At the same time, I’ve been busy launching a brand-new site that has its own bright future: LoveandTrash.com!

It’s a project with some of my very good friends. We’re calling it “a DIY blog for people who do things differently.” There’s a ton of content, some very fun stuff, and lots of “actionable inspiration” to get you motivated.

The truth is, the more I traveled, the more I found that while I love traveling, my true passion was more on the environmental/DIY track. Love and Trash gives that passion a voice, and I couldn’t be more excited about it.

So stop by and check it out! I think you’ll like it. LoveandTrash.com

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For now, I’ve got a ton of photos. Enjoy!

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A congress member speaks at the morning fire ritual

In October, I traveled to The Farm in Tennessee, where the 10th Annual Bioregional Congress was taking place. I was excited to be there, though I couldn’t help but wonder…

What’s a bioregional congress?

Good question. To understand it, you need to understand “bioregionalism”. From biocongress.org:

[Bioregionalism] is taking the time to learn the possibilities of place. It is a mindfulness of local environment, history, and community aspirations that leads to a sustainable future. It relies on safe and renewable sources of food and energy. It ensures employment by supplying a rich diversity of services within the community, by recycling our resources, and by exchanging prudent surpluses with other regions. Bioregionalism is working to satisfy basic needs locally, such as education, health care and self-governance.

Essentially, bioregionalism boils down to getting more out of what you have, instead of importing what you don’t. Many new organizations and communities are working in this way, with an eye toward resource (and human-resource) management.

Shared meals in the common center, prepared and paid for by attendees

The Congress started in 1984, at which age your humble author was just learning to sing to trees. Since then, it’s continued to grow into a vibrant semiannual gathering of people from throughout the Americas who are actively experimenting with new forms of community and environmental awareness.

For example:

• a group called Ecobarrios who are working with residents in Mexico City’s housing developments to institute sustainable practices, composting and gardening (more on Ecobarrios);
• a housewife from Nashville who just got involved in nonprofits and wants to find out what the challenges are from a marketing perspective;
• a self-described eco-punk from LA who organizes traveling shows to teach underprivileged communities around the world about sustainability;
• several members of intentional communities from North to South America, here to discuss what works, what doesn’t, and where they are headed.

There is a fair share of outré hippie yahooism here as well. Tie-dye, massage, singing with the earth, singing Woody Guthrie songs: it all happened. But that hippie veneer was only skin-deep: beneath the surface, every person here is honestly, fully dedicated to working for change.

These guys talked animatedly for a long, long time.

Hippie Soup to Nuts

Each morning, the entire group met to discuss the day’s topics. Nothing was predetermined; it all had to be hashed out by discussion and vote. Laborious, yes—but it meant that everyone present had a voice.

These folks have their system down TIGHT. I’ve never seen anything like it. They conducted a huge meeting, circle-style, in a format where everybody got a chance to talk, with minimal interruption, almost no off-topic ranting, and not a single insult. You try that sometime with a group of 100 people.

That was my first sign that the people here were not just trying to share, give and change, but making it happen.

Proposed lecture topics for a single afternoon

The next sign was the depth, breadth and complexity of the discussion topics. People here were not speaking in generalities, but addressing topics that had direct effects on their work.

One woman wanted to discuss GMO seeds, and how we can keep them out of gardens. A small group proposed a new community and asked for potential members. A man offered dowsing lessons. A Venezuelan woman offered to share stories from the revolution. A short film on Cuba’s survival without petroleum drew a crowd.

Throughout the day, people gathered in various groups and addressed various questions and topics. The level of intellect was high, and the work accomplished was impressive.

In the evening, there was food, music and dancing.

I could only stay one day at the Bioregional Congress, but I left completely inspired. I fully intend to take part in future Congresses: as the environmental movement ramps up, these are the people who are leading the way to the future. I have faith they’ll get us there.

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By the time I got to Asheville, I was nearing the end of my journey and the bottom of my wallet. The last thing on my mind was spending money: it was beautiful outside, and there were free things to do everywhere.

But. When I’d posted on Facebook that I was coming to town, no fewer than three people told me I just had to visit the Tupelo Honey Cafe. So I checked their website, and instantly fell in love:

“Tupelo Honey Café opened in downtown Asheville in 2000, an early pioneer in the farm to fork movement and an active advocate for the independent restaurant landscape that pervades the city. Our food is fresh, made from scratch, sassy and scrumptious. Our cuisine salutes our love of Southern traditions at the table, but like the good people of Asheville, marches to its own drum. The result is a unique riff on Southern favorites.” – tupelohoneycafe.com

I was convinced—but I wasn’t alone. On a sunny Sunday afternoon, the waiting list was an hour long. After hemming and hawing and assessing my food stash (contents: 10 saltines), I decided to go for it anyway.

By the time I finally got a seat at the counter, I was starved. It took me about thirty seconds to pick out the Charleston Chicken Sandwich: “grilled marinated free-range chicken breast on sourdough with melted havarti, romaine lettuce and cranberry mayonnaise”. Free range? Cranberry? Havarti? Yes, I could dig it.

While I waited for the food, I checked out the back of the store where Tupelo Honey Cafe hawks their homestyle wares: preserves, pickles, salsa, honey, t-shirts, aprons and all sorts of mini-advertisements for the restaurant.

I’ve visited plenty of farm-to-fork restaurants, and this one may be the best I’ve seen at self-marketing. There’s nothing wrong with it: the food in those jars is probably delicious, though I question whether the $10 tupelo honey had to come from Florida or if it’s produced locally.

Either way, it’s nice to see a restaurant built on ethics that also happens to be incredibly busy. Some of that is surely due to good marketing, but the real reason for its popularity is this:

That sandwich was so good, I found myself eating slower and slower with each bite to savor it more completely. The potatoes were light and un-greasy; the flavors were perfectly balanced; the chicken was juicy and rich; and let’s be honest here, I’m always happier eating dead animals when I know they’ve lived a good life. I found myself silently thanking the chicken for its delicious contribution. Thank you, chicken. I will never forget you.

I stopped eating halfway through, not because I was full. I stopped so I could take the rest home and taste it again later.

On another topic, I made a discovery there in the Tupelo Honey Cafe, one which I’d like to share with you now.

If you’re going to a busy restaurant and want great service, bring a camera. Take a few photos of the menu, the kitchen, the food.

No sooner had I taken the above photo, when a server (not even my server) appeared at my elbow. Later when I stopped eating and lifted my napkin from my lap, it took approximately three seconds for someone to take my food away to be boxed up.

Now, I’m not saying the service before my camera-flash was bad, because it was awesome. But wow, it sure improved once I appeared to be some sort of food critic or travel writer.

Which, it just so happens, I am. But even if you’re not, try this out sometime. I can’t guarantee it’ll work, but I personally will do it again—and probably back it up with a stellar review, just like the one I’ve given the Tupelo Honey Cafe.

Everybody wins.

Okay, that’s it! I could talk about Asheville for weeks, but it’s time to move on. Next stop: sunny Tennessee, where I get down on The Farm.

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There I was in Asheville, wandering around on a sunny autumn day, when I spotted this strange berry:

My first reaction was “wow, that sure looks like a poison berry to me.” So I didn’t eat it—but gosh, that thing looked so amazingly toxic, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Never did find out what it was.

So I’m asking you, Southerners and foragers and armchair botanists: how are my instincts? What is that? Was I right not to chew on it? Or should I have merrily popped it in my mouth and gathered more for supper?

Comment below if you’ve got an idea.

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While in Asheville, I spent a few hours wandering the trails at the Botanical Gardens. According to a sign posted there, the Southern Appalachians have the richest diversity of native plants anywhere outside of the tropics. Who knew?

The Botanical Gardens, which abut the UNC campus, were filled with people enjoying the shaded glens and free admission. Students played frisbee on the grass; young girls scampered along the creekbed; a flock of tourists followed a guide along the trails. Me, I just walked and looked. Here’s some of what I saw.

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1. Hear live music on a streetcorner.

On a sunny day, the downtown area is always populated with buskers. Sometimes it’s your basic guy-with-a-guitar setup; sometimes there are a few dudes in overalls or tweed; sometimes it’s a full band with amplification. One sure thing is that you won’t have to walk far to find a street performer to tickle your ears for free (donations appreciated).

2. Feed your head at Malaprop’s Bookstore.

Granted, Malaprop’s is a business, so they also appreciate monetary contributions. But if you’re broke, spend a buck on coffee and peruse their incredible selection of literature.

This store is one of the places that convinced me so utterly of Asheville’s uniqueness. In fact, Malaprop’s seems to assume that its clientele is highly intelligent, educated in self-sufficiency, and actively committed to social/environmental change.

And there’s the proof: a book on Cattle Health in the Green Living section? We’re not in San Francisco any more.

3. Take a nature walk.

While exploring downtown, I picked up a map that indicated there was a botanical garden next to the UNC campus. Heading out that way, I stumbled across the Reed Creek “interpretive trail”, which was a hugely educational resource. It guides you through an area that was once occupied by buildings; along the trail, a series of signs informs you of what was here, what’s here now and why. In the space of a city block or two, I learned a ton about local history and botany.

The Reed Creek trail lets out near the Asheville Botanical Gardens, a huge and beautifully-managed set of trails, greens and buildings. It’s an easy walk, and just like at Reed Creek, the Botanical Gardens are full of information on native species. Make sure you stop at the creek, an excellent spot for a wee nosh and/or nap in the dappled sunlight.

Click for more photos of Reed Creek and the Botanical Gardens.

4. Go on a self-guided art tour.

As I mentioned recently, Asheville is full of art both strange and beautiful. From the underpass mural, to political graffiti, to statuary both commissioned and independent, there’s art all over the place. And that’s just on the sidewalk—but there are also tons of art galleries for your browsing pleasure.

Don’t miss Chicken Alley, a strange little street that looks straight out of New Orleans or Oakland. It’s haunted by living artists and one dead doctor: Dr. Jamie Smith was killed in a 1902 barfight and still hangs around the place.

If you’re more into modern-age ephemera, guess what? Chicken Alley’s got free wifi. Yippee!

5a. (for hippies) Hippie out at the Drum Circle.

photo by BillRhodesPhoto

Apparently this is a big deal, but I am somewhat opposed to drum circles. If they’re your thing, that’s super! There’s a giant one here every Friday night, on Patton Avenue. Just follow the smell of patchouli and sounds of wild djembe.

5b. (for nerds and queers) Get your summer Shakespeare fix.

photo by Zen

What self-respecting town doesn’t have a free Shakespeare-in-the-park series these days? Asheville is right on point, offering free performances all summer (Friday, Saturday & Sunday nights only). The address is #1 Gay Street, so you ought to feel right at home.

Want more, more, more free stuff? I know right? Cheapskate your heart out at Asheville’s official Free Things to Do page.

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It was all there, and more: North Carolina, as I experienced it, was a study in contrast.

I hopped off the train in Durham, which is right smack in the middle of North Carolina and home to Duke University. Durham’s neighbor cities, Raleigh and Chapel Hill, are each within a few miles; locals call it “the Triangle,” and commute frequently between towns.

That’s where the area’s main problem lies: commuting. These towns, built on tobacco and once connected by fields, weren’t designed for the 21st century. But as they grew in concert, more and more roads were built: now, the Triangle is almost impossible to navigate without an automobile. Vast open spaces are bordered by wide roads. No sidewalks, few central areas… just a lot of cars.

It took me about five minutes to realize that Durham was a car town—and 45 more to procure a carton of milk and a little food for the night. To find eats, I had to hike down to the strip mall; cross a massive, empty parking lot; and wander through a ridiculously huge outlet store (which, luckily, was open late and had a grocery section).

Despite the hassle, I was undeniably happy. As I left my hotel, it started raining: a warm, fragrant rain that I’d rarely experienced out West. By the time I got to that gigantic parking lot, it was transformed: a river flowed across the sealed blacktop, lit orange by the streetlights, steaming gently. Frogs croaked, and the air was heavy with the odor of flowers and grass. It was beautiful, and it was new. I was in the South!

Kirsten and CJ

I’d stopped in Durham to visit Kirsten Hausman, who (aside from being Larry’s daughter and therefore a step-cousin of some sort) is an environmental crusader in her own right. She’s a Director at Green Plus, a program of the Institute for Sustainable Development. Their mission: to set standards for sustainability in business, and help people meet them.

One of the issues the Institute for Sustainable Development cares about is the same one that confronted me: getting around the Triangle without a car.

Kirsten told me that the area is at a crossroads both literally and figuratively. People are moving around more, and populations are growing; more and more locals commute from one town to another. But the infrastructure to support all those cars hasn’t been completed.

Without careful planning, this area could become just another mass of strip malls—or, it can be guided successfully into a more sustainable future. Right now, that’s all up to the civic planners.

For now, we poor folks and carless freaks have to ride the bus.

Lucky for me, there was a bus stop next to the Target. When I got there, a woman loaded down with grocery bags was standing near the door. I asked her if she was getting on the bus.

“No,” she said, “that bus costs two dollars and I only got a dollar. I’m waiting for the next one in a half hour.”

I, carrying exact change for my own bus ticket, shrugged and climbed aboard. But the driver stopped me.

“She gettin’ on?”

“I don’t think so,” I told him. I explained what she’d said.

As I sat down, the bus driver was unbuckling his seat belt; I watched through the window as he got off the bus and convinced that woman to come ride the bus for free. He even carried her bag for her.

That’s what it comes down to, in this part of the world: you might be poor, you might be carless, but you won’t be stranded. Not if someone is around to help.

I was to encounter this attitude more and more frequently as I moved through the South, but here it really shocked me. That just wouldn’t happen in my beloved San Francisco, where people are more in the habit of stepping over others than stopping to help. It gave me something to think about.

And I had plenty of time to think, riding the bus all over Creation.

Ultimately, the Triangle wasn’t for me. I had two delicious meals with Kirsten and the family, then hopped a bus to Asheville. See you there next.

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On Monday, I started my month-long internship at Earthship Biotecture. Earthships are self-sufficient houses that use recycled materials in their construction, and that are equipped with systems for rainwater catchment, solar and wind power, water reuse, waste control, and food production. What does that mean? It means that once you build an Earthship, you never have to pay an electricity or water bill again. Ever.

Don’t believe me? Good, because I can’t explain it all in a single blog entry. Go read the Earthship website instead, and then watch Garbage Warrior.

I’ve been working on site at the visitor’s center, which was constructed in the 90s as a demonstration building. That’s the entrance in the first photo. Earthships don’t look like much on the outside, but on the inside they’re really lovely.

 
The main room is filled with posters & diagrams of the various Earthship models and systems, plus a demonstration video and press books.

Yes, the TV runs off solar power collected from the roof panels. There are computers running in here too, and an extension cord stretching over to the building site, where it powers all the tools. With enough panels, you can have as much power as you like, even in cloudy areas.

What’s great about this design, however, is how little energy is really being used. Natural light makes it so you don’t need lightbulbs in the daytime, and even in extreme weather the building maintains an even temperature through passive solar heat and thermal mass. Today was cold and windy outdoors, but totally comfortable inside.

Bottle walls are one of the coolest features of Earthship design. They’re literally trash stuck in mud, but they create this beautiful stained-glass effect. That’s the bathroom door, and in front of it is a demonstration water cistern.

Less glamorous but much more important is the Power Organizing Module, which processes all the incoming power and sends it out as DC or AC. Normally this wall would be plastered, but the tires and cans were left exposed so visitors can see the construction technique.

All Earthships have indoor greenhouse areas, which are used for growing flowers and food. The food production techniques are still being perfected, but the ultimate goal is to make it so that you don’t need to buy groceries. It’s pretty amazing to look out over this healthy garden and see how dry and desolate the outside world is.

By the way: look at that window again. See the wooden arch at the far left? That’s part of the new construction.

This structure, and the identical one next to it, are part of Mike Reynolds‘ new additions to the visitor center. You can see that the walls are made of tires stacked like bricks; tires are filled with rammed earth (aka “dirt”) to make them incredibly solid, strong, and temperature-resistant. Non-load-bearing walls are made of cans & bottles, stuck together with cement and adobe.

This wall is just getting started, but you can see the design taking shape. The cans will be plastered over, but bottles will have their ends exposed to let in the light.

Once the wall’s thickness is determined, the bottles are cut with a tile saw and the two fat ends taped together. Then you just cement them in.

But before you can get to the fancy stuff, the tires have to be pounded! That’s what we’re doing at the big building, which will eventually become the new visitor center.

That’s my fellow intern Andrew off to the right, showing how it’s done. Yep, a shovel and a sledgehammer and lots of elbow grease. These things are seriously labor-intensive; pounding one tire takes 15-20 minutes for experienced (and acclimated) workers, so for us green kids from lower elevations, it’s taking half an hour per tire.

That’s Tim, the crew member who’s been managing us, working out the levels. Technically, this is a decorative (non-structural) bottle wall so it doesn’t have to be perfect. But sometimes it’s nice—actually, necessary—to stop hammering for a minute, so we’ve been getting everything good and even.

Tim and the other crew members have been amazingly patient and supportive while Andrew and I learn the ropes and build our strength. Working at 7500 feet can be totally exhausting, and when the winds are high it’s hard to catch a deep breath. But we’re learning and getting stronger, and benefiting from all the knowledge around us. Everyone on the crew lives in an Earthship, and many of them built their own houses. They’re professional and creative, and easy to talk to. I feel lucky to be here, even despite the sore muscles.

On that note, it’s off to bed for me. Tomorrow is a full day of tire-pounding on a new site, with all six interns. I’m gonna sleep all weekend!

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