There I was: unceremoniously discarded in the woods by the man I’d bet on as my forever
I knew before I walked in the door of the 1890 farmhouse in the Catskills with black shutters and a red door that I was going to buy it. That it sat on 1.5 acres of land demarcated by a rustic bluestone perimeter settled near the northern end of a three-and-a-half-mile stretch of paved road made it that much more enticing. But it was not until I moved in the fall of 2016 after 13 years in New York City that I realized I had never seen the house, or the road, at night.
If I had, I would have known that this winding stretch is characterized by absence, in the form of unoccupied vacation rentals and weekend homes. Rather than thwart me, it actually underscored my intention to build a sylvan fortress overflowing with friends and lovers—and eventually a family.
As for my neighbors renting out their houses for the weekend, once I learned how much they were earning on Airbnb, it seemed downright selfish to have purchased upmarket Norwegian wallpaper for accent walls for my personal use alone. So I snapped a few photos at opportune moments of daylight and listed the two railroad-style rooms...