Return to the North Carolina Mountains

A haunted hotel, a rainy week, a tall mountain, puppies, sweet wine, an old Southern manor, an artsy town and a whole bunch of hot-as-the-blue-blazes watering holes can pretty much summarize our Independence Day Weekend. But if you want details, you can keep reading.

I used to drive to Blowing Rock for the day during my first habitation in North Carolina. Of course, from Greensboro, it was slightly closer. It’s my favorite getaway spot, the silhouettes of the mountains, the quiet artful shops, the fresh trout, the smiling faces of mountain people in coffee shops - they all bring me to a place where my heart is whole and peaceful.

Blowing Rock has gotten more cosmopolitan over the years I have been gone. So did Boone. Lots more options to eat vegan, or gluten free, or …what have you … It accommodates just about every appetite and preference. It’s always been good Southern cooking at its best, but now it’s more varied. I loved to see that it’s growing still. Some part of me still wants to see it remain a small, off the beaten path area, but it’s good to see that it’s doing well, too … Parking is the worst, especially on a busy weekend, as July 4^th. But parking far and walking across the downtown is good for the city, good for your health and it makes for great people watching and window shopping. Stopping for a cup-a-joe, some fried pickles, a cold brew, or some Kilwins ice-cream ain’t so bad either.

We had a few days to spare there, so we visited some of the adjacent areas, too. We went up Grandfather Mountain, to cross the mile high swinging (if you ask my husband, not so swinging if you ask me) bridge. Last time we tried to see it (https://wander-world.blogspot.com/2007/11/asheville-trip-thankful-trails.html) we were not so successful – pretty much a white-out in November made for an adventuresome day where we could see no peak and no bridge and the wind almost blew us off the mountain. This time, it was clear as far as you can see, with only some poufy clouds to make the pictures more interesting. It was almost like our Grandfather Mountain curse, or something, was following us, because about 15 minutes after we climbed off the peak, they closed it because thunder clouds were gathering and the bridge was no longer safe to cross. Lucky ducks, us.

We tasted wines at two wineries in the area – I am always surprised how easily you can find sweet wine pretty much anywhere in North Carolina. It is definitely not as prevalent in California and it is hard to find in restaurants. I know, ‘cause that’s how I take my wine and it’s not easy to find. They had some great sweet glasses at Grandfather Vineyard and some smooth middle-of-the-road ones, still tasty at Banner Elk Winery, too. Grandfather Vineyard was our most favorite hang-out spot on July 4^th: so festive, everyone in their red-white-and-blue best, wine glass in hand, sitting on the large covered porch or in Adirondack chairs by the river, listening to a cover band and people watching while their puppies were pooped with heat, laying lazily at their feet. It was an intimate and yet lively joint – a big surprise to find and it already beckons us back. I wish all wineries around us were that good and varied and welcoming …

One day, we visited the Moses H. Cone Flat Top Manor outside Blowing Rock (https://www.blueridgeheritage.com/destinations/moses-cone-manor/). We drove partly on the Blue Ridge Parkway to get there, which was framed by white and pink splendor: the rhododendron was in bloom right about then, and it looked as if the mountains were having a wedding.

The manor is a beautiful place, full of history and the grounds are amazing – they reminded me of the Biltmore grounds: there is something peaceful, pristine, lush and mellow about The Smokies. The soft curves of mountain tops, flowing onto one another like elegant ripples, the steam from all the vegetation gathering up in thick, low clouds, lingering onto their slopes, as if haunted, there is a mystery and wonder about them like no other mountains. The place now belongs to the National Park Service, and it’s free to visit. But the lack of funds unfortunately shows in the lack of care to maintain it. While the grounds were almost perfectly manicured, the house was in a sad state of disrepair.

The house was not open to visit, except for the first floor. There was a movie playing in what seemed to be the former drawing room telling the story of the Cone family and of the house. There was an artist turning wood on a lathe, and there were many artful projects already finished from various media in the gift shop – all locally made. There were things of beauty in there, and the people were incredibly kind and welcoming yet again. I know, I should stop repeating myself: we’re in The South and we should expect this, but having been everywhere across the land, I never take this for granted. I am glad Southern gallantry is still at home here.

Back to food: I had read in one local magazine (could have been Our State, but it could have been something different, too, I cannot remember) a review about The Ridgeline Restaurant in Blowing Rock. Since it was pretty much across the street from our hotel, we wanted to check it out. Although the promised “best restaurant view in Blowing Rock” absolutely delivered times a hundred, the atmosphere was kinda blah – lots of jaded, morose drunks hanging off the bar, and too many kids for our taste (I know, weird combo, right?!) and the food was solid, but not exceptional. I still much prefer my absolute favorite, my first and still biggest Blowing Rock love – The Speckled Trout. I was as giddy as a five year old on Christmas morning to find that it’s still there, beautifully renovated and still delicious and still locally stocked. We also much preferred the atmosphere at The Town Tavern in downtown Blowing Rock – another old timey (for me) joint.

For breakfast, we had lots of options and all good. Village Café in Blowing Rock has a unique setting, in a dark alley at the end of a thick garden in an old-as-the-hill one room house and amazing Argentinian bread with fresh preserves, but Melanie’s Food Fantasy in Boone was my favorite – their vegan “potato madness” plate was invented just for a potato lover like me.

One thing all these places had in common, though: they don’t believe much in air conditioning in this town. We were under fans but dripping sweat the whole time. They think that it  gets “cooler up here in the elevations”, but 80F and 90% humidity with the sun baking your skull is still darn hot … Took us forever to find an off-the-Marriott-trail-and-speaking-a-more-local-accent hotel with a/c for this trip, and even this one had an old, rusty window unit, and yes, another fan above the bed.

And now, about the hotel …

That would be the Green Park Inn. Well, the long and short of it is: it is haunted. If you’re into heavy antiques, sleeping in old, musty wood beds that rock and creak, finding the lop-sided bedside furniture piece “charming” and the rusty mirror frame “full of character”, then this is for you … It has “character”, all right. Especially at 1 minutes past 12 AM when a bright red shadow watches you sleep from the side of your bed and then it disappears into thin air when you try to wake your husband and ask him what the heck … No, seriously – look it up: this place is haunted. I do believe it now, although it did not occur to us to look that up before we booked … Even before I saw this, there is a feeling as you walk towards your room, on uneven, noisy floors, that there is someone behind you, following you. The silence in it is surreal. The red shadow vision happened on our first night, so after this, we tried to make the most of the town and what was around it rather than spend any time in that room … I guess it was a great incentive to get out more and make memories … or maybe the town’s evil plan?!

The hotel is built on top of the Eastern Continental Divide and maybe that’s a space full of energy or something, I don’t know … The name of the hotel bar is The Divide, to honor that. It is the first hotel ever built in Blowing Rock (1880) and it hosted the only Post Office in the town when it was first built. Furniture from that establishment still exists on premises. One night, we had the world’s most hilarious waitress at this bar: a middle-aged woman with her curly dirty blonde hair in a knot held together by a pencil, laughing the most incredulous laugh there ever was uttered … Her name was Roxanne, but it could have been a stage name, too. She jumped between stories about her daughter and her two year old granddaughter, houses blowing up somewhere, and her life in Ohio, Florida and Charlotte where she has lived before – she puts down roots for 2-3 years then she moves right on, she said – she laughed herself to tears after every sentence she finished with an eerie laugh that resembled a “lamb’s voice”, my husband figured. He was not totally wrong … We laughed more at the laugh than the stories.

She kept reminding us that although she loves for us to stay as long as we want, the management team will make her close the bar “soon” (it was around 9 PM which seemed early for a vacationing crowd, but …). She never did close, but with that kind of invite, no one wanted to really stay. We did, though, because her stories were funny. So much free entertainment, you know?!

She was so scatter-headed that she served a customer a burger with no meat on the bun. The plate looked nice and well-put-together, except the bread was opened, one side - lettuce, tomatoes, and onions, and the other side, naked. When her manager brought it to her to show, in front of all of us, she laughed her usual laugh and didn’t seem to mind a bit. After all, we all agreed, it was fairly hilarious. Appropriateness of things, or reality herself did not seem to faze her …

I wondered after some time if she was real or maybe she is the ghost?! I never want to know, really. Although we will be back to Blowing Rock and probably soon, we won’t be staying at The Inn.

See, I didn’t even tell you about he fact that it rained almost the entire time we were there, because that was irrelevant. We did so much, saw so much, ate and drank till we could not breath anymore, looked at people, puppies, art, and the great Smokies that we will not remember the weather part … The ghost part we will. Always. The weather part – ephemeral as it always is – will drop in the deep blackness our forgetfulness …

I still hear Roxanne saying as she did the dishes ('cause yeah, she did do them in the creaky, shaking dishwasher right under our noses, 'cause she was about to close, you know): “I don’t believe in death and taxes. I believe in dishes and laundry … (bw)hahahahahaha … We do, too, Roxanne, we do, too … 

Click the rhododendron to see the photographic journey of our adventures

Tata la 67 de ani

M-am gandit ca nici o zi nu e mai buna sau mai sigura ca ziua de azi, si, fara intarziere aditionala, azi inaugurez o serie de bloguri pe care le voi numi simplu “Zile de nastere”, sau “birthdays”. In ultimii doi ani, am ajuns la concluzia facila (asa sunt eu, mai inceata, ce sa spun?!) ca singurele entitati prentru care merita sa ne “consumam” sunt cei apropiati, mai ales cei care ne iubesc si pe care ii iubim. 

Ca sa ii pretuiesc pe cei dragi mie si sa ii imortalizez pentru cei care vor veni dupa noi, voi scrie cateva randuri aici, in semn de “la multi ani”, atunci cand le celebram ziua de nastere si intreaga existenta. Deci azi incep aceasta serie cu ziua tatei. 

Astazi tata are 67 de ani, cu ajutorul lui Dumnezeu. In ultimele cateva zile ma gandesc mult la “excursia” lui prin viata - el iti va spune ca e “mic, nacajit, si nu il ia nimeni in seama.” Desigur, pentru mine, ca de altfel pentru toti cei care il cunosc, nu e deloc asa. Pentru noi e o mare prezenta si un mare spirit care ne umple viata si zilele de cand ne stim! Un opinionat, indrumator, vorbaret nevoie mare (si-a mostenit mama in ale graiului), un spiritualist si putin cinic. Cu siguranta nu o persoana care nu e bagata in seama. 

Pentru ca si el o face in orice ceas aniversar de “privit in urma”, ma gandesc astazi la toate lucrurile pe care le-a realizat in viata asta desi cateodata nu isi da singur laudele de rigoare. Cateva din ele: o familie frumoasa care il respecta si iubeste; o cariera diversa; relatii si cunostinte mai mult decat ii incap in orice agenda de nume; calatorii prin lume: a vazut orizonturile Romaniei si nu numai - si ale Europei de Vest, de Sud, Americii si Canadei; o cultura generala de invidiat - el e lumina mea calauzitoare in ale muzicii “de calitate”, cum o numeste el; si nu il ultimul rand: desi 67 nu e o varsta inaintata, e o reusita imensa in familia noastra - tatal lui s-a stins la doar 62 de ani. As putea continua cu realizarile dar va dati cam seama care sunt, mai ales daca il cunoasteti.

Pentru mine, ca prima lui fiica, cel mai important e faptul ca are o inima imensa. Nu conteaza ce spune si cat de certaret este, la sfarsitul oricari conversatii, mai mult sau mai putin aprinse, ii transpare inima lui buna, blanda, plina de compatimire si generozitate. 

Cand era mai tanar era un fumator agresiv - mama spunea ca isi aprindea o tigara de la tigara precedenta, si ca avea cate o tigara aprinsa in fiecare camera din casa. Cand aveam vreo 14 ani s-a lasat de fumat dintrodata. Nu asa cum auzi pe altii ca “o raresc intai” si apoi se lasa de tot. Nu, el s-a lasat brusc! Si cand ne spune motivul, este acesta: pentru ca i-am cerut bani sa ma duc la film cu prietenii mei (aveam 14 ani si incepusem si eu sa mai ies de sub aripa lor) si a zis ca nu are de unde sa-mi dea. Si in momentul ala si-a dat seama ca el “arde banii” pe tigari si nu are bani sa ii dea copilului sau pentru “cultura” si pentru a-si face un grup de prieteni. Pentru mine episodul asta dovedeste dragostea lui pentru cei de langa el si mai ales pentru cei care depind de el: nu s-a lasat de fumat pentru sanatatea lui; s-a lasat si de fumat din dorinta de a se imparti si de a-si imparti banii cu cei apropiati si care poate aveau mai multa nevoie decat el. 

Sutele de cunostinte pe care le are si prietenii care i-au fost loiali toata viata stiu ca niciodata nu spune “nu” nimanui. Mereu vrea sa ajute, de unde si cum poate, si niciodata nu inchide usa nimanui. Nici cand isi pereclita propria siguranta si securitate nu se dadea inapoi din a ajuta pe altii ... 

O alta caracteristica de neuitat care il defineste este un umor debordant. Azi, cand l-am sunat sa ii transmit urarile de rigoare a vorbit din gluma in gluma printre propozitiile mele. De la pilda la banc m-a purtat, razand ghidus. Va ramane mereu in minte tuturor ca cea mai buna gazda pentru orice fel de petrecere, pentru doua lucruri: mancare delicioasa pe care o pregateste cu o pasiune impetuoasa si sincera, si un umor copios. 

Tata e un om pe care il intalnesti odata si nu il uiti. Are un dar de a se face memorabil mai mult decat orice alta fiinta umana pe care am cunoscut-o vreodata. Cand scriu aceste randuri simt o mandrie aproape perversa, nerusinata ca suntem din acelasi calapod! Din pacate nu am mostenit decat o molecula din altruismul lui neconditionat. 

Ii doresc multi ani sanatosi, puternici si rabdatori. Acum cand corpul poate il ajuta mai putin, si rabdarea se tine de un fir de par, acum cand distantele i se par poate mai mari pentru ca nu le mai poate ajunge, ii doresc rabdare si sa se uite mereu in interior, sa isi priveasca mereu inima dogoritor de calda, ca o zi de iulie, care il ajuta inca sa fie fericit si sa ne faca si pe noi toti la fel. Inca o mai are, inca il mai poarta spre cel de al 68-lea an, si mai departe ... 

La multi ani, tata!

Looking for Something That’s Already Found Us

“We're reaching for death

On the end of a candle
We're trying for something
That's already found us” (Jim Morrison – Freedom Exists)

I’ve traveled a bit to find my heart. I traveled from country to country, continent to another continent, one mountain peak after another, just in search of that one place – twin to my heart.

With every trip, I hope that I will hear back that echo that my heart puts out into the world. Sometimes I think I hear it, and it quickly fades away. I cannot positively tell you that I have ever heard the true one, the one I have looked for since the day I was born.

This past month I went back to that beginning place we all have: the one we are born in. I can only picture that first day when I came into the world: atop of a hill in my home town, at the top floor of a maternity hospital, the first child of very young parents – however many hopes and dreams they were building upon that little bundle of flesh! It was a snow-day, I am told, cold and surprising in the middle of April. Sometimes I think: quite like myself.

Every time I go back I wonder: am I truly home? Or am I visiting? And I can never truly answer that question for myself. God only knows what is in my heart when I go back. Most times I think that if it were not for people related to me being still alive and still there, I would never go back – not even every 10 years to visit. I never understood people who are born and raised in America that want to visit far away countries just because their ancestors come from there … I find no interest anymore in my own country. That is until I actually go back.

This year, I was blessed enough to go with my sister. The bond we have had through the years transported us back straight in the middle of our childhood: going to the same schools together, eating from both ends of the same loaf while walking around the city and hopping around pot holes while chased by stray dogs, eating street food, stopping for a cold beer when we got tired, or a latte at the new fancy mall which also harbors a Starbucks nowadays.

Once I was there, my heart was beating in unison with everything else around me. Every barking dog, every honking (for no reason at all) car, every speeding tram, the churches, the cobblestone streets, every person who opened our doors to visit us – they bore such familiarity that all of a sudden not only my heart, but my whole body just melted in the fabric of my home town and home life … The smells were familiar, the tastes of every food – so different than mine at my own house now, although I cook by the same recipes – everything was like an extension of my own body. I, once again, belonged.

We wandered around old streets where we used to live, or went to school. We shopped till my toes were the size of walnuts. We crisscrossed the entire downtown and spent hours in book stores and cafes … We ate, we laughed, we remembered where we came from and how incredulous our lives’ journeys have been – how different and yet how much the same in many ways – driven by the same principles we were shaped in. America and Canada were in the rear-view mirror and we were once again … home.

Then, there were the parents – the main reason we ever go back, really. They are not old by age (they never have been! They are still the young parents of my birth, in my head), but they are aged beyond their years, with heavy decaying health burdens to bear. We fight, almost every time we go there. We argue, we criticize our mutual choices, and we hug, and we laugh, and at the end of a teary and sobbing argument, we love each other. At the end of every tiresome and restless and commotion-full, overly dramatic day, when I look into their eyes, it’s like I look into a mirror. They make me crazy and angry and they also give me an identity. It makes me happy that somehow I know where this crazy, unruly heart of mine comes from.

This year, more than ever, seeing them was both a desperate cry for gratitude of being with them for a few days (who knows when the last visit will ever be?!) and a scream for help! I want to do more. I want to turn back time to the day when my dad was young and playing badminton with us, or hiking mountains for mushrooms, and mom was happy jumping waves with us at the beach. Happy and smiling, with big dimples and blue eyes. They are tired and curmudgeonly now. Their lives lost to many hard and what they consider lonely years.

I am still not sure where my heart belongs. Being of Gypsy blood it is probably my curse to keep looking. I am still lured by many corners of the world, and by meeting and knowing other people … But just now, this month, I found one thing for sure: I may not know where my heart belongs where it will end up, but I know where its roots are. I know the place that it stubbornly hangs on to, the earth where its roots stubbornly spread, beyond extrication … I know where my heart’s foundation is – and that’s enough for now.

Seafood street food

The Pope was visiting my home town of Iasi right as we were visiting

Old Communist crumbling mess of a block. I cannot believe, each time, that these structures are still standing today. 

More Communist "beauties" lines up on the shore of a very much redesigned Bahlui bench. The river looks so posh nowadays - a far cry from the dirty, smelly mess that it was back in my childhood - no concrete edges then, either ... 

My parents' kitchen has a microwave, two ice-free refrigerators and many other utilities of the modern era. However, they still grind their veggies and meats by hand, with a manual grinder. 

We celebrated The Ascension when we were there. It is almost like a Second Easter for us. 

The entrance to one of the many blocks my sister and I grew up in

Our high school 

I was blown away how long Romania has come in the matters of making recycling available. Much, much, much more modern than anywhere else I have lived in The States. 

Our elementary school. 

A "simigerie" which is a bakery that makes these fresh hard pretzel-like wonders covered in poppy seeds. My friend who is Turkish calls these "simit" - and now I know where the word for the place comes from. Most likely the same root. 

My home town of Iasi seen from above - you can see the Palace of Culture somewhere in the center of this picture

Almost perfect example (minus the pizza) of a Romanian appetizer platter: meat, cheese, fat back and more meat ... 

With my sister in front of The Palace of Culture - downtown Iasi

"Tochitura modoveneasca" - one of the most traditional Romanian dishes: slow cooked pork meat, fried egg, a big chunk of aged cheese and "mamaliga" (a type of polenta). 

The utra-urbanized Iasi (the power lines are in my parents' yard) in the sunset

An attempt to copy the Western World - an English named B&B

This was the year of the snails ... 

Sights around downtown Iasi.

Click the picture to view the entire album from this trip

That Wild Creature. The West.

There is a bluegrass singer I follow, and during one of her concerts she said she fell in love with the West because, being born and raised in North Carolina, she never knew you can ever see as far as you can see across the Western Desert. And that is true: if you want to take in the idea of infinite spaces, go on a drive between Salt Lake and Vegas, or between Denver and Taos, NM. In the immensity of the land, there is nothing else to feel, see, or think about but your own self – lost, alone, never-ending, eternal.

I am kinda loving my job. For many reasons, but one of them is that it allows me to visit The West once in a while. During the most recent work trip, my husband met me at the end of my week and we took a long weekend to explore Colorado and New Mexico. No, not the entirety of those states – we had to be selective, because time was short. But isn’t time short always?!

I could talk again for a shamefully long time about how much I love Denver (https://wander-world.blogspot.com/2012/11/my-ten-reasons-to-move-to-denver.html). But I did that before, so I will skip that part of the trip altogether in favor of never-seen-(to-me) places.

Since I was in college back in Romania, while watching Dr. Quinn – Medicine Woman (you are allowed to chuckle), I dreamed about going to Colorado Springs and hiking (or driving) up Pikes Peak. There was something of legends in that show: the Natives, the Rockies, the Western tales of fearless women and lawless men – there was an attraction, a lure about it all that drew me in like a drug. Although I have been to Colorado many times, and lived next door to it for seven years, I never made it to Colorado Springs … till now.

It was a cold, late spring day when we arrived, and Pikes Peak and Cheyenne Mountain were clad in a thick, low fog. There was no hint of any peaks. Just the promise of a mighty mountain, but no sight of it, really.

We ventured up to Pikes Peak Highway despite the warnings from our hotel receptionist and the rangers at the gate advising us against it because “you know: we’re having some weather up there”. Now, Pikes Peak rises above the sea level more than 14,000 ft. Because it was starting to snow and because we were told that “up there” it had been probably snowing all day, we did not make it to the top: there was not much to see from up there, anyway, with the thick fog embracing the mountain, but the roads were slick too, not to mention steep and winding. When the temperature dipped to 27F, we decided to turn around. We were barely at 10,000 ft.

Colorado Springs seen through fog from Pikes Peak (cca 8000 ft elevation)

Fog and all, a mighty mountain never disappoints: we stopped for pictures, and there was a deep silence that you could have heard a beast’s heartbeat thump. There was no wind, no echo, no other cars: just a serenity, solitude, and quiet that is hard to capture into words. You could almost hear the gentle swish of each snow flake on the pavement. As we climbed higher towards the 10,000 ft mark, the valley became less and less visible in the fog, until we could see nothing but clouds, like we were on a plane.

We turned around and decided to go to the Garden of the Gods Park – a natural park which has red rock formations on display amongst the bright green prairie vegetation – the contrast is beautiful! It’s a drive-in park, so, with the rain upon us, we looped around and stopped briefly for pictures of the red rocks. Those are what I miss the most out East: the shades of the red rocks in the Western Desert are eerie and their beauty, again, hard to describe. I wish I had the talent to paint them, because those would be more telling than what I tell you about them.

Garden of the Gods formations - Balancing Rock on the right

We ate at Colorado Mountain Brewery, a restaurant in a former railroad roundhouse built in 1880’s.  Sometimes food places are famous for the food. I believe this one should stand out for the venue and its history. The restoration of the place is beautifully done – as old as the walls look, the brick looks almost brand new, and so do the large windows out of which locomotives once peeked …

The next day, we headed down to Taos, NM. I have been craving to finally see New Mexico, and Taos in particular, since I started reading Natalie Goldberg’s books, almost 20 years ago. There is a magic about New Mexico, a je-ne-sais-quios that transpires from all the books, images, memories of anyone who’s ever been there. And hence the attraction to see it for myself.

I said we were there in late spring, but it snowed almost the entire way from Colorado Springs to Taos. The roads were clear, but the desert on either side were loaded with snow. Visibility was very limited and the thick fog of the previous day returned. It was cold. Maybe high 30s – low 40s. Cold. And wet. Which made it even colder.

Our landscape en route from Colorado Springs to Taos. Mid May. 

Taos is a place lost in time. Sometime ago history forgot to advance here. It must have been before the time when they figured side roads and parking lots must also be asphalted. It must have been the time before they told people not to talk to strangers, because everyone in this town is your long-lost friend.

Taos downtown - peaceful, quiet, old

Maybe the first thing that strikes you in Taos is that it seems to be poor: the streets are some of the worst I have seen in America and not all of them are paved. The homes are either patched up or leaning – although newer, more “together” ones do appear on random elevated roads, in the middle of brush or on lush green golf courses. If insecurity is a sign of poverty, most windows and doors have thick bars around them. And yet the whole town is flooded with artists’ studios and art stores, some of them very high-end art stores. A land of contrasts like the rest of this country, but with more poor than rich details …

Street corner in Taos, NM

There is something foreign and exotic about the New Mexico red architecture – something peeled out of history books and definitely not purely “American”. I said, when I went to  Oahu in Hawaii, that that place has no business calling itself “America”. I feel the same way about New Mexico: think of a seamless cocktail of Spanish and Native Indian with American West merely as a garnish and you have figured out Taos. The Spanish influence is everywhere – you pass through towns named Alamos, Salida, Poncha Springs, and Mosca … The American West is nearby: you cross a street called Wagon Road … And all this unravels in the canvas of pure Native American country: you are in the town of Taos, after all. All in all, Taos is its own mixture of things, roots, and history … What makes Taos today is the confluence of all those trends and yet so much more …

Example of Taos architecture

Baptist church in Taos, NM

Every corner of every street is a work of art – the architecture, the doors, the flags they hang outside the homes, the cobblestone streets, and the interior courts all create this universe of history, old timey-ness, and mystery in which the whole town is enwrapped. It’s not a very big town, with a population of barely 5000 people, but it’s vibrant: art is what flows through its veins, just like what every pole that lines the streets reminds you: “Taos is art.”

  

Very varied New Mexican art

We ate one night at Medley – a wine bar and restaurant off the beaten path (a local hostess told us about it; it was so remote Siri didn’t know about it, nor did Yelp). And we were admiring the paintings in that place (like I said some places are about the food, some about the surrounds; this was definitely about both), and our waitress told us the paintings were the works of their own bartender. They were beautiful and huge portraits of pets, mostly. I asked her if that is a prerequisite to live in Taos: to have some kind of an usual talent in some art, and she answered snarkingly: “Oh, absolutely! I am still trying to figure out my niche, but I better hurry up and find it before they evict me.”

One of the many amazing, one-of-a-kind doors in Taos

Our reception at our resort, El Monte Sagrado (oh, that name!), was unbelievable! We were welcomed at the entrance by an escort, then walked in “the way back” in one of the casitas that together with many others made up the property, to the “front desk”. It was more of a “way back” desk, a cozy office, with dimmed lights, and three desks on huge tree trunks with natural rock tops. As we checked in, we were invited to sit on armchairs and we were offered coffee, tea, or water. To say that everyone was nice is the most unjust understatement: everyone was doting on us: eye contact, hand-shakes, and questions about our well-being, comfort of travel up to now, and every other question you can imagine. We were asked if we would like a private tour of the property so we can assess all that it has to offer. We politely declined, but we did say we would do that on our own.

One of the three "front desks" at our resort

The grounds were hand-cut from a premium, exclusive travel brochure, only better, because this was the real deal: the hotel is a collection of two-story main buildings connected by New Mexican-style casitas, with interior courts. The whole place had a giant interior court of its own, lush green and peppered with blooming trees and aspen. There was a stream and several coy fountains throughout the resort grounds which looked like a carefully manicured Japanese garden. The feeling of peace and silence overwhelmed you … Again, I felt like we were lured into this secret retreat that you hear about in Taos, where people go in for a few days of self-imposed silence, or yoga practice, or a writing boot camp …

El Monte Sagrado resort, in Taos, NM

The rooms were nicely decorated with Western accents and local art, cozy reminders of where you are ... 

The grounds at El Monte Sagrado resort

Taos reminded me why great works of art sprout in the most incredibly penurious and empty environments: in the absence of everything, the soul is liberated and free to create its own reality. This is why, I think, many artists in all media, gravitate to Taos: there is no noise, no distraction, no big city temptations, no richness, no luxury to tire the eye and pollute the mind: there is only sky, mountain and stream and your ears, eyes, and nose are free to make up their own reality with what they sense.

After several days of walking the roads, visiting local museums (The Millicent Rogers Museum is a gem truly hidden in the desert: a beautiful collection of Native art) and many local art shops, after shooting the Rio Grande Gorge in the middle of a sleet storm at below freezing temperatures, and after sampling some of the local food joints (I have never tasted chili hotter than the green chili at Michael’s Kitchen: I agree with my husband that that chili should have come with special instructions!), we headed back towards Colorado.

The Rio Grande Gorge

The drive between Taos and Breckenridge, CO is one of the most beautiful examples of a drive in The Rockies that I have ever been on. Reminds me a lot of the drive in Glacier National Park, up in Montana. Majestic peaks, eternal snow, an immensity of pines bordered elegantly by aspen trees and loads of wildlife or exotic domesticated mountain-only animals, like alpacas, llamas, and yaks. Again, the land is boundary-less and swallows you whole.

The land out there is un-apologetically gorgeous. Like a perfect photo-model that you see on TV that has absolutely nothing wrong with their face or body features, the land is perfect. Purely perfect: not one strand off, not one feature distorted, not one detail astray … You’re rendered speechless, because perfection defies words …

The Rockies and their elk

Breckenridge is a tiny mountain town with big ticket stores and somewhat pretentious visitors – I s’ppose this is what ski resorts attract. I like it, nonetheless, because you feel like the mountain is on top of you! And I am a sucker for a mighty peak!

On the way from Taos to Breckenridge

A day later, we drove sheepishly, silently, begrudgingly, and sad back to the Denver airport to ask the little captain to fly us back home. We jumped back on that plane leaving wilderness behind and being grateful to be back into the great wide world so we can tell the tales that magic land shared with us.

Till we see you again, wild creature. Till then … 

This is what I mean when I say the mountain is on top of you. This is when I feel I am truly getting lost ... Click the picture to see the entire album from this trip. 

A Southern Journey

I knew I missed The South when we moved back a year or so ago, but I just didn’t know how much. Most days, I miss The West and I don’t even realize how lucky I am to be able to live back here. But there are weekend trips now and again that we take that remind me of precisely this blessing.

If this month would have a nickname, it would be “Food”. Seriously, all we did was spend exorbitant amounts of money on foods pretty much every other day. I am always of the belief that food is not only good or worth exploring only because you pay hundreds of dollars for a bit of it – on the contrary. The most delicious food, I think, is the most primitive, the simplest, cooked in small corners of the world, in the most unexpected, least equipped kitchens. We didn’t seek the extra expensive food. It kind of found us, through chance and some little planning. It is a big month of celebration for personal reasons for us, so I guess it kind of went with the times.

Food is a great excuse to travel. And although food takes us places, we never stop just at that. We try to take the entire place in and experience the most that it has to offer.

A Short Trip to Kinston, NC

First, we spent a day and a night in Kinston, NC. I wrote before that I love taking trips to places that people would ask “Why in the world would you go there?!” about. Kinston might be such a place. I am sure many people have never heard of it, even if they lived in North Carolina for a while. It is in the Eastern part of the state, where rivers run wide and the barbecue sauce has no tomato in it, like God intended!

Some of our friends put together a pilgrimage trip to the Chef and the Farmer restaurant which is featured on a PBS show of some fame, A Chef’s Life. The owner of the restaurant, Vivian Howard, is also the star of that show, giving people a peek into Southern cooking, Eastern Carolina style.

We first stopped at our hotel, a former bank nowadays called The O’Neil, across the street from the restaurant. The hotel is a turn of the (20^th) century former bank. The lobby has antique details, an amazingly ornate plaster ceiling, an enormous vault turned into a bar and luxurious seating behind former teller windows. The hotel only has seven rooms, and each room has a unique personality. We had another couple of friends staying at the hotel who were in a Chinese-motived room, while ours had an English hunting cottage feel.

The Farmers & Merchants Bank in Kinston, NC, now The O'Neil (hotel)

This is how you know this is a small town: we asked the front desk lady if it’s OK to park on the street, on the side of the hotel because we could see no signs for parking. She said, in the most endearing Southern drawl: “Oh, mah goodnesshyeah! You surely can park just about anywear … You see some signs in the street clearly sayin’ ‘No Parking’, but don’t pay them no mind!” She peeked through the window behind her desk and pointed at the cars parked across the street: “You see them cars over there? It saiz ‘No parking’ right there, but they’re parked right under the sign. No one will tow you. Kinston police don’t care. They have bigger fish to fry, I reckon!” – she ended with a shrug. We were wondering about them big fish and what they were. Hmm …

The lobby at The O'Neil - with the ornate plaster ceiling and the giant vault

The place was brimming with hospitality. The front desk lady was nice and helpful, and if you can tell from my retelling the parking story, very welcoming. The vault, like I mentioned, is turned into a giant beer and wine cooler, with a self-serve bar where they invite you to partake of snacks, cookies, fruit, water, beer, wine, or coffee at any hour of the day and night. The cleaning ladies wished us a good weekend when we left, and asked us how our stay had been as if we were old friends. The hotel, like the whole town, really, was quiet. We did feel like maybe we and our friends might have been the only guests that day.

To wait for the rest of our friends to get to town for our planned dinner, we went to Mother Earth Brewing – a brewery, as you might have guessed which was about a block and a half away from our hotel. You really cannot get lost in this downtown. Everything you need to see or do is right there, in a 200 yard square, just about. Some of our friends who had checked into the hotel earlier than us noticed that the lead singer in the band at the brewery was also the front desk person who welcomed them at The O’Neil earlier. It’s all in the family, you see.

After our refreshments at the brewery, we headed towards our destination – Chef and the Farmer.  We were seated in a private room, because of the size of our group – about 16. Between all of us we ordered just about every appetizer on the menu. Because of my weird diet, they had to mash two of their entrees into one – I got the grilled red snapper on top of the sweet potato skins and everything was delicious. The portion sizes were decent, unlike some of the really “fancy” restaurants that skimp on the quantity on the account of presentation and flavor. In this place, each dish had everything: presentation, flavor, uniqueness, and size to please you. The cocktails and the desserts were unique and delicious as well.

The red snapper and sweet potato skins with mushrooms at Chef and The Farmer

The following morning, we headed for brunch at Boiler Room Oyster Bar, a restaurant owned by the same people as Chef and the Farmer. Again – all in the family here. I guess this is not as famous as the fancy restaurant we had dinner in, nor nearly as expensive, but like I said before: it’s not all on the price tag. In fact, the lunch I had at The Boiler Room was in some ways more surprising and more delicious than Chef and the Farmer, especially in its simplicity. I believe half of our group had the butter bean burger, me included. Just as plain as simple as it sounds: a patty made of butter beans and I am not sure what else. But I am sure it had a mix of love, and mystery, a Southern blessing, and a splash of good luck to make it extra special. It was deep fried instead of grilled, and my goodness, was that the best veggie burger my mouth has ever tasted?! It was tasty and as soft as butter melting in your mouth. They did ensure me there won’t be any butter nor mayo, nor eggs, either, in it – and still, it was amazingly delicious: the right measure of savory, salty, crunchy, buttery, melty... You would think people went there for the oysters, but think again – like I said: about 8 people out of our 16 got that burger, vegetarians, vegans, and meat eaters alike and we all loved it.

I hope I’ll travel many a places in my life, but that butter bean burger, I tell you what – won’t leave my memory any time soon.

We strolled the city after our brunch and visited The CSS Neusse – a real-life replica of a Civil War boat -, the local coffee shop, and just walked the streets of downtown Kinston. It’s a sleepy town, with stores open but quiet, and not much foot traffic. One of our friends said “there is nothing in this town but drunk foodies.” We chuckled because we surely recognized all of us in that description.

The CSS Neusse
Click the picture to browse through the Kinston, NC album from this trip

 

Continuing the Journey Through Charleston, SC

Following our weekend in Kinston, NC, we had a weekend planned for Charleston, SC. Now, I won't repeat every truism that was ever said about Charleston. I am sure those of you who visited it know all about why it’s amazing, and those of you who have not have read about it too: the gem of The South, the beauty, the Civil War-era historic hub, the home of Rhett Butler, the “civilization gone with the wind” are just some of those things mentioned about it.  

I usually go to Charleston to slow down and sip the past just like you would a hot cup of mint tea. The aroma of the place seeps into your pores and takes over the body and the mind like a mist. There are many the things you can do in Charleston. So many, there is never a good plan for it, because there is no human way to pack everything there is to do in one weekend!

We settled for strolling Meeting and Market Streets downtown, and looking at the street artists in the City Market while hunting for pralines and a place to eat really good seafood. This was the first night.

The next day, because we had a whole day, we drove to Magnolia plantation, a place that has belonged to the same family since 1600’s (started with The Drayton Family). The plantation home has been rebuilt several times since the first foundation was laid down, and today it’s more like three or four houses and multiple additions put together rather than one cohesive building, although it surely does look like one. The grounds of the former plantation were the star of this show, however. After losing all the money they had in the Civil War, like most landowners in The South, the owner of the plantation decided to open the grounds as a garden, and they remain opened this way today.

The home at the Magnolia Plantation

What's a Southern home without a peacock on the front lawn?! 

The gardens are a scrapbook of forests, pastures, marshes, lakes, all along the Ashley River. They are only very subtly human-touched; they are mostly left to the devices of the subtropical Southern vegetation to shape it in the most wild fashion. The trails are graveled, but crooked and winding through overgrown areas. Azaleas, camelias and Spanish moss brush your face as you squeeze yourself through the many narrow pathways and trails. While admiring the beauty of the trees, bushes, and flowers (all in bloom, it seemed just for us, as this was April, one of the most flora-rich times of the year in The South), we were watchfully crossing bridges over ponds and estuaries of the Ashley river on the lookout for alligators. I was watching the trees for snakes, too, but I figured with that many vines, it would be impossible to tell which one was a snake and which was a vine. The alligators did not let themselves waited for for too long. They were shamelessly swimming around, undisturbed, it seemed, by the sizable crowds of visitors.

I love visiting old Southern homes, because you see America’s history rolling right in front of your very eyes in the stories they amount inside those walls, in the pictures, décor, books. All its glories, and shadows, all the ghosts, and belles of the past, all carefully and elegantly tucked inside the grand staircased foyers and plantation shutters …

Alligator at the Magnolia Plantation

For dinner, we found a treat of a place called Hanks, close to our hotel not far from The City Market. The food here was a little too overpriced for what it was, but the cocktail I had (it was a locally inspired one), called Colonial Daiquiri (rum based) was divine! I also loved their special salad which had the most enormous shrimp (sized more like lobster than shrimp), arugula, and roasted potatoes (I kid you not!) in a roasted tomatillo vinaigrette. Holy salad gods! I still don’t think it was worth the almost $20 it cost, but it was memorable. Maybe not quite as amazing as that butter bean burger in Kinston – but still something to definitely remember.

Walking the streets of Charleston is really my favorite thing to do down there: shooting the beautiful doorways, people watching around the Waterfront Park and the Pineapple Fountain, hearing the giggles of college girls taking selfies at The Rainbow Row, watching people line up for food at Blossom, Magnolia’s, or Hyman’s – all color the Charleston experience in its own unique way. This is a town encapsulating so much history within its brick walls and cobblestone streets like a snow globe: you shake it and another memory forms – all real, all old, and yet right in front of your eyes.

Charleston entry way

There is a smell about Charleston that stays with you: it’s a mix of sea and mold, a mixture of uncured antiques and jasmine or some other bloom.

The Pineapple Fountain at Waterfront Park

We picked funky-named places, with hippie or Southern names to have breakfast in both days we were there. We figured how could we go wrong with such choice deliberation?! On the first morning we were there, we went to Another Broken Egg (their crab cakes are so fresh you’d think they reached out into the waterfront for the crabs right then and there), and Page’s Okra Grill in Mount Pleasant, the second day. That place is a zoo. Not sure how the wait staff doesn’t turn postal on people – there is not one revolving door of many people queued up to get in but two of them – one through the front of the store and one through the back patio. With all this apparent commotion, the staff never misses a beat: good ol’ Southern hospitality is at home here. Their breakfast potatoes are to kill for!

Rainbow Row

The last day, we drove across the many bridges around Charleston in look for an islandscape we could shoot. We ended up on Sullivan’s Island for a short hike and a peek at the ocean. Again, we were mindful of alligators and snakes, but luckily found neither one that day. Crossing over the dunes onto the beach was like seeing one of those multi-commercialized prints all the hotels down the beach hang in their bedrooms: water brush swinging in the wind, sand blowing at an angle, with seagulls diving in the horizon, where it meets the water … Idyllic and peaceful comes to mind, if you think the beach is peaceful.

The beach at Sullivan's Island

While we chased all these treasures, and all the history and the tastes of The South, during both trips we got lost on ancient (for America) streets lined with magnolias, live oaks dripping with Spanish moss. There was not even a hint of a breeze in the branches. The trees and the houses with old fences and gates were silent, sleepy, immersed in a slumber of centuries. The thing I missed the most about The South is just The South … The old homes, with wrap-around porches and the big columns in front, the pineapple details on the front staircases, the narrow streets with even narrower, uneven sidewalks. The awkward, cluttered layout of an old city that ran out of room for new homes. The smell of mold and dampness, the humidity in the air that makes my hair feel like it was dipped in molasses. I missed all that, down to the sweaty skin I get when walking around the honey-like air … The buttery taste of food from people who know how to use butter and a fryer. I must have been born in The South at some point in the past. If not that, then I am not sure what ghost lives inside my chest, because for sure it does, as it always understands this song …

Whether food called us out to the road, or  whether we just found it looking for some other treasures is irrelevant. Dipping ourselves into the past and into our surrounds for a spell is always a treasure, no matter the pretense. This weekend, I found out that The South is still here and has waited for me, patiently, unchanged, for the nine years I have been gone. There is something to be said for timelessness and eternity – and The South surely knows a thing or three about those …  

  

Timeless Charleston, SC
Click the picture to browse the entire album from this trip