The Outer Banks to Asheville

What was I thinking? A hostel? I never wanted to stay in them when I was 22. Thirty years on my initial opinions have been utterly revalidated. I have learned to take notice at the difference between what is supposed to be happening and WHAT IS. And I have learned to take steps, even baby steps, back into something more ably resembling reality. 

I am so not 17 or 24 years old any more. Yet I felt safe if awkward, and eager to leave after my road weary collapse into my $60 (!) private room with one bathroom shared by, oh, ten kids. Amazing that this gets to be shoved into the been there done that portion of our show.... one night at a hostel before I die! It was too Adams Family 1970's hippie bullshit almost spooky weirdness. The young folk were nice, though. These could be my children; we were like you when we were your age, idealistic and adventurous. What is the cookie cutter carryover from one generation to the next? My parents' peers built bomb shelters in the backyards.

The last Pelican House retreat morning was an exultant lingering. We ate our last breakfast together and said some of our goodbyes. I had some scrambled eggs which stayed soft and delicate even over a burner, and let either Scot or Luba plop a spoonful of grits onto my plate. One bite of the salty blobbiness was all it took. It was later gently pointed out to me that it might be in my best interest to not be quite so vocal about disliking grits, at least around here. 

This swirl of coming together and then moving apart.... 

I went back to my room and, fueled but not full, jogged barefoot on the beach one last time. I didn't put on bug repellant. This is the last and I mean the last time in the South I go out in the summer for more than 2 minutes without bug repellant. My legs and bits of my arms are covered in welts. I can't even see 'em coming! These must be American Midgies (the Scottish term for Terminator gnats), 'cause I can hear the mosquitos a foot away.

I jogged through the shallow water. I saw little kids playing and looked at their seashells spelling out an upside-down HAPPY BIRTHDAY in a graveyard Scrabble. We scour through the skeletons of the dead. That's what seashells are. And we call them beautiful, scoop them up and take them home. 

I miss the ocean. Asheville is beautiful, cute, artsy, retro, hip - read all about it. And I'm jonesing for the waves, the sultry hot air that steamed my eyeglasses every time I stepped out of the air-conditioned retreat house looking for my beach flip-flops. I miss the pelicans. I miss the chorus of tree frogs every night that almost drowned out the sound of the waves. 

It was a long and numbing drive. It took over 8 hours. Unlike Trinity and Pelican in Salter Path, where I had friends before I even arrived, I know no one here. I feel a bit daunted. My replacement lodging of a Country Inns & Suites room is a Holiday Inn Express cousin and will do jest fine until I meet with my friend Joan in nearby Maggie Valley on Monday for a few days. After that... stay tuned. In the meantime, there's much to explore. And Church on Sunday at All Souls Cathedral!