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?

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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.

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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.

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Asheville, the town whose stages I performed on and coffee shops I wrote in, still knows how to wink at me.

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