(HUMOR) A plea to tourists for forgiveness

Editor’s note: The following story is part of Xpress’ annual Humor Issue. This is a satirical piece that is not meant to be taken seriously. Happy New Year. 

Dear Tourists,

I know, I know — you told me to stop writing to you. You said, “Please respect my boundaries,” but a big part of me thinks you’re just playing hard to get. I know you. You’re a flirt. So here I am, penning yet another letter because … well, I miss you. Desperately.

Remember all those things I said before Hurricane Helene? Like, “If I have to dodge one more group of six wine-drunk ‘Bride Tribe’ bimbos in matching cowboy hats, I’m going to offer a walking tour straight off the nearest cliff.” Or that time I accidentally tweeted: “Why don’t y’all skip the Blue Ridge Parkway and drive yourselves right back to the cesspool of sick, twisted Floridian fatuity whence you came, you leathery-skinned douchebag monsters?” Well … I didn’t mean that.

I was joking. Sometimes my jokes don’t land. It happens.

The truth is, Asheville isn’t the same without you. And by that, I mean our economy is literally in the toilet. It turns out we need your obscenely obnoxious bachelorette parties, your leaf-peeping lunacy and your insatiable thirst for $9 cardamom oat milk lattes. Who else is going to buy $80 artisanal, locally made, epoxy resin buttplugs? Who’s going to pay $400 a night to stay in a converted school bus on someone’s 5-acre farm in West Asheville? Who’s going to wait 45 minutes for gluten-free avocado toast at a brunch spot we locals can’t afford?

We’ve tried to make it work without you, but honestly, it’s been grim. Many of us (specifically those in our late 20s and early 30s) have been passing the same $20 bill back and forth for years. Sure, it’s a charming metaphor for community spirit, but that $20 isn’t going to keep the breweries running, much less fix the, you know, complete and total devastation of everything we know and love.

I know I said some things in the past, like “Why would anyone come all this way just to ask where the nearest Olive Garden is, you absolute unforgivable moron?” But I didn’t mean them. I swear. I didn’t know how much I’d miss watching your disgusting family reunions clogging up the toxic French Broad River with $1,200 one-time-use paddleboards. Or the way you try to drunkenly connect with the buskers downtown by shouting, “I have a guitar, too!”

The hurricane may have taken out some of our favorite spots, but there’s still plenty of Asheville to enjoy. The drum circle is still going strong (yes, I know you don’t understand what’s happening, and no, none of us really do either). The breweries are still here, brewing increasingly questionable flavors like “Elderflower Dill Turbidity Sour.” Yum! And yes, the Blue Ridge Parkway is still really pretty, but you don’t need to slow down to 3 miles per hour to appreciate it. Seriously. Haha.

We need you, dear Tourists. Without you, the Battery Park Book Exchange can’t sell overpriced Champagne in vintage teacups to your aunt from Upstate New York. Without you, who will keep asking where to get the best “Asheville Hot Chicken” and then look scandalized when we say, “That’s not a thing”? Without you, we’re just a bunch of weirdos sitting in our cozy little breweries, silently judging each other instead of silently judging you.

So, here I am, locally crocheted hat in hand, begging you to come back. Bring your Patagonia fleeces, your made-up dietary restrictions, and your inexplicable obsession with the Biltmore House. We’re ready for you. We love you.

Always and forever,

Ashevilleans