The Luck

I am preparing to fly out for Asheville.  It will turn very cold while I'm there, not exactly what I was hoping for.  I'll need one of these hats.

I had imagined highs in the sixties and lots of energetic walking about with crowds of lovely people, me, camera in hand, starting a new career.  Such is the luck.

If I can post from there, I'll let you know.  Until then.

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I have checked into my room at the Grove Park Inn.  I am just a few doors down from the room F. Scott Fitzgerald used to stay in.  The bellman told me all about it.  I upgraded to a first class ticket coming up for just a bit more than the price for checking my two bags (don't ask), and was able to drink the difference away.  I hate flying coach.  Send me a 1st class ticket and I'll come see you.

It was dark when I got the rental car, and it was raining.  I have an economy car, some little Nissan that doesn't want to go more than fifty miles per hour.  The gas pedal pushes back after that.  My dilemma was whether to get right into the car and head downtown or to look around the hotel.  I made the mistake and did the latter.  I ate at the hotel bar and listened to a jazz band that was pretty good.  But the crowd was beat.  I had a burger because it was the cheapest thing and I didn't trust that the lobster tail with pasta would be any good.  I was probably wrong.  People spend a ton of money to come here and they charge a lot (a shot of the 12 year Glen Fiddich is $15).  By the time I'd eaten, though, I did not feel as if going downtown on a Wednesday night offered much.  Tomorrow.

So I am back in my room reading Fitzgerald and thinking about tomorrow.  The Spa here is something out of a Robert Altman film--"The Player."  More than that.  Google it.  Oh, hell. . . I'll do it for you.  I may splurge and let them work me over top to bottom.  It will be a wonderful thing to write about.

The Spa