It was a trip we’d long planned but, in retrospect, poorly thought out. That is the problem of being an octogenarian while your mind insists you’re half that age. I used to love jumping in the car and taking a road trip. This one was a week-long visit to our beloved Asheville, to see how it had fared after the destruction of Helene a year ago, and to visit our dear friend, Joyce. Unlike our dozen or so other stays—usually extended periods in a condo or rental home—this one was only four days, staying at a “hip” downtown hotel.
First, though, we stopped in Savannah for the night. Even though we could have driven straight to Asheville in one long day, a midway stop is always a welcome break. Unfortunately, a monster accident on I-95 shut down the highway for 12 hours, forcing us onto the Turnpike and adding another 100 miles and an hour and a half to our first leg. Still, at the unassuming Hampton Inn by the Savannah airport we were rewarded with a spectacular sunrise, which I hoped was a good omen for the rest of the trip.
We thought staying downtown Asheville would allow us to ditch the car and walk everywhere—forgetting that its topography is, well, mountainous. Not like our recent trip to NYC or, of course, where we live in “the Free State of Florida,” flatter than a pancake. Walking those hills and dragging our luggage through three destinations took its toll. I did all 1,500 miles of driving (Ann offered, but I foolishly declined) and most of the heavy lifting. Add in the strange hotel beds and my usual back problems, and soon I had what I thought was sciatica.
By the time we finished the last leg—twelve straight hours in inexplicably dense Sunday traffic and two major accidents—I arrived home nearly a cripple, the pain in my right leg and hip extreme. My primary care physician ordered X-rays, which only revealed my usual back issues. My spine compression issue apparently reached its tipping point. I’ve been on medications and rest, unable to do my daily walk or play tennis. Depressing, but I’ll soon start physical therapy to try to break the cycle and get back on track.
Still, Asheville worked its magic. We love its laid-back ambiance and mountain beauty. It’s a little oasis in a sea of Christian fundamentalism—as the local TV stations and billboards in Georgia and the Western Carolinas make clear, reflecting deep conservatism and vehement pro-T***p sentiments. But Asheville is different. If you don’t have a tattoo, you’re obviously a visitor. I’ve said this before: it reminds me of my brief stay in NYC’s East Village in the 1960s, or often resembles parts of the once-bohemian, now-gentrified Upper West Side where we lived for years.
That first night we ate at the hotel’s rooftop restaurant, which had panoramic views of the town, with the Grove Park Inn in the distance, where we had stayed several times before.
One of Ann’s dearest friends, Joyce, now lives in Asheville. Though approaching 100, she just had a successful hip replacement and acts and looks thirty years younger. After our first full day, we had dinner with Joyce and her daughter Pattie at The Chestnut—one of Asheville’s many great restaurants.
As for the city itself, it has received only a fraction of the funds promised by FEMA after Helene’s devastation. Perhaps the administration sees it as punishment for the city’s politics. Revenge seems high on their list. Still, downtown was mostly spared, though there seemed to be fewer tourists.
Oddly enough, two of our main destinations were bookstores. At Malaprop’s, Asheville’s great independent shop, I found a special annotated edition of Ann Patchett’s Bel Canto, complete with her handwritten notes about the characters and themes—a treasure.
Then a visit to the Asheville Public Library’s used bookstore, where we found a few gems for $1 each finally stowing them in the trunk of our car after that first day’s walk.
No trip to Asheville feels complete without lunch at the Pisgah Inn, some 5,000 feet above sea level at Milepost 408.6 on the Blue Ridge Parkway. Although parts of the Parkway had been washed out by the storm, it has mostly reopened. After lunch, we drove in the other direction to the Folk Art Center, where we bought gifts for our hosts, Joe and Kyle, in Big Canoe, Georgia, where we would spend the last two days of our trip.
The following day we stayed downtown, particularly Pack Square with its quirky sculptures.
And, then, the Asheville Museum of Art which now occupies a relatively new building, and the first thing you see when entering is Wesley Clark’s My Big Black America (2015), an ingenious sculpture of salvaged wood stained and spray painted. I would like to still believe “E pluribus unum.”
The museum also gave us a hilarious moment. Just look at this photo:
It shows three sculptures—except one wasn’t. When Ann quietly went to sit on what she thought was an empty bench, she startled a young woman already sitting there (very still, looking like an artwork). Both jumped at the sudden appearance of the other!
After four wonderful days in Asheville, we drove 200 miles to Joe and Kyle’s vacation home in Big Canoe, about ninety minutes north of Atlanta. The community is filled with gorgeous mountain-style homes perched at different elevations around a large lake, with the requisite golf course, tennis courts, clubhouse, and marina. The weather was perfect, though by now walking was difficult for me. Still, we were treated to a relaxing pontoon boat ride around the lake, its quiet electric engine gliding us along.
But soon it was time to pack up and head home—a drive I dreaded, since we were determined not to stop for a hotel. Thankfully, Joe loaded the luggage (I couldn’t manage it) and even guided us out of the community’s winding roads. The last time I relied on GPS it led us to a false exit at the top of a mountain; it took 40 minutes to escape.
The drive home was simply awful. I made it in 10 hours last time, but this trip stretched to 12 thanks to traffic, frequent stops to stretch, and two Turnpike accidents. When that road narrows to two lanes, it becomes impassable. Welcome to Florida!
It was my intention to write about the unreal news events that unfolded during our trip, but there are so many that including them here would only complicate this entry. Better to save that for a follow-up – perhaps!
