Asheville, part 1

"Will I walk the long road?
We all walk the long road"

The decision to actually go to Asheville was a longer trip than the physical journey to, and subsequent return from Asheville. A large part of my life is spent exploring. Going on little pilgrimages across this great yet flawed land of ours. America. Home of the free, land of the corporate jerkwads. Where both greed and apple pie run rampant. Nevermind that now. I'll step off my soapbox, and stop sounding like old-school Michael Moore.

Over the past few years I have gone on little explorations of the Southeast. In these tumultuous times a person can no longer travel America like one of my heroes, Jack Kerouac. Gone are the days of a knapsack and upturned thumb. Now is the time of serial killers, both riders and drivers. You never know how you are going to end up, traveling alone across the country. Yet I still venture out. In 2004, I headed for an elongated weekend in beautiful Blowing Rock, North Carolina. Both tranquil and serene, yet with a dash of the crass commercialism of Gatlinburg, it was a sleepy little town. I loved it. I spent an entire day walking the main boulevard browsing little shops full of trinkets and keepsakes. I even spent an hour in the Thomas Kinkade gallery discussing the paintings with the proprietor.

This time around, deciding in one of my late night sojourns across East Tennessee, I realized I had never been past the Mississippi let alone actually experienced the vast largeness of that river. My first, irrational thought was that I would take four days, and set off for California. Land of movie stars and valley teeming with fake jubblies. Much to my dismay, I realized that this would take longer than four days. Unless I drove constantly missing out on the sights. My next thought was to see Colorado. If I couldn't make it to Cal-i-forn-i-a, I could at least make it to Colorado. Everything I had read or seen portrayed that fine state as nothing less than bountiful majesty. Beautiful rolling hills, and thin, clear mountain air. "Rocky mountain high, Colorado." I wonder how much the state paid John Denver to sing that song. In my grand scheme to visit Colorado, I decided that I might as well see Oklahoma and Texas on the way. Then the timetable was just not working out. So Texas. That's my new destination. At that point I whipped out the old calculator, looked at about how much it would cost me to drive. This was at the time when gas was in the high three dollar range. Then I took a long, hard look at my somewhat significant responsibilities. Mortgage. Central Heat and Air. Food.

So Asheville it would be. Just call me Shania Twain, cause man I feel like a woman. Indecisions and all. Just kidding ladies. Please send any hate mail directly to my representative, Big Guido in South Jersey, at bguido@da-mob.com.

I had heard that Asheville was a burgeoning manhattan. Great music scene. Great downtown atmosphere. I looked up some info on the net, and found a lot of great places to visit. Thomas Wolfe's house. Carl Sandburg's estate. Of course, Biltmore Estate. By this time of year the Christmas decorations would be out at the latter.

Asheville became my clock. My calendar. My goal. First I had to make a few phone calls to find some nice, local venues to eat at, and investigate further. Two lovely ladies that I do design work for were a wealth of information, providing me with booklets and pamphlets on the region. They were almost excited as much as I was, wanting to hear my adventures in finding off-the-wall places to visit on their next trip. They were even so kind to help me out by giving me free passes to Biltmore Estate. That took a load off my mind, and kept a wad of cash in my wallet for more important things. You know, like hookers and blow. I'm just kidding. Of course I would spend that amount on bar groupies and whiskey. Would anyone really expect any less?

Then on to the seemingly non sequitur; what music to take with me? Since always have either music or movies occupying my ears, this was a necessary and arduous decision to make. Furthermore, being away from my home base, I needed to choose carefully. Because once I was there, I couldn't just pop in any CD I wanted. I was stuck with what was on hand. This may seem silly to you. If it seems silly to you, then you do not know me. All my friends will completely understand. Barakas'll probably say, "I bet he had some Ryan Adams in the chamber." Of course I did. But only one track on a mix CD. Are you both shocked and amazed? I know I was.

The final step was to get all work off my plate, so that I could make the trip. I started weaning all the work from my computer to my assistant. I am sure she appreciated the hell out of that. Then again, she did get to look forward to three straight days of no Bruce Springsteen, Johnny Cash, or the aforementioned Ryan Adams. It was worth it, I am sure.

Finally the day reared its head, I wrapped up at work and took to the road. Driving along I-40 through the winding hills of western North Carolina were at times somewhat treacherous. Especially at night, with eighteen wheelers as my only asphalt companions. Luckily, I didn't frontload my CD changer with pain, aggression, and rage. I smoothed gently along to the sounds of Colin Hay, Tom Waits, Bruce Springsteen, John Prine, among others on a freshly burned mix CD. Cameron Crowe did not invent the idea of having a road mix-tape. Neither did I, but I'm glad someone passed down that little nugget.

After finagling the mass confusion that is road signage in the greater Asheville area, I somehow, someway ended up on the street where my hotel was situated. I pulled in rather late in the evening, tired and ready for the next day. I settled into my room with visions of sugar plums dancing in my head. No, no wait. That was later, closer towards Christmas time. This night was filled with dreams of climbing Everest, and other grand escapes. No dirty dreams, I swear. You believe me, right?

I awoke Wednesday morning to realize that I was actually way the hell away from Knoxville. Away from all the trappings, and responsibilities of the big K-town. I decided to not borrow trouble, and just live in the moment. Forget mortgage payments and the many obligations on the homefront.

At this time, I cannot remember what I did for breakfast the first full day in town. I do know at this point I had sworn off fast food. I had also decreed that while in Asheville I would only eat at local restaurants. No nationwide chains.

After my long forgotten breakfast in lovely downtown Asheville I headed towards my first stop, Biltmore Estate. I knew it would eat up a sizeable block of the day, so I wanted to knock this one out first. Luckily it was just a few miles down the road from my hotel. The first thing that hits you about Biltmore is the long drive before you even get to the parking lot. It's not like you pull off the main drag, and there you are. Nope. It is a couple miles at least off of Asheland / McDowell Street. You park, then walk down a pathway. I saw these gates ahead, and a beautiful view of the mountains wondering just where was the Estate. Is all this a charade? Is David Copperfield going to appear in my line of sight, having just made Biltmore magically disappear. I just missed it. Aww shucks and oh well. Nope. I walked through the gates, and turned ninety degrees to my right. There it was. Down a long "O" shaped driveway. The whole way walking down I kept thinking how it doesn't look as big as I remember from eighth grade. Then I was right upon it, and holy schnikes it is big. Gorgeous. Regal. Ornate without a tinge of tackiness. Classy, and a whole bunch of other adjectives that I will not bore you with. Simply beautiful.

The grand hall was the first thing I saw when I walked in, and it’s just that: grand. It is amazing to see all that antique, French Chateau inspired architecture first hand, and realize how grandiose it is. Everything designed now seems too sleek and clean. Hospital clean. Boring. The Estate just appears to be steeped in history, and it is.

I opted for the headphoned, self-guided tour. That was the best seven bucks I spent the whole trip. I was able to weave in and out at my own pace, listening to the narrator tell me what was so great about each room that I went in. The views out the back windows were breathtaking, even through the leafless trees of early winter. Walking through the extravagant house was fun. As boring as it sounds, architecture intrigues me. It is amazing the thought put into building this mansion. At the time, and even now, it is a technological breakthrough. Some of the ideas, the concepts, the sheer audacity was flat out amazing once I really thought about it. A lot more rooms were open since the last time I visited, and it took a long while to get through it all. I took my time and soaked all of it up like water into a sponge.

When finally exiting the mansion, I browsed through the shops looking for unique Christmas presents. I found my younger, emo sister a very nice necklace, and my mother a Santa with a model of the Estate at his feet. She began collecting all things Christmas recently. Been a bit mad about it too. Ebay is now her closest friend.

Then on to get some grub. I guess the long walk worked up an appetite, and the breakfast-from-the-unknown wore off long ago. I checked out the menu at the Cafe, and nearly soiled myself. The prices were outrageous. So I stepped into the mini-courtyard, and purchased a BBQ sandwich. It was cheap, good, and really hit the spot. Then I decided to purchase a delectable ice cream cone. Now remember folks, it's late November. Of course, I am in my trademark shorts. That was a funny sight. One couple actually made a comment to me about it being freezing cold, and I here I was in shorts eating an ice cream cone. The pansies.

I then trekked off to my truck to procure my camera for some shots for posterity. As I closed the door, I felt around for my keys. When I could not find them I looked into my vehicle. There they were, resting in my front seat. D-oh!!! I headed back towards the mansion, and tried to get security to help me out. Unfortunately they do not pop locks. They're lucky I didn't pop a glock. Eastside K-town rePRAHsent. But anyway, I made a call, and a locksmith came out. Fifty bucks for less than fifty seconds worth of work. Boy am I ever in the wrong profession.

After banging my head on the door frame for a few minutes, chastising myself for a stroke of dumbassness, I headed on down the long and winding road. My next stop was the gardens. I ended up breezing through because it was winter, and not much was in bloom. After strolling through the garden, the road led along a beautiful, long way round to the winery. The road offered plenty of beautiful views, and many landscapes of the still working farm.

am no connoisseur of wine. The few times I have had wine before there was usually a grimace, a wince if you will, that followed. Tart, nasty stuff. The tour through the winery was an experience in culture to say the least. There was a brief video history of the winery, and some of the finer points of making hooch, I mean wine. From there on it was all self guided. I went from point to point, signage to signage, learning little tidbits along the way. Then came the tasting. I thought about exclaiming "let's all get plastered and nekkid, butt nekkid" but then took a look around and decided that this would not be a good idea. The mere thought of some of those people naked propelled my even faster towards the bar. Apparently, at the winery, they do not get many people touring alone. I was looked upon rather quizzically when I told the hostess "one please." The middle-aged couple behind me stepped right up. The wife grabbed my arm, and said "don't worry we're fun to drink with." My thoughts were "I ain't into that kinky stuff lady. Don't try and slip a roofie in my drink." But of course I kept my thought in my tormented mind, and went about to swilling free hooch. Also there was an elderly couple that apparently liked to drink. The elderly husband kept causing me to trap little bursts of laughter into my glass. To my credit I actually took the tasting seriously, trying different types of nectar-of-the-grapes out. I figured out that the darker wines are not my thing. Call me uncultured if you will, you keep your red wine. I will stick to my Colt 45. If it's good enough for Billy Dee Williams, then it's good enough for us all.

The final stage of the winery was the shop. Bottle upon bottle upon bottle of wine filled a room bigger than the whole of my house. I meandered through, noticing that the prices were not awful. I picked two varieties that were agreeable. Once upon the counter, the cashier informed me that if I bought a third bottle I would get a percentage off my entire order. All right then, twist my arm. I guess she was trying to get me both liquored up and loved up. No thank you ma'am, I'll just take the wine if you please. Once she brought back the third bottle, the elderly gentleman from the tasting walked up to me. He saw that I had three bottles, and gave me a thumbs up stating, "Those three won't last the night." I said, "Hell, they won't last the ride back to the hotel." He laughed, gave me two big thumbs up, and walked out the door with his wife. What a funny old coot. It would have been nive to have gone bar-hopping with him while in Asheville. I bet it would have been a hoot.

Armed with massive quantities of quality liquid courage under my arm, I set onward into the rapidly descending sun. The last stop before heading back to the hotel was the farm village. It was a throwback to a time that once was. Before complex, computerized machinery. When men were men, and sheep were afraid. It was a nice area, a strong opposite from the brash garishness of the mansion. A simple barn, and stables filled to the brim with antique farming equipment, and history of said utensils.

Upon walking back to the truck, my time at Biltmore concluded. It was a good day, taking almost all day to view the entire plantation. I'm determined to go back in the spring to intake the bountiful blossoms of the gardens.

Back at the hotel, tuckered out, I caught a small nap before trekking out for food. Sustenance. Grub. Like the entire day, I headed out in shorts and a t-shirt. It wasn't cold to me, but I received many a steely glare from others walking along. I'm used to it by now, both the cold of wind and stares. I must have pretty legs or something. Unlike breakfast, I clearly remember my first dinner in Asheville. I ate at a wonderful restaurant and bar by the name of The Bier Garden. It was one of a few recommendations from Carl of Broadway in Knoxville / Broadway in Asheville. I had some sort of unknown chicken dish. It had some stalks of green veggies that I assumed to be asparagus. Green veggies are as foreign to me as a warm day in Antarctica. But I scarfed them down anyway, those tasteless sprouts of foliage.

Whilst feeding my face, I noticed a Malaprop's Bookstore and Cafe across the road. It was a nice little shop, but wholly trendy. I searched through the gobs of books, hoping to find a gem. Well, I was S.O.L. The books were all new editions, and they did not carry some of my chosen authors. I did pick up Bill Bryson's The Lost Continent and Roadtrip Nation's Finding the Open Road. I guess I was caught up the in the spirit of a road journey. After procuring these two wayward-man books, I headed back to the hotel for a night of well deserved rest.

...to be continued...

Until next time:
"But why think about that when all the golden land's ahead of you and all kinds of unforeseen events wait lurking to surprise you and make you glad you're alive to see?" - Jack Kerouac