Leaving Sir Tom's late in the day, we still have a lot of stuff to do in Asheville. Groceries, bike shop, shipping stuff home, etc. There's no way we're getting it all done. Gillian and Mark have, through Warm Showers, provided us with a place to stay and finish up our errands the following day. They're an incredibly hospitable couple, who live in a cute little home on the eastern side of Asheville. Everything is clean, organized and well-decorated. Gillian finds passion in gardening and landscape design. The various colors and styles of plants around the house make it apparent. There's even a hearty banana tree in the North Carolina backyard! Mark offers us some delicious sweet potato chili as we chat around a table. They've toured the southern half of Japan on bicycles and therefore have their own set of stories and touring methods. We share stories of the same touring highs and lows. The laptop comes out and we browse through photos of their adventure. Such conversation instills excitement for travel and they both wish they could jump on their bikes and join us.
Through the conversation and dining, their friend Gwyn has shown up, with her guitar in hand and massive white dog, Bobo, at her heel. Mark remarks towards her musical talent, but honestly I wasn't expecting more than the typical "friend who can strum a good tune" to come from the couch she was on. As soon as she begins playing, Hueso and I exchange looks of disbelief. She sings her first song in Spanish and it quickly ends all current conversation. Warmth fills the room and all of us watch and listen intently, as she plays with all the emotion and power she has, eyes closed. It's real though. I can tell she believes the only way to play music is passionately and would be misunderstood if played any other way. Gwyn is a talented guitar player, but her voice is what empowers the performance. Every word seems more important than what we have to say and therefore the rest of the room remains silent. Her singing voice is much different than her conversational voice, as if coming from different people. Each of the voices seem to express different emphasis, emotion and importance.
That evening, they show us a little slice of the "inside scene", as Mark calls it. The Wedge in West Asheville is an outdoor gathering place, complete with pizza, lawn games, dim lighting, only beers brewed on-sight and a setting along the railroad tracks. It's a big area, but wedged in. Old mechanical parts have been welded together to form gates and lawn art. The main bathrooms are closed, but the "Secret Bathroom" works for any bladder or gender. We play cornhole, as Bobo is admired and pet by every passerby. Bobo, the dog which steals everybody's beer, but isn't a huge fan of peanuts.
Retiring back to the house, Gwyn continues to play music for the group. Mark picks on the banjo or simply smacks a beat on its body. Winding the night down, we sit around and watch them play. She makes sure all of us sing as she plays Dylan's "Lay Lady Lay" and Sublime's "What I Got". The time has escaped us all and the end of the night is apparent. Gwyn and Bobo climb into her diesel Benz and drive home. Hueso prefers his hammock over any other surface and hangs it outside, under the stars. I enjoy the hospitality given to me, through a futon, lay out my sleeping bag and go to bed with a beautiful, open door view of the plants outside, climbing a railing and pillar. Happy and grateful, for the shelter put above my head by those who were strangers only hours before.
We haven't had access to a computer in almost a month and Gillian lets me use hers in the morning. I've added photos from my Canon camera to past posts, all the way back to Shenandoah. Check them out. Gwyn's morning arrival comes with food from the local co-op. Her and Gwyn cook an amazing breakfast, paired with juice Gillian made from the garden. Hueso and Gwyn exchange stories of the guardian dogs in Santiago. With the use of Mark's car, they drive us around to get our last errands done. I send home a package, filled with 17 pounds of gear I'll no longer have to propel. We go to Trader Joes and I discover the ecstasy of cookie butter. Scooping with my index finger, it's nearly half empty before we pull out of the parking lot.
Late in the day, we must be on our way. Pedaling only a few miles, we find a park, with the resemblance of a golf course. Lined with trees and consisting of freshly cut, short grass. I lay in the center of the park grass, while I read and write. Police officer drives by and sees our illegal park entry and usage, but seems not to mind and drives away. Clouds roll in and a night of rain is eminent. Spattering rain drops begin as I lean back into my hammock. Persisting throughout the night, I wake up to droplets of rain in the morning. Yesterday, we were completely undecided on our future route. Our two desired options varied by roughly 200 miles and determined whether we would see the Deep South of Georgia, Alabama, and Mississippi, or the greater Appalachian region of Tennessee. We've decided more of our interests and desired experiences are in Tennessee and commit to the choice by pedaling out of camp. We're off to Knoxville, Nashville and Memphis, but the end of the Blue Ridge Parkway and entirety of the Great Smoky Mountains both lay ahead.
Through the conversation and dining, their friend Gwyn has shown up, with her guitar in hand and massive white dog, Bobo, at her heel. Mark remarks towards her musical talent, but honestly I wasn't expecting more than the typical "friend who can strum a good tune" to come from the couch she was on. As soon as she begins playing, Hueso and I exchange looks of disbelief. She sings her first song in Spanish and it quickly ends all current conversation. Warmth fills the room and all of us watch and listen intently, as she plays with all the emotion and power she has, eyes closed. It's real though. I can tell she believes the only way to play music is passionately and would be misunderstood if played any other way. Gwyn is a talented guitar player, but her voice is what empowers the performance. Every word seems more important than what we have to say and therefore the rest of the room remains silent. Her singing voice is much different than her conversational voice, as if coming from different people. Each of the voices seem to express different emphasis, emotion and importance.
That evening, they show us a little slice of the "inside scene", as Mark calls it. The Wedge in West Asheville is an outdoor gathering place, complete with pizza, lawn games, dim lighting, only beers brewed on-sight and a setting along the railroad tracks. It's a big area, but wedged in. Old mechanical parts have been welded together to form gates and lawn art. The main bathrooms are closed, but the "Secret Bathroom" works for any bladder or gender. We play cornhole, as Bobo is admired and pet by every passerby. Bobo, the dog which steals everybody's beer, but isn't a huge fan of peanuts.
Retiring back to the house, Gwyn continues to play music for the group. Mark picks on the banjo or simply smacks a beat on its body. Winding the night down, we sit around and watch them play. She makes sure all of us sing as she plays Dylan's "Lay Lady Lay" and Sublime's "What I Got". The time has escaped us all and the end of the night is apparent. Gwyn and Bobo climb into her diesel Benz and drive home. Hueso prefers his hammock over any other surface and hangs it outside, under the stars. I enjoy the hospitality given to me, through a futon, lay out my sleeping bag and go to bed with a beautiful, open door view of the plants outside, climbing a railing and pillar. Happy and grateful, for the shelter put above my head by those who were strangers only hours before.
We haven't had access to a computer in almost a month and Gillian lets me use hers in the morning. I've added photos from my Canon camera to past posts, all the way back to Shenandoah. Check them out. Gwyn's morning arrival comes with food from the local co-op. Her and Gwyn cook an amazing breakfast, paired with juice Gillian made from the garden. Hueso and Gwyn exchange stories of the guardian dogs in Santiago. With the use of Mark's car, they drive us around to get our last errands done. I send home a package, filled with 17 pounds of gear I'll no longer have to propel. We go to Trader Joes and I discover the ecstasy of cookie butter. Scooping with my index finger, it's nearly half empty before we pull out of the parking lot.
Late in the day, we must be on our way. Pedaling only a few miles, we find a park, with the resemblance of a golf course. Lined with trees and consisting of freshly cut, short grass. I lay in the center of the park grass, while I read and write. Police officer drives by and sees our illegal park entry and usage, but seems not to mind and drives away. Clouds roll in and a night of rain is eminent. Spattering rain drops begin as I lean back into my hammock. Persisting throughout the night, I wake up to droplets of rain in the morning. Yesterday, we were completely undecided on our future route. Our two desired options varied by roughly 200 miles and determined whether we would see the Deep South of Georgia, Alabama, and Mississippi, or the greater Appalachian region of Tennessee. We've decided more of our interests and desired experiences are in Tennessee and commit to the choice by pedaling out of camp. We're off to Knoxville, Nashville and Memphis, but the end of the Blue Ridge Parkway and entirety of the Great Smoky Mountains both lay ahead.
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