When I saw the franchise restaurant billboards on the interstate, I understood that my father’s hometown in Newberry County, South Carolina, had irrevocably changed. Walking along the main street, I felt like a tourist in a place I once knew.
I sat for lunch at a café with a quirky neon sign but soon realized I’d fallen into a social media trap. With its mismatched plates and repurposed wood tables, it appeared as if the owners had taken every Instagram trend and created a place that would photograph well. Transplants, they told me they’d moved to the area because it was “cheap,” and they saw an opportunity. I ate a roasted beet salad that cost $20.
On my way out of town I stopped at another restaurant and paid $50 for two takeout meals for family dinner. As I pulled out my debit card, I thought, Who is this for? My relatives would struggle to come to these spots on special occasions, let alone as regular patrons. In this pocket of the state, northwest of Columbia, the average salary is $20.54 per hour. Most folks who can make more than that do: They move to areas with higher wage rates, contributing to what sociologists call “rural brain drain.”
It wasn’t just the restaurants that felt designed for outsiders seeking small-town charm; it was the boutique shops that didn’t carry my size, the souvenir stops that sold made-in-China merchandise. All of it gave me pause. Because while tourism and suburbanization are changing this area, they also may be saving it.
After all, the empty lots are blank canvases for those with access to capital; they can build something travelers are willing to visit. This leaves the town I adore suffering from two forces: rural vulnerability (due to factors such as poor infrastructure, declining population, and geographic isolation) and something that writer Kyle Chayka calls algorithmic flattening, wherein people consume similar types of digital content on social media platforms “no matter where they live, so their preferences are shaped in that image.”
The story of this small town I love is similar to that of rural spaces worldwide. Instead of creating properties that pay homage to an area’s history, developers prioritize popularity, and a “luxury” overlay evident in larger municipalities erodes the town’s historic identity. But being a conscientious small-business owner means figuring out how to integrate into a place while acknowledging its past. If changes are executed sustainably, local populations can benefit from hosting visitors who want to try new things and learn more about these communities.
Supporting local businesses while traveling can be key to helping small towns keep their character.
Illustration by Derek Abella
It’s up to us travelers to seek and support the kind of places that make a destination special. In the early stages of trip planning, I view the town’s visitors bureau website or peruse a local travel publication, as listings in these guides are typically free for businesses. I search online for Black-owned, minority-owned, Native-owned, disability-owned, queer-owned, and woman-owned establishments. (Sites like Intentionalist, which has a map that highlights many of these categories in the United States and Canada, make the search easier.) In the U.S., 68 cents of every dollar spent at small businesses stays in the region, per American Express.
When I think about the potential impact of a visit, I ask myself, How will my presence change this place? After my experience in my dad’s hometown, I’ve added another question: Who is this experience for? When I find myself waffling on an item within my budget, I ask, Who makes the product? How is it made—and how long does it take to make? Does it support a social cause?
To experience parts of a region I can’t find through research, I turn to word of mouth. The service people at my lodgings usually have spots they frequent to get away from the crowds and eat lunch. At the end of a local-led walking tour, I inquire about my guide’s favorite place to catch a sunset in town. I also often ask independent business owners for their recommendations on where to shop, because most want to support proprietors who are their friends and neighbors. Given my typical travel preferences, like visiting during shoulder season, there’s usually enough space for the locals and me to coexist respectfully.
Moving around the world this way creates stories, not just an aesthetic to post on social media. But it’s a balance. Because when I’m making decisions—from choosing my next meal to buying souvenirs—I often spend so much time contemplating the virtue of my choices that I’m no longer in the moment. Sometimes I forget my favorite part of traveling is being present, slaking my curiosity, and embodying the spirit of exploration. The connections I forge on the ground mean I have folks I can check in with when I return to a destination. This is my way of sustaining our global society: doing my best to ensure that small businesses and communities will be there for future generations to experience.
