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

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Post tags: adventure, alternative, art, desert, featured posts, graveyard, Madrid, New Mexico, outdoors, tourism

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I like to move around.

Throughout this journey, I’d always been happy to move on to the next spot—but leaving Asheville hurt just a little. Still, there were adventures ahead. No time to stop, not now.

I took the bus to another bus, to another bus, to a hotel in Nashville, Tennessee. The road wound through the Blue Ridge Mountains, and was lined with new sights: little towns that seemed to be no more than bus stops… soda-sipping teenagers in camouflage, heading off to war… endless ridges fading from green to emerald to blue to purple to grey, forever into the distance… and here and there, little bursts of red on the leafy hillsides, signaling the onset of autumn.

I’d hoped to be in North Carolina to see the leaves turn, but with red leaves come cold nights—and after New Mexico’s horizontal snow and Colorado’s ice rain, I didn’t want to get stuck in the cold again.

Hey, it’s another Elvis statue!
photo by SeeMidTN.com

Santa and Elvis on the Roof
photo by robot_zombie_monkey

And so I went to sunny Nashville, where Kevin and Nicole joined me.

We walked Nashville’s strip that night, trying to get excited about Music City USA, but mostly nonplussed by the tourists and the beer-drinking party hoo-ha. We had better reasons to be here: we were in Nashville to visit a friend we hadn’t seen in a while.

Several laughs, a few tears and one bad movie later, I was ready to hop another bus. Nashville had been a renewal, and I was heading toward something exciting.

The next bus was piloted by a driver with Elvis glasses and a pompadour, who had the thickest hills accent you ever heard. He grinned ear to ear while asking me ten questions about where I was from and where I was going. He seemed to know most of the passengers by name. Three of my fellow passengers were Amish: a quiet family in black and purple.

Later we pulled off the two-lane highway and waited for nearly an hour next to a hospital. The driver explained: there was another Amish family in there, the girl had come down with bronchitis, we were waiting for them to be discharged. Nobody on the bus seemed to mind waiting. We all sat silently in the green heat.

Eventually our passengers arrived, and the bus motored on through lush woods, a sunny winding highway into the southeast corner of Tennessee. Traffic got scarcer as we drove, until finally we pulled off at the Summertown bus stop.

  

  

I had called ahead to have someone meet me here, but the bus was now an hour behind schedule. Nobody was here. The town was little more than a scattering of shops, most of them Amish souvenir stores. The six Amish people had all gotten off the bus with me, and were now riding away in black buggies. The Elvis driver winked a goodbye out the window as he guided the bus back onto the highway.

The bus stop was closed. I was out of food and water, and it was late afternoon. My cell phone didn’t work, and there was no Internet reception; how would I get where I was going?

But I hardly had time to worry before the lone bus-stop employee reappeared from someplace. Country manners kicked in immediately: in short order I was being given a tour of the establishment while phone calls were made on my behalf.

And thank goodness: I hadn’t missed my ride, because they’d forgotten to come pick me up. If I hadn’t called, I’d have spent the night at the bus stop. But they were on their way now, for sure this time. I sat down out front to wait.

Soon enough, a muddy Subaru stopped out front. Two barefoot and bedraggled dudes stepped out, all hair and patchouli. I hopped in the Subaru and we toiled up the hill, a few miles outside of Summertown where we came to:

And I’ll tell you all about that very soon.

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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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Post tags: Asheville, chickens, dining, featured posts, food, free-range, green living, North Carolina, organic, restaurants, tourism, travel

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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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The word “Asheville” followed me across America. I first heard it uttered while picking dandelions in Paonia; after that, I heard it spoken of in nearly every city I visited. “Asheville,” people would say. “You gotta go to Asheville.”

So I went. They were right.

How to describe it? Well, it’s like taking all the best parts of Nevada City, Portland and Berkeley, and sticking the whole thing in the middle of beautiful mountains with gorgeous weather.

I almost feel like I shouldn’t tell you about it, because it’s a secret that wants to be kept. Locals and tourists alike recognize the yuppie wolf at Asheville’s door: moneyed do-gooders in Priuses and SUVs, ready to move in and pour their Starbucks all over this fiercely independent town.

But to be honest, I don’t see how a bunch of yuppies could possibly change a town this strong in spirit.

And anyway, rich folks discovered Asheville hundreds of years ago.

photo by Exothermic

This used to be Cherokee land, but the natives were unceremoniously exterminated and Asheville slowly grew into a hillbilly township. After the Civil War, one George Washington Vanderbilt decided to construct a “little mountain escape” just outside of town: that property became the Biltmore Estate (largest house in America).

Funny thing about the Biltmore Estate, however: unlike many gilded mansions, this one was intended to be self-supporting. The United States’ first forestry school was founded here; there were farms, gardens, a dairy, and scientific programs for managing all sorts of resources.

That’s one trend that held true throughout my visit to Asheville: people here seem to be united by a true love for the land, and an active interest in understanding and managing it.

That may be due to the fact that there are mountains everywhere you look. Beautiful, rolling blue hills encircle the city, omnipresent in the background, patient, serene and enticing. It would be hard to live here and not be enchanted by the landscape—and certainly, the town attracts a very specific type of person for just that reason.

In the middle of town, there’s an underpass mural that is far and away the best I’ve ever seen. Created by the Asheville Mural Project, it features portraits of locals, chosen by nomination. There’s a woman spinning wool; a man with a shovel; a cyclist; a city planner; a gardener; musicians; dancers; and a snake-haired tattoo artist. The message is clear: this town loves the alternative, the artistic, and the sustainable.

  

  

It rained the first two days I was in Asheville, and when the sun re-emerged, so did the entire town. The streets were crawling with buskers: young dudes in old-timey clothes playing old-timey music. Sort of like a bumpkin Nashville… and in every corner without live music, there was a piece of weird art. The place was bursting with creativity, and the Carolina sun graced it all with glorious color.

Over the next couple of days, I’ll tell you about some of the specifics of my time in Asheville. If you can’t wait, check out my photos.

© jessicareeder for Uprooted, an eco/travel blog, 2010. | Permalink | 9 comments | Add to del.icio.us
Post tags: alternative, Asheville, community, ecotourism, ecotravel, featured posts, nature, North Carolina, outdoors, tourism, travel

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From Virginia, I turned left, heading southward at last. And right off the bat, things changed.

It all started at the train station, where I sat and waited for an hour past departure time before boarding. And that was just the beginning.

Now, I’ve ridden Amtrak all over the West, and it’s always been my favorite way to travel. It’s scenic, comfortable, affordable and eco-friendly: who, I always wondered, wouldn’t want to ride the train?

As I boarded in Virginia, I started to understand: Not all trains are the same. In this part of the country, you don’t take Amtrak if you can avoid it.

Out West, there were big seats and big windows, and the cars were rarely full. You could walk around the train, hang out in the sightseeing car where happy families sat in cushy chairs admiring the view.

Here, the windows were tiny; the dining car was run down and half filled with luggage; and the tables were inhabited by a passel of loudly un-sober people playing cards.

It was a warm, humid day outside. The train car, however, was so cold that everybody was wrapped up in blankets, shivering.

In the back corner of the car, the overactive air conditioner was dripping freezing water onto one of the seats. A little old lady clucked and shook her head. “It ain’t sposed to be like that.”

   

Freezing water drips from the ceiling onto a seat, right next to a power outlet—
but don’t worry, the outlet doesn’t work.

The people were the saving grace of this train ride—which, as I later realized, was my first hint at the fast-approaching reality of the American South.

For, even despite the weird odors and discomfort in the overcrowded, dingy, freezing-cold train car, people were smiling, and talking. Old women and young college students had amiable conversations, compared backgrounds and family stories. People shared blankets and sweaters, and whenever the train stopped we all rolled our eyes and chuckled at our dumb luck.

We were all in it together, and we knew the train would get us there, and for a couple of hours we suffered through it in good company. After all, it could be worse.

But it could be better. I missed the West.

© jessicareeder for Uprooted, an eco/travel blog, 2010. | Permalink | 2 comments | Add to del.icio.us
Post tags: adventure, amtrak, community, featured posts, North Carolina, tourism, train, travel

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Tracy L. Barnett
Photo ©2010. All rights reserved.

I arrived in Mexico three weeks ago as the first leg of my yearlong journey through Latin America documenting the environmental movement across the continent, from the perspective of its protagonists. I’ll be traveling through Latin America for this entire year, interviewing green architects and guerilla gardeners, indigenous farmers and bicycle activists, journalists and academics, even public officials engaged in the transition to a more sustainable lifestyle. I’ll be reporting on what I find – in Spanish and in English – on the Esperanza project, a new media initiative.

Inside the theater at Huehuecoyotl, an ecovillage in the mountains of Morelos, Mexico.
©2010 Tracy L. Barnett. All rights reserved.

Here’s how it all began. About 10 months ago I was working as the travel editor at the Houston Chronicle, when a round of cutbacks slashed a third of the staff, including me. It was a shock, but it ended up freeing me up to launch a project that feels meaningful and exciting to me in a way that working for a daily newspaper never could.

The roots of this project really began long ago in Columbia, Missouri, long before I became a travel writer. Back in 2000, I started the bilingual newspaper Adelante, and my student reporters and of course our readers came from all over Latin America. I accepted every invitation I could to visit friends and their families in the South. Before that, I was an environmental writer at the Columbia Daily Tribune. The Esperanza Project tries to pull all of those themes together—travel, Latin America, and the environment—using the multimedia tools I learned as a travel writer and the Spanish I learned as an immigrant affairs reporter in Missouri, California and Texas.

Community members at Teopantli Kalpulli, an intentional community near Guadalajara.
©2010 Tracy L. Barnett. All rights reserved.

Some people have asked me, why Latin America? I can give several reasons for that: First, I wanted to do it. All my life I’ve wanted to take that trip where I just keep on going. Now I’ll be headed south for a whole year, and I’m really excited about that.

But more importantly, I think we in the States get a little self-important thinking we have all the answers. But there’s a lot we can learn from other cultures, ones that aren’t quite as caught up in the consumerist, carbon-dependent model we’ve adopted in the States.

Latin Americans, in particular, bring a different perspective and a level of creativity and passion to their activism really inspires me. My hope is that it will inspire my North American compatriots, as well.

Right now a completely unexpected green revolution is going on in Mexico City. Rooftops of homes and factories are being planted in gardens to provide an alternate food supply and offset carbon emissions.

A young activist in Coyoacán.
©2010 Tracy L. Barnett. All rights reserved.

In Guadalajara, bicycle activists are taking to the streets by the thousands, demanding green spaces, bike lanes and a more people-oriented approach to transportation and city planning. In the mountains not far from here, the Huichol people are fighting a groundbreaking legal battle to take back their ancestral lands and manage them in their own integral way.

But this is just the tip of the iceberg. Everywhere you look in Latin America, local groups have formed to raise consciousness about the urgent need to shift to a more sustainable lifestyle. They don’t have a lot of resources, but what they do have is creativity, passion and spirit.

One of my first articles, though, has to do with a more personal dilemma: Whether to buy carbon offsets to help compensate for the pollution my travel will inevitably cause. Carbon offsets have become pretty controversial of late, but after a lot of thought, I decided to donate $10 a month to the Marda Permaculture Project to plant olive trees and build greenhouses in the town of Marda, Palestine.

Composting at the ecobarrios in Mexico City.
©2010 Tracy L. Barnett. All rights reserved.

I don’t claim that this is the answer to corporate pollution on a broader scale, but on a personal level, it felt like the right thing to do. It’s a wonderful project that builds community resilience using tried-and-true permaculture techniques, and you can read all about it here.

This year I’m going to be using video and photography and my best reporting skills to bring these people to life for The Esperanza Project readers. I’ll also be seeking collaborators, people to write stories from their eco-experiences in Latin America, and people to help with translations. I hope some of you will join us at theesperanzaproject.org.

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Post tags: adventure, americas, community, ecotourism, ecotravel, ecovillages, environment, esperanza, featured posts, green living, latin america, mexico, photography, sustainable, the esperanza project, tourism, tracy barnett, travel

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As many of you are aware, I’ve reached the end of my journey around the United States and am now back in the West. The story is far from over, however!

For the next several weeks, I’ll continue telling you about my adventures. From Virginia, the path leads south and west: through North Carolina to Tennessee, finally landing in New Orleans for three weeks of mind-blowing, frustrating, inspiring, parading, jazz-infused mudraking.

And then it’s all over, which is a sad prospect for you and me both. But never fear! There are new things on the horizon.

One question many of you have asked: where am I headed next, and when? The answer is a bit complicated. So here’s the plan, as I see it.

Uprooted International will take me around the world in 2011. I’m hoping to focus more on sustainability and travel issues, including the ethics of travel and what the tourism industry is doing to respond to environmental concerns. And as always, I’ll be talking about how to travel dirt-cheap.

As Uprooted grows, I’ll be bringing more and more outside voices: fellow travelers, explorers and gamechangers with stories to tell from all parts of the world.

At the same time, I’ll be launching a new project or two, to focus more on the green/cheap living, radical interdependence and DIY ethic that’s inspired me throughout this journey.

So, lots of irons in the fire. It’s very exciting around here—but I’m glad, too, to be home with my people, in my beloved West, watching spring break over familiar horizons.

In the immediate future, my travelogue posts will be slowing down as the inspiration for new projects picks up.

Keep reading: there’s good stuff in the pipe.

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It was September, and fall was falling: leaves beginning to turn, rains getting cooler, fresh breezes brushing lightly at the corners of the day.

After a long summer in the Northeast, I was ready to head South again. But first, I stopped off in Virginia to see Aunt Margie, her husband Larry, and my dear darling grandmother Helen Lee.

I needed family just now: I’d worn myself out from months of traveling, and wanted desperately to slow down, be around familiar faces, and do some laundry. I wasn’t just physically tired, but soul-weary: could hardly convince myself to get up and write, let alone go out and have more adventures. I’d lost a little oomph.

As it happened, I’d come to exactly the right spot.

Margie and Larry are passionate environmentalists, and Margie told me she’d always wanted to visit Polyface Farm out in the western part of the state. I didn’t know a whole lot about the place, but its name had kept popping up during my travels. In my current state of mind, it seemed more like a chore than an adventure: great, let’s drop in on another random farmer and inspect their blighted tomatoes. I just didn’t have the adventure in me. But Margie did, and for her sake I thought I’d go along.

Turns out, you can visit Polyface Farm any time you like—but you can’t just walk in and take a tour. It’s a working farm, after all. They’re busy.

Guided tours cost a mint, and if you want to talk to Joel himself you’ve got to hire him for a lecture—or as a supplier for your restaurant. But if you’ve got gumption, you can always drive down to Polyface and show yourself around for free. We had gumption, or Margie did. She wrote a note to let them know we’d be coming, added her cell number just-in-case, and faxed it in to Polyface’s office.

Monday morning we hopped in the car and sped off toward Staunton. Once we got on the road, I started feeling more eager. I’d researched Polyface over the weekend, and discovered just how special it was. So this was the place that started everybody using chicken tractors! This was the guy that Michael Pollan had written about in The Omnivore’s Dilemma. This visit might turn out to be a pretty good idea after all.

Nerds that we are, Margie and I chose to read passages from The Omnivore’s Dilemma while we drove. That’s what we were doing: Margie driving, and me reading aloud about pigs, when the phone rang.

That’s Margie, a little later, being attacked by pigs.

Margie answered.

“Hello?

That had been Joel Salatin on the phone. “Come on down,” he’d told Margie, “We’re dressing chickens.”

This is where I started to get real excited. Joel Salatin had called us personally! And invited us to watch him kill chickens! Margie seemed a bit less enthusiastic about the slaughtering aspect, but I couldn’t help imagining the photographs.

Someday I’ll tell you about my “thing” for dead chickens.

An hour later, we pulled into the gravel driveway and parked. It was quiet, so we poked our heads around the main building—and there was a big metal contraption covered in chicken blood and feathers. Chickens had been slaughtered here, but we seemed to have missed the show. I thought maybe we should just wander away and avoid bothering anybody. But there was another car just pulling up, and at Margie’s urging we followed its three occupants into the empty office.

The three turned out to be young restauranteurs, here to see the farm and buy some meat. As we were talking, a documentarian from New York walked up with her big camera. Then Joel Salatin himself strolled through the door. He’d just washed the blood off his arms, and was ready to take them all on a tour of the farm. Margie and I, grinning eagerly and trying desperately to look like we belonged, were invited to join the parade.

What ensued was an hour or two of mind-stretching commentary on agriculture, food politics, animal character (“the pigness of the pig”) and grass management. I photographed turkeys, pet bunnies and got hog slobber on my boots. And in the process, I started to feel inspired again.

It wasn’t just Salatin’s joy and enthusiasm for his work that inspired me: it was also the sense of hope I felt from seeing real, positive, and effective change taking place. My inspiration had been stymied by the citified consumerists of the Northeast’s urban centers, but here in the grass I could see my path again. And not just mine: humanity’s. I started to remember why I was on this path in the first place: to learn from people just liek Salatin, and to spread the word.

Oh god this photo is so dorky but I’m posting it anyway, as proof

Margie’s husband Larry hadn’t come with us, but he’d prepped me beforehand. “You ask the farmer,” he said, “if his methods can actually feed all the humans on the planet.”

The answer turned out to be “yes”. Margie and I left Polyface with several pounds of meat, ear-splitting smiles, and a brand-new understanding of sustainability.

And that’s how I got to visit Polyface Farm and talk to Joel Salatin.

Want to know more? Read yesterday’s post, Joel Salatin and the Future of Food.

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Post tags: agritourism, ecotourism, ecotravel, environment, farm, green living, joel salatin, organic, polyface, Polyface Farm, sustainable, tourism, travel, Virginia

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