Love him or hate him, Rick Steves is a brand that's infected America in much the same way as Target, Wranglers, and hip hop music sung by Caucasians. He's everywhere and we all end up liking him, just like a lot of Americans enjoyed the movie "Chocolat" and a lot of Americans dream of carrying a baguette under one arm in France or clinking beer steins in Germany or sipping ouzo shots in Greece. This magazine is for them. For us pickier travel snobs, the gorgeous photo spreads and classy Smithsonian layout gives Rick the royal treatment and makes us all want to book a trip to Europe with our new best friend Rick.

Nevertheless, for someone whose entire identity involves leading America by the hand through Europe's backdoor, it's hard not to ignore Rick's hearty embrace of cliché. His magazine's titles highlight "Storybook" England, "Sound of Music" Austria, and "Heidi's Switzerland" before trailing off into a slew of earth-shattering travel tips such as "David is a must-see visit in Florence".

Now, if I wrote travel copy like that, my editors would shove it through a shredder. Twice. All you would have is a bunch of little squares of paper-like confetti thrown at a quaint Italian wedding that I just happened to run into as I was strolling down a cobblestone street under a buttery Tuscan sunset.

I much preferred Rick's more honest and authentic articles like the "Best Little Street in Paris"--a candid Polaroid narrative about Rue Cler in the 7th Arrondissement--and his heartfelt discovery of Danish island life. I was also happy to see some of the Rick Steve love shine down on Blackpool--a northern British seaside resort that very few Americans ever visit.

If Rick Steves and Smithsonian want to feed our dreams of Europe, then mission accomplished. I want to go to all the places listed and now that I've read this sunny version of their Top 20 list, I'm so there. My only conjecture is that the "quaint folksiness" Rick so adamantly warns travelers against might also be the very product that he's selling.