Some local color spotted in Black Mountain, NC.We all had a pretty nice trip to North Carolina this past week, but I think I may've enjoyed it the most. The Piedmont Triad area of central NC is nice and all, but doesn't hold a candle to the western portion - particularly Buncombe and Yancey Counties, where we spent Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday.
Olive and I got a head start on Monday to ensure that the bulk of our traveling would be done during daylight hours. We weren't going to see Krysta till late that night, but we drove into downtown Asheville in the evening to mosey about and kill a few hours. Our first stop was The French Broad Food Co-Op, as I needed to get some toothpaste and some snacks. As I was perusing the oral hygiene products, an elderly man eyed Olive and asked, "Do you read Mothering magazine?" I excitedly replied that, yes, I did! He seemed pleased, saying that he recommended it to all of his pregnant friends, and was appalled that it didn't make the cut on a recent poll of the top ten parenting magazines (kind of a shocker, indeed, as I've yet to come across a better publication on the topic). What a place; even septogenarian gentlemen have their heads screwed on straight!
The parking space I found at the French Broad Food Co-Op. Super mom-friendly place!
We left with our two tubes of toothpaste (Auromere, which tastes like licorice, and Jason Healthy Mouth tea tree-and-cinnamon-flavored), two plums, and bosc pear, and hit the streets. The city was surprisingly bustling for a Monday night, but my Maine standards had led to to thinking that most cities shut down around 7 pm, especially on a Monday. We walked around till about 10:15, Olive conking out against my chest, when I thought we should head to Burnsville where we were meeting Krysta. Route 19E at night was reminiscent of Maine's Route 9: windy, hilly, and pitch black. I was nervous that we might have gone the wrong way, but we eventually found our destination. I pulled up to the gate, where I'd been instructed to give my name and all should run smoothly. Well, apparently my name hadn't made it all the way onto the guest list, because the friendly guard was unable to place me. As we sat idle at the gate, Olive began to wail in the back. The guard had to take a call, and I called Krysta to help get us through. I must've seemed suspect, not being able to tell the guard the last name of Meg, whose parents owned the condo where we were to be staying. Olive's cries became more desperate, and I climbed into the back to console her, then began to cry myself, feeling despondent and lost, having almost made it, but stranded on the other side of the fence. Krysta was running late, having hit a nasty patch of traffic in Tennessee, so I told the guard I'd wait it out while I tended to Olive. In the meantime, the guard had called Meg's folks back in Nashville to get the scoop on me; they called Meg who informed them that a friend of a friend was coming to visit, and they gave him the go-ahead to grant me access to the country club (prior to our arrival, Krysta and I weren't sure what to expect; I was imagining something a little less posh). The guard informed me, after hearing that we'd only be there for the night, that I wouldn't want to leave. "Welcome to Mountain Air (Ay-re, as he pronounced it", he drawled as the gate raised.
Once in, we wound up and up the mountainside. Mountain Air is situated on one of the higher peaks in the Blue Ridge Mountains, not far from Mt. Mitchell, the highest peak in the eastern U.S. Olive cawed noisily, probably in reaction to her ears popping; if nothing else, our visit was practice for her first flight experience in a few weeks, and she did quite well. The resort was set up in such a way that makes first-time night visitors' quests nearly impossible. With Krysta's assistance on the telephone, I drove round and round the neighborhood in search of the condo, taking my mother's van down golf cart paths and onto putting greens only twice. Meg came out to meet me, after I'd been wandering through the labyrinth of rustically lavish houses and condominium complexes for nearly an hour. Krysta was not far behind by that point, and she had no better luck than I did in finding the place.
Olive, Krysta, and I shared the master bedroom with king-sized bed. Olive could have co-slept in the bed with us easily, but I put her on a blanket on the floor just in case she got kicky. That bed provided me with one of the most comfortable sleeps I've ever had.
The next morning we got up and breakfasted with Bridgette and Alfie, Meg's two cute children, ages six and three, then K, O, and I set out for Asheville. We hit the co-op again, and took advantage of the availability of Buchi, the locally-brewed kombucha that was a sight for sore eyes as we are currently in the midst of a kombucha famine (GT Dave's Kombucha is off the market indefinitely, and Rob and I are talking about brewing our own, since Krysta has access to the culture required to make it). Our lunchtime plan was to dine at The Laughing Seed, as per the request of Krysta's friend, Chad, but once we finally found it, we saw that it was closed on Tuesdays. Instead, we ate at Chai Pani, an "Indian Street Food" joint, where t-shirts and bumper stickers bore the slogan, "namaste, y'all". Kind of funny. The food was tasty and cheap (and local), and the staff friendly, as is to be expected in the south. I kept it low-key with my order, not wanting to go overboard on cumin or curry, for fear that it would upset my sweet one. My dish tasted like a sloppy joe, only with homemade cheese rather than ground beef. We each got mango lassis, always a treat, and these were especially good with flecks of cardamom suspended in the thick mango-yogurt blend.
Next on the agenda was ice cream, obviously. Just down the street was a candy-fudge-ice cream shop, so we went in and sampled a few of the choices. The toasted coconut tasted like someone had squeezed a bottle of Hawaiian Tropic tanning oil into the vat. Completely uninspiring. We'd noticed a Subway across the street that sold Breyer's ice cream, so we decided to stick with what we knew. In a city full of great eateries, the Subway was understandably empty. We each ordered a cup of chocolate and vanilla, paid half the price of the tan-in-a-cone place across the way, and supported a failing business. Win-win-win.
I drove around with my mouth agape pretty much the entire time we were there. 
The name of this highway was too good. The South at its very best.
We then took to the road in search of the Blue Ridge Parkway. We were just following the signs which, as our luck would have it, didn't take us to the BRP. Instead, we ended up in Bat Cave, a tiny hamlet with little more than a post office and a smattering of cabin-turned-businesses. A hand-painted sign advertising "Bat Cave Art + Such", complete with misplaced apostrophes, was too much to pass up, so we pulled over.
The open sign was out, but a peek in the darkened window said otherwise. Across the road, another sign beckoned to us: Jonny Poindexter's Attic.
We went into the house and were greeted by a barking dog behind a baby gate. Antiques and stained glass trinkets glinted at us in the dimly lit room, and, presumably, Jonny Poindexter, himself, came to welcome us. He was a short, squat man who resembled Elton John without glasses. A crocheted beer cozy was in-progress on his oak desk. I admired the jewelry case - a vintage turquoise, ruby, diamond, and 18 karat gold cocktail ring, to be specific - while Krysta rummaged through the record collection, snagging up a Harry Bellafonte and polka album. The two of them struck up a conversation about oom-pah and polka music, and discovered that they both hail from Wisconsin. Cooler still was that John's brother, David, was a theater professor at Carroll College in Waukesha, WI, where Krysta was a student while David was still there. And Krysta and John are both sauerkraut-making fools. Needless to say, those two had lots to talk about. He said that his plan was to open up a B&B in the near future, and Krysta and I exchanged knowing glances that said, Oh yes. We'll be his first visitors.
Look at that thing! I need it like I need a hole in the head. Good thing I didn't have an extra $750 on me that day.
We got back on the road to head back to Burnsville for another night in a comfy bed. Just outside of Bat Cave, we stopped at a roadside honor system produce stand so Krysta could get some cabbage (sauerkraut, of course), and I could feed Olive. A family pulled in behind us, the man saying, "Oh, another blue Toyota van from Maryland!" We chatted with them; they were from Severna Park, where I used to go spend my Tuesday nights sailing with my friend, PJ, then cooked dinner with him, his girlfriend, Betsy, and another couple, Becky and Brad, then we'd go play music - an eclectic mix of covers ranging from Lucinda Williams to Alice in Chains to Lou Reed. The husband grew up in - get this - Waukesha, Wisconsin. His wife was from Biddeford, ME, and they, too, had married in the state. Strange stuff.
We got lost again on our trip back to the Mountain Air condo. The place is like a fortress designed to keep out invaders, kind of like Washington, DC. That aside, it was pretty great. Right before we left on Wednesday morning, we drove up to the very top of the mountain where there's a treehouse overlooking the Blue Ridge range. Breathtaking.
The treehouse
I don't want my family to feel slighted in this; of course our stay with Honey was fantastic. We got to visit lots with her, Jean, and Weegie, and got some time with my uncle Don, their two year-old grandson, Jet, and even got to see Jet's mom, my cousin, Kenzie, who I hadn't seen in years. And even though Jet bit Olive's thumb pretty hard (enough to leave a scab the next day), I think she'll still be happy to go back. As nutty as she is, I think she'll fit in pretty well with that side of my family.
Note: Jean isn't really beating Olive - just playful spanking. She simply couldn't help herself. 
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