Two Tanks To Asheville
(Part 4)
We woke to a 7 a.m. wake-up call and as we headed out of town south to Greenville, South Carolina, I realized that Asheville is almost an anti-corporate town. That is rather refreshing in the 21st Century.
Within an hour we hit Greenville, just about the antithesis of Asheville, all glittery with shopping malls. BUY BUY BUY
We stopped to buy food for a picnic later today. I saw the storeowner yelling at a black man who was panhandling outside of the convenience store. "Get out! Don't come back again or I will call the cops." The red-eyed drunk man had just begged money from a tall professor-type customer leaving the store. You will also notice that Greenville has a large black population. I didn't see any people of color at all of Asheville.
We drove past a sign that said "Carl Sandburg Home." I thought he was from Galesburg, Illinois. I think when you are famous everyone claims you even if you spent just a week in a place. Give me a hero.
This may be when we went over the French Broad River; then again it might have been in Asheville, or before Ashville. Sometimes things get messed up when you travel. I can tell you for certain that we went over the French Broad many times.
Today was mountain day and we headed straight upward to the cradle of forestry. The narrow road soared, wiggling sharply back and forth, a continuous series of fast switchbacks, on the edge of a mountain in the Pisgah National Forest. The outcropping are dripping, ice formed during the night, sections still in the shadows are frozen solid. When we reach Caesar's Head we pull over to view one of the waterfalls, Looking Glass. A man in his late 30s is there with his ailing father. I sense that this will be one of their final trips. I like the younger man. His sincerely and compassion shines. A mother is sitting down below the road, on a wooden rail, watching her children play near the falls. Sunlight is striking them. We remain in the shadows.
At the trail sign "Appalachian Trail" we pull over onto of the side-outs. We have a picnic at one of the tables near the river. I don't know the name of this river. It could be French Broad, or the feeder for the French Broad, but I think it is weeping mountain juice. We don't stop at the ranger station to find out.
Forty-five minutes back on the curly road and Eureka! Zorrid finally finds a place to pull over so I can get a rock. He climbs about 6' down the side of the mountain to get it for me. I am frozen, that flinging thing again. The deep woods are littered with beer cans and those little sampler bottles of whiskey. Great. Get drunk and drive this mountain. I am glad it is still winter and the tourists are around yet.
OH! I found a dead bird. I think it is a chicken, small with brown and scarlet feathers, a Rhode Island Red. I want him, so I scoop him into a white trash bag with a stick. I'll make a shrine to him or her.
We are on our way to Waynesville, slowly coming down off the mountain. There are houses now, little rattletraps. In Crusoe we see a park out on an island in the rocky river. It says "Bikerland." There are little cottages and picnic tables. Soon, the houses look larger, better built. This area is not a gathering of poor dirt farmers. Many of the people have Herefords. They are ranchers. Independents, I think. Escapees from the city. A huge mobile home park of at least 100 trailers sits on another island. Retirees.
Waynesville is a relatively large town. This is where the outlanders must get their food and supplies.
Now we are back on I-40, same as before, tunnels but this is a big Interstate. We see an overturned semi. "Came on the downgrade too fast and couldn't make the corner. Or the weight of this load shifted." says Z. He knows about such things.
I am driving now. The mountains have unnerved me. I ask Z to grab the wheel whenever we go over a long bridge. French Broad. French Broad. French Broad.
I like Z so much because I don't seem to be able to scare him. When I tell him I am feeling a bit fragile today, he just says, no biggie.
I am taking him to Florence Y'all. That's what the watertower says in bright orange letters. Back to Dream Street.
I am playing Yankee Hotel Foxtrot by Wilco. It's that lyric where he says, "lies are wishes." I tell Z that I think of lies as protection so people don't hurt me. I ask him his take on lies. He says, "Lies are fun." See what I mean. How could anyone say that!
We arrive on Dream Street in the dark. It is late. We played a long time on the mountain. All of these places and the only one with a room is a Motel Six. A tour bus was just ahead of us, last room left. The room is tiny, basic, no amenities, and no shampoo for Z.
I always bring my own, plus my other roadtrip must-haves: Dove soap, my own pillow (I'm not into alien drool.), and a bag of apples. A person could live on apples for about 3 or 4 days, I think. Plus you get tired of roadfood.
We dress for dinner and head straight to a Mexican restaurant that Z had his eye on the first time we stopped here. He has tacos. I have enchiladas suizas topped with an unusual salsa verde. I love margaritas! He loves any kind of cerveza.
Z hits a liquor store. Z says the Olympics are steeped in garbage, fake sports too. But I say, "Isn't it like Mt Olympus…the Greeks …a presentation…proof that your country has the finest athletes?" He counters with, "Boring." We watch "Charlie's Angels" on HBO. I do girlstuff in the bathroom.
Good God, the room is a rotisserie. I am boiling and wake up at 4:12, and turn the heat off. The thermostat is all scratched up and I can't tell which way to go. I crack open the door letting the cold air sweep into the room. Z just sleeps away. He looks good when he sleeps, peaceful. I like the way life has etched up his face. It's not putty white and all soft like cubicle-corporate guys. The sun engraved this man. He has lived.
We are out by 9. He hits Dunkin' Donuts for coffee and White Castle for his lusted-after minihamburgers. I stop at Bob Evan's. They have carryout. I order biscuits and gravy and a Boston decaf. Ohmigod! My mouth is in heaven. This is sooooooooo good. I think a mother has cooked this up especially for me. The biscuits are big fluffy orbs and the sausage gravy is salt and peppered up just right. I am Goldilocks, so go away!
Be sure to take the bypass around Cincinnati. Almost zero traffic. The Ohioans are asleep. Ha! The secret of bypasses is this: any three-digit number is a bypass. If it starts with an even number it goes around a town/city. Most often these start with 2. If it has an odd number it goes through the town. These are 1's or 3's.
Spanish moss is smothering the planet. It is devouring the woods even as far north as Cincinnati. I'm guessing that the moss was a foreign introduction, possibly as a cash crop, or perhaps brought in to kill off some other forest pest. Just like sparrows and purple loosestrife that are the banes of the north. We fight them though, tooth and nail. Well, the loosestrife. That's what my pal Nellie does. She goes around Minnesota plotting out the patches glued to the edges of waterways. Her degree in one she made up, something like Doctor of Wildforestry.
Driving today is shear hell. It is raining and the semis all throw out a waterspray, blowback, from their wheels. My Buick is too low and I have to turn the wipers on to very fast or I cannot see anything. Being behind a semi passing and another in the slow lane is particularly treacherous. I am swearing, a lot. Z offers to drive. "Not yet, Z-man. I have it under control."
Twice, 18-wheelers almost sideswipe us. It is so dim and dreary that all of us drivers have road hypnosis. We all just want to take a nap. That is exactly what Z is doing.
In my rear view mirror I see a navy blue semi passing behind me. He keeps getting closer. Whoosh! I am going 75. He is blowing by me at least 85! Fuck! A psycho trucker!
Thirty miles up I-74, I pass him. The lettering on his door states that he is from Fond du Lac, Wisconsin. Damn, a homeboy a little too coked up. Or maybe his wife is having their baby. Who knows anyone's real story?
Just like earlier when that man in the red SUV pulled in too close to me. I kept screaming at him and then when we both pulled over at a rest stop and the man got out. He was tiny and old and permanently bent over. I am a mean girl sometimes.
