Light Out Chronicles: Asheville, NC

I tried hitching out to Asheville, but made the mistake of picking a highway still well into Knoxville, and indeed in the "bad" part of town--a police officer had recently been shot by three burglars ("black boys" a local felt compelled to add) very near where my thumb hung aching for more than two hours. Nobody was taking the chance. I opted instead to cross the street, grab local public transit and get back to the Old City. Let Greyhound get me there.

The ride was short, comfortable, friendly and awe-inspiring. Those foothills were the foreplay for the torrid heat of the Smoky Mountains. Eastern Tennessee and Western North Carolina are a kingdom ruled by stately mountains--smaller than the Alps, Himalayas or Rockies only because they are much older. For a mountain lover the ride through the Smokies is a discourse with the elders of one's beloved class. No reading got done, as the only thing capable of prying my attention from the ineffable scenery was the enlightening conversation of one R---- --an Anglo-French exchange student in Montreal, on her own trans-US romp. We hit it off even before learning we'd both made plans to stay at the same hostel. She was sharp as a razor and with a continental wit that threatens to devastate the weak-minded. Add in a healthy dose of beauty and I nearly fell for her, perhaps I would have if I thought she'd ever stoop to my level. A new friend is better than a temporary lover any day however, and now I know someone in Toulouse.

I'm writing this at an all night coffee shop in Times Square (so you know it is corporate, take a wild guess...) because I'm almost out of money. Paid lodging is an impossible luxury at this point. But I had the cash when I got to Asheville and Bon Paul and Sharky's is worth every dime and then some. Low cost but entirely comfortable, it is run by a laid back and kind-souled staff that live in the old house now let out to travelers from across the world. Hostels engender great deals of friend-making to begin with, but at least this Memorial Day weekend crowd was exceptional. I get the idea that the business itself deserves the credit, and the mountain view from the back patio would pay for itself even without all the warm community. If I'm gushing it is only because Bon Paul and Sharky's is that special. I would say I'm not nearly being kind enough.

After two days there I connected with my first CouchSurfing.com hosts--the friends of what is informally called the "Foti House" in South Asheville. I had made plans to sniff out the rads in Asheville (about as difficult as finding a Mormon in Provo) by checking out the local Earth First! meeting and the Critical Mass bike ride. Neither was necessary as the Foti House is a community of anarchists, revolutionary in its very existence. Its official owner, D----, is an anti-civ Zerzanite with a quiet streak, but his vision has come together with that of his housemates to create a model in collective decision making and sustainable living. Much of their food is rescued from the garbage--either through a spot of dumpster diving or from housemate C----'s health food store job. This is supplemented by a large and growing organic garden made luscious by a solid composting program. Rainwater reclamation is in its early stages but improving, and all the sinks drain to buckets powered by a graywater ditch. This graywater system was my biggest consciousness-raiser as seeing your wastewater and being individually responsible for its disposal demands an unfamiliar level of conservation. You learn to wash dishes, hands and teeth and to shave with very little water. It shames one for the gushing sinkfulls of the past. The house itself is in desperate need of renovations, and with a skilled group of committed partners they are ongoing. E-----, A-----, V-----, A-----, B-----, Z-----, R----- and the others I've already mentioned put the lie to idea that egalitarian and sensible living rooted in human interactions are pipe dreams. The place is a haven and a weapon, it represents a hidden future springing from the lost lessons of our past.

Most of the Foti House crew are also involved in Asheville's best (and methinks only) collectively-owned and operated coffee shop/radical bookstore--Firestorm Cafe. A bit difficult to find, it is worth the hunt (I've forgotten the address) and located in Asheville's spectacular downtown. I was shocked to learn only about 72,000 people live in Asheville, as there is a thriving nightlife and art scene that create a bustling city center. I encountered a great deal of success with my Nobody for President tracts, as there was constant foot traffic. My best spot was right near Malaprops Books--a model independent bookstore. If one is into shopping and not so much into corporate chains Asheville is the spot. Like Knoxville it is largely unbranded--a Subway was as corporate as it got downtown, aside from major commercial banks. Street musicians play everywhere and it is small enough that I walked everywhere (with one gratuitous bus ride, just to see how it went--well). It was so impressive I immediately considered relocating there, if I were not at the beginning of this adventure I would have and when it is over I very well may.

Three or four nights at the Foti House gave way to my last stretch, staying at an elegant apartment Northeast of Downtown with veteran couch surfing hosts C----, B----- and P-----. C----- had had particular success with the couch surfing experiment, as he had commenced a romance with the intoxicating J----- --an artist from Philadelphia--shortly before my arrival. C----'s very apartment was home to Grace Kelly for some months when she once made a film in Asheville. J----- continued the tradition of gentle-souled and unspeakably beautiful women of sublime talent haunting that place. His porch hosts a burgeoning container garden and another mountain view that puts an exclamation point on every sunset.

Asheville represents the culmination of many of this country's greatest themes--natural beauty, kind yet rebellious people, optimism and warm community. It is quite possibly the US' best kept secret and I almost hate to spill the beans. good thing no one really reads this blog. Its bouquet lingers in my nose, and it smells like home. Barring the discovery of somewhere even more exceptionally beautiful, kind, insurgent, engaging and easy after camp, I think I'll flip the Texas flag upside down and make North Carolina my home. No promises, but Asheville struck me like a conversion experience. Only Greyhound's refusal to refund the discounted ticket I had purchased to Maine kept me from lounging there for several more days or weeks.

But refuse they did and so the road stretched forward again--could my recurring dreams come true? Could the World's Capital City be ahead? New York City can destroy you, but I need more calluses on my naivete. Asheville fades as fate comes into view...