Charleston is home and I love its meandering tidal streams, air you can touch, history in your face. But Asheville is an altitude I need to find every few months.
Like this 1920s bar where they serve you a key with your drink which opens a vintage mail box, of course, which displays your choice of appetizer. Bacon jam or pickled Brussels sprouts anyone?
Or this friend I’ve known for decades who reminds me that change impacts us at a cellular level and that art is cathartic and essential.
Or this past college roommate who has known me long enough and well enough to have met all my grandparents and also made two beautiful boys just Hugh’s age.
Asheville, the town whose stages I performed on and coffee shops I wrote in, still knows how to wink at me.