We first visited Asheville in 2003 and moved here in 2005.  At the time, Asheville was widely touted as one of the best places to retire.  The city (2005 population was 75,000) had a thriving and diverse art culture and offered many opportunities for older-adult community participation and continuing education.  Not only that, Asheville was home to The Biltmore Estate, one of the top tourist destinations in North Carolina.  The city was the perfect base for exploring the bounty of mountains, rivers, waterfalls and forests that give the area its unique geographic identity.

What could go wrong?

Tourism and the commercial development that local business interests encouraged have made our downtown streets at least 50% more congested than they were 15 years ago, whereas our population has grown by “only” 20% since then.  I find that I cannot drive anywhere in the Haywood Street / Grove Arcade area without feeling like I’m playing some high-stress video game whose goal is to avoid hitting pedestrians walking out from everywhere.  Thanks to tourism (I cannot blame retirees — there are only so many times a year retirees shop for hand-made chocolates and high-end hiking gear), we stopped venturing into downtown Asheville on weekend evenings some 10 years ago.  And then we stopped visiting downtown Asheville on any summer evening about 5 years ago.  Now, unless we have out-of-town visitors, we pretty much wait until January to go downtown.

Asheville, or shall I say, the business and political forces in the area, pushed and prodded and pushed some more until this city finally became the Myrtle Beach of the Mountains.  Local thoroughfares bottle up with traffic at 8am and 4pm as if this city were twice its size. Commercial interests, not just hotels — but including hotels, who have doubled in number in the last ten years — exploited the “local charm” of downtown and have nearly sold it out from under us.  City mothers and fathers have not responded.  They seem to be paralyzed.

It seems that no one ever does a study about when the golden goose is too big to lay her next egg.  Instead, the idea is to just keep feeding the goose until it dies.

ADDENDUM

Three days after this post was published, my wife convinced me to go downtown to visit the Southern Highlands Craft Fair at the US Cellular Center (top of this map).  It was a pleasant October Friday.  We arrived downtown about 10:30 in the morning.  I dropped off my wife at the door and headed to the Civic Center Garage.  It was full, of course.  So I drove around the block to the Rankin Garage.   I found a police car blocking the entrance, since that garage was full as well.  I drove two more blocks over to the Wall Street Garage.  It was full.  And all the on-street parking I passed along the way, full.

I finally stumbled upon an on-street space at the corner of Otis and French Broad Avenue, a quarter-mile away, and hustled over to the civic center to rejoin my wife fifteen minutes after I had dropped her off.

After the show, I left my wife at the door (she recently had knee surgery) and returned to the car.  I headed south on Otis so that I could circle around the block and pick her up at the front of the civic center.  At least, that was the plan — I sat through two red-light cycles at Otis and Patton waiting to turn left, which was impossible due to congestion on Patton.  I decided not to sit through another — I did a u-turn from the left-turn lane, circled around and approached the civic center from the opposite direction,  and then did another u-turn to pick up my wife waiting in front of the building.

I figure I spent about thirty minutes total dealing with parking and traffic, for the sake of a forty-minute visit to a craft show.  But I would have experienced the same frustration if my reason for going downtown was an eye appointment.  The fact that this is now the norm in Asheville is why I say my city has been handed over to the tourism industry, as our hapless city and county leaders for the most part looked on.

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In session, there is no beer... That's why I drink it here (right here!)... And when I'm gone from here... The Lefties will be drinking all my beer!

As with heavy drinking, heavy perjuring is good cause for one to be removed from the bar.

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• Some people “collect” experiences.  For example, there are those whose goal is to attend a baseball game in every major league park in a single season.  There are those who wish to step foot on every continent.  One person’s mission was to visit a pub next to each of the 270 underground stations in London.  And one person, it seems, intends to view every one of the 110 films (and counting) in which Liam Neeson has performed.  Indeed, I am now sort-of watching what may be either the 27th or 43rd or 71st of those films, along with the aforementioned person.  I have nothing against Liam Neeson, mind you — he perfected the role of the sensitive, tough-under-fire problem-solver extraordinaire, the very trait that my co-watcher admires in me.

• I never served in the armed forces.  Everything I know (and don’t know) about serving in the armed forces comes from films.  If I were to believe how military service is depicted in modern films, I would conclude that only the baddest of the bad-asses, or those who want to become bad-asses, need apply.  Compare this image with those who served in (and won) World War II: factory workers and salesmen, florists and actors, plumbers and painters.  Everyday guys, your dad and mine.  At least that is what I learned from those John Wayne and Robert Mitchum films.

• Why is train travel not very popular in the United States?  For the answer, consider this: when a film calls for its hero to become trapped and hurtle near-powerlessly to his demise, what vehicle is chosen as his conveyance?  Elephant?  Rickshaw?  Segway?  No — train.  People distrust trains in films and for good reason: they are enormously heavy, have tons of momentum and ride slippery rails.  All that romantic clickety-clack is just a distraction from the high-speed havoc underfoot.

• When a Cheerio falls onto the floor, I leave it there — it may help save a drowning ant.

• I just opened a gallon of milk whose container insists that I should have consumed it several days ago.  I think the fact that I bought the milk before it expired and took it home and kept it nice and cold before I opened it should count for something.  Ungrateful milk.  We’ll see whether it seeks revenge.

• It is probably wiser to let words flow like wine than the other way around — but this may depend on how one chooses her words.

• I need to read more Nietzsche.  I may not agree with even half of his aphorisms but I did appreciate this one: “Convictions are more dangerous foes of truth than lies.”  Given the convictions of Congressional Republicans and the lies that emanate from the White House, it would seem that, together, they’ve got things covered.

• So the Scrabble Gods have decreed that a few hundred words that were already words will now count as words.  They also decided OK will count as a word, even though it is not.  I guess OK must have won the Scrabble Electoral College.

• There are takers and partakers.  Some of the latter are as intolerable as the former.

• People’s final wishes are not so much wishes for themselves (since they won’t experience them) but the experience they would force upon whomever has to deal with their earthly remains.  Making elaborate plans for others to carry out (my nostalgic wish was to have my ashes scattered in Schenley Park in Pittsburgh) is not very considerate.  So, I say give your survivors a break — don’t direct them from the grave and don’t ask them to do gratuitous things.  And I say to my loved ones, when I’m gone, do what works for you.  You’ll know what that is, and we may all rest assured that I will not object.

• All this rumination about final arrangements… it must be the milk.

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