Oranges and Pimento Peppers

Posted on November 23, 2014 by mreilova

By Alexa Dysch – 2014

In the strangest of places and in the most unexpected of ways, a bit of Florida followed me to the mountains of North Carolina.

It started innocently, and crept up slowly. Like a guardian angel sitting on my shoulder, comfort strangely enveloped me in what I expected to be unfamiliar surroundings. Through my initial research, our destinations appeared so different to the town that I grew up in, yet here and there, I found my roots following along. This phenomenon began at our most Western point, Murphy. We met single retirees and young couples alike who visited and fell in love with the mountainous area. I was amused by this coincidence, but when it started happening frequently, I knew there had to be something more.

This blend of cultures continued when we reached Franklin. It was about 3:30PM and we were famished- the nearby shops were closing, and we had a drive ahead of us to Highlands.

We quickly ran into the first place we saw: Life’s Bounty Cafe. Glancing at the menu, I decided to go with a traditional Western barbecue sandwich. Yet, I was surprised as I glanced into the bakery boxes that they had fresh, homemade Cuban bread. I decided to take a chance and try a North Carolinian classic with a Floridian staple. Needless to say, the combination was perfect. The juicy, slightly sweet pork melted into the crunchy, dense dough. I immediately felt transported to a sunny, warm beach, despite the frost that gathered on the window outside.

I was surprised, yet felt an instant connection when I walked into the shop. As I conversed with the shop owners, they had a sense about them that felt familiar but not North Carolinian.

To accompany my sandwich, I had the perfect taste of home — a guava and cheese pastry. This South Floridian sweet treat usually gifted me after a long day of school. Needless to say, it was the first Cuban pastry I had come across in North Carolina. The dough was perfectly flaky and buttery, as the tang of fresh guava and a salty bite of creamy cheese brightened my mouth.

As I took my first bite, I looked at the shop owners with wide eyes. They simply smiled, in a wry, South Floridian way. Suddenly, I knew. I asked them what part of Florida they were from, and we continued to have a lengthy conversation about our favorite Southern spots and the traffic that incensed us.

This experience continued through each town we visited; we ran into more Floridians than we did North Carolinians! In equal parts, I was in awe, delight and slight annoyance that my hometown seemed to follow wherever I went. Despite the massive cultural differences between small, mountainous towns in North Carolina and my sprawling, urban hometown in Florida, the two felt oddly comfortable to me. Yet, in my array of emotions, I was thankful above all that I had the opportunity to explore two completely different regions and be able to reflect upon the similarities that struck me. Driving along the twists and turns of mountain roads made my heart flutter in more ways than one.

Oranges — A guava cheese pastry, enjoyed in the town of Franklin.

Nantahala

Posted on November 23, 2014 by mreilova

By Emilia Azar – 2014

Nantahala’s direct Cherokee translation is “Land of the Noonday Sun.” What I saw of Nantahala was not the town in the light of noonday sun, but rather in the darkness of a midnight moon. It is a picturesque, Hollywood-worthy version of a small, cozy mountain town. The population is just over 1,700 people and this astounding notion is echoed by the town’s general store, single gas station, and single restaurant. This is no exaggeration. There is one place to get gas, and one place to pay for a meal. Though according to Ronny Sanders, you will not find a tastier home-cooked meal than in Nantahala’s own restaurant.

Ronny is a 24-year old Nantahalan whom we met at Chevelle’s Restaurant and Bar that second night of our trip. He stood out that night with his highlighter yellow shirt. I first noticed him sitting alone near the stage of Chevelle’s, where his friend – Andrew Chastain – was playing a show for a few hours. Andrew had that scruffy, pleasant country voice that makes you want to prop your elbow on a table, cup your chin in your hand, and listen to him sing and play the guitar in almost a lullaby-like trance. Ronny was shouting out his support, cutting into my trance with a “Yeah Andrew!” here and there in-between songs. The few glances I snuck at him proved that he had a kind face, and was a full supporter of the man in front of me singing and strumming along on his guitar. After an hour or so, Katie and I decided to get some fresh air and step out into the cold.

Ronny came out a few minutes later and introduced himself. He then asked us what we were doing in town. This was not an uncommon occurrence; the four of us stood out in Murphy and we had many people curiously ask us who we were and what we were doing in Murphy of all places. Ronny kept up a conversation with us after we told him that we were writers here doing research. What kind of research? What was this website? Why Murphy? As we continued to answer his various questions, Ronny did something funny. As people walked into or out of Chevelle’s, he opened the door for them. Every single one of them: male, female, old, young. He would continue looking at us intently, grab the door handle, and tell whoever was passing through the door “to have a nice night.” I had never seen someone with such honest southern manners, and a keen desire to greet as many people as possible. Most 20-something men just don’t do that.

“Can I show you guys something that might be cool for your writing?” He looked at both Katie and I with a gleam in his eyes, and we were intrigued. He continued on, telling us that he wanted to show us a lookout point in his own town of Nantahala. It would involve driving up a mountain with several twists and turns for awhile. According to Ronny, the whole trip would take close to forty-five minutes. But he guaranteed that when we got to the top, the view would be worth it. The landmark, he said, is called Wayah Bald Lookout Tower and has a vantage point of 5,342 feet in elevation surrounded by the Nantahala National Forest. If we went soon, the full moon would hopefully provide enough light to see north to the Great Smoky Mountains in Tennessee and south to the rolling hills of Georgia. While going to a faraway lookout point with someone you had met just a few hours before sounds questionable, something about Ronny allowed us to trust him. He was open and kind, and had a child-like sense of humor. The allure of the lookout point was just too tempting… so why not? We went.

After almost an hour of driving, half of which was around bendy twists of mountainous terrain that left me feeling light-headed, we reached Wayan Bald. It was just what Ronny had described it be, and more. We walked a few minutes from his Jeep to the stone structure that was built in 1937 to be Wayah Bald Fire Tower. When we climbed the stairs to the top, I felt my breath catch in my throat. The lights of several cities glittered beneath us, embedded in the dark moonlit shadows of mountains and hills. Ronny pointed out Franklin to our far left, where we would be traveling to the next day. He described the different sections of the beautifully lit dots that were houses and landmarks, but to me it all felt like a sub-reality anyway. The dots were just a part of a dream. As we looked at the mix of man-made beauty and nature below us, I couldn’t help but feel a bittersweet, hard-to-pinpoint emotion. “You really love this place don’t you?” I asked Ronny rather out-of-the-blue. He looked at me and shrugged, with a playful smile. “Don’t you? It’s so hard to think of ever leaving this place. Just look around you.” I continued to, and had to admit that I agreed with part of his sentiment.

This is where the differences between the young man from Nantahala and the young woman from New York City/Durham really set in. He was happy to remain in this mountain paradise that he called home. But I am a world traveler by nature and by heart. The view that surrounded me was so beautiful that it made me want to stay, but simultaneously crave to find new views that would again give me this peaceful feeling. And when you are truly torn like this, that is when you know you are experiencing something worth writing a piece about one day soon.

Back in the Mountains

Posted on November 19, 2014 by mreilova

By Miranda Allan – 2014

You can take the girl out of the mountains, but you can’t take the mountains out of the girl.

Nothing sets me on edge like when people criticize rural living. I lived in southeast New Hampshire for eighteen years and I look forward to the day that I will settle there again. I can promise that a country lifestyle is the farthest thing from boring. My hometown (population 4,000) is situated within an hour or two from the mountains, the ocean, and the great city of Boston. Rural communities are plentiful with outdoor activities such as hiking, camping, swimming, boating, rock-climbing, biking, and snow and water skiing, to name only a few. I miss the variety of recreation in the suburbs, so when I found myself in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains, I felt like I had found a place where I belonged, though for only a short time.

I didn’t realize that I had been craving the mountain life until I was back in it. The mountains weren’t exactly new to me, but in the best way. I had the unique experience of adding new places to my travels while also feeling as if I was going home.

My sense of newfound nostalgia peaked as my group members and I drove up to Jump Off Rock in Hendersonville. Dustin, our driver, was enjoying the breakneck turns too enthusiastically for me to fully take in my surroundings, but what I did see was comparable to some of the most beautiful vistas I’ve ever experienced. I carry with me a vivid picture of the morning sunlight breaking over a ridge and spilling into the valley of an impeccably rustic golf course. From our vantage point on the road running serpentine along its rim, I could look down onto the oak trees punctuating the greens. Though it was a very brisk morning in the foothills, I could easily see the temptation that draws golfers back to the course time and again.

I also have a great fondness for mountain people. If I may impart a generalization, I think that those who perform good, honest labor tend to be good, honest people. The wonderful thing about the mountains is that usually people visit or live there out of genuine desire to do so. I did not come across anyone in Lake Lure or Lenoir suffering from cabin fever; everyone seemed genuinely pleased to be a local. I’m not pretending that this is always the case; certainly there are those who are stuck in a situation they can’t avoid, but generally speaking the mountains have a higher concentration of content inhabitants and tourists.

Mountaineers are rugged, warm, and utterly lacking in affect. You simply don’t see people putting on airs for each other in a town like Bat Cave. Maybe this is because smaller towns feel more familial. No one wishes to compete with or belittle their neighbor in such tight quarters; it is only logical to treat each other with respect and kindness. Perhaps I’m cheesy (one could make a very strong case that I am) but in my opinion there is a distinction between a municipality and a community. It was my heartfelt pleasure to visit these friendly communities along Highway 64.

Or perhaps it is the vitalizing quality of the mountain air that breeds goodness. I have a longstanding belief (founded on virtually no actual knowledge) that clean, chlorophyll-enriched air is good for the constitution. It’s possible that I’ve read too many Jane Austen novels where Victorian young ladies escape from stuffy sitting rooms to the countryside to improve their health, but the fact of the matter is that fresh air makes me feel cleansed. There is nothing more gratifying than taking pure, brisk air into your lungs when you have been breathing climate control for weeks. So yes, mountain air makes me feel good.

On that frigid morning atop Jump Off Rock, I felt a twinge of that sweet sadness that signals a small wave of homesickness. The tableau may be cliché: a displaced country girl waxing nostalgia as she gazes upon a distant mountain ridge. Still, I would be a negligent travel writer if I didn’t report on my Highway 64 experience in such detail. Honestly, nostalgia is a welcome feeling sometimes. I was happy to be reminded of a thousand childhood memories that could easily have taken place in the foothills of North Carolina, under different circumstances. Home is a plane ride away but I’ll never be more than a short car ride away from the mountains.

Finding a World of Art & Coffee

Posted on November 19, 2014 by mreilova

By Gina Apperson – 2014

A good adventure can only be fueled by coffee. As Dustin, Miranda and I began our journey in the foothills of North Carolina, inspired by the views of Blue Ridge Mountains and the changing leaves around us, one of our first stops in downtown Hendersonville was the coffee shop, Jongo Java. Coming off of Highway 64, we arrived on Main Street, where people were setting up tents for farmers’ markets and Hendersonville’s 55th annual Art on Main festival along the road. Jongo Java was easy to spot, with its lime green signage. We parked right in front of the shop, and walked in to get our first taste of the town.

I first started drinking coffee six months ago when I studied abroad in Spain and traveled around Europe. Since then, as quite the newbie coffee drinker, I tend to equate travel with coffee. I was excited to start our Highway 64 trip with a latte or mocha at Hendersonville’s first environmentally-friendly coffee shop. From what I discovered, Jongo Java not only had a good menu, but also an upbeat community vibe. From the outside, you could tell it was where the locals go.

When I first stepped into the shop, I was immediately inspired. Hand painted art dotted the walls, which were painted with different swirls of green, purple, orange and blue. Several groups of people sat at wooden tables, surrounded by different types of chairs including a yellow salon chair with a hair dryer attached. We first walked around the shop, which was pretty large with two main sections, one up at the front by the counter and one section in the back, where people were quietly working on laptops or reading. A large sculpture of a swordfish hung on a back wall with a stack of used books on a nearby shelf.

After taking a look around, I decided to try some coffee. Jack and Mariah were the two employees working behind the counter. Since I was unsure what to get (like I am at most coffee places), Mariah asked me what kind of flavors I liked. I told her anything with coconut, and then I found their “Tarzan” drink, a chocolate & coconut latte. I ordered it with almond milk, and Mariah looked for coconut shavings in the back of the store to place on top of the whipped cream foaming in the to-go cup. We chatted a little bit, and I learned more about the history of Jongo Java, which has been open for almost five years. Along with its fair trade, naturally grown coffee and espresso, Jongo Java also offers organic yogurt and smoothies made with local fruit. This appealed to me, and looking around the coffee shop, I also realized that the coffee and food isn’t the only fuel at Jongo Java.

Its atmosphere cultivates creative thoughts and a creative community. While Miranda and Dustin explored other spots in downtown Hendersonville, I felt content to sip on my coffee and talk to a retired couple from Florida in Jongo Java. Jack comes by to give them their regular Saturday morning breakfast order. They mention how they love the friendliness of Jongo Java-Jack always remembers their order. Not to mention, the dog-friendly outdoor seating area is perfect for them. This also means the world to Caroline, a young pet boutique owner, who sits at the bar area and orders a small dark coffee that morning.

Caroline is also a regular at Jongo Java, which is two blocks away from her business, Wag! Pet Boutique, which she started after college at Virginia Tech. She tells me about the other regulars at Jongo Java. Rachel is an artist. Tom is a writer. Bill is a musician. And Bob is a Wells Fargo financial advisor. They frequent the coffee shop and chat about all things from religion, to politics, from jokes to pure existence. Caroline notes the diversity in the group and the diverse culture of Hendersonville in general: people are from rural countrysides to suburban areas or southern cities. As we chat in Jongo Java, dads with their young kids come into the shop and older couples enjoy sitting in the sun by the plants in the window.

This may be my favorite thing about exploring Hendersonville: its authenticity. I felt welcomed in the coffee shop, into this community without borders, that embraces the unique, the different and out-of-place. This is the place where customers hang their personal coffee mugs on the wall. Art is accepted, whether its a drawing of coffee on a sheet of loose leaf paper or a canvas painting of bright honeydew-colored combat boots. Jongo Java is a jungle of stories, art and ideas that not only brighten the room, but energize its people. Spun in its web of artful treasures and coffee masterpieces, I not only sit in Jongo Java, I feel all of Hendersonville.

I leave Jongo Java empowered for the journey ahead. Dustin, Miranda and I take to the streets of Hendersonville, passing by multiple bear sculptures decorated for a charity auction. We see the streets full of art pieces as the cool wind blows. Then we get back into the car after we finish touring the farm and art markets. But before we head out of town, we drive two blocks away from Jongo Java to stop in the middle of the street in front of Caroline’s pet boutique. I jumped out of the car to take a peek inside. While I am not a pet person, it was interesting to see how Caroline set up her business out of college and to see how she turned a passion into a living community. A man named Ben was supplying homemade pet treats for the store and a variety of unique collars and pet accessories lined the walls inside. I thanked Caroline for all her help in making Hendersonville feel like home for the short time we were there.

Getting back in the car, I finished the last of my coffee and plugged in our next destination into the GPS on my phone. As we drove towards Bat Cave on Highway 64, my thoughts still lingered with scenes from Hendersonville. I found myself missing the coffee shops I discovered in Europe. Jongo Java would fit in perfectly with them. Its coffee served with a side of stories was my catalyst for living openly on our Highway 64 trip, welcoming the day to come.

Snapshot of Nashville, NC

Posted on November 18, 2014 by mreilova

By Kyle Lynch – 2014

When you drive into Nashville, North Carolina, you are immediately greeted by a large, intimidating brick building. A quick glance and you can read the sign for the Nash County Sheriff’s Office, directly across the street from the criminal court. Although both imposing structures, they do not properly represent the town of Nashville.

A slow drive down Washington Street showed you all the staples of an old-time town. A local tool shop, a florist, a library, a furniture store. All the shops looked old and weathered, yet not run-down.

A block off the open main road and you found the street covered in large trees, draping over the curbs providing some shade from the setting sun. Large Victorian houses lined the streets, their front lawns covered in autumn leaves. Just one block from the main town and you became engulfed in a quaint little suburb.

Things I Lost

Posted on November 18, 2014 by mreilova

By Eliza Williams – 2014

2.05 p.m. My watch ticked as I stood waiting in the Boar’s Head group that crowds the deli in downstairs Colonnades right after classes every day. I glared down as the clock hands passed on and on, minute by minute. Taylor would be pulling into the parking lot to pick me up any minute. I felt my pocket buzz and reached down to see the notification. “Here,” read the text on my screen. This was it – the weekend I had been waiting for! Ever since Dr. Strickland had told us about this research project we would be conducting, I couldn’t contain my excitement one bit. Once my sandwich came off the hot press, I would toss my bags into Taylor’s car and we would start the drive to our first stop on Highway 64.

Tunes up (Country, of course), we hit the road and drove to Rocky Mount where we planned to visit the Rocky Mount Diner and pick up a souvenir. Thanks to Elon’s Media Services we were able to rent a GoPro to document our journey so GoPro in hand, we strolled into the diner – I was carrying the GoPro and definitely got some looks from the local patrons. We were lucky enough to interview one of the General Managers before stopping in Tarboro for a while to walk around and explore the quaint town. Before it got too dark, we got back onto the highway to drive to our hotel in Plymouth, The Sportsman’s Inn. Sad as it was to leave our first two towns and their charming inhabitants behind, we were struck by the immense beauty of the trip down 64. Florida Georgia Line, Scotty McCreery, Parmalee and a slew of other Country artists comprised the perfect playlist as we drove through the “country,” filled with fields of peanuts, soy beans, tobacco, and cotton. Coming from the north, I was so amazed to see this other side of life, one to which I had never been accustomed. And, you can imagine my reaction when we stopped to pick cotton. We swooned at the old-style plantations with their iconic wrap around porches and swore that we would buy one of our own one day. We arrived to our hotel in time to check-in before going to indulge ourselves in some local dishes at a nearby restaurant. A few days prior to leaving on the trip, I had called ahead to a hotel and spoken with the terribly friendly receptionist named Matt. He was kind enough to offer us a great deal for two nights at his hotel and couldn’t have been more hospitable during our stay. He provided us with all the information we needed to know about the area and even lent us a book about the Roanoke River and surrounding area. Being inspired by an episode of Anthony Bourdain: No Reservations we watched in class a few weeks before, I opted for an exotic dish for dinner. Something I had never seen on a menu before (apparently it’s common in the south?) is gizzards and livers. Well, I tend to “live on the edge,” or at least take some uncalculated chances and since it was unknown to both me and Taylor, I knew I had to try it. The young, high school-age girl, Phylis, who took our order was shocked at my willingness to try it but relayed the order to the back without questioning my motives. I must admit, I was surprised at my eagerness to try this….dish. Similar to my weirdest food experience that I wrote about in my Squeezal paper for class, this dish was something I had never had put in front of me. Essentially, I was faced with a paper plate full of round, fried parts of a chicken. The taste was unique. Gizzards, I learned, are tough and full of muscle…very difficult to chew. Livers, on the other hand, are softer and have a bit more of a bitter taste. Despite the struggle to eat the mound of fried food on my plate, this was perhaps one of my favorite memories of the weekend. I was constantly surrounded by friendly and warm people whose first priority was hospitality. The sense of community and support for each other was enormous, whether we were at the Sunny Side Oyster Bar, kickin’ it with Famous Floyd and my friends the duck hunters, or we were standing out on Jennette’s Pier licking ice cream cones and watching the surfers. People, strangers to each other, would sit side-by-side and chat, sharing stories from their past and forming connections that lead to solidified friendships. Their desire to build deep relationships with each other was at the forefront of everyone’s mind. The towns we visited were nothing like Raleigh, Charlotte, or even Greensboro but, I learned that every place has a special charm regardless of preconceptions. Plymouth has its intense Civil War history, Jamesville – its special connection to the Roanoke River, Williamston – its special community and active residents striving to make their town the best it can be. Each of the eleven towns had admirable characteristics that drew Taylor and I closer and made it that much harder when we had to close the car doors and drive off. I left Elon with perceptions of the state and the people in it as those to whom I have been exposed. Boy, was I wrong. I was stripped of this perception upon driving through the first town. I was stripped of any judgments I might have had about people or their backgrounds. I lost these things and gained a new insight on this state. When you are thrown into a new environment, it is only to your detriment to enter with your guard up and with judgments about people you have never met and places you have never visited. So, as we stood on the pier and stared out into the blue abyss I couldn’t help but be proud of what I had lost.

Zebulon: The City of ZzZzZz

Posted on November 6, 2014 by mreilova

By Caroline Zybala – 2014

We passed through Zebulon on a dreary Sunday afternoon and were greeted by a small, tree-lined downtown that was devoid of any people. We were able to park in one of the many open spots and walk down around downtown for a while. Barham’s Family Restaurant looked like a quaint café to grab “country breakfast” or lunch; unfortunately, they were closed by the time we arrived. We were also made a stop at Lizard Lick Towing, the company that stars in the TRUtv television show. We walked around the parking lot, hoping to find a representative to talk to, but the theme of the day continued, and again, there was no one to be found.

Letting Wanderlust Lead the Way

Posted on November 6, 2014 by mreilova

By Alexa Dysch – 2014

Wanderlust: “A strong desire for or impulse to wander or travel and explore the world” (oxforddictionaries.com). One of the strongest effects associated with travel writing, condensed into a single definition. Yet, as travelers know, this desire cannot be surmised into one sentence. When I find myself out of my surroundings, free of my usual schedule, this feeling strikes like no other. It caught me in Brasstown while I wandered along a small strip of artisan shops, from Silva’s Gallery to the Frog and Dragon Boutique. Without a plan, without a worry, merely a walk with no end in mind. Chance meetings occurred, stories were shared, and lessons were learned, all of which would be irrevocably lost without this lucky adventure. Relying on the monotony of a schedule can be beneficial, but letting wanderlust lead the way opens the door to enlightenment and a changed life.

Marriage and Business in Appalachia

Posted on November 6, 2014 by mreilova

By Alexa Dysch – 2014

What’s the key to a successful marriage? Is it great communication? Never-ending passion? Alone time? What about a thriving business? As it appears in the Appalachians, a busy, prosperous restaurant is vital to the marriages of mountain folk. From Shoebooties Café and Cherokee Cellars in Murphy, to Mountaintop Wine Shoppe in the Highlands, husband and wife teams are serving up delicious dishes seasoned with the spice that comes from a marriage full of love and depth. When asked about how to keep their businesses flourishing without sacrificing their relationship, most couples concluded that the key was to have different and distinct responsibilities. Divide and conquer, ‘till death do us part.

Four Stories From Brevard: A Travelogue by Nicole Esplin, Casey Brown, Margaret Bryant, and Hillary Dooley

Posted on December 6, 2013 by hdooley

Searching for a Souvenir

By Nicole Esplin, 2013

I’m still a child at heart. When I was younger, I was a die-hard souvenir collector and although I don’t have an organized stash anymore, if you look around my room you’ll notice mementos from trips scattered about. There’s a starfish necklace from St. Thomas, my name on a piece of rice from Virginia, skiing medals from Colorado and a candle from Asheville. Naturally, I started panicking when I realized we were already at our last stop in Brevard and all I had to bring home was some honey and pumpkin bread, which would likely not make it past Hickory on the ride back to Elon.

After eating a quick lunch and browsing a few stores, the itch for something real and truly special from this trip set in. I began scouring the stores and asking the owners about their businesses, hoping for some kind of story to go with my souvenir. I wasn’t looking for an airport t-shirt. Anyone can pick up a “Washington D.C.” t-shirt at the airport on their way home. I was looking for something to remember Brevard with.

Ten years ago, I would have happily settled for one of the stuffed white squirrels in the tourist-filled “White Squirrel Shop,” but I veered towards the smaller stores, still looking for that inspiration to buy something for more than its monetary value. Brevard reminds me of a smaller Asheville; less quirky but more homey and community focused. I wandered into a little hippie shop that sold local fine arts, crafts, jewelry and other trinkets. The sign out front said “Local Color,” and I felt like I was at home. A tall man with long brown hair and a hawaiian-style shirt stood behind the register and welcomed me, offering his assistance. He opened the shop 4 years ago after moving to Brevard to escape the “urban sprawl.” His name is Paul, and his wife’s name is Pauline. Here’s my story.

As I browsed the store, Paul described exactly how he ended up in Brevard at this little shop.

“I’ve lived in Brevard for 18 years,” Paul said. “I grew up outside Chicago and it was pretty busy. I moved to Raleigh in ’86 and lived there for 3 years before moving to Pittsboro, right near [Jordan] lake.”

Paul stayed in Pittsboro until the town announced that they would make Highway 64 a 4-lane expressway right past his home. So, Paul did what any righteous North Carolinian would do and drove down Highway 64 until he found the right town to settle in.

“I didn’t want to see Pittsboro change from the highway,” Paul said. “I fell in love with Brevard right away.”

Shortly after moving to Brevard, Paul met his wife, Pauline, who was working at another store down the street from Local Color. After Paul lost his job in the building supply industry, he decided to help Pauline open her own shop, which is now Local Color.

“There’s about 100 artists and 70 are from the area,” Paul said. “We have a mixture of some resale areas and some new items from the area. “

I found my souvenir tucked in a corner. It’s a simple wooden plaque with a sailboat and the words “You can’t change the wind, but you can adjust the sails,” painted on. The painting spoke to me, and it matched the colors of my room. But more so Paul’s story spoke to me, and I knew that this store was where I was going to buy my trip memento. Not because I couldn’t find anything else I liked more at the next store, but because of Paul’s association with Highway 64 and his free spirit to uproot his home and move somewhere simpler. The mountains are a simple place, a place where people move to get away from the congestion of city life in central N.C. while maintaining close friendships with community members. I couldn’t help but smile as we walked back to the car and I felt my wooden plaque weighing down my purse. I had found a souvenir that was more than just an artist’s work. The journey had given me insight into the town of Brevard itself.

The Meaning of Community

By Casey Brown, 2013

I know what it’s like to have a community you’re proud of. I was raised in the Boston area, which instills pride in its residents from birth. We’re proud of our rich history, of our distinct culture, our sports teams. We stand by and defend our way of life, much like the patriots did when we were still under English rule. But I don’t think I’ve realized how deeply pride can move you until my visit to Brevard.

When Mags and I ate at the Phoenix restaurant, it was all about celebrating what’s local. They proudly boast that 90% of their menu comes from local farmers and markets. The other 10% is seafood from the coast. The walls are coated in art from local artists and they are all for sale. Bobby, the mariachi guitarist we met in downtown Brevard, was proud to be in the town. He was an avid supporter for his friend Kim Provost’s upcoming city council campaign and while he was moving to Chicago, he couldn’t wait to return to his town in Brevard. Kim Provost, the owner of Hunters and Gatherers, has used her store to promote American-made products. She supports her community and now is giving back to it by running for office.

In Brevard, the people are proud of their little city. But more than that, they are willing to preserve it. Their pride motivates them to do something more productive, to give back to the city that has given them a life, a family, a home. It’s an admirable sense of purpose the people of Brevard seem to feel about their community.

Leaving Brevard after witnessing this affection for home, it made me really think about my future. I want to move to Los Angeles after graduation, but spending time in the mountains made me really rethink that decision. Did I really want to move to a city where I’d become a faceless member of a community so vast, you’d never really be recognized? It’s sort of a depressing thought. I’m still not sure what I’ll do when I have to leave into the real world, but my time in Brevard showed me how important it is to find a community you’re proud of and that if you’re truly proud of a community, you’ll do what you can to give back to it.

Reclaiming My Carolina Roots

By Margaret Bryant, 2013

I am a North Carolina girl. I may not have the sweet southern drawl, with subtle annunciations with which I say sticky, drawn out colloquial phrases that drip slowly like honey. I certainly don’t have a whole lot of southern pride because history and politics below the Mason Dixon line are almost always messy, but nonetheless, I am from the South. I have struggled with North Carolina over the years, often wondering what life would have been like if my Northern and polite, moderately opinionated parents had raised me and my older sister somewhere else. My mother is from New England and my father is from Virginia. After the Highway 64 project and our trip through the mountains, I have been gratefully reminded of why I love the place I have been reluctant to call home for so many years. Growing up, I spent a few weeks of summer at a co-ed summer camp near Brevard. It had been so many years since I have been to that part of North Carolina and I was excited to be back again at such a beautiful time of year.

On the third and final day of our mountain adventure, we planned to pass through Brevard on our way back to Elon. We had a few places as planned stops, but generally, the day had been blocked off as time to explore. We split into groups of two, as we had done many times over the past two days, in order to cover more ground. Casey and I wandered down the main street, in hopes of finding somewhere or someone interesting. We ate at The Phoenix, a local farm-to-table restaurant. During our time in the sleepy town, as most places in the mountains are on a Sunday afternoon, I began to notice a thread that tied place to place on our trip. There is this sense of gratitude at the very core of the local people. After lunch, we explored on foot, stopping in a few shops that looked interesting.

There was a table set up outside the Celestial Mountain Music Store, with a piece of paper with “FREE” scribbled on it in big, block letters. Inside the boxes were vinyl records, exploring a variety of genres. Everything from Christmas Carols to Claude Debussy were covered in dust and stacked carelessly. I dug through the boxes, a few couples passing by, peeking in for a minute or two before continuing on their way. To find records like the ones outside the music store for free is rare. Not only are they considered collectibles at this point, but every apathetic hipster in fake glasses and clothes straight out of Nylon Magazine live for these finds. I took two to add to my family’s collection at home. Not long after, we came across a guitarist from Mariachi group named Bobby. Originally from Mexico, he now splits his time between Chicago and Brevard, he told us a little bit about his life, but mostly emphasized why he loved North Carolina. He talked about how the people care and support one another. To put it in greeting card words, they are all about the local love.

Not long after, we ended up talking with and interviewing Kim Provost, the owner of a store that exclusively sells art and other hand-made items. Everything comes from somewhere in the United States, nothing is mass-produced or a product of a sweatshop assembly line. Hunters and Gatherers, like The Phoenix, supports local, a movement that is not as common as it should be. Kim is also running for city council. When I asked her why she wants to be involved with the politics, she told me something that will probably stay with me for a long time. In her “twenty-four year love affair” (as she calls it), Brevard has treated her well. She has been able to be a prominent member of the community, and the town has taken care of her and her family. She says that now it is time for her to give back and show her gratitude.

I was surprised again and again during our trip by how much successful individuals care for the people who got them where they are now. The endless gratitude that people like Kim and Bobby express is infectious and it reminded me in a humbling way of how I am so lucky to call this state my home. There is a sense of loving humility in Brevard that you just can’t find in a big city. After seeing it so up close, I hope I can take that with me as I travel and explore, eventually returning to the place I am now thankful to call home.

How Chocolate Can Change Your Life

By Hillary Dooley, 2013

Brevard is one of those small mountain towns where you can spend hours exploring and run into people with the most unique stories, and although everyone has a different story about what brought them to Brevard or what has been keeping them there, there is always one thing in common: passion. You can almost feel the passion float through the town as it rustles with the leaves.

One of these people runs a chocolate shop down a small street in the center of Brevard. It sits in the perfect location, right across from the Square Root. After I had finished my lunch there, I ventured across the street to the chocolate shop to satisfy my sweet tooth and take some dessert for the road.

Upon walking in, it is a quiet shop. No one was there to greet us, but we could hear a bustling in the back kitchen area. Pretty soon, a 71-year old man named George walked out ready to take our order. This was the complete opposite of whom I had expected to own a chocolate shop. I was imagining a young mother in her early 30s pursuing her passion and making some money on the side for her three children. But Brevard is unique, and who says a 71-year old man can’t make chocolate?

I stared at all the chocolates, wondering what to get. There was everything imaginable from all kinds of truffles to chocolate covered Oreos and graham crackers, nut clusters, bark, and much more. I spotted several chocolate covered Twinkies in the corner. A smile was painted on each, and a sign reading, “We’re so happy to be back!!!” accompanied them. I decided against the Twinkies, but I taste tested a few truffles and got an assortment of milk chocolate treats.

As we were checking out, we began to talk to George to see how he came about running this place. He said he didn’t set out to make chocolate, but that it accidentally fell upon him. He told us how he used to be a real estate developer and how he gave the building we were standing in to his daughter. She began a restaurant there with her husband. Before long, business was booming, and they had no life. So, they sold the business and kept the building. Next thing George knew, a man and woman walked in from down the street, asking if the building was open for business. They said, “Well, the Lord talked to us and told us to open a business.” When he asked what kind of business, they answered a chocolate shop. And that’s how the chocolate shop came to be.

However, George wasn’t supposed to be the one operating the business. It turns out a week before opening, the Lord told the man and woman to go elsewhere, and George had no choice but to open a few chocolate books and get started himself. He chuckled as he explained to us that it took him a couple months to learn and that he “turned a lot ‘a brown chocolate white” in the process. That was eight years ago, and since then George has been so successful he has been shipping chocolates across the globe to Belgium, Finland, Spain, Japan, Jerusalem, Guatemala, and Germany.

We thanked George for his time and delicious chocolates, and on our way out, he had one piece of advice for us: “You can do anything you set your mind to, but don’t ever trust a Christian.” But after all, George wouldn’t be successful doing what he has come to love if he hadn’t trusted a Christian.