The young man wore ragged clothes, beat-up shoes and a scruffy growth of more facial hair than I’ve seen in a long time. He was trudging up Lexington Avenue, a torn rucksack over one shoulder and a battered black guitar case over the other. This small kit seemed likely to be his current sum of belongings in the world. He paused at the corner, looked up at a street sign and pondered which way to go. I was just passing, driving a load of our furniture, books, electronics, linens, towels and endless kitchen and bath gear, bound for our new apartment near my wife’s new job and office.
Thirty-five years ago I was doing almost the same thing, wandering with a head full of unformed schemes and dreams, the future equal parts uncertainty and boundless possibility, the world an open book and life an adventure still unfolding.
Maybe we spend our lives in tight, largely unrecognized circles, treading paths guided by vague hints and notions, or, alternatively, by some deeply-hidden compass we most often never realize is at work. Whatever the case, somehow at 56 I’ve found myself stepping into a time warp, exiting a career and life I loved but which in some ways didn’t meet my expectations, and popping out in a city that seems fresh with the vibrancy and questioning I once was deeply tuned to.
I graduated from high school and started college in 1973. My time was shaped by the Vietnam War, the Civil Rights Movement and the protests of the 1960s. I was a few years too young to experience the full force of those events, but their power still lingered and informed the years when I became my own person. Part of me didn’t trust anyone over 30, and certainly didn’t trust our government, believing instead in some vague idea of relying on simplicity, common sense and people’s better natures. Money and possessions were suspect, along with traditional careers, and life was supposed to be about discovering that true inner compass, no matter how deeply hidden, and then following it. It’s a caricature, for sure, but I’ll admit it: I searched for mine in a VW bus with characters from a Grateful Dead album cover painted on the side.
It’s probably no surprise that I floundered around. A lot. Eventually times changed and so did I; I needed a job, a more defined purpose, even a career, and managed to stumble into one – newspaper journalism – that seemed to suit me. I tried not to give up my ideals, no matter how vague they were, and tried to stay in touch with that inner compass. I did well enough in my field to be comfortable, and had a lot of fun, too. But my deep questioning was for the most part silenced, or at least slid beneath the necessity of meeting daily challenges. The world and my future weren’t limitless any longer, but they weren’t bad.
Stepping into Asheville, though, seems like turning back the clock and stepping back into a bit of who I once was, or at least climbing onto a platform that gives a nice view of a scene I once knew well but thought had largely faded from this country. The place is filled with young drifters, artists and musicians, activists and non-conformists, and, equally genuine, a far larger majority of more “normal” people. Having once driven a VW bus, I like the vibe. There are head shops and used-clothing boutiques, galleries high-brow and low, yoga and meditation centers, community groups backing every conceivable cause, ideology and whimsy, bars with a stunning variety of live music, eclectic bookshops and lofts where the lights shine late at night and young folks sipping wine wander in deep conversation or study their next move on some work of art in wood, paint, words, melody or their own unique medium. It feels like the kind of place where a young poet might share a house on a street like Montague and someday sing or write about it in meaningful ways. It seems like the kind of place where searching for an inner compass is not considered indulgent or useless, but even sort of the point.
To be sure, Asheville is in some ways a parody, almost so hip, funky and alternative that it has its own built-in conformity. And maybe some of its wandering non-conformists are hopelessly naïve.
I don’t know if I grew up and left all that dreaming behind, and I don’t know if it’s a good thing I did. Perhaps seeing a young hippie wandering up the street might not seem so evocative at 56 if I was still in his shoes and hadn’t purchased at least a modicum of material security with years spent on the corporate treadmill.
But I do know I really liked seeing him. I really liked hearing the faint echoes of a beat I once found vibrating all around me and deep inside, one that is still largely drowned out by our instant, frantic culture.
It struck me later that as he looked up at that street sign, that young man did not do what it seems 95 percent of the rest of us would do these days: whip out a smart phone to call somebody (and what? Validate the moment?). He didn’t consult a far-off computer to tell him where he was or where to go. He was alone, and I’m pretty sure that was part of his purpose. It meant he was likely to learn something, probably about himself.