Um, why did no one tell me about this?  â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â
What's Up, Smokeshow! Iâm Ash Ambirge, the nutty, overly-enthusiastic writer of the Selfish Forever humor travel writing column, where Iâm hunting for the best places to live in the world ðºï¸âand teaching you how go, go go. â â â This Stupidly Cute Small Town Almost
Made Me Move to Freakin' Illinois Just three hours west of Chicago, Galena, Illinois is
THE place your nervous system didn't know it needed
â â â When I think of the perfect small town, I think of parking. (And necking with older boys behind a pinball machine, but thatâs another day.) Parking is one of the best, most thrilling benefits of small-town living. You zoom right into a parking spot and then justâ¦GET OUT. It feels criminal, really; who is managing all of this lawlessness?! Look at me over here with my camel-colored autumnal-inspired knee-high faux-leather boots just stepping on out of this vehicle and walking away like I am some sort of DEMIGOD. I grew up in a small town, so I donât know why Iâm acting like this is all so novel. Except, after youâve spent all your âgood neck yearsâ living in different places around the worldâplaces where, even if there are no parking meters, there are still âcar watchersâ expecting to be tipped to make sure no one breaks in and steals your KitKatâparking for free starts to feel awfully suspicious. Like you are taking up space without earning it. And then I think about what a sicko I must be to think that: do I usually feel like I have to âearnâ the space I take up?! Is that why I put so much effort toward being personable, and outgoing, and the kind of person you donât want bang over the head with a hammer? Do I have issues I didnât know about? Who knew free parking could trigger such an existential crisis? Better not give me any birthday presents, or Iâll really need therapy. Iâve discovered that there are really only two kinds of small towns: the kind you want to leave immediately, and the kind you want to stay in forever. I am on the hunt for the latter. This is why I have found myself in Galena, Illinois, a miniature Hallmark card of a town three hours west of Chicago. â â â Youâve probably never heard of Galena. I hadnât either until, ohhhhhhhhh, about twenty-four hours earlier when a sales associate in a mall in Des Moines, where I get all my information, told me that on [my road trip across the Midwest in search of nice people and nice porches](), I simply could NOT miss Galena. Another woman overheard and chimed in with a scream. âItâs sooooooooo cuteeeeeeeeee,â she squealed. âAnd, everything is walkable and thereâs historic architecture and little shops and vineyards and trolleys and trails!â Say no more: Iâm a sucker for historic architecture. While other people gasp at famous landmarks like the Eiffel Tower or Big Ben (okay fine, Iâd shag Big Ben), theyâre really just one-hit wonders. The Vanilla Ice of architecture. Imagine if Ice, Ice Baby were a monument? Itâd be right up there with The Macarena. I donât gawk at big, showy touristy things as much as I do an unassuming two-story brick house from the 1800s standing quietly on a leafy little side street in a place where no one ever visits. This is the real attraction: not what a famous architect has made deliberately into a grand performance, but what everyday humans have made with their own two hands in their own backyard. When the thing youâre making doesnât necessarily have to be beautifulâfor example, a houseâs essential components are merely a rectangular space, with rectangular windows, and rectangular doorsâbut you insist on it anyway, thatâs humanity. Thatâs art. Itâs very much like writing: everyone writes. But, not everyone can write something that haunts you after youâve read it*.* Great writing isnât just about words: itâs about craft. Itâs about painstakingly laboring over the most microscopic of details: the nuance of every verb, the rhythm of every sentence, the way readers will walk away from something and feel it. You are not a neurotic crackpot (but maybe???), but what you do understand is that craft is detail. While making things is fundamentally human, art is a choice. And the details we choose to labor over is who we become. Galena, Illinois has labored. Eighty-five percent of its buildings are in the historic districtâa fact that really turns me on. (Thatâs over 800 properties with fireplaces and original crown moulding and âsandwiches in great lightingâ chandeliersâI cannot contain my lust.) But whatâs really fascinating is why there are any buildings here at all: turns out, Galena was THE place to be for opium dens in the 1800s, which is not true in the least, but only marginally worse than what it really became famous for: lead mining. Now that I think of it, maybe all of those historic homes are super duper poisonous, but, hey, at least the name âGalenaâ makes sense: itâs not actually named after a Greek goddess with awesome hair and a spear, but rather itâs the technical name for âore of lead.â Less erotic, Iâll admit. But still, all that industry sure brought wealth. And, its strategic location on the intersection of Illinois, Iowa, and Wisconsin didnât hurt, either.
â â â The downtown Main Streetâcalled âHelluva Half Mileââis the Main Street that every Main Street wants to be: a gorgeously-preserved endless row of historic buildings with over a hundred and twenty shops, tons of lively little restaurants, a river alongside it with benches and grass and flowers and cyclists, and enough people to feel happening, but not too many people that you have to wait in line for a margarita. It reminds me of Hudson, New York in a lot of ways, minus the pretension of Hudson, New York. (And the prices.) But, Iâm also skeptical: typically, these kinds of placesâthe ones with the âcute little shopsââare kitschy little mouse traps that exist solely for tourists. You pass by useless novelty shop after useless novelty shop selling jokey tee-shirts and oversized beaver hats, and I always think to myself: whereâs the dentist? Whereâs the market? Where are some oranges? Where are the shops for the real people that live here? I donât want to live someplace where the only place to go is to a tarot card reader selling crystal spells and incense. In fact, I donât ever want to smell incense again. Fortunately, Galena serves me my head on a plate. YESâit is indisputably one of the most charming, old-timey, picture-perfect kinds of towns Iâve ever seen, but real people live here, too. There are real houses with real families and real mini vans and real yards and real marketsâand perhaps the most manicured, perfect town park Iâve ever seen. I want to lick the lawn, just to see if it is real. âIf only I had basketball courts like this growing upâ¦â C comments with awe. â â â Even more exciting is the culinary scene, by which I mean that restaurants actually EXIST. In my hometown, there was only one restaurant that everyone went to for special occasions, and then a heart-pumping array of truck stops, dive bars, diners, pizza places, and gas stations. (Or, maybe the better term is âheart-stopping.â) Here, however, thereâs an embarrassment of dining optionsâat least for its sizeâincluding an Italian restaurant named Fried Green Tomatoes that we end up going to twice; a high-end wine bar called Jamieâs; a French bistro run by a Frenchman (with the best eyeglasses); a real authentic Mexican cantina, a craft coffee house run by a family named The Hellers; an endless array of boutique wineries, micro breweries, and sports barsâand, not to mention a Saturday farmersâ market, a distillery, and even a big olâ Irish pub down the road. (Thank god there is always an Irish pub.) Alas, the very first thing I do is park on the street for free, just to feel that kind of power. HERE I GO, INTO THIS COFFEE SHOP! Nobody can stop me now! Donât gotta know my license plate number; donât have to download an app; donât have to try three different credit cards like I am some sort of feral dog. Itâs like having an all-you-can-eat buffet of space: life already feels so much easier. On my way in, a man seated on a bench calls to me and says, âMorning! Have you had breakfast yet? I just had a great one over there.â I am taken aback by his friendliness, and yet, this is exactly what I have been searching for: the kind of people who really see other people. Itâs not so much about wanting some kind of Pleasantville, but about wanting connection. I have lived in some of the biggest cities in the world and often felt pathologically alone. Donât get me wrong: I also like being able to wear killer high-heel booties as I stomp down a city sidewalkâsomething that makes you look like a diabolical, baby-eating martian in a small townâbut heels arenât always a good enough trade-off for belonging. Belonging is how you know youâre alive. Otherwise, youâre just an invisible phantom of a human, journeying through the world without ever being felt. â[Our Airbnb]( sits just two blocks up from Main Street. The home, we discover, belongs to a well-known news anchor in Chicago; we chat back and forth via the app, and I praise her for her renovations. The home is historicâsurprise!âand tastefully updated to maintain the character of the space. I pull on a sweatshirt and spend cozy fall mornings out on the porch with my notebook and my coffee, writing up my plans for the future. People walk by and actually wave. It feels safe here, calm. This is the kind of place you want to plant some bushes, join a volleyball league, wear paint-splattered overalls, and help Gus down at the hardware store on the weekends like in the movies. And there is no higher praise. Such praise, in fact, that we extend our stay, twice. Galena becomes home for two whole weeks. We never expected to stay for more than 5 minutes, but it feels good here, like wrapping yourself in a patchwork quilt at grandmaâs. Iâve never had a grandma, but if I did, that bitch would be give me BLANKETS. I find myself stalking the whole town on Zillow, creeping by neighborâs properties, slowing down in front of their houses like a real perv. With $150,000 price points, it seems too good to be true.
â â â Another striking thing about Galena: there are mountains here. Unlike the rest of the Midwest, the glaciers that once flattened the northern United States did a little pirouette around this part of Illinois. I can vouch: one day we get up and take an early-morning walk around something called Horseshoe Mound, which started off sweet and adorable and cute and innocent because we were looking at birds and prancing along grassy footpaths and talking about the fact that someone needs a brand of binoculars called âBIRD-NOCULARSâ (a tragic missed opportunity). But then, suddenly, I am GASPING FOR AIR as we are forced into an advanced plyometric workout requiring Herculean butt muscles and belief in a higher power (the parking lot) in order to scale a 700,000% incline. Lesson learned: never trust a horseshoe. This becomes one of our favorite parts about Galena: being outside. We rent e-bikes and blast down The Galena River Trail, a forested path that goes along the backwaters of the Mississippi river. We drive country backroads to find waterfalls where we watch two chicks get married. We visit a winery out in a meadow with a sprawling yard full of tables and windchimes and chairs and people singing along to a guy with a guitar perched up on hay bales. Every evening we sit on the porch of our Airbnb and try to decide whether or not weâd be happy here. Would it be too boring? Too isolated? Too conservative?
â â â Itâs funny: being a nomadic writer means that Iâm never in one place for too long anywayââsettling downâ is practically a swear wordâbut thereâs always a pull to root myself; to own property here, there, everywhere; to have a permanent connection to the places that, for one reason or another, make me feel whole. Different places expose you to different versions of yourself; different aspects of your personality need the right conditions to come out. In this way, traveling is never about a place, really, but about the reflection you see when youâre there. And, sometimes you want to bottle that reflection. Sometimes, you want to be that person forever. Except for when you eat your way through town and then check your reflection. Whatâs that, mustard on your face? Good lord, glutton! But, eating in a new place is when I also get to indulge in my favorite past time: interviewing the locals to try to figure out whether or not theyâre psychos. At one point, we meet a super fun gay couple at happy hour in a Mexican joint; theyâve just moved to Galena from Manhattan, and were renovating a home across the river. They scrolled through photos, proudly showing us the befores and afters. They were giddy over how much further their money went; that they were living in a shoebox studio apartment for so many years; that they could finally afford a big, beautiful home, with a big, beautiful yard. I mentioned seeing a house on that same street for sale. âBuy it!â they urged. âThen we can be neighbors!â Galena is a favorite getaway for Windy City dwellersâsomething I like to think is promising. In fact, my lawyer, who is based in Chicago, excitedly tells me she used to own property in Galena; that they had fond memories when the boys were young; that maybe it was time for a visit. Soon, however, THE GAP comes into focus. There are some Chicagoans who come to Galena to get away, and some Chicagoans who come to Galena to get AWAY. At Jamieâs wine bar, we meet the latter. We are seated at a giant, over-sized, slabby, fit-for-a-Viking round table. The proprietor, Jamieâa well-to-do woman Iâd place in her early 60sâhas sat us there, given that the nook of a bar is full. We sit awkwardly for a few minutes, unsure how to casually be at a table this size. (My boobs never know how to behave at tables.) Then the real fun begins. An older gentleman walks in and Jamie rushes over to make a big fuss. âThere you are!â she exclaims, helping him with his coat. He appears grouchy; curmudgeonly. You can tell he has money, but itâs understated: heâs wearing an everyday working manâs plaid shirt, but in $300 material. He approaches our table and sits right down without giving our presence much stock; I instantly get the notion that this was his table, and we were the intruders. Then, Jamie suddenly makes a beeline toward my side of the table. As if we are old friends who didnât just meet five minutes earlier, she bends down and starts whispering breathlessly in my ear. âOkay, SOâthe story is he recently lost his wife and sold his giant mansion and downsized into a small apartment nearbyâand, heâs ever-so-lonely and one of my dearest friends and also one of the most well-known businessmen in the region, so if you could just make small talk with him? Get him out of his shell? I would be so grateful!â Then she zips off like a hummingbird, bouncing between the other twenty people she counts as friends. I accept the challenge because, letâs be honest, I was totally going to chat him up anyway. Besides, what better person than a business mogul straight out of the 17th century? I attempt a few warm-up questions. He answers curtly, as if heâd rather spit. I feel like an inconsequential teeny bopper little girl. But then I decide that maybe he just has a hearing problem, because I like to pretend that anyone who is mean just canât hear me. (Donât use my coping tools.) Turns out, he had built one of the first floating casinos over in Dubuque. Dubuque is an industrial, manufacturing city twenty minutes away from Galena, full of old factories being renovated into a very cool and up-and-coming warehouse district along the Mississippi. I try to pry some more information out of him, but heâs indifferent to my charms. Fortunately, another couple saves me from myself. They plop right down at Arthurâs Table with us. Ah, this is the localâs table. They look like the kind of people who would be named Jim and Rhonda. They have a little maltese dog with them, Ted, which weirdly turns out to be Jamieâs dog: theyâre just babysitting. I find this amusingâand somehow mildly disturbing. Jim and Rhonda were from a wealthy Chicago suburb, but were now retired and living there in Galena in what they kept referring to as âThe Territory.â I thought this was an inside joke, but no: âThe Galena Territoryâ is the actual name of a private residential community just six miles out of town with a golf course, equestrian center, and boating and fishing and nature trails. Jim and Rhonda spend an inordinate amount of time telling us how much they love seeing deer in their yard. (Turns out, distant, blurry, out-of-focus photos of deer takes the cake for âmost boring pictures a stranger could ever show you on their phone.â) At one point, they ask us our plans. We tell them weâre headed to Chicago. The reaction is intense. âOh god, donât go to Chicago!â They conversation veers straight into murder and crime and shootings and danger, after which they refer to the mayor of Chicago, Lori Lightfoot, as âBeetlejuice.â They snicker. âI wouldnât risk my life. The whole place is a disaster. We never go into the city.â The old man grumbles something about the worst politics heâs ever seen. They all nod in agreement. I couldâve written this off as âJim and Rhonda are stupid,â but this wasnât the only instance. â â â Another afternoon, we visit one of the local breweries. We start talking to the couple next to us. Theyâre from Lowell, Indiana. Early 30s. Patrick and Patty. They pull up their house on Google Earth to show us where they live, delighted by the fact there was no one for miles in any direction. (Though they did have âa latino friendâ who would come over for Friday night beers. I presume they mention this because Carlos proudly says heâs from Costa Rica to literally everyone he meets.) We tell them of our road trip. âOh god, donât go to Chicago!â I am frankly shocked to hear this out of the mouths of younger, less crotchety people. Especially since this isnât my first time in Chicago, a city I love. âNot even The Magnificent Mile?â I press. âThe what?â Patty questions. âThe Magnificent Mileâwhere all the tourists go.â âOh, I donât know what that is,â she replies. âIâve never actually been to Chicago myself.â I donât know what my face did, but I can tell you that C, a Chicago virgin, is starting to get worried. Should we really go? he asks later. And this, I think to myself, is how fear spreads. We meet another couple in Fried Green Tomatoes. They were enthusiastic casino go-ers. Built entire vacations around casinos. Iâm pretty sure they print out pictures of casinos and hump them at night. (At least maybe more interesting than deer.) In all their casino-ly wisdom, they thought we should seriously find a way to get up to Marquette, Iowa, because their casino was the BEST. I donât explain to them that Iâm not a casino person. But, on the way out they assure me of one thing: âWhatever you do, donât go to Chicago.â I am going to make a song. The Galena River Trail takes you straight into the Chestnut Mountain Ski Resort. We head inside to check it out. The bartender is my kind of people: Older. Gruff. Takes no shit, but is a damn good worker. She tells us she lives further down the river, where itâs cheaper; that Galena was full of snobs. I ask her about Chicago. âAll I know is that theyâre teaching sex ed to second graders,â she says. âI wouldnât go to Chicagoâitâs really dangerous.â Obviously, this narrative is partially a reflection of the political landscape in America right now: Chicago doesnât even rank in the top [15 most dangerous cities]() in the United States. (Philadelphia, where Iâve lived off and on for years, is number fifteen.) In fact, according to the Chicago police department, the murder rate [fell 17%](=) in Chicago this year. Itâs hard to talk about a place without also talking about its politics. But, politics are certainly driving fear more than actual crime is. (For the record, we had a great time in Chicagoâso much so, that C has now dubbed it his favorite American city, even over New York.) I canât help but notice that Galena is full of contradictions: conservative and liberal. Local and newcomer. Young and old. Chicago orâ¦.IâD RATHER DIE. Just as it sits gingerly on the intersection of three states, it also seems to sit gingerly on the intersection of humanity. This, however, may be a good thing: no place should be an exclusive enclave of anything, because then it is not a place, but a shrine. On our last dayâa Sundayâwe throw on sweats and drive the country backroads of Jo Daviess County, gaping at wildflower meadows and old cemeteries and big, swaying oak trees. Just when weâre about to turn back, we bump into a building that looks like an old general store crossed with a saloon from the wild west. Itâs called [Council Hill Station](=), and I find out itâs actually a train depot dating back to the 1800s. An âopenâ sign hangs in the window, yet no cars are outside. â â â We enter with a mix of caution and rebelliousness. Inside is a whole eclectic world of curiosities: big glass cases with old trombones; old wooden cabinets filled with glass vases and records and lanterns and antique telephones; walls covered in old black and white photographs; an old-fashioned table with old-fashioned chairs; an old sewing machine; a giant, imposing wood stove. We call out, worried weâre trespassing. A woman suddenly emerges from the back, surprised to see us. She is thin. Weathered. Soft-spoken. And absolutely delightful. Her name is Glady. She offers us a beer. Sensing my confusion, she explains good-naturedly that, despite appearances, this is actually a bar: they play music in the afternoons, and all the locals come, and wait until we see the backyard. C and I sense weâre about to go on an adventure: the ones you least expect are always the best ones. The first thing Glady shows us is an old stone woolen mill with only one wall remaining; she tells us sheâs been working on its restoration; that she is a trained stone mason. I ask her no fewer than 50,000 questions about this. Then, she takes us further back to a section sheâs lovingly turned into an outdoor living room, complete with vintage sofas, a flower-patterned carpet, a stream trunk table, and her own artwork on an easel. A giant window is thrust open on its hinges to reveal a medley of red, orange, and yellow wildflowers that spill into the lawn. This, turns out, is her painting space. And it is magnificent.
â â â Further down on the property, there is a barn. We go inside to find a big, empty space they now use for âbarn dances,â which start at 2pm on weekends. âYou should come back later!â she says. This place is so unreal, we actually think about it. We sign our name on their giant wall of signatures. Back in the main building, the owner, Jamie appears, a bit disheveled. We feel like we have just popped in on them in their homeâwhich is exactly what we have done. He and Glady are a couple. They play music together. And, in fact, why donât they play us a tune right now? We rebuff their offer at first: weâre the only two people thereâhow awkward would that be? But then we quickly realize this is the exact kind of experience we have come to the Midwest to seek. Glady pulls two old-school Genuine Miller Draft beers from the fridge and hands them to us, then straps on what appears to be a ukelele while Jamie grabs a bigger guitar and casually tosses a harmonic in his mouth. They stand up by the microphone, and without so much as hesitating, start busting out Tracy Chapmanâs âGive Me One Reason.â ([Click here to watch!]()) Glady NAILS the lyrics. The two of them are good. So very good! Soon we are clapping along and cheering and the whole thing is so very surreal, like entering Narnia and stepping into an alternate universe. And then I realize that this is what we all must do, no matter where we live: create the perfect conditions for us to thrive. It is with goosebumps on my arms that I get the sense that somehow, in this hidden old train station up in the meadows of rural Illinois, Jamie and Glady have figured out something that the rest of havenât. Jamie and Glady have figured out how to be themselves. And if a small town can help you do that? Well then, no matter who you are, thatâs a pretty big deal. â --------------------------------------------------------------- â You can see my visual diary from my time in Galena [here]()âincluding Jamie & Gladyâs wildly fun performance! ð¶ ð¸ ð¤
â [View this post on Instagram]( [A post shared by ASH AMBIRGE (@ashambirge)]( â --------------------------------------------------------------- â
Have you been to Galena?! What did you think? And, whatâs been your experience with Chicago? Leave a comment & say hi!
â [Leave a Comment & Say Hi]() â â â WITH ASH AMBIRGE
ââ
+ Unpopular opinions about crustaceans
+ New ideas about ways to earn a living that don't require you to be a sucker
+ How to actually enjoy your life while working less and visiting Sweden more
+ A real zest for extreme pearl wearing
+ Favoritism for bars with scary-ass mafia pool rules (MY QUARTERS WERE THERE, SON)
+ Zero ambition to be a good girl who bakes casseroles & smiles politely
+ BUT ALSO: a creepy affection for small-town Main Streets & freshly-mowed lawns
+ Currently searching for the most livable places in the world (and looking through people's windows)
+ Unbridled enthusiasm for storage units and guys named Bob
+ Deep fear of waking up and not having any water on the nightstand
+ Entirely unbalanced accounts of everything, including my morals
+ At least three Freudian slips around my true feelings about bracelets
(They make your arms look like baby wiener sausages at an Italian wedding) P.S. Have you read [my book on living & working differently]() yet?
It's a real blast to have on the coffee table when the in-laws come over. â â â[Select Newsletter Topics]( | [Unsubscribe from All Forever]( 177 Huntington Ave Ste 1703, Boston, MA 02115 â