Dear World: I’d Rather Be a Boob-Tart Than a Bittersweet Tragedy

I’m Ash, and I’m a writer, traveler, nonconformist & nomad, and every week I’m sharing funny field notes from around the world. Currently, I’m in America writing about what it’s been like to return home to my small town, twenty years after living abroad.

Last weekend I drove an hour to the Catskills exclusively so I could go to a wine bar and eat tapas and feel like a real person for an hour. You know how desperate I am for good food? I ORDERED THE COD. THE FUCKING COD, YOU GUYS.

If you know me, you know that this is the equivalent of me saying something like, “hey, I murder people with axes now,” which we all know would be ridiculous because axes are really heavy.

But the Catskills are weird because people from New York showed up and made these tiny little mountain towns mid-bougie. And by mid-bougie, I mean “there’s at least one restaurant owned by a stylish gay couple who have a background in interior design” and also “there’s definitely a farmer’s market selling rutabagas.” When’s the last time you said the word “rutabaga?” Dare you to say it out loud, it’s really fun.

There is also orange wine in places like these. You know you’re somewhere mid-bougie when there’s orange wine (which I immediately sucked down like a starving buffalo).

I was in Callicoon, NY, which isn’t even one of the “nice” Catskill towns, but still it has THE INGREDIENTS. Wine bar, check. Design-forward restaurant, cocktail bar, and “provisions store,” complete with crystal chandeliers, check. An 1852 Victorian mansion converted into a hotel, check. Distillery in a cool tin building, check. Michelin-starred hotel and cidery overlooking an expansive view of Catskill mountains, check.

The impact culture has on culture, am I right???

Just one hour west, where I bought the farmhouse in Pennsylvania? These ingredients don’t exist. This is meat and potatoes land. Crumbling dairy farm land. Get your exercise by tilling the garden land. And if you’re gonna do something fancy like drink wine? It’s gonna be blueberry. On sale at the gas station. Don’t mind the dust.

(Yes, I have proper wine subscription sent to my house.)

(Don’t judge me, it’s dire out here.)

Recently, I met a man from Manhattan who just bought a mammoth 6,000 sq. foot Yellowstone mansion of a property a few minutes down the road from me. Cost $950K. Negotiated down to $850K. Came with 15 acres. Would have cost him $10M anywhere else.

“It’s so beautiful here,” he’s going.

He is the kind of man who is going to want a wine bar.

And someday, some visionary will put one here. That is how it begins. Someone, from somewhere else, will bring something new. It’ll become a landmark. All the city people fleeing the city and going to the country will become The Patrons. And all of the local people resenting the city people fleeing the city and going to the country will say it’s too expensive; too snooty; not their scene. And, that might be true. But man, do I wish I could spread the gospel that is goat cheese on an arugula salad; housemade ricotta with olive oil and basil; charred shishito peppers with lemon; and yes, even the cod with the aioli.

See also: Avocado. Chimichurri. Saffron. Truffle. Artichoke.

This is a foreign language here.

Even though, my god would they kick the shit out of a farmer’s market.

Still very gloaty about MY NEW DOORS. I push the lock button on my way out like I am some kind of Egyptian Pharaoh.

And, the kitchen island came yesterday! The kitchen island came yesterday! Do you realize this is my first kitchen island…in my life? I mean, being a digital nomad for 20 years means that you stay in lots of places with kitchen islands, but you never own one. It feels weird to own something so…heavy. Cannot put in suitcase. I repeat: cannot put in suitcase. I’ll admit: there’s this low-key fear running in the background of my brain about this: does owning stuff mean giving up freedom? And, how can I make sure that never, ever, ever happens? Owning stuff is only a luxury if you can afford to leave it; if you can’t, you don’t have freedom, you just have stuff. And, who the hell wants stuff?

Just kidding, we’re all 100% going to burn down the internet any day now, which is why we’re all REALLY, REALLY into stuff right now. Analog stuff. In my work I’ve been obsessing over the idea of print newsletters. This company, Newspaper Club, is giving me all sorts of racy dreams. DO NOT BE SURPRISED IF WE DO SOMETHING FUN VERY, VERY SOON.

Oh no, Donald has ruined all caps. Along with everything else.

Old white guy on LinkedIn told me that I think I’m very clever, but he doesn’t find me clever at all. Wait until he sees my newspaper.

Speaking of which, I have to tell you something mission-critical:

I’m moving us off of Substack.

I’ve outgrown Substack for what I want to build next—AKA a gorgeous empire of books and wit and writing and wallpaper. (As you know!) Andddd, in order to do that? I’ve got to retire all paid tiers, because I can’t take paid subscriptions with me. And, I need a more sophisticated platform for what I need to do.

So, if you’re a paid subscriber, you won’t be billed anymore. But, I’ll still be offering paid subscriber perks through the end of the year—including exclusive posts + an exclusive digital copy of my new book (or a mailed physical copy, if you were a founding member!). 💃 So, all the fun, none of the cost. More on this shortly, as soon as I hear back from Substack. (You don’t have to do anything.)

Things are always changing. Context is always changing. Culture is always changing. Don’t feel bad for reacting accordingly. Go, go, go. Stay on your toes. Follow your instincts. Be a shark. Swim like a swan. Have more fun than everybody else. And have not a single fucking regret if it’s something you’re into with your whole, whole body.

This is how I feel about the adventure with the farmhouse, too. Because, honestly, I had no business coming up in here being all, “Hey, I’m gonna buy these 5 acres and I’m gonna fix up this 1800s farmhouse, and I’m gonna renovate the guest cottage while I’m at it, and I hardly know how to use a screwdriver (and I DEFINITELY don’t know what I’ll do if I see a mouse) but I 👏 am 👏 doing 👏 it 👏!

Not a single regret.

Did it with my whole, whole body.

Yes, it’s been a lot.

Yes, the costs are…..like a very large mountain wearing a mumu.

And, yes, it’s taking me way longer than I ever anticipated.

But there is so much thrill in the act of discovering new things, like putting jumper cables on your brain. ⚡️🧠 You try something new, it’s the equivalent of taking a whole bottle of Wellbutrin. (Well, maybe don’t do THAT.) I know it’s scary to do new stuff. I know there’s always that little dick in the back of your head going, “You don’t have the energy, you don’t have the skill, you don’t have the knowledge, you’re gonna look like a big boob-tart.”

So what?????????????????

I’d rather be a boob-tart than a bittersweet tragedy; a miserable, resentful, underachieving casualty of her own self-doubt; who had all the potential in the world, and still did nothing. Because nothing was safer than making a mistake.

Mistakes are oxygen.

I hope you’ll make a real big one this week.

XO,

Ash