And also probably hepatitis  â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â 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! I'm Ash Ambirge, and you're subscribed to SELFISH FOREVER, a spunky travel column about life abroadâand finding unconventional happiness in a conventional world. ðºï¸ ðï¸ ð§¥ð· ðð» â â â Travel is the Closest Iâve Ever Been to God (And Also Probably Hepatitis) This title is entirely misleading but letâs go with it anyway â â On Sunday, C comes back to our house in Costa Rica with a six-pack of light beer: the pinnacle of middle-aged revelry. Except I canât help but notice, like the weasel-eyed gladiator that I am, that one of the beers is missing. âYou drink one already, Hercules?â I say smirking, but really thinking YOU SWINE. âOh, no, there were only five,â he replies nonchalantly, as if that explains anything at all. âYou bought us a six-pack with one of the beers missing?â âYeah, I donât know why.â He continues going about his business, as if this is not some sort of violent crime. I pause. Look down the beer. Look up at C. Look down at the beer. Perform some advanced mathematical equations. âSo, to make sure I understand, you paid for a six-pack of beer, but WE ONLY GOT FIVE?â âNo, we only paid for five.â âSo they gave you a discount? On a mutilated six-pack that youâ¦voluntarily purchased?â âNo, they charge per individual beer in Costa Rica. Thereâs no special six-pack price. They just charge you for six separate beersâso, in this case, we only paid for five.â My head detaches itself from my neck and begins to spin. I am twinning with Beetlejuice, and I am pretty sure we have the exact same hair. (Thanks to Costa Rican humidity.) âWho just buys one beer? Who rips open a package and commits such an assault on supermarket shelf aesthetics? MY OCD IS HIGHLY OFFENDED.â âProbably somebody having lunch on the beach.â âHow can they look themselves in the mirror?â âHow can you, spaghetti stain?â He is referring to the stain on my old college sweatshirt. I donât know why itâs there. It wonât come out. I have given up hope. I continue on and explain to C, who is clearly a sociopath, that the act of ripping open a perfectly taut & perfect package to take ONE SOLITARY BEER is a maniacal deed against world order. Whatâs next, ripping open a pack of wieners so you can grill only one? Groping a bottle of whisky in the liquor store and just pouring yourself a single shot? WHY NOT JUST PULL A PAIR OF UNDIES RIGHT OUT OF THIS FRUIT OF THE LOOM THREE-PACK AND WEAR âEM STRAIGHT OUT? He looks at me like maybe he should run. Or, hand over the fifth beer. âI canât even walk across snow without feeling bad,â I mumble, the deliriousness setting in. âGood thing thereâs no snow here.â I SHOOT HIM A LOOK. C knows better than to remind me that there is no snow here in Costa Rica. But haha, jokeâs on him, because whenever weâre here, I turn the air conditioning down to such uninhabitable arctic levels of lunacy and then snicker as he shivers in HIS sweatshirt, which does not have a stain. Maybe I need to get him a stain. That will really make his day. These little discoveries never fail to fascinate. Itâs one of my favorite things about living abroad, the absurdity of it all. Everything is absurd when you donât grow up with it that wayâalthough, while performing a scientific survey on this whole âcan you split up a six-pack like a tin-can terroristâ question, it seems thatâs actually normal in some placesâplaces where I did not grow up. (Is this true for you where you live?!!??! LEAVE A COMMENT AND WEIGH IN.)
â [Leave a Comment]( â Iâll tell you what: put me in any beer distributor in Pennsylvania and let me rock up and tell guy Iâm just gonna slip one of these here Oktoberfests out for a solo adventure, and guyâs going to hog-tie me to the WALL. Then again, Pennsylvania is a real prig when it comes to beer. You canât buy beer in the same place that you buy liquor, and you need an expanded permit if you hope to hell to sell wine. And those states that just casually sell forties alongside some cupcakes and lighter fluid in a gas station? DISNEYLAND. Itâs a real theme park every time I walk into one of those. Even when we were in Slovenia the other dayâwait until I tell you about Sloveniaâthere they are, all the beers lined up in the back of a convenience store like they actually trust people to, I dunno, buy them. Laws are weird. Countries are weird. And the rules you grew up with are the only ones that donât seem weird, even if they are. One of the reasons I love living abroad is that every day challenges you to think. The smallest of details become a fascinating micro study in human behavior and societal norms, like getting a PhD in Anthropology. (And toilet etiquette.) The things you take for granted as everyday âtruthsâ suddenly are not true. And, what better personal development tool, than to have everything youâve ever thought pulled into an interrogation room for questioning? That might be intimidating for some. But for the right people, itâs a form of intellectual banter. Of flirtation. Of having a fling with the world. You say one thing, and the world winks and says something smartass back. Thatâs chemistry. Thatâs seduction. And, thatâs what I want when I travel. Your picture-perfect postcard beach doesnât move me. What I want is to come alive when I see you. I want to feel like I am seventeen again, and I am swinging on a rope swing under an old elm, and you are teasing me about my dress, and the light is hitting your hair, and you smile back at me like maybe I could be the one, and I manage to say something witty, and you laughâand oh, your laugh is the closest Iâve ever been to godâand every good sense I have is lost in this moment, in this tiny razor-thin sliver of time, when you and I are human poetry, and dandelion cotton balls blow across the wind, and the sun starts to set, and we both look at one another and think things that neither of us will ever say, but will feel for the rest of our lives, every time we pass the park on Church Street, and remember how it felt, to be free. This is why you travel. Itâs not about being a worldly; itâs about going home. You return again to the part of you thatâs innocent, and soft, and wide-eyed, and beautifully foolish, before the world bludgeoned your spirit. You find gentleness again. You find wholesomeness again. You find enchantment again. You find the part of yourself that exists in awe. You find it in the bellini overlooking the Grand Canal. You find it as you gaze up at The Sagrada Familia. You find it as you watch families chase their sweet children with backpacks and sandwiches and jelly-crusted fingers. You find it in the sidewalk. You find it in the bread. You find it in the flowers. You find it in a six-pack of beer on a Sunday afternoon. Itâs a kind of temporary insanity that feels just like you did when you were seventeen. And man, does it feel good to be young. â [Share This]( â â A spunky travel column about finding unconventional happiness
in an unconventional world
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WITH ASH AMBIRGE + Sweary outbursts
+ 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 Ireland 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
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