Asheville is (kinda) like...

we arrive to the odd excitement of a small city tucked away in the mountains - the same mild anticipation that one might feel in Charleston or Manchester or any other micropolis whose charm is measured in coffee cups rather than saucers. there is a Broadway and a parking spot and a lawyer living in a loft across from a gay bar. he greets us with stereotypical clever bitchiness and Ray-Bans.

we go inside and introductions are made. he is just waking from the night before and has a photograph of a half-naked woman staring at the Roman Colosseum on his wall. everything this whole day transpires under overcast skies, and it makes it difficult to tell the time other than some vague notion of lateness. it is a strange mishmash of nostalgia and new beginnings, growing clearer the next day around kitchen tables and half-finished living rooms.

(this is the point.)

the first time i remember going to Asheville was with with my great grandfather, and we visited the Biltmore estate. i recall little other than the bowling alley and him slipping me some wine on the sly.

(this is beside the point).

the point is that i visited Asheville twice as an adult. the first time was in college when i was in a band. we drove four hours (one way) from Chapel Hill to play at a (now defunct) club. as chance would have it, our host gave my yin and i a walking tour of downtown, and i found myself in front of those same large windows once more. a decade had passed, 31 Patton was gone, but the music played on.

the next time was perhaps five years ago, when i was living a past li(f)e and trying to find some kind of ex(c)it(ment). a childhood friend drove [us] down the mountain and i'm uncertain what [we] even did there. i have flashes of a movie theater and music playing in a courtyard, but there is no source material regarding the experience.

(this is inside the point)

today downtown Asheville is all local, all the time, and our journey led us to the skeletal remains of Woolworth's - now reduced to a lunch counter. in the basement hung a piece of artwork that captured all the things i do and do not remember about the Ashevilles i've known:

"The palest ink is better than the best memory."