The Biltmore is a castle in the mountains built by George Vanderbilt in 1895. The main house has 255 rooms and the rest of the 8,000 acre property includes a winery, gardens, an inn and restaurants. For the holiday season the whole house lights up with Christmas decorations and is an especially pretty sight at night.
We stopped by the winery first which is touted as the most visited winery in the U.S. Unfortunately that had nothing to do with how good the wines were, and the dozen or so that we tasted ranged from awful to tolerable. But I was thankful for the little crackers which I gobbled up between sips to hold me over until dinner.We drove through miles of rolling green hills to get to the main house. I imagined myself a Jane Austen character riding on horseback, picnicking with ladies in flouncy dresses and parasols while giggling about prospective suitors. Suddenly our 1994 Acura didn’t feel old enough as a mode of transportation.
The main attraction was the house. Every door, molding, trim and ceiling was carved with wood or painted by renowned artists. Every room was unique and served a differen
t purpose: the 38-seat formal dining room with three fireplaces and a pipe organ several stories high; a breakfast room with leather embossed walls and two original Renoirs; the smoking room and gun room for the gentlemen; separate his and hers bedrooms which Scott advocates (and which I veto); and the recreation area which includes a two-lane bowling alley. Mr. Vanderbuit would not have approved of our multi-purpose one-room studio apartments in NY.There was an exhibit which showed preservationists painstakingly restoring the Louis XV rooms. They hand stamped wallpaper, cleaned vases and antiques with Q-tips, and hand loomed silk wall coverings. It was almost porn for Scott and I could barely drag him away from the silky fabric.
Asheville is known for its hippie culture unusual for the South. We didn’t experience what that meant but I did notice a Himalayan restaurant and a tattoo parlor which looked out of place from the otherwise touristy downtown. And full of tourists it was. One night we were told by a restaurant that the wait for a table would be an hour long, and another that it’d be 35 minutes. It was as if New York chased us all the way here.
And just like in NY, we found a frozen yogurt shop - the Tutti Fruitti - run by Asians. The shopkeeper’s eyes widened when she saw me and was so excited to find out that I was also from Hong Kong that she just about climbed over the register to talk to us.
Our favorite finds happened outside of Asheville. Our friend introduced us to Troyers’ Amish Market where most things were homemade and organic – breads, granola, pasta, pie fillings, non-homogenized milk and eggs too big to fit in a standard carton from chickens raised behind the store. They were also half the price than at our farmer’s market next door. I wish I could relocate them to our backyard/parking lot, though our neighborhood cats would probably get to the chickens pretty fast.
In the nearby town of Black Mountain, we discovered the Artisan Gourmet Market – a coffee shop, wine bar, deli and gourmet market all in one. All the sauces, wine and meats looked amazing and the seating area was cozy and welcoming. We agreed that next time we come back to the area, we would skip Asheville altogether and just come here to dine and shop.
We only planned a two-day trip and didn’t want to leave Asheville without experiencing the mountains. So despite a late start one evening, Scott, our friend and I went for a hike in the Blue Ridge Parkway. The road was closed for traffic, so we parked and walked along the empty road. We were alone in the waning light and Scott did his best to spook us by recounting movies where hapless hikers were attacked by bears, vampires or psychos with rifles.
About a couple of miles into our walk we approached a tunnel. By now it was almost dark. I was a little hesitant but we walked into the opening anyway and soon found ourselves in pitch darkness. I could hear the others walking and talking but all I could see was the hazy bluish light at the far end of the tunnel. For a while, the light didn’t look to be getting any bigger and I started to think what if we never get to the end at all. It was the most eerie experience ever. Luckily, we all made it out of the mountain without encountering bats, werewolves, and other blood sucking creatures.
The next day, I stayed in the warm cabin while Scott and his friend snuck into a no-trespassing private property for a hike. The friend returned and reported that Scott stayed to hike some more. I got nervous that there would be hunters mistaking him for a deer. It dawned on me that a closed road or a no trespassing sign actually meant "come hither" to Scott.
It's a good thing he lived to rave about the views up there. Trespassing or not, next time I might join them.
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