices, meaning locals cannot afford property in the area where they were born. Towns praised for boasting a more “authentic way of life” are drained of the communities that once sustained them. “The few vacant, affordable houses and flats that once served as alternative housing solutions for locals struggling financially have now almost entirely been converted into Airbnbns or short-let accommodations,” says Bruno, “Making it even harder for Italians of lower socioeconomic status to afford living in affluent towns or cities. If, on the one hand, local residents are progressively being pushed out of their places of birth, wealthy tourists and international entrepreneurs are taking over our, purchasing many of the available properties as summer houses – only to be used a few weeks a year.”

What in the 2000s was a minor annoyance has now become a full-blown crisis. All over Europe, towns and cities have become touristic caricatures, where, as Bruno puts it: “The requests of those who live there 365 days a year are constantly left unheard.” This benefits nobody. Tourists undoubtedly need to realise that their indulgences are not without consequence. However, local councils and tourist boards also need to reimagine the kind of tourism they want to encourage. If the needs of local people are left unheard, emigration will continue, ecologies will suffer, and communities will be drained of all life. “In 50 years, this place, this country – one big private beach,” my new drinking buddy concluded. “One big resort”.