Asheville I

Okay: an entry of cold, hard commentary, to slake heg's desperate lust for 'travel details'.

My greyhound out of DC was scheduled for 8pm, so after spending a day in the heat (100 degrees farenheit - warning to stay indoors on radio - I burned) amongst bookshops (someone threw away my Dharma Bums 50 pages before the end) and war memorials (Vietnam; WWII with the inscription "Women who stepped up were measured as citizens of the nation, not as women...") I arrived at the station with one minute to spare.
After 90 minutes of waiting, the bus set off into the night - two hours next to a snorer, though ably blotted out by Paul Simon. Because of this delay, I missed my first connection and waited an hour at Raleigh, starting to git tired. Set off at 1.30 of the AM for the long bus ride to charlotte, where I'd change again.
This journey was meant to be 5 and a quarter hours, but was extended by a 90 minute breakydown to let us all watch the sun rise over the petrol station/mcdonalds. I played guitar by the highway with a navy-man through the dawn - he loved his bright eyes and the flaming lips. When the bus set off again I talked to a truck-driver. He was pretty interesting.
Because of the delay on one bus and breakdown on other I missed my connection at charlotte and waited 5 hours for the next bus. Luckily charlotte was lovely (the outskirts a deserted wasteland but then BAM it's all 60 floor skyscrapers and glass museums and waterfalls) and I even found a library with the dharma bums and particularly the last 50 pages, which I read although my bag was too big to be allowed into the library, apparently. It stayed outside.
I met three roughedged men, one of whom taught me a simple but pretty guitar part he'd written and named 'mandy' after his little sister.

I caught my bus to asheville, and took two more busses amongst white trash ('god-daymn's when my bag brushed by them) and finally got to the lovely hostel Bon Pauls + Sharkey Joe's Hostel, from whence (sorry heg - guardian moment) I blog.
Another Radiohead lover (really - they everywhere) prompted another marathon communal guitar/drinking session - highlight a drunken 'I will survive' - which left me crushed on top of last night's sleepless bus journeying.
So consequently today was pretty slow but cool with an Art Show throwing every studio - asheville has an entire district full of them - door open for me; I saw live performance painting (which immediatly sold for $4000) by an (apparently pretty well known) abstract artist called Jonas Gerrard who also explained afterward to me what the point of abstract art actually is - "subconscious communication between artist and observer" - and I talked to a 'subversive' artist - with beautiful pictures of sad-looking soldiers - called Skip - and talked to an artist and poet who studied at cambridge and was actually pretty good - I bought his book 'Blood Rose'. Everywhere played Jazz. Later a friendly lady - although old and conservative looking - gave me a lift downtown after learning I was english. She turned out to be a poet. Everybody here is an artist. I walked home in the dusk, past a coffee shop with the sign "friends don't let friends drink starbucks".

I should write more about his stunning place, really, but. An apology more about the style of my writing - heg's criticism was valid, but.

Tomorrow is hiking in the hills - we're just by the appalacian trail - in Buncombe (!!! - eh Rowan?) county.