Asheville, North Carolina

You want to go to Asheville, even if you don't know it yet.

In Asheville, girls who look like young Brooke Shields rock tattooed sleeves in the River Arts District. Left-leaning pharmacists drink at microbreweries and invite you to their house for dinner. Your hotel clerk shaves his head and is called simply 'Zeb.' Musicians working in art galleries tell tales about the locals. You come to know, in this way, about the the seventy-year Moroccan-Brazilian painter who starting selling his work on Asheville's sidewalks to support his mother. (One of his pieces, a gift to Gerald Ford, now hangs in the Smithsonian).

Asheville also has cheeky graffiti, free community yoga, cheerful cargo trains, yarn stores, craft fairs, bluegrass, BBQ, an edible public garden, classical music concerts, chocolate lounges, handpicked berries, handmade ukuleles, nine microbreweries (plus one more for kombucha instead of beer), scooters, saxophones, murals, dogs, banjos, unicycles and an amateur hula hooping organization. Walking downtown, you come across a painting of a beautiful jellyfish, done on glass and art deco buildings with painted alleyways, scrap metal sculptures nailed to the brick walls.

For lunch, locals go to Early Girl Eatery, a bright dining room whose clinking flatware and friendly din will take you back to church suppers, the kind in the country with shivering jello and long tables, with grace before eating. The food is even better than you remember. Massive plates of sweet potatoes and sausage, scrambled with farm eggs, hot biscuits with summer berry jam, a wedge of light cornbread, smeared with soft sweet butter. Boiled baby beets and finely shredded coleslaw in ginger dressing, cream three-bean salad sprinkled with chopped parsley, plus a bowl of tart and sweet homemade applesauce and plastic tumblers of cold tea.

Drive along the Blue Ridge Parkway (from either side of the city) and read roadsigns with names like Chestnut Grove and Hominy Valley, Elk Pasture Gap, Buck Spring Tunnel and Fryingpan Mountain. These names alone should convince you that you want to go. That is, if ordering up a flight of suds at four pm doesn't tip you off. Or drinking coffee in a converted double decker bus. Or eating black-eye pea tempeh at Homegrown. Or hiking in the Smokies with thousands of happy honeybees.

Asheville is sometimes (insultingly) called the 'Portland of the South.' Much better than Portland. Much. Trust me. You want to go.

Stone Mountain, Georgia

Atlanta, Georgia

Atlanta's big. A big, beautiful, rough, hip and cosmopolitan beast. Adam has already been here once before for work and he texted me the whole time about all the fun he was having, so you can imagine he was excited to come back.

First stop, an Atlanta Braves game! Dan Uggla was still on his hitting streak and he blasted two home runs out before the fifth inning. Thanks to a promotion at the game, one of his homers netted every ticket holder a free, huge burrito at Moe's the next day, so the fans went even more crazy than usual when the ball went over the fence. Braves fans might be legendarily devoted; I don't really know. But they definitely love to do the 'tomahawk chop,' a simultaneously satisfying and offensive cheer (done while pretending to 'chop' using your hand as a tomahawk).

We took a cab home and had to tip some scam artist who was 'hailing' cabs off the street for people. People have been trying to scam us since we got here and you always end up having to give them a dollar for absolutely no good reason.

Saturday morning, Adam tracked down a sweet farmer's market in nearby Piedmont Park. The park itself was incredible, rolling hills with shade trees, tons of water fountains, dogs, joggers, yogis, sculptures, clean restrooms and even a breathtakingly beautiful public running track. The market was a boon: cold peach tea; iced Blue Donkey Coffee; soft chicken mole tamales; a big apple ginger muffin; and a big cup of hot boiled peanuts.

Fully sated, we strolled to the High Museum of Art for a show by Radcliffe Bailey on what's often called (euphemistically, in my opinion) 'transatlantic passage' of over half a million Africans to the US for slavery. Enslavement is what is condemned and discussed, but the idea that one is not only enslaved, but taken from home absolutely breaks me. Bailey's work is done on a large-scale and he uses sounds of the sea, collage, old photographs and objects of colonialism to respond to this cruel and confusing past.

Other than art and parks, we've gotten to eat more delicious Southern food: lemon peach pie (second-based lemon pie in the world--best is my mama's) at Bakehouse in Midtown; dinner in Atlanta's happening gay neighborhood at The Flying Biscuit; and then a down home brunch in gritty Reynoldstown.

But the rest of our day was spent doing chores. Laundry and rejigging our itinerary a bit. We're tired of moving every two days, so we canceled our campsite in the Smokies and, instead, we'll head to Asheville two days early. Fingers crossed we like it!

'Preying' Mantis

This guy was on the wall outside our hotel in Atlanta. Of course, I was the one who spotted him (possessing the unfortunate talent of noticing every insect within a ten-foot radius).

I stopped short and then walked quickly past him. Adam bent down to get a better look.

I turned around and shouted, "It's fake, right? It's just a toy. Right? It's fake, isn't it."

"Yeah, it's fake," Adam replied.

"Egh! I knew it. It's real!" I cried. "You're lying! It's real. I knew it! Ew, ew!"

Adam looked up at me. "Yeah, it's real."

We walked quickly down the stairs to the parking lot together and then Adam decided to go back and take a picture. He put his hand beside it to show the scale.

If you don't want to see some horrifyingly weird photographs, don't Google 'praying mantis.' I did, stupidly. And now I know things about these predatory insects that I can never erase from my mind.

Savannah, Georgia

We didn't seem to know what day it was when we checked into the Thunderbird Inn in Savannah, but according to the counter agent, Bobby, it was Wednesday. Good to know, I suppose.

Two days in Savannah were definitely enough. It's a small town, not really a city, still very old in most parts, well-preserved, but difficult to penetrate, probably especially since it was over a hundred degrees out and nobody was on the streets.

We're both reading Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, set in Savannah amongst the old mansions and shaded city squares of the historic district. The book centres partly around events that took place in the Mercer-Williams House, and Thursday morning, we took a tour of it, marveling at the original oil paintings, marble busts and a real cheetah skin across the back of the sofa.

The Savannah College of Art and Design's student-run shop is nearby and we took a look, contemplating a wrought-iron lamp shaped like a bomb, hand-painted Kewpie statues, silk screened pillow cases. SCAD is everywhere in Savannah; student work is shown frequently and we saw some great pieces in the gallery across from Leopold's (a ninety-three year-old ice cream parlour that Adam obviously had to try).

The afternoon was too hot to be near cars and concrete, so we drove to Tybee Island's breezy beach and boardwalk. There's even a small science centre where we saw a little baby alligator! So tiny. Such a thrill!

Friday morning, we drove into Bonaventure Cemetery before leaving town. The grounds are nearly two hundred years old old; some of the headstones have cracked and dusty trails of Spanish moss hang parasitically from the branches of hundreds of oak trees. An eerie, forlorn good-bye to the secretive little town of Savannah.

JB's Smokeshack

On our way out of Charleston, we detoured to Johns Island, a mostly rural farming area of South Carolina with a famous BBQ house called JB's Smokeshack. We weren't sure what to expect, given the rustic-sounding moniker, but they were listed in the New York Times as 'the place' to eat in Charleston. And you know how much Adam loves his BBQ.


We're so glad we went. Our lunch there was easily one of the most incredible experiences of our trip.

The actual dining room was small and clean, filled partly with rough wooden buffet tables. At the door, the fresh-faced man behind the counter informed us that the buffet is the best deal. "Is there any other way?" I wondered incredulously.

What we ate...

Country fried steak (thin pork cutlets fried in yellow corn grits); buttermilk fried chicken legs and a pile of pulled pork. Unlike most of the pulled pork we're used to in Canada, this meat was served all on its own, rather than heaped with sugary sauce. JB says "the flavor is in the meat, the sauce is on the side," and he's not kidding. The meat was succulent and smokey with sweetness from the pork and complexity from the rub. There were plenty of sauces on the table: ones based on mustard and vinegar; Mama's Sweet n' Spicy; a smokier version and a mild one. Adam sampled them all, so you'll have to ask him for the winner.

Anyway, I didn't go much for the meat, but for the sides. In the South, many are still cooked with meat, adding richness to collard greens (which you then douse liberally with 'pepper sauce,' a bottled vinegar stuffed with tiny finger peppers that's known around here as table wine of the South), lima beans and black-eye peas. JB's also offers house made sweet potato 'tater tots'; creamy mac 'n cheese with oversize elbow macaroni and a dark caramelized crust; steamed white rice and Carolina red rice; chunky potato salad laced with egg yolk mayonnaise; a pile of vinegar-dressed coleslaw, flavored with plenty of black pepper; a rough Southern version of chopped salad; whole pickled okra; pickled cucumber spears and the jewel in JB's BBQ crown: dark smokey slow-baked beans. Best beans I've ever had (although my brother's and my Dad's are both still up there).

Desserts were homemade Southern specialties we've been wanting to try: banana (or 'nana) puddin' and chocolate 'dirt' pudding. Also eclair pudding, in which Adam put a big dent.

The grand total for all this, plus huge styromfoam glasses filled with ice and all the cold tea you can drink? Nine dollars per person. 

On our way out the door, they said "Y'all have a good day now." We did, indeed.

Charleston, South Carolina

A few weeks ago, in July, I mentioned our upcoming stop in Charleston to my friend Tsia. Tsia is one of the most naturally cool people I know; she runs both a successful design firm in NYC with her husband and a popular DIY lifestyle blog, and lives in home built co-housing on an island in Beacon, NY.

So, when Tsia she fairly gushed at the mention of Charleston, I knew we were on the right track.

I did a bit more research on the city and found that, like most cool places (and things) Adam and I 'discover,' everyone who is actually hip already knows about it. But it's all new to us.

The port is filled with ships, trade ships, cruise ships. And still buttressing the city are crumbly old forts on hidden islands, just out of sight from the shore. Inland, impressive stone churches cover entire city blocks and mossy cemeteries, massive museums of modern art and narrow, winding streets slow the flow of traffic. Dozens of public courtyards and statuesque fountains, tucked between funky bookstores and clothing consignment. In the old French Quarter, the morning light gorgeous white and, at night, we watched silent streaks of lightening from our third-floor window at the stately Mills House Hotel. Everywhere, the streets are lined with shaggy palms. Plus, Parisian breakfasts, a honey store, picnic platters, old-school dining rooms, a contemporary artist's co-op and design school and cornbread, always cornbread, every time you eat.

All overlaid with Charleston's own calmness, belying its controversial past and subtle suspicion of Yankees. Plus, just a whiff of pride and significant, but tolerable, humidity.

Charmed, naturally.

Low Country Cuisine

We have a friend, Shawna, a famous Ottawa food writer, who loves both Southern BBQ and, conversely, everything about Paris, France.

In Charleston, the two come together in ways so natural that the average traveler doesn't even notice. Like pulled pork with mustard sauce, instead of one based on tomato and brown sugar. Or coleslaw with bacon lardons and mayonnaise, a French condiment that we rarely attribute to the source. Pickles, relish, vinegar are on many tables and its not hard to get a flaky croissant for breakfast. These, from the 18th century Hugenot immigration; French Protestants who came to North America to escape persecution.

Of course, low-country cuisine emerged from a number of influences, like the indigenous and adapted recipes of Caribbean and African slaves (many who were forced to cook for wealthy white families. Their recipes were passed onto subsequent generations, right through to emancipation. The proximity to the coast is also a big influence; she-crab soup is a local specialty and sauteed shrimp is often used to top a serving of grits. In the days before refrigeration, fresh seafood could only be eaten along the coast, so the presence of shellfish in the low-country diet helps distinguish it from other versions of Southern cuisine. Charleston also has significant marshlands and the earliest colonialists quickly realized they were perfect for growing rice, both for local consumption and international export.

Charleston's modern food scene is far from a secret (droves of celebrities traveling to the city have driven prices up in the last few years). But it was all new for Adam and I. We've been eating boiled fresh peanuts, lightly fried-green tomatoes with delicate ranch dressing, thick wedges of cornbread with soft butter and South Carolinian honey; cold sherry coleslaw, cucumber and onion salad, cheesy gratin of summer squash and onions; buttermilk fried chicken with ham hock gravy; warm grits; chunky spiced applesauce (tastes like my mama's); lemon ice box pie; hoppin' john; new green beans and potatoes; tender pulled pork; collard greens (laced with bacon); kale salad; French lentils; key lime pie on a stick; local peach lager; Cheerwine soda; and several pints of unsweetened iced tea.

It might sound like we'd be full up, but we're just getting started.

Comment Contest!

Remember to join the comment contest; leave the best comment to win something from one of our road trip stops! So far, Adam's mum is leading the race.

Carolina Beach, North Carolina

Saturday morning, Adam and I took a two-hour ferry between Ocracoke and Cedar Island. Just as we were docking, we felt a sprinkle of rain, and by the time we started driving, it was coming down hard. We passed the island's one variety store, a few dozen trailers, sagging wooden houses and boarded up fish shacks. Within a few minutes, we were on a narrow road with a deep, dark bog on either side, no shoulder and no guardrail. It almost impossible to see, but there was no wayto pull over either.

Quickly, we realized that we had arrived in 'God's country'; there were massive churches every few hundred feet, some marked by digital marquees and all made from brick or stone with impressive steeples and manicured lawns. They stood in stark contrast to the area's obvious poverty; there were few schools or hospitals and communities consisted mainly of homegrown machine shops, dollar stores and tiny houses with broken screen doors. I grew up in a similar kind of place, a rural area of New Brunswick where residents give over a lot of their meager incomes to fund religious institutions.

As we drove along Highway 17, we also spotted banners hung from the chain-link fences lining the roads. Memorials, mementos, love letters to returning soldiers. "Welcome back to North Carolina. Where the beer is cold and your woman is hot." "Always under the same stars, finally under the same roof. Welcome home, Dad."

After several hours of driving, we pulled into Carolina Beach State Park, a beautiful forested area at the mouth of the Cape Fear River. The park is famous for the carnivorous flytraps, but we couldn't find any, partly because poachers have gotten a lot of them this summer. We spotted a couple of ground skinks (tiny brown lizards marked by a bright white stripe), though, along with several white-tailed deer, baby blue crabs and a brown beetle the size of a ping pong ball!

Part of Sunday, we had to sacrifice to doing laundry, so we drove into Wilmington, what seemed like a small, nowheresville port city. But it had such verve! We ate lunch at Chops, an edgy, locally-owned deli that uses only Boar's Head meats and cheeses in their sandwiches. Afterward, Adam took our laundry to a gritty laundromat/bar with craft beer, free wi-fi and an impressive collection of bathroom stall graffiti. I, meanwhile, bopped around downtown Wilmington, which is hosts to a pretty decent-sized film and TV industry (including Dawson's Creek). We also stopped at the Louise Cameron Art Gallery on the edge of town and saw a show by Fritizi Huber, a Wilmington native who was raised in a circus family.

Back, at the campsite, we played a round of washerboard with our neighbours and then went to the beach one last time. Very excited about the last freeze-dried meal for a while, but sad it's our last chance to be in the ocean.

Ocracoke Island, North Carolina

Thursday morning, Adam and I waited in line for the little ferry from Hatteras Island to Ocracoke, another island, much smaller, which is the last of the Outer Banks. The ferries that run the route are small and free and so the queue is long, but once aboard, we caught a salty breeze on deck and saw a slick gray dolphin jumping in and out of the water!

We loved Ocracoke immediately. It's small -- you can drive from one end to the other in fifteen or twenty  minutes -- and incredibly beautiful. The island has ponies (feral, not wild, just like the ones on Assateague) and we saw Paloma, the first filly to be born on the island in a couple decades, rolling around to cool off in the sand. The beaches here are lovely and clean (with no trucks!). And it's got a tiny, funky beach community with coffee stands, bake shops and little traffic (except from bikes and golf carts).

Since we were still on the camping leg of our journey, we picked out a site at the national campground, another rustic place to call home with cold showers and beach access just over the dunes. The waves were massive -- at least eight feet high, judging them against the top of Adam's head. This made for excellent rounds of 'tsunami,' a game I'm told that Adam and Chris made up years ago.

At night, the cool air coming off the water kept us fairly comfortable in the tent, although I was spooked when I spotted a sand-coloured crab coming out of a hole in the ground just beside us. We figured out that they sleep under the sand during the day and, at dusk, scuttle across the dunes to the beach to feed. As you probably know, crabs look a bit like naked spiders, have beady (but also cute) eyes and only walk sideways. A little unnerving to have them motoring around us while we slept.

Friday, we sought respite from the heat again at Ocracoke Coffee, a local hang-out filled with yoga instructors, sunburned surfers and piles of teenagers. We took a walk, afterward, literally down Back Road, strolling down to Zillie's, a gourmet food and wine shop with a great selection of beer and a four-seat bar. Naturally, Adam had to try a brew, so we cooled off, made friends with the owners and got a little tipsy -- all before lunch. The Ocracoke way, we're told! Adam 'got all North Carolina' on the way back to the car by taking off his t-shirt to beat the heat. Of course, ladies have to keep their clothes on and suffer.

Next stop is Carolina Beach. Catching the ferry off the island Saturday morning.