Without fail, the most surreal part of my week is the weekly Sainsbury’s shop. After scraping together the last few limp vegetables from the fridge, I usually make the ill-advised decision to restock on Saturday afternoon. By this point, the city centre is flooded with holiday-goers, my essay spiral is pending, and I find myself wading through crowds of people. These are visitors who have, in many cases, travelled across the world to witness and romanticise the Cambridge experience. And there I am – arms full, groceries tumbling out my bag – hyper aware of the fantasy I am shattering.

Frustrating and stressful as the crowds near Corpus clock can be, on any other day walking through King’s Parade is a perfectly pleasant experience. It is scattered with coffee shops, places to buy bespoke gifts, and certainly lives up to the picturesque image visitors have in mind. However, beneath its historic charm and cosy feel lies rampant wealth inequality: Cambridge has, after all, been labelled the most unequal city in the UK. The postcard-perfect scenery masks the divide between those who visit, those who study, and those who live here full-time.

The problem with tourism in Cambridge is not that it exists, but where it leaves the people who call the city home, particularly students. Despite being one of the most “student-y” cities in the country, the city centre often feels like it is not built for students at all. The shops are lined with steep price tags, the cafés cater more to Instagram aesthetics than student budgets, and it is easier to find a snow globe of King’s College than a Greggs’ sausage roll. Although I would not trade in our college bars and bizarre traditions, there are certain student staples at other university cities that I cannot help but feel like are missing. For example, where are the off-licences?

“The postcard-perfect scenery masks the divide between those who visit, those who study, and those who live here full-time”

This disconnect is particularly jarring when you consider how present the university is in every corner of the city. The city is the university, not simply in the form of grand college buildings but also the heavy shadow its reputation casts. Tourism is not just compatible with but a direct result of Cambridge’s ‘exceptionalism’. An exceptionalism that makes students believe they are special to pressure them to live up to these high expectations of academic rigour. You can’t walk through the centre without being reminded, directly or indirectly, that you are at Cambridge, and that being here is meant to mean something.

It must be acknowledged, Cambridge students have much to thank tourists for. A report by London Economics placed the economic impact of tourism associated with the university at £587 million, with others suggesting less moderate estimates. This commercial revenue funds facilities and subsidies, upholds global prestige, and helps attract future applicants. But in doing so, it subtly sends the message that students are part of the attraction. The carefully curated image of Cambridge is only sustainable if students continue to play the role expected of them.

Ironically, one of the few places where students can escape that reputation is within the college walls themselves, where it is easier to just exist, without the pressure of performing Cambridge-ness for an audience. That is, until student spaces themselves begin to get swept up into the tourism machine.

“Tourism is not just compatible with but a direct result of Cambridge’s ‘exceptionalism’”

As students on Camfess were quick to accuse Caius college when Harvey’s petitioned to negotiate rent prices to stay in business, colleges are quick to prioritise profit. From the fact many colleges require students to move out over the holidays to rent out student accommodation, to the financial incentive of hosting corporate events which makes room booking all the more competitive (to the detriment of student societies), we do not have to look far to see this impact.

However, not all expressed dismay at the coffee shop’s potential closure. Some vented their frustration that it was one of many examples of areas previously reserved for students becoming open to prying eyes, such as when tourists were caught entering students’ rooms in Clare College. Regardless of individuals’ feelings about this specific case, the debate demonstrates a wider concern that students are pushed aside in favour of revenue and reputation.

So how do we make peace with tourism in Cambridge? Perhaps the better question is: are we even meant to? When the university’s image is so tightly tied to the city itself, and when that image is partly upheld by the students who live and study here, it is hard not to feel like students are part of this package deal.

There is undoubtedly something special about living in a place with such a rich history, and it is only right that this experience should be shared. But it is also worth acknowledging that when the university capitalises on tourism, it turns students into both consumers and commodities. And that double role is hard to juggle, especially when you are just trying to carry your shopping down King’s Parade.

Want to share your thoughts on this article? Send us a letter to letters@varsity.co.uk or by using this form.