Santiago de Compostela is experiencing a sharp paradox: a record wave of pilgrims and casual visitors converging on a centuries-old sacred city, even as scraps of everyday life vanish from its historic core. The latest research paints a stark image: last year’s pilgrimage influx reached a record half a million people, a number five times larger than the city’s own resident population. On the ground, that pressure shows up as choked streets, late-night hymns spilling into narrow lanes, and a housing market that has become almost inaccessible for locals. A telling, oft-quoted line from local residents captures the moment: the city has emptied out. Behind that stark assessment lies a web of policy decisions, cultural tensions, and a broader European trend that Thai readers will recognize in cities facing their own tourist-borne pressures.
To understand what is happening in Santiago, it helps to rewind to the routes that make the city a magnet for travelers. The Camino de Santiago, or the Way of St. James, is a network of trails dating back to the 9th century, culminating at the cathedral in this northwestern Spanish city. Its modern revival was accelerated by a 21st-century blend of cinematic storytelling, social media visibility, and post-pandemic wanderlust, turning a centuries-old pilgrimage into a year-round phenomenon. In recent years, the convergence of religious, cultural, and experiential travel has transformed the place from a long-haul spiritual waypoint into a global tourist magnet. The consequence is not merely crowded squares but a reconfiguration of the city’s daily life, with residents watching shops shift from necessities to souvenir-driven commerce and watching traditional neighborhoods reborn as hospitality hubs.
The new reality has exposed a clear tension between preserving a living community and monetizing a coveted heritage site. Local neighborhoods, already protected by UNESCO status due to the historic old town, have felt the pull of outside money and outside needs. In response, a broad coalition of residents associations has produced a practical guide to good manners for visitors, translated into several languages. The aim is simple: reduce friction on narrow cobblestones and in small doorways by encouraging quieter behavior, stricter adherence to traffic rules, and protective measures to keep the streets intact. The problem, however, is that many visitors tread past these guidelines with little regard for the daily rhythms of neighborhood life. The sight lines of the old town—where history and daily living ought to mingle—are increasingly dominated by tourist flows rather than long-standing residents. The discourse surrounding this dynamic often frames tourism as either a cultural blessing or a disruptive force; in Santiago, it is edging toward the complicating middle ground: a force that can enrich the city financially while eroding the social fabric that makes it a place to call home.
At the heart of the debate is housing. A recent city council study, carried out with the Fundación Universidade da Coruña, shows a dramatic shift in the local housing market: a marked rise in rental prices driven by the proliferation of short-term lets. The data underpin a policy pivot that has moved from discussion to action. Last year, municipal authorities classified the area as a high-pressure zone, a designation aimed at curbing rent hikes and dampening the conversion of residences into tourist units. Even before that formal step, the city had already acted to curb some of the most aggressive practices by banning tourist accommodations in the historic centre. Officials argued that the growth of these short-term rentals directly reduces the number of housing units available to residents and pushes prices up, making it harder for locals to live where they have long lived. In practical terms, what this means is a policy toolkit that prioritizes housing stability for residents, even if it comes at the expense of a perfectly convenient tourist experience in some corners of the city.
The human implications are stark. For researchers and community members, the problem is not merely about numbers but about the lived experience of those who call Santiago home. A researcher from the local university describes the housing market as a “mission impossible” for many. People who work in the city’s warehouses or in service sectors often find that even full-time wages can barely cover the cost of a rented apartment, particularly for those who wish to remain in or near the neighborhoods that hold family memories and community networks. A resident who once hoped to move within his own community found that even modest relocations were out of reach, forced instead to seek housing further afield. In the wider social story, families struggle with the logic of inheritance and place; the older generation’s apartments, held in family lines for decades, gradually give way to a rental market that treats housing as a capital asset rather than a shared social good. The phrase “the city has emptied out” is more than a rhetorical flourish; it is a reflection of the erosion of long-standing neighborhood life and the disappearance of everyday services that support a vibrant, family-centered community.
The policy response from Santiago’s City Hall has been assertive, if imperfect. Officials say they are doing everything in their power to enforce regulations against illegal tourist housing and to monitor the city’s housing stock for signs of conversion to short-term rentals. Enforcement efforts in a UNESCO World Heritage area are delicate—balanced between heritage preservation, residents’ rights, and the economic benefits that tourists bring. The city’s decisions to ban certain types of accommodation in the historic core reflect a broader understanding that quality of life, a functioning housing market, and the integrity of the ancient urban fabric depend on deliberate policy choices. Yet enforcement remains a challenge. Some operators appear to be bending rules, collecting keys from lockboxes and continuing to operate in a grey zone. The tension between the ideal of strict regulation and the practical realities of a thriving tourist economy creates a cycle of policy adjustments that must balance cultural preservation with humane living conditions for locals.
The Santiago case is part of a wider European pattern. Across Spain, as well as in other popular urban destinations, residents have voiced concerns about unaffordable housing, disrupted neighborhoods, and a tourism model that prioritizes visitor numbers over resident well-being. In cities like Barcelona and San Sebastian, officials have pursued policies that label their core zones as high-pressure areas, aiming to reduce the housing stress created by short-term rentals and the flow of visitors. The conversation in Santiago thus sits squarely within a continental debate about how to reconcile the economic benefits of tourism with the social costs borne by communities that have stood in place for generations. For Thai readers, the Santiago narrative resonates with ongoing conversations about overtourism in Bangkok, Phuket, and Chiang Mai, where housing affordability, traffic congestion, and pressure on local services increasingly shape public sentiment and policy responses. The core lesson—policy effectiveness depends on targeting the right pressure points, whether that means housing regulation, visitor behavior, or the stewardship of historical districts—translates across borders.
From a Thai perspective, the Santiago experience offers a warning and a set of possible responses. Thai cities have unique cultural and religious landscapes that shape how residents experience tourism. Temples, local markets, and family households carry social significance that cannot be measured purely in economic terms. The challenge mirrors a familiar debate here: how to preserve the sanctity and pace of daily life while welcoming the economic vitality that travelers bring. One parallel is the need for clear codes of conduct and community-led norms. Just as Santiago’s neighborhood groups have tried to foster visitor etiquette, Thai communities could implement visitor guidelines in tourist-heavy neighborhoods—guidelines that emphasize respect for sacred spaces, quiet hours, and local rules, while ensuring tourists understand the social context in which hospitality is offered. Another shared policy question is housing security. In destinations where housing becomes a commodity for investors, local authorities have considered licensing schemes for short-term rentals, caps on occupancy, or incentives for landlords to rent to long-term tenants. These tools, when thoughtfully applied, can help preserve neighborhood life while still enabling tourism to contribute to local economies.
There are also deeper cultural considerations that Thai audiences will recognize. In many Thai communities, family ties, filial piety, and respect for local authorities shape how people respond to changes in their cityscape. The Santiago case illustrates that when communities feel their daily lives are undermined by uncontrollable external pressures, the response can shift from cooperative engagement to protective defensiveness. Yet the same communities often welcome well-managed tourism that shares benefits equitably and respects the social fabric. This balance—between welcoming guests and safeguarding home life—aligns with Buddhist-centered values of harmony, balance, and non-harm. The path forward, both in Santiago and in Thai contexts, is to design tourism policies that foreground residents’ rights and community well-being, while still inviting visitors to experience the country’s cultural and spiritual treasures with mindfulness and respect.
What might the future hold for Santiago? The research points to a combination of tightened regulation, targeted enforcement, and perhaps a reimagined tourist experience that centers quality of life as a core objective. If the city can successfully limit the most disruptive short-term rental practices and preserve housing for local families, it could begin to restore neighborhoods that currently feel hollowed out. Yet policy alone cannot reconstruct social ties eroded by years of pressure. Community-led solutions—participatory planning, neighborhood associations with real influence, and transparent data sharing about housing trends and visitor flows—will be essential. For Thai cities facing similar pressures, Santiago’s trajectory reinforces the importance of integrating housing safeguards, cultural heritage protections, and community voices into planning processes. It also underscores the need for clear communication with visitors about respectful behavior, not as a punitive mechanism but as an invitation to participate in a sustainable, culturally sensitive tourism model.
In practical terms, Thai authorities and local leaders can take several cues from Santiago’s experience. First, consider clarifying and enforcing housing regulations in tourist-heavy neighborhoods to prevent a rapid erosion of residential availability. Second, invest in public messaging that blends cultural respect with practical guidelines for visitors—simple, multilingual codes of conduct that resonate with both local etiquette and tourism realities. Third, foster partnerships between municipalities and local communities to monitor and manage visitor flows, ensuring that heritage preservation and everyday life move forward together. Fourth, explore policy tools that encourage long-term housing stability for residents, such as incentives for landlords to rent to local families, while maintaining a vibrant tourism sector that benefits local businesses without displacing communities. Finally, document and share lessons learned with regional peers. A shared knowledge base about what works—what reduces conflicts, what protects housing, and what sustains cultural integrity—will be invaluable across Southeast Asia, where overtourism is increasingly a concern.
Ultimately, the Santiago story is about living together with visitors in places that carry deep meaning for local families and for the world. It is about building a shared social contract where sacred heritage, affordable housing, and vibrant neighborhoods can coexist with a thriving tourism economy. The city’s researchers, residents, and officials are negotiating that balance in real time, even as the world watches and copies the conversations in their own communities. For Thailand, the message is clear: proactive planning, inclusive governance, and culturally grounded policies can help ensure that tourism supports, rather than suffocates, the social fabric that makes a place worth visiting—and worth preserving for future generations.