Tourism
Railroads, ships, buses, and airplanes have made travel easier, faster, and cheaper; and the number of people who can spare the time and the money to take trips has grown enormously.
It is not reserved to a lucky few, nowadays, to admire Inca temples, French castles, and Australian kangaroos.
Millions of people do each year.
But instead of being called travelers, they are known as tourists and they are seen all over the world — floating down the Amazon, cruising to Alaska, flying from Timbuktu to Easter Island, and taking pictures of Norwegian churches and Pakistani costumes.
Surely this represents great progress.
It is just and good that most of the people who dream of seeing the Parthenon should have a chance to do so.
It is satisfying to know that remote ruins are not forgotten in deep forests, to be seen only a few explorers at the risk of their lives.
It is excellent that people of different counties should meet and talk to each other.
But is it really?
Is it really desirable to have the most remote beach, the most hidden temple exposed to human curiosity and at the same time to the litter and graffiti that humanity leaves in its path?
Would it be better to leave such treasures to the local population, which perhaps doesn't pay any attention to them?
The saddest aspect of tourism has been brought recently to the attention of the public: it seems that the great number of visitors is destroying the treasures that they enjoy most.
Under millions of feet, ancient stones wear out, ancient floors break down.
Parts of the palace of Versailles may have to be closed to the public in order to preserve them, and some European caves, famous for their thirty-thousand-year-old paintings, have already been closed because the paintings were damaged by human respiration.
There may come a time when only specialists in art, history, or archaeology will be allowed near the treasures of the past.
Perhaps we'd better hurry to see them; perhaps we'd better take a tour soon.