Category: Appalachia

So let’s just say you’re out walking your dogs in the neighborhood one day when you happen upon a lean, older fellow with a weathered face and broken jeans, lounging on the curb in the afternoon sun.

He’s smoking a cigarette, go-cup in hand.

Based on that description, one might be tempted to make the assumption that you have nothing much in common, and pass on by.

But if you happen to be feeling somewhat curious that day, you might slow down, smile and say hello…

Which might lead to a conversation and the discovery that this gentleman has lived in your neighborhood probably longer than anyone else around here.

You might learn that his parents found him in a foster home just down the street when he was only a handful of months old, and here he has lived and here he has stayed for close to seven decades now.

You might be surprised to hear that the street corner you’re standing on was where, back in the day, he and his friends used to build bonfires on the nights when it snowed,

before sledding down the hilly streets of your mountainside neighborhood –

back when the poh-leece turned a blind eye to both the bonfire and the street sledding.

If you can spare just a few more moments to listen to his stories, the ghosts of the former denizens of your neighborhood will begin to be revealed to you — people his pale blue eyes squinting in the sunlight tell me he still can see in the streets and houses around us.

And you may also discover (much to your great surprise) that the house you’re living in is the house his ex-wife grew up in.

And if you’re having an especially magical Appalachian day, his ex-wife, who hasn’t lived in the neighborhood for decades, may just happen to drive by while the two of you are talking, and slow down to say hello.

And then she might just take a moment, on this busy day before she flies to London and Paris with her new husband, to tell you the story of what happened to the little girl

who’s buried in your backyard.

But it’s a sad tale and one that can wait for another day….

I arrived in Asheville as a single (divorced) woman, with two kids – one in high school and one in college. It took me awhile to realize that my prospects for finding a boyfriend here were pretty slim. According to Kiplinger, Asheville ranks among the ten worst cities for singles in the US.

I knew just what I was looking for, though. Having lived in London as a kid, worked in Paris as a teenager, and traveled throughout much of Europe for work as an adult, I was on the lookout for an international boyfriend, someone to have travel adventures with and learn different languages from.

Asheville attracts an interesting mix of people, but eight years had passed with nothing more than a handful of dates and a few relationships that didn’t last past two months.

And then fate intervened unexpectedly in the form of a tall, long-haired, German, rugby-playing architect named Jo. Jo was in charge of landscaping at the retirement home for Methodist missionaries located across the street from my house and for the past year, we had waved to one another occasionally or spent a few moments chatting about gardening. Or house design. Or Germany.

One day, on a whim, I asked him if he had any single friends.

“No,” he said smugly in his strong German accent. “We’re all taken!”

I regretted having asked.

Several weeks later, however, he came striding across the street as I was pulling my car into the driveway.

“Okay,” he said, not wasting any time with small talk, “I’ve thought of someone!”

Surprised, I agreed to meet that “someone” without wondering why it had taken him a month to come up with this guy.

“When are you going to Spain?” Jo asked. I gave him the date of my return and he arranged the blind date for the following night.

My trip to Barcelona had been planned with my Chinese horoscope in mind, which promised those born in the year of the Monkey would find true love some time in the last quarter of the year of the Snake.

Accordingly, I booked my trip for late September, thinking I might help things along a little by putting myself in the perfect location to meet an adventurous, handsome Catalan. For a whole week, I would do nothing but walk the city, experience the food and wine and people, take photographs on the streets and hopefully meet the man of my dreams.

Sadly, I returned home boyfriend-less. I did meet a lovely waiter named Pablo on my last night in Barcelona at the restaurant just outside the flat where I was staying which, two glasses of wine later, it might have turned into something interesting, but….

Re-entry is always tough. And so on my way back to the States, I spent much of the five-hour layover at JFK pondering this upcoming blind date and wondering how I might get out of it.

Hours before the rendezvous, Jo re-appeared on my front porch to tell me my date’s name (Tom) and the location of our dinner – Curaté, a wonderful Spanish tapas restaurant downtown. He also told me I would be able to identify my date by the rugby shirt he would be wearing. (Rugby shirt, at Curaté?)

It had been a 23-hour journey back to Asheville. Massively jet-lagged, I dragged myself through my pre-date preparations and headed downtown.

We arrived at the restaurant at the exact same moment. Even before I saw the rugby shirt under his sports jacket, I knew it was him.

He was smiling at me.

That evening, sitting side by side, while the chefs provided us with dish after dish of deliciousness, we talked for nearly four hours. I discovered he isn’t German or European, he is a fifth-generation Appalachian. And he has the complexion of someone with Scottish roots, not Mediterranean. He does have an accent, however – a Southern one.

I also discovered the time I spent inventing excuses to get out of a second date …

was entirely wasted.