A while back I referenced a Nicholas Kristoff column about getting "back to zero." His thought, essentially, is to escape into nature every now and then to get away from it all. 'It all' being your daily routine, the grind, your boss, and all those people in your lives who think they know best, those who are certain that what is good for them is also good for you, and those who do not hesitate to let you know it day after day despite your utter lack of concern for their opinion. Also, throw in lunches on the run, traffic, humidity, and pedestrians who blatantly disobey DO NOT WALK signs as things you can only take so much of before it is time to flee. Well, last weekend, Erika and I finally took Kristoff's advice and headed off for the woods.
Hiking, rafting, picture-taking, antiquing, eating, window shopping, people watching--we did it all in Asheville, NC, a town that 99.9% of white people refer to as a town they could most definitely live in. A friend told me about vrbo.com and I was quickly able to rent a studio apartment in a quaint neighborhood just 5 blocks from downtown Asheville, within walking distance of art galleries, hippies, students and tourists like us. Without a doubt there are lots of studios in Asheville available to rent for a weekend, but the one we lived in could not have been better--because we were tucked into a neighborhood we felt like locals instead of sore thumbs in a La Quinta. The styling was 70s retro and we were overjoyed by the thoughtfulness of the owners. They left a key in a lockbox and never once did they bother us. No awkward run-ins or the obligatory feeling that they wanted to hang out. We did our thing and apparently they did theirs. They even went so far as to include utilitarian-friendly things that you don't usually travel with, like scissors, a bottle and can opener, aluminum foil and scotch tape, all in a kitchen drawer. How very neighborly of them.
Hiking, rafting, picture-taking, antiquing, eating, window shopping, people watching--we did it all in Asheville, NC, a town that 99.9% of white people refer to as a town they could most definitely live in. A friend told me about vrbo.com and I was quickly able to rent a studio apartment in a quaint neighborhood just 5 blocks from downtown Asheville, within walking distance of art galleries, hippies, students and tourists like us. Without a doubt there are lots of studios in Asheville available to rent for a weekend, but the one we lived in could not have been better--because we were tucked into a neighborhood we felt like locals instead of sore thumbs in a La Quinta. The styling was 70s retro and we were overjoyed by the thoughtfulness of the owners. They left a key in a lockbox and never once did they bother us. No awkward run-ins or the obligatory feeling that they wanted to hang out. We did our thing and apparently they did theirs. They even went so far as to include utilitarian-friendly things that you don't usually travel with, like scissors, a bottle and can opener, aluminum foil and scotch tape, all in a kitchen drawer. How very neighborly of them.
Suffice to say that I'm never staying in a hotel again. In Asheville, at least. And I am not openly telling people the specific whereabouts of this joint because the memory is still fond and special to me and it must not be ruined by overexposure. However, I think I have given you more than enough details so that you can find it on your own (Hint: retro, 5 blocks from downtown Asheville). Happy trails.
Getting away from it all brings me to another topic, and that is my lack of posts last week. I had a lot to say upon returning to Atlanta but then life got in the way, and then it was traffic, and then work started to nag, and then people were telling me what to do and the stress started up again, building from zero to the point where I am now, which is probably somewhere between 23 and 26 on a fever-inducing scale that tops out at 100.
Upon listening to stories of our days spent in the mountains, a friend said, "I like being in someone else's town." So do I. And I like to pretend that I'm still there, in the mountains, at peace, resetting my proverbial clock back to zero or whatever that means--
There goes the mailman. Dude's gonna get an earful if my magazines aren't in the box.
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