Asheville, part 2
"Out on the highway I'm on my own
Every night's a new beginning
Every day the world keeps spinning"
Thursday morning started anew to the sounds of bustling, downtown traffic. My mind still remained blank of thoughts of Knoxville. It was solely focused at the task at hand. Venturing out to The Grove Arcade and downtown Asheville was my planned conquest for the day. I wasn't sure how long it would take me, but figured on attacking the entire downtown area. Trying to find as many music and book stores as possible. Plus, since buying a house, I am on a constant search of ornaments to display in my home. The Grove Arcade looked to be my first goal of the day.
The Grove Arcade is a large, mall-like building encompassing an entire city block. I was disappointed that only the first floor is open to the public. The upper floors are commercial office areas. But the downstairs had its advantages. There were many nice antique and home accouterment stores. The first one I ventured into was a sharply clean shop called Four Corners. The proprietor was a nice, Australian man. He was very helpful, and extremely customer friendly. I purchased three artsy-fartsy, ceramic bowls at a very reasonable price. Most of the other items were very nice also, but not really to my liking. The next stop was to Dragonfly directly across the way from Four Corners. Lovely, lovely, horribly over-priced pleasantries for one's home. I found a couple of lamps that I liked, but nearly shat myself upon viewing the price tag. I wanted to ask if that was the price in yen, or possibly pesos. Unfortunately it was not, and I scurried hurriedly from the store. The Keith Davis Gallery, diagonal from Dragonfly, looked to be a trifle cluttered. Again, a majority of the items were steroidal in their prices. I guess that is what you get when you look antique-like items. I did find a superb Asian-influenced, wooden vase. It was priced at twenty dollars, and I could part with that without feeling too uncomfortable. The charming cashier could scarcely wrap my procurement because of constant shimmying her, um, boo-tay. She asked me how I could stand still while listening to James Brown? One of two things came to mind: "because I'm a cracker, ma'am"; and "are you trying to seduce me?" Cause I might have to think about the latter. Just like always, I said nothing and promptly vacated the Grove.
Downtown Asheville is not that big. For me at least. When I was working on the Knoxville Speed's first game program I walked all over downtown Knoxville. Covering Gay Street (including the bridge), Market Square, and the Old City. It seemed massive then, and still appears very large now. Asheville, not so much. Maybe it is bigger, I don't know. I forgot to bring my walking meter with me. I trouped up and down the streets of Asheville, looking for any store interesting enough to pop my head into. I had a short list of stores I definitely wanted to hit.
First up was Karmasonics, a record store. Nice selections, and a plentiful used CD bin. They even had a nice little vinyl collection. Most of the newer selections were a little high, but I'm spoiled by the low price of mega-chains like Best Buy. I picked up quite a few used CDs, and headed for the next location to catch my eye. I popped into the Map & Globe Store, but it was all for naught. It was just as advertised, maps and globes. The Map Store in Knoxville is vastly superior. I continued on, popping into a store here and a store there. Nothing really major. The next place of note was Good Music & Other Stuff. It was a smaller store, but had an array of CDs and some vinyl. It was hot in the store though. Hot like I imagine the flames of Hell to be. Remember, I'm strolling around in shorts and a t-shirt, and I almost passed out in this place. That cannot be good for the CDs. Out of my own good nature, I freed a stack of CDs from the confines of that sweltering hellhole of reasonably priced music.
Catching my breath on the sidewalk out front, I headed south. Out of the blue, a bookstore appeared. It was on none of the maps I acquired. It was rather hard to find, but it was a find indeed. Simply put, it was and is the best used bookstore I have ever been too. And I have been to my fair share. Thousands upon thousands of quality books. I informed the friendly, elderly lady working that if I lived in Asheville I would spend massive amounts of time, and a good portion of my paycheck, in her store every week. They even had a section of Westvaco books. I did not realize anyone but me knew what the hell a Westvaco book was. I told her that, and she seemed rather shocked that I thought no one knew what they were. I told her that if I lived there, their entire stock of Westvaco books would be mine. One by one. I didn't pick up any of those books mainly because, knowing what they had, they were not easy on the wallet. They were reasonably priced, but none of them jumped out at me as something I had to have right then. I did have a major find though. A signed and numbered, two volume edition of Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment. Splendid, just frickin' splendid. The price was more than reasonable, and I walked away a happy, happy man. That was the last shop of interest, so I headed back to the hotel with plenty of sun still in the sky.
Heading for the hotel, I realized that I had not eaten since the second unknown breakfast. I stopped in a little hole-in-the-wall, Mayfel's. I ended up taking a business card because I knew that I would forget the spelling of the name. Unfortunately the first two breakfast stops were not so lucky. Mayfel's was a great little place. I had an oversized hamburger and fries. I may have stopped eating fast food, but that means major fast food chains. I simply have to have some junk food, or my body will go into shock. Must...have....greasy...fries..... Even as good as the food was, it could not compare to the beauty of my waitress. Stunning in fact. Prettiest eyes I happened upon my entire time in town. Stupid me should have said something. Hell, what did I have to lose? I was a stranger in an unfamiliar town. But the story of my disappearing cahones around alluring women is a story for another time and place.
Upon reaching the hotel I realized that I covered the entire of downtown Asheville in a short period of time. Some times it pays to have longer legs than most. I looked at my map, and tried to find another place of interest. Stephanie and Rachel of SMTC told me to try and visit the Folk Art Center. They figured it would be something that I would enjoy. So I set out on my blazing chariot dubbed Montero, heading southeast towards the center.
The Folk Art Center was a bit off the beaten path. Located off of the Blue Ridge Parkway, my not-knowing-Asheville-self had to rely on instincts and road signs. There are road signs posted, but my one major problem with Asheville is that there are not enough signs. Luckily it was I, instead of Barakas, attempting to brave finding the marvels of the town. I located the center, and made my way in. It is chiefly a store for arts and crafts made by people of the area. The upstairs is a sectioned off museum of a history of the region. I walked around the shop seeing if any handcrafted piece piqued my interest. There were quite a few lovely items, but all were out of my price range. I understand that someone made the items with their hands, but that does not mean I am obligated to buy anything with my money. If I could make my own money, then it would be a different story all together. I did in fact, procure one item. I bought a large coffee mug for a price I am ashamed to admit. Mainy because it was but one coffee mug, not a set of four. In fact, I had recently purchased a set of four large coffee mugs at Target for less than what I paid for this one. Arts and Crafts community of the region of Asheville, we will discuss how you can thank me later. I walked out a little lighter in the wallet, and not completely sure that I could find my way back to downtown Asheville. The way back was not too much trouble, though the on-ramps to the interstate were atrocious and mildly confusing. I just knew that I needed to head north and west. That fact helped me out tremendously.
I arrived back at my hotel not really looking to go on any further jaunts for the night or very hungry. I settled down to a quick nap. Upon awaking, it was getting late. I decided I was not too hungry, but needed some sustenance. I remembered a hopeful looking BBQ joint, by the name of Little Pigs BBQ, on my way to Biltmore. I headed down there close to nine o'clock, hoping they were open. I soon wished that they had been closed. I bought a BBQ sandwich and some onion rings. Dr. Atkins is rolling in his grave, I'm sure. Ask 'em if I care. Um....no. It was by far the worst food I had in Asheville, and the months since. It carried a high price tag, and was not much food. I'm not a cheapskate. If the food is good, I do not mind paying a hefty price. The price that night did not equal the amount of food, nor the amount of customer service. The people were just not happy, nice, customer service oriented people. Plus, most of the customers looked at me as if I had "CRIMINAL" tattooed across my forehead. I sat there, eating my pathetic excuse for food, waiting on someone to make a pithy remark. Walking out with of mixture of dissatisfaction and indigestion, I was disgusted that I wasted one of my few meals in town on that crap bucket.
I had been eagerly anticipating having breakfast at Corner Kitchen in Historic Biltmore Village since arriving. The write up sounded like it would be a restaurant right up my alley. I waited until Friday to head over because the Historic Biltmore Village started their annual Dickens Festival. "Characters" were said to stroll through the area. Being a fan of Dickens, I looked forward to this immensely. I found out right after a plentiful breakfast that the festivities would not begin until the night. I was a little disappointed, but realized that I was not one of the Fab Five, and would probably grow tired very quickly of people in period costumes. That is unless Mrs. Cratchett was there. She's wikkid hot!
I may have missed the Dickens Festival, but I did stroll through Historic Biltmore Village. I cannot say that I enjoyed it too much. Most of the businesses looked like people's homes. I am sure this is their intention, but it is a little unnerving. Not much seemed to be happening, possibly because it was so early. No hustle. No bustle. I did pop into a little doll shop that holds the moniker of Biltmore Village Dolls. For clarification, the shop was little, not all the dolls were tiny. That would have been kind of cool though. I browsed through, picking up a couple beanie babies for my little sister. Let's hear it, "awwwwwwwww." The women working there were very amiable and helpful.
Next up I set off for "the day of the authors." I planned on visiting both the home of Thomas Wolfe and Carl Sandburg. Both are authors that I have heard of, but never read. Numerous occasions I have put Look Homeward, Angel and You Can't Go Home Again back on the bookshelf. I knew that both men were respected and revered, so I was intrigued to say the least.
First up was the Thomas Wolfe Memorial. It consisted of both a visitors center / museum and the Old Kentucky Home boarding house that was his mother's home. He spent a large amount of time in OKH writing. The video of his life was very informative, and I found out that he was a large fellow like myself, sizing up just a just a tad bit shorter than me. The house was fantastic. Since it was during the week I was a solo tourist around the home, lead on by a well informed guide. It was a big home, but that should come as no surprise since it doubled as a boarding house. I walked around the exterior of the home after the tour, snapping happily away. Like many times before, I was the recipient of many quizzical looks, wearing my shorts and a t-shirt in the blistering cold December air. Wusses.
Before heading to Sandburg's estate I decided to stop by Downtown Books. It was a over-flowing, haphazard shop. I was able to procure a Jack London, Westvaco edition book at an inexpensive cost, mainly because they had absolutely no knowledge of what they had. I also asked, since it was a bookstore, if they could give me better directions to Sandburg's estate. The directions off of the government-ran website was not very descriptive. Just like the Westvaco book, the entire staff was ill informed. Not one knew its location. That is sad on so many levels it is not even funny. In their region is the home of a multiple Pulitzer Prize winning author. It is well documented that the estate is a landmark of the area, and yet these feebs hadn't a clue. These people must spend too many nights spouting their horrilby written poetry, reeking of patchouli.
Laughing as I exited the building, I decided to just travel on hoping that my navigational instinct would not fail me. I started off heading in the right direction, looking for the highway mentioned on the website that would plop me down at the front door. After ten minutes, I decided to stop off and figure out just how far I was out of the way. I went into a gas station, and was helped by a farmer who informed me that I was going in the wrong direction. He then told me which way would lead me there. I want to reiterate that. The farmer knew exactly where the estate was located. The bookstore staff hadn't a clue, but a farmer about forty to fifty minutes away from the estate knew exactly where it sat. Pitiful. Just pitiful.
With the help of "farmer John" I turned in the right direction. Quickly realizing that it was not a highway I was looking for, but an interstate. Are you surprised that our fair government could be confused about the two? No. Not our government. Never. That's just plain preposterous.
Though the perils of finding Sandburg's estate were confusing, it was completely worth it. Connemara, as it is known, was glorious. I was completely awestruck by the land, and the house. It was quite a little walk from the parking area to the main house, but some older people in front of me made the journey. I would not be one upped by them. No way. I, um, paused on the way up to take photos of the house in the midday sun, and got some wonderful shots. The land was bountiful and ongoing. Once I made it up to the home I kept trudging along, taking in the vast land behind the mighty house on the hill. Located at the rear of the home there is a goat farm ran by the Park Rangers. I bounded around the goats and barn, taking numerous shots. One utterly frightening sight was of three of the goats quenching their thirst with their own urine. I made sure to get a picture for proof. So I would not think I had dreamed it upon reaching the senility phase of later life.
Time was upon me to tour the main house. A woman, whom I think was well into her eighties, was our guide. The house itself was being remodeled. The majority of items were either off site, or had copious amounts of clear, plastic, tarp-like material covering them. It was a little disappointing, but the woman's knowledge of the Sandburgs was astonishing. Every room had a history. She filled our minds with the record of their respected lives. One fact about the house that makes Mr. Sandburg one of my heroes was that every room had full bookshelves, except for the bathrooms and kitchen. The guide lead us to believe that if the Sandburgs had lived much longer, those rooms would also be adorned with bookshelves. The whole house was pleasantly interesting, and I look forward to going back once everything is back in order.
Daylight was still burning when I left the parking lot, so I decided to stick around the town of Flat Rock for a little bit. Little bit is the perfect description, because there is not much at all there. I did find a wonderful little bookshop, where I purchased a paper grocery bag full of hardcovers with hardly any wallet pillaging.
If Saturday night's alright for fighting, then I figured Friday night was alright for drinkin'. Upon arrival back to the hotel I decided that I would check out the local bars, hoping to see some of the highly praised Asheville music scene. Years of experience of doing the same in Knoxville I realized that not much would happen until later in the evening. So I settled down with Michael Chabon's The Mysteries of Pittsburgh, and read away until the night had reached midpoint, and it was time to get unruly. Did I just say unruly? No. Not me. I am never unruly. Hold on just a second whilst I adjust the halo that hovers above my chrome dome.
The time was at hand, and I braved the bitter night air to get my proverbial "drink on." I decided before leaving the room that it would be better to stay in the middle of the downtown area, not heading over to the Pack Square area. That was a little too far to walk, not knowing my condition when heading back to the hotel. Parking in downtown Asheville is actually worse than in downtown Knoxville. That came as a swift, Steven Seagal-esqe shock to me. Considering how abysmal KnoxVegas' downtown parking really is.
Over the past few days, I spotted many a bar or bar/restaurant. I went to the furthest end first, planning on bar hopping back towards the hotel. Maybe I would run into the waitress from Mayfel's. Probably not, but a honky's got to have some glimmer of hope. I decided to forgo going back to the Bier Garden. One of the points of this trip was to venture out to different locals. Try not to visit the same place over and over. Beer had already passed my gums in the Bier Garden, so I looked at some of the other establishments for debauchery. I mean wholesome, good-natured fun. The first place I headed towards was the Frog Bar & Deli. I had passed by it numerous occasions, and did the same on this winter night. I'm not much for the "yuppie" crowd. Not my people. Not my G's. These places are not too bad if I have someone of like mind that will go in, and help me make fun of the pseudo intellectuals and posers trying ever so hard to emulate the people of the O.C. even though they should be old enough to know better. I continued past, and made a u-turn heading back in the direction of the hotel. One down without even stepping into the place. That would be a recurring theme as you will soon find out.
After that little debacle, I spotted another venue that suffered from the same disease, yuppieitis. Next. Just a few doors down I found a place that sounded to be a little more to my liking. Loud, abrasive, ghetto-blasting beats were floating from the front door of the upcoming bar. I stepped to the front door, and found the place to be full of the same kind of people as the last two bars. What the thunder? I was fully expecting to see my homies, but was gravely mistaken. So much for that place. I suffer from being a white man, which means I have no moves. All I can do is slow dance, "the white man's overbite," and a very poor imitation of Riverdance / Lord of the Dance. If you have not seen any of those please let me know next time you see me, and I will be glad to demonstrate. It's an experience in comedy to say the least.
I started to realize that my options were running out. My hotel was in sight. There was one last bar, Jack of the Wood. I could hear live music pouring out of the building. Alrighty, here's my first chance to experience the great Asheville music scene. So it seemed. The band playing was an out of town band, but I figured I would stick around to see the next band. The place was packed, and I could barely move around. That is usually a very good sign, but this place was small by Knoxville standards. Think smaller than the Corner Lounge. That is pretty small. It was also deathly hot inside. I soon found out why, seeing a couple dry humping on a barstool located against a wall. Woo hoo! Alcohol and a show! It was completely worth the five bucks! I made my way up to the bar, and asked for a Miller Lite. "I'm sorry we don't serve that here." What's this? Can you repeat that? A bar, not a microbrewery, without an American tradition? Are you kidding me? But realizing this was my last shot at a local bar experience, I took what he gave me. I didn't realize that some breweries actually bottle horse piss. Did anyone else realize that? That's about what Amestel Light taste like. Somewhere between dog urine and horse piss. Don't ask me how I have this knowledge of animal excretions, it is not a pretty story. Sorely disappointed, but still wanting to see the next band, I vanquished my beer post haste. Then my stupid side kicked in, and I ordered another beer. I asked for something different, but the bartender brought me the same. He rushed off before I could correct the mistake. I moseyed back to my little corner, listening to two completely hammered guys talk. It was kind of funny. The stifling heat and lack of quality beer made me bone out of there quick like. I handed one of the waitresses my half finished horse piss, and headed for the door. It was all for naught. That was the only time all trip where I wish one of my friends was along with me. Bar hopping alone is not really a good thing. You need someone to help you mock others. At least I do.
Saturday morning came way too fast. I knew that this would be my last day, but not really thought about it until the day was upon me. With a great sense of regret I got out of bed, and took off for the Tupelo Honey Cafe. Over the past few days I had passed the Cafe over and over and over. It was within spitting distance of the hotel in the middle of the downtown area, across the street from a triangle shaped park. On the sullen, gray cloud covered Saturday morning, heading towards the Cafe, I noticed what seemed to be volunteers passing out food to the homeless. That was something to take note of. In Knoxville I am constantly accosted by the homeless for money. Damn near every time I venture the downtown K-town area. The whole time in Asheville, I was only approached once. On my way back from breakfast, a homeless individual came up to me and started telling me a tale of another guy whopping up on him. In his right hand he wielded a serrated, metal coffee can lid. He had acquired the weapon to mess the abuser up. He calmly asked me for money, even mentioning that I was much larger than him. He was respectful most of all, stating that any money I gave him would likely be spent on booze. I had no money left in my wallet, but directed him to the people giving out bountiful portions of free food in the park. He thanked me, and headed in that direction.
Back to the Tupelo Honey Cafe. Breakfast time was an extremely busy time. I was lucky enough to finagle a seat at the bar area. Many large parties that were ahead of me were still seated in the rear when I finished my meal. The service was disappointing and horrid. After finishing my vomit inducing pancakes, I spent about fifteen minutes waiting on the check. Not because they were under staffed, I just had a terrible waitress. By the way, just how can one screw up pancakes? I thought that was impossible, but I guess I was wrong.
A few days prior, the owner of Four Corners mentioned an event happening on the day ahead of me, Saturday. An open house of sorts for the artistically inclined area dubbed West Asheville. So I packed my truck full of purchased Christmas gifts, home decor items, books, and CDs, and said good-bye to my home away from home whilst in Western North Carolina.
West Asheville was but a few miles away, and I wondered what was in store on down the road. The sky started to lightly spit cold rain down, scarcely making dots on my windshield. West Asheville is mainly one long drag of older looking buildings. Most seemed not to be open on this Saturday morn, others seemed of no interest. It was around 10:45 in the A.M., and I was coming to what looked to be the end of the strip. In fact I ended up in a residential area, making sure that I had witnessed all of the commercial area. I turned around, and made sure to stop at a few places I noticed on the trip through.
On the fringe of the area was Harvest Records. They were yet to open, so I popped into the outdoor sports store next door. I was picking around, looking for a medium-sized pack to take on my hikes. I found a couple to my interest, but decided against the purchase. I stepped back over to Harvest Records, and was pleasantly surprised at both the size and selection of the store. Like always, I immediately gravitated towards the used section, looking for any diamonds in the rough. I procured quite the handful of unbelievably good albums. I was amazed, and even had to put a few back. I then walked around the store and what did my eyes see, but a very large vinyl collection in the rear of the store. Under my breath I cursed myself for not working more overtime the previous week in order to be able to afford a plethora of records. I started perusing through for some choice selections, but gave up quickly. Too many great LPs, and not a padded enough bank account. I will have to stop back by the next time in the area. The entire time I chatted politely with the owner. He was very personable, and knowledgeable of both music and the local scene. We even discussed his visit to Knoxville to see a band perform at The Pilot Light. He bragged on Knoxville's music scene. I then started talking to him about my experience Friday night, and that I had heard that the Asheville scene was great. He informed me that it was a little scarce chiefly because of the wintertime. Plus I ventured out on a Friday, and would have had more luck on Saturday. Which all makes perfect sense. He was very helpful and laid back, but in my old age I cannot remember if his name was Matt or Mark. Either way, I will definitely stop back by next time I am anywhere near Asheville. This store on the outskirts of town put all the record stores in the metropolitan area to shame. Out of all the record stores I have been to around this land of ours, Harvest is only eclipsed by the fantastic Disc Exchange based here in KnoxVegas. But just barely.
I was expecting more of an Old City vibe from West Asheville. It's coming along, but not there just yet. The area seems to be teeming with support from the locals. The community embraces the businesses that are going in. Hopefully no unsightly Wal-Mart-like ventures are on the horizon.
All in all Asheville is a great town. I was expecting it to be a bit larger, but was not in the least disappointed. Still, leaving it was slightly difficult. The realization that I would have to resume real life already in progress started creeping in not five minutes outside the city's edge. I squashed those thoughts, and as if on cue the last CD in the changer finished. My adventure closed in many more ways than me exiting stage right. A new kind of adventure lay ahead in the big K-town. Much like my missing huevos, that's a story for another time.
The End
Until next time:
"For my part, I travel not to go anywhere, but to go. I travel for travel's sake. The great affair is to move." - Robert Louis Stevenson
Every night's a new beginning
Every day the world keeps spinning"
Thursday morning started anew to the sounds of bustling, downtown traffic. My mind still remained blank of thoughts of Knoxville. It was solely focused at the task at hand. Venturing out to The Grove Arcade and downtown Asheville was my planned conquest for the day. I wasn't sure how long it would take me, but figured on attacking the entire downtown area. Trying to find as many music and book stores as possible. Plus, since buying a house, I am on a constant search of ornaments to display in my home. The Grove Arcade looked to be my first goal of the day.
The Grove Arcade is a large, mall-like building encompassing an entire city block. I was disappointed that only the first floor is open to the public. The upper floors are commercial office areas. But the downstairs had its advantages. There were many nice antique and home accouterment stores. The first one I ventured into was a sharply clean shop called Four Corners. The proprietor was a nice, Australian man. He was very helpful, and extremely customer friendly. I purchased three artsy-fartsy, ceramic bowls at a very reasonable price. Most of the other items were very nice also, but not really to my liking. The next stop was to Dragonfly directly across the way from Four Corners. Lovely, lovely, horribly over-priced pleasantries for one's home. I found a couple of lamps that I liked, but nearly shat myself upon viewing the price tag. I wanted to ask if that was the price in yen, or possibly pesos. Unfortunately it was not, and I scurried hurriedly from the store. The Keith Davis Gallery, diagonal from Dragonfly, looked to be a trifle cluttered. Again, a majority of the items were steroidal in their prices. I guess that is what you get when you look antique-like items. I did find a superb Asian-influenced, wooden vase. It was priced at twenty dollars, and I could part with that without feeling too uncomfortable. The charming cashier could scarcely wrap my procurement because of constant shimmying her, um, boo-tay. She asked me how I could stand still while listening to James Brown? One of two things came to mind: "because I'm a cracker, ma'am"; and "are you trying to seduce me?" Cause I might have to think about the latter. Just like always, I said nothing and promptly vacated the Grove.
Downtown Asheville is not that big. For me at least. When I was working on the Knoxville Speed's first game program I walked all over downtown Knoxville. Covering Gay Street (including the bridge), Market Square, and the Old City. It seemed massive then, and still appears very large now. Asheville, not so much. Maybe it is bigger, I don't know. I forgot to bring my walking meter with me. I trouped up and down the streets of Asheville, looking for any store interesting enough to pop my head into. I had a short list of stores I definitely wanted to hit.
First up was Karmasonics, a record store. Nice selections, and a plentiful used CD bin. They even had a nice little vinyl collection. Most of the newer selections were a little high, but I'm spoiled by the low price of mega-chains like Best Buy. I picked up quite a few used CDs, and headed for the next location to catch my eye. I popped into the Map & Globe Store, but it was all for naught. It was just as advertised, maps and globes. The Map Store in Knoxville is vastly superior. I continued on, popping into a store here and a store there. Nothing really major. The next place of note was Good Music & Other Stuff. It was a smaller store, but had an array of CDs and some vinyl. It was hot in the store though. Hot like I imagine the flames of Hell to be. Remember, I'm strolling around in shorts and a t-shirt, and I almost passed out in this place. That cannot be good for the CDs. Out of my own good nature, I freed a stack of CDs from the confines of that sweltering hellhole of reasonably priced music.
Catching my breath on the sidewalk out front, I headed south. Out of the blue, a bookstore appeared. It was on none of the maps I acquired. It was rather hard to find, but it was a find indeed. Simply put, it was and is the best used bookstore I have ever been too. And I have been to my fair share. Thousands upon thousands of quality books. I informed the friendly, elderly lady working that if I lived in Asheville I would spend massive amounts of time, and a good portion of my paycheck, in her store every week. They even had a section of Westvaco books. I did not realize anyone but me knew what the hell a Westvaco book was. I told her that, and she seemed rather shocked that I thought no one knew what they were. I told her that if I lived there, their entire stock of Westvaco books would be mine. One by one. I didn't pick up any of those books mainly because, knowing what they had, they were not easy on the wallet. They were reasonably priced, but none of them jumped out at me as something I had to have right then. I did have a major find though. A signed and numbered, two volume edition of Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment. Splendid, just frickin' splendid. The price was more than reasonable, and I walked away a happy, happy man. That was the last shop of interest, so I headed back to the hotel with plenty of sun still in the sky.
Heading for the hotel, I realized that I had not eaten since the second unknown breakfast. I stopped in a little hole-in-the-wall, Mayfel's. I ended up taking a business card because I knew that I would forget the spelling of the name. Unfortunately the first two breakfast stops were not so lucky. Mayfel's was a great little place. I had an oversized hamburger and fries. I may have stopped eating fast food, but that means major fast food chains. I simply have to have some junk food, or my body will go into shock. Must...have....greasy...fries..... Even as good as the food was, it could not compare to the beauty of my waitress. Stunning in fact. Prettiest eyes I happened upon my entire time in town. Stupid me should have said something. Hell, what did I have to lose? I was a stranger in an unfamiliar town. But the story of my disappearing cahones around alluring women is a story for another time and place.
Upon reaching the hotel I realized that I covered the entire of downtown Asheville in a short period of time. Some times it pays to have longer legs than most. I looked at my map, and tried to find another place of interest. Stephanie and Rachel of SMTC told me to try and visit the Folk Art Center. They figured it would be something that I would enjoy. So I set out on my blazing chariot dubbed Montero, heading southeast towards the center.
The Folk Art Center was a bit off the beaten path. Located off of the Blue Ridge Parkway, my not-knowing-Asheville-self had to rely on instincts and road signs. There are road signs posted, but my one major problem with Asheville is that there are not enough signs. Luckily it was I, instead of Barakas, attempting to brave finding the marvels of the town. I located the center, and made my way in. It is chiefly a store for arts and crafts made by people of the area. The upstairs is a sectioned off museum of a history of the region. I walked around the shop seeing if any handcrafted piece piqued my interest. There were quite a few lovely items, but all were out of my price range. I understand that someone made the items with their hands, but that does not mean I am obligated to buy anything with my money. If I could make my own money, then it would be a different story all together. I did in fact, procure one item. I bought a large coffee mug for a price I am ashamed to admit. Mainy because it was but one coffee mug, not a set of four. In fact, I had recently purchased a set of four large coffee mugs at Target for less than what I paid for this one. Arts and Crafts community of the region of Asheville, we will discuss how you can thank me later. I walked out a little lighter in the wallet, and not completely sure that I could find my way back to downtown Asheville. The way back was not too much trouble, though the on-ramps to the interstate were atrocious and mildly confusing. I just knew that I needed to head north and west. That fact helped me out tremendously.
I arrived back at my hotel not really looking to go on any further jaunts for the night or very hungry. I settled down to a quick nap. Upon awaking, it was getting late. I decided I was not too hungry, but needed some sustenance. I remembered a hopeful looking BBQ joint, by the name of Little Pigs BBQ, on my way to Biltmore. I headed down there close to nine o'clock, hoping they were open. I soon wished that they had been closed. I bought a BBQ sandwich and some onion rings. Dr. Atkins is rolling in his grave, I'm sure. Ask 'em if I care. Um....no. It was by far the worst food I had in Asheville, and the months since. It carried a high price tag, and was not much food. I'm not a cheapskate. If the food is good, I do not mind paying a hefty price. The price that night did not equal the amount of food, nor the amount of customer service. The people were just not happy, nice, customer service oriented people. Plus, most of the customers looked at me as if I had "CRIMINAL" tattooed across my forehead. I sat there, eating my pathetic excuse for food, waiting on someone to make a pithy remark. Walking out with of mixture of dissatisfaction and indigestion, I was disgusted that I wasted one of my few meals in town on that crap bucket.
I had been eagerly anticipating having breakfast at Corner Kitchen in Historic Biltmore Village since arriving. The write up sounded like it would be a restaurant right up my alley. I waited until Friday to head over because the Historic Biltmore Village started their annual Dickens Festival. "Characters" were said to stroll through the area. Being a fan of Dickens, I looked forward to this immensely. I found out right after a plentiful breakfast that the festivities would not begin until the night. I was a little disappointed, but realized that I was not one of the Fab Five, and would probably grow tired very quickly of people in period costumes. That is unless Mrs. Cratchett was there. She's wikkid hot!
I may have missed the Dickens Festival, but I did stroll through Historic Biltmore Village. I cannot say that I enjoyed it too much. Most of the businesses looked like people's homes. I am sure this is their intention, but it is a little unnerving. Not much seemed to be happening, possibly because it was so early. No hustle. No bustle. I did pop into a little doll shop that holds the moniker of Biltmore Village Dolls. For clarification, the shop was little, not all the dolls were tiny. That would have been kind of cool though. I browsed through, picking up a couple beanie babies for my little sister. Let's hear it, "awwwwwwwww." The women working there were very amiable and helpful.
Next up I set off for "the day of the authors." I planned on visiting both the home of Thomas Wolfe and Carl Sandburg. Both are authors that I have heard of, but never read. Numerous occasions I have put Look Homeward, Angel and You Can't Go Home Again back on the bookshelf. I knew that both men were respected and revered, so I was intrigued to say the least.
First up was the Thomas Wolfe Memorial. It consisted of both a visitors center / museum and the Old Kentucky Home boarding house that was his mother's home. He spent a large amount of time in OKH writing. The video of his life was very informative, and I found out that he was a large fellow like myself, sizing up just a just a tad bit shorter than me. The house was fantastic. Since it was during the week I was a solo tourist around the home, lead on by a well informed guide. It was a big home, but that should come as no surprise since it doubled as a boarding house. I walked around the exterior of the home after the tour, snapping happily away. Like many times before, I was the recipient of many quizzical looks, wearing my shorts and a t-shirt in the blistering cold December air. Wusses.
Before heading to Sandburg's estate I decided to stop by Downtown Books. It was a over-flowing, haphazard shop. I was able to procure a Jack London, Westvaco edition book at an inexpensive cost, mainly because they had absolutely no knowledge of what they had. I also asked, since it was a bookstore, if they could give me better directions to Sandburg's estate. The directions off of the government-ran website was not very descriptive. Just like the Westvaco book, the entire staff was ill informed. Not one knew its location. That is sad on so many levels it is not even funny. In their region is the home of a multiple Pulitzer Prize winning author. It is well documented that the estate is a landmark of the area, and yet these feebs hadn't a clue. These people must spend too many nights spouting their horrilby written poetry, reeking of patchouli.
Laughing as I exited the building, I decided to just travel on hoping that my navigational instinct would not fail me. I started off heading in the right direction, looking for the highway mentioned on the website that would plop me down at the front door. After ten minutes, I decided to stop off and figure out just how far I was out of the way. I went into a gas station, and was helped by a farmer who informed me that I was going in the wrong direction. He then told me which way would lead me there. I want to reiterate that. The farmer knew exactly where the estate was located. The bookstore staff hadn't a clue, but a farmer about forty to fifty minutes away from the estate knew exactly where it sat. Pitiful. Just pitiful.
With the help of "farmer John" I turned in the right direction. Quickly realizing that it was not a highway I was looking for, but an interstate. Are you surprised that our fair government could be confused about the two? No. Not our government. Never. That's just plain preposterous.
Though the perils of finding Sandburg's estate were confusing, it was completely worth it. Connemara, as it is known, was glorious. I was completely awestruck by the land, and the house. It was quite a little walk from the parking area to the main house, but some older people in front of me made the journey. I would not be one upped by them. No way. I, um, paused on the way up to take photos of the house in the midday sun, and got some wonderful shots. The land was bountiful and ongoing. Once I made it up to the home I kept trudging along, taking in the vast land behind the mighty house on the hill. Located at the rear of the home there is a goat farm ran by the Park Rangers. I bounded around the goats and barn, taking numerous shots. One utterly frightening sight was of three of the goats quenching their thirst with their own urine. I made sure to get a picture for proof. So I would not think I had dreamed it upon reaching the senility phase of later life.
Time was upon me to tour the main house. A woman, whom I think was well into her eighties, was our guide. The house itself was being remodeled. The majority of items were either off site, or had copious amounts of clear, plastic, tarp-like material covering them. It was a little disappointing, but the woman's knowledge of the Sandburgs was astonishing. Every room had a history. She filled our minds with the record of their respected lives. One fact about the house that makes Mr. Sandburg one of my heroes was that every room had full bookshelves, except for the bathrooms and kitchen. The guide lead us to believe that if the Sandburgs had lived much longer, those rooms would also be adorned with bookshelves. The whole house was pleasantly interesting, and I look forward to going back once everything is back in order.
Daylight was still burning when I left the parking lot, so I decided to stick around the town of Flat Rock for a little bit. Little bit is the perfect description, because there is not much at all there. I did find a wonderful little bookshop, where I purchased a paper grocery bag full of hardcovers with hardly any wallet pillaging.
If Saturday night's alright for fighting, then I figured Friday night was alright for drinkin'. Upon arrival back to the hotel I decided that I would check out the local bars, hoping to see some of the highly praised Asheville music scene. Years of experience of doing the same in Knoxville I realized that not much would happen until later in the evening. So I settled down with Michael Chabon's The Mysteries of Pittsburgh, and read away until the night had reached midpoint, and it was time to get unruly. Did I just say unruly? No. Not me. I am never unruly. Hold on just a second whilst I adjust the halo that hovers above my chrome dome.
The time was at hand, and I braved the bitter night air to get my proverbial "drink on." I decided before leaving the room that it would be better to stay in the middle of the downtown area, not heading over to the Pack Square area. That was a little too far to walk, not knowing my condition when heading back to the hotel. Parking in downtown Asheville is actually worse than in downtown Knoxville. That came as a swift, Steven Seagal-esqe shock to me. Considering how abysmal KnoxVegas' downtown parking really is.
Over the past few days, I spotted many a bar or bar/restaurant. I went to the furthest end first, planning on bar hopping back towards the hotel. Maybe I would run into the waitress from Mayfel's. Probably not, but a honky's got to have some glimmer of hope. I decided to forgo going back to the Bier Garden. One of the points of this trip was to venture out to different locals. Try not to visit the same place over and over. Beer had already passed my gums in the Bier Garden, so I looked at some of the other establishments for debauchery. I mean wholesome, good-natured fun. The first place I headed towards was the Frog Bar & Deli. I had passed by it numerous occasions, and did the same on this winter night. I'm not much for the "yuppie" crowd. Not my people. Not my G's. These places are not too bad if I have someone of like mind that will go in, and help me make fun of the pseudo intellectuals and posers trying ever so hard to emulate the people of the O.C. even though they should be old enough to know better. I continued past, and made a u-turn heading back in the direction of the hotel. One down without even stepping into the place. That would be a recurring theme as you will soon find out.
After that little debacle, I spotted another venue that suffered from the same disease, yuppieitis. Next. Just a few doors down I found a place that sounded to be a little more to my liking. Loud, abrasive, ghetto-blasting beats were floating from the front door of the upcoming bar. I stepped to the front door, and found the place to be full of the same kind of people as the last two bars. What the thunder? I was fully expecting to see my homies, but was gravely mistaken. So much for that place. I suffer from being a white man, which means I have no moves. All I can do is slow dance, "the white man's overbite," and a very poor imitation of Riverdance / Lord of the Dance. If you have not seen any of those please let me know next time you see me, and I will be glad to demonstrate. It's an experience in comedy to say the least.
I started to realize that my options were running out. My hotel was in sight. There was one last bar, Jack of the Wood. I could hear live music pouring out of the building. Alrighty, here's my first chance to experience the great Asheville music scene. So it seemed. The band playing was an out of town band, but I figured I would stick around to see the next band. The place was packed, and I could barely move around. That is usually a very good sign, but this place was small by Knoxville standards. Think smaller than the Corner Lounge. That is pretty small. It was also deathly hot inside. I soon found out why, seeing a couple dry humping on a barstool located against a wall. Woo hoo! Alcohol and a show! It was completely worth the five bucks! I made my way up to the bar, and asked for a Miller Lite. "I'm sorry we don't serve that here." What's this? Can you repeat that? A bar, not a microbrewery, without an American tradition? Are you kidding me? But realizing this was my last shot at a local bar experience, I took what he gave me. I didn't realize that some breweries actually bottle horse piss. Did anyone else realize that? That's about what Amestel Light taste like. Somewhere between dog urine and horse piss. Don't ask me how I have this knowledge of animal excretions, it is not a pretty story. Sorely disappointed, but still wanting to see the next band, I vanquished my beer post haste. Then my stupid side kicked in, and I ordered another beer. I asked for something different, but the bartender brought me the same. He rushed off before I could correct the mistake. I moseyed back to my little corner, listening to two completely hammered guys talk. It was kind of funny. The stifling heat and lack of quality beer made me bone out of there quick like. I handed one of the waitresses my half finished horse piss, and headed for the door. It was all for naught. That was the only time all trip where I wish one of my friends was along with me. Bar hopping alone is not really a good thing. You need someone to help you mock others. At least I do.
Saturday morning came way too fast. I knew that this would be my last day, but not really thought about it until the day was upon me. With a great sense of regret I got out of bed, and took off for the Tupelo Honey Cafe. Over the past few days I had passed the Cafe over and over and over. It was within spitting distance of the hotel in the middle of the downtown area, across the street from a triangle shaped park. On the sullen, gray cloud covered Saturday morning, heading towards the Cafe, I noticed what seemed to be volunteers passing out food to the homeless. That was something to take note of. In Knoxville I am constantly accosted by the homeless for money. Damn near every time I venture the downtown K-town area. The whole time in Asheville, I was only approached once. On my way back from breakfast, a homeless individual came up to me and started telling me a tale of another guy whopping up on him. In his right hand he wielded a serrated, metal coffee can lid. He had acquired the weapon to mess the abuser up. He calmly asked me for money, even mentioning that I was much larger than him. He was respectful most of all, stating that any money I gave him would likely be spent on booze. I had no money left in my wallet, but directed him to the people giving out bountiful portions of free food in the park. He thanked me, and headed in that direction.
Back to the Tupelo Honey Cafe. Breakfast time was an extremely busy time. I was lucky enough to finagle a seat at the bar area. Many large parties that were ahead of me were still seated in the rear when I finished my meal. The service was disappointing and horrid. After finishing my vomit inducing pancakes, I spent about fifteen minutes waiting on the check. Not because they were under staffed, I just had a terrible waitress. By the way, just how can one screw up pancakes? I thought that was impossible, but I guess I was wrong.
A few days prior, the owner of Four Corners mentioned an event happening on the day ahead of me, Saturday. An open house of sorts for the artistically inclined area dubbed West Asheville. So I packed my truck full of purchased Christmas gifts, home decor items, books, and CDs, and said good-bye to my home away from home whilst in Western North Carolina.
West Asheville was but a few miles away, and I wondered what was in store on down the road. The sky started to lightly spit cold rain down, scarcely making dots on my windshield. West Asheville is mainly one long drag of older looking buildings. Most seemed not to be open on this Saturday morn, others seemed of no interest. It was around 10:45 in the A.M., and I was coming to what looked to be the end of the strip. In fact I ended up in a residential area, making sure that I had witnessed all of the commercial area. I turned around, and made sure to stop at a few places I noticed on the trip through.
On the fringe of the area was Harvest Records. They were yet to open, so I popped into the outdoor sports store next door. I was picking around, looking for a medium-sized pack to take on my hikes. I found a couple to my interest, but decided against the purchase. I stepped back over to Harvest Records, and was pleasantly surprised at both the size and selection of the store. Like always, I immediately gravitated towards the used section, looking for any diamonds in the rough. I procured quite the handful of unbelievably good albums. I was amazed, and even had to put a few back. I then walked around the store and what did my eyes see, but a very large vinyl collection in the rear of the store. Under my breath I cursed myself for not working more overtime the previous week in order to be able to afford a plethora of records. I started perusing through for some choice selections, but gave up quickly. Too many great LPs, and not a padded enough bank account. I will have to stop back by the next time in the area. The entire time I chatted politely with the owner. He was very personable, and knowledgeable of both music and the local scene. We even discussed his visit to Knoxville to see a band perform at The Pilot Light. He bragged on Knoxville's music scene. I then started talking to him about my experience Friday night, and that I had heard that the Asheville scene was great. He informed me that it was a little scarce chiefly because of the wintertime. Plus I ventured out on a Friday, and would have had more luck on Saturday. Which all makes perfect sense. He was very helpful and laid back, but in my old age I cannot remember if his name was Matt or Mark. Either way, I will definitely stop back by next time I am anywhere near Asheville. This store on the outskirts of town put all the record stores in the metropolitan area to shame. Out of all the record stores I have been to around this land of ours, Harvest is only eclipsed by the fantastic Disc Exchange based here in KnoxVegas. But just barely.
I was expecting more of an Old City vibe from West Asheville. It's coming along, but not there just yet. The area seems to be teeming with support from the locals. The community embraces the businesses that are going in. Hopefully no unsightly Wal-Mart-like ventures are on the horizon.
All in all Asheville is a great town. I was expecting it to be a bit larger, but was not in the least disappointed. Still, leaving it was slightly difficult. The realization that I would have to resume real life already in progress started creeping in not five minutes outside the city's edge. I squashed those thoughts, and as if on cue the last CD in the changer finished. My adventure closed in many more ways than me exiting stage right. A new kind of adventure lay ahead in the big K-town. Much like my missing huevos, that's a story for another time.
The End
Until next time:
"For my part, I travel not to go anywhere, but to go. I travel for travel's sake. The great affair is to move." - Robert Louis Stevenson
posted by The Big Man | 7/27/2006 01:56:00 PM
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