On a sunny August afternoon in Santiago de Compostela, the centuries-old cathedral plaza bustled with a mix of weary pilgrims and camera-toting tourists. This northwestern Spanish city, renowned as the final destination of the Camino de Santiago pilgrimage, has become the latest flashpoint in the global debate over overtourism—where the sheer volume of visitors threatens to overwhelm local communities and traditions.
Unlike some cities that have responded to tourist surges with hostility—Barcelona residents, for example, have famously wielded water pistols to ward off holidaymakers—Santiago’s approach has been notably gentler. According to the Associated Press, a local neighborhood association distributed a multilingual "guide to good manners" throughout the city and its ever-growing number of hostels. The guide, translated into several languages, urges visitors to keep noise down, respect traffic rules, and use plastic protectors on hiking poles to avoid damaging the city’s narrow, ancient cobblestone streets.
The intention was simple: foster harmony between visitors and locals. Yet, as Roberto Almuíña, president of the old town’s neighborhood association, explained, “We do not have tourism-phobia. We have always lived in harmony with tourism, but when it gets out of hand, when the pressure goes beyond what is reasonable, that is when rejection arises.” Despite the guide’s best intentions, the impact has been limited. Large groups still commandeer the streets, singing hymns late into the night, bikes zip the wrong way down one-way alleys, and the sharp clatter of metal hiking poles echoes off the stone. Santiago’s social media feeds are now peppered with photos and complaints about visitors’ lack of decorum.
The greater offense, however, is not simply in the behavior of tourists, but in their sheer numbers. The city’s medieval old town and the squares surrounding the cathedral—believed to house the tomb of Saint James the Apostle—have become almost exclusively the domain of outsiders. Residents have been squeezed out, their once-vibrant neighborhoods now echoing with foreign tongues and selfie sticks. As the AP noted, “the influx has served to expel residents.”
The transformation of Santiago de Compostela into a tourist hotspot has been decades in the making. The Camino de Santiago, or the Way of St. James, dates to the 9th century, drawing pilgrims from across Europe along routes originating in Portugal and France. But its modern resurgence was catalyzed by the 2010 film “The Way” starring Martin Sheen, and more recently, by the rise of social media and the post-pandemic boom in experience-driven travel. Last year alone, a record half-million people registered to walk one of the official Camino routes—a number equal to five times the city’s permanent population. That marks a staggering 725-fold increase over the past forty years, according to figures cited by both the Associated Press and PTI.
Tourists who don’t arrive on foot add to the throng, placing further pressure on Santiago’s fragile infrastructure and housing market. The proliferation of short-term rentals—think Airbnb-style accommodations—has been particularly disruptive. A study commissioned by the city council to the Fundación Universidade da Coruña found that annual rent prices soared by 44% between 2018 and 2023. In May 2025, municipal authorities formally requested that the regional government classify Santiago as a “high-pressure zone,” a designation already applied to cities like Barcelona and San Sebastian, which allows for stricter controls on rent increases.
In November 2024, Santiago’s city council took the dramatic step of banning new short-term tourist accommodations in the historic center. In a statement at the time, officials called it “a necessity arising from its significant growth, which has clear effects on the number of housing units available for residents and on their price.” Yet, as Montse Vilar from the neighborhood group Xuntanza told the AP, “Some follow the rules and others don’t, but this is the model that is really limiting residential housing.” Evidence of illegal rentals is not hard to find—tenants can be seen collecting keys from lockboxes hung outside apartment buildings even now.
For many locals, finding a place to live has become a near-impossible task. Sihara Pérez, a researcher at the University of Santiago, described the situation as “mission impossible.” Antonio Jeremías, 27, told the Associated Press he’s considering moving back in with his mother because his warehouse job doesn’t pay enough to cover rent. Andrea Dopazo, 32, who works in human resources, tried to move out of her parents’ house in a neighborhood five kilometers from the city center, but ultimately had to settle for a place in a town outside Santiago. “The only people who have been able to stay in the neighborhoods are those who have been lucky—or unlucky—enough to inherit an apartment from their grandparents, uncles or parents,” Dopazo said.
The consequences of this housing crisis are visible everywhere. Between 2000 and 2020, the historic center lost about half its permanent population, now reduced to just 3,000 residents. Almuíña told PTI that these locals “resist like the Gauls” behind the thick stone walls of their buildings, but the city has “emptied out.” There are no hardware stores or newsstands left, and just one bakery remains. A couple of grocery stores coexist with cafes, ice cream parlors, and souvenir shops catering to transient crowds. “You only have to take a walk to see that all we’ve got are closed, abandoned buildings that are falling apart,” Almuíña lamented.
The city’s authorities insist they are doing everything possible to enforce regulations. Santiago’s City Hall told the AP it is “doing everything in its power to enforce the regulations” and takes action when it detects illegal tourist apartments. But the tide of overtourism has proven difficult to stem.
This year, the number of pilgrims is on track to set yet another record, further fueling local discontent with the city’s tourism-centric economic model. By 2023, half of Santiago’s residents rejected the current approach to tourism, up from just over a quarter a decade earlier, according to a study by Rede Galabra, a cultural research group at the University of Santiago.
Even some pilgrims are noticing the shift. Spaniards Álvaro Castaño and Ale Osteso, who met on the Camino four years ago and have returned annually since, told the AP, “The Camino is becoming more and more known, many more people are coming. Spirituality seems to have been a little lost at times.”
As Santiago de Compostela grapples with its newfound status as a global pilgrimage and tourism hotspot, the city stands at a crossroads. The challenge is clear: how to balance economic opportunity with the preservation of community, heritage, and the unique spirit that has drawn pilgrims for over a thousand years. For now, the debate—and the crowds—show no sign of abating.
