Losing a friend

I must start off with some disappointing news. Beanstreet closed. I was there a couple of weeks ago and everything seemed fine. My friend, Mary, had joined me. We ate and drank our coffee while listening to the soft sounds of Michael Farr’s guitar in the background. She read my NYTimes while I wrote.

Allan Combs, the professor who taught my Conscious Evolution program, was in town this week and we made plans to get together. We agreed to have breakfast at Beanstreet. We arrived at the same time, and saw the sign on the door. As we were standing there, a little dismayed, a gentleman walking by saw us and explained that he had heard that they had to close because the couldn’t pay their gas bill. He said it was because more food was going out the “back door” than going out the front. Meaning, I suppose, that some of the owner’s employees where feeding their friends and he just lost too much money.

One of the things I really enjoyed about the Beanstreet was its open door policy. You could count on a full spectrum of folks there – tourist passing through (remember my stories of the tourist buying the art work on the wall? Or the writer who gave me her card?) local business people, the young creatives with all their interesting piercing, and yes, even those men who appear to be homeless and down on their luck. I met the women in my book club there. I love the variety of people that Beanstreat welcomed.

On the counter, near the cash register, was a yellowed letter to the editor that the owner had written many years ago, answering why he didn’t discriminate and allowed everyone into his restaurant. I wish I could get a copy of it. It was a well-written piece about how spirituality isn’t something you talk about – it’s what you do. He saw everyone as a child of the Universe – or God – or however you want to say it. He believed everyone should be treated and respected the same. He didn’t discriminate, and if you did, then perhaps Beanstreet was not the place for you.

To me, the Beanstreet was a little touch of NYC in Asheville. There, on the sidewalks, I could see, and engage if I chose, every imaginable type of person, from almost any place in the world. I will sorely miss the Beanstreet and the opportunity it gave me to enjoy peaceful quite Sunday mornings writing, while being inspired by its characters, its music, its energy, and its spiritual energy. Goodbye, dear friend.

I, however, have been spending some wonderfully pleasant early fall evenings wandering about the city on Friday night. Mary and I have been having dinner in town – either at the Laughing Seed or the Shangrila – and then having coffee at the café in Malaprops, the main bookstore in town which stays open late, as many stores do. We then walk to the Park and listen to the regular drumming circle there. As I understand it, it’s a regular Friday night experience. I don’t know how many years its been going on, but I think it starts as early in the season as it is warm enough, and goes until its too cold. It’s an open group where anyone can bring their drums and join in. There are Tablas, Bjembe, Nakari, congas, and even a good old set of drums that you would find in any rock band. The playing seems spontaneous. The beats change, rise and lowers by some unknown mystical leader. People gather around to listen and sway, while an inner group dances and moves to their interpretation of the undulation.

This last Friday night we needed to walk off the large meal we had. Some of our conversation had to do with astrology and psychic mediums. Mary had never been to one, and I was sharing my experience with one that I went to a couple of times in NYC. I was explaining to her that I would only go to one that someone had recommended to me, and if I heard of someone in Asheville, we would go. While we were chatting, we were stopped by two men from California, asking for directions. They had just moved into town a day earlier, being sent by their “spirit guides.” One was a psychic medium and of course we started talking. After about 30 minutes, we got his card and they got their directions and as much information as we could give them on where to go, what to see, and what to do in Asheville. We assured them – although they clearly didn’t need it – that they had made a great choice.

Yes, as someone in Newburyport, MA, once told me, Asheville is a sparkling little town. I see that when I drive down the side of Beaucatcher Mountain any night of the week and see the city lights twinkling in the dark. But I see it close up and personal, as I walk around town with a friend, or even alone sometimes, I see it in the lively streets, full of people willing to entertain for a few bucks. There are people creating their art – whether performing or playing an instrument, or street painting. It may not be as large as NYC, or quite as diverse in its population (but what city is?) but it is just as creative and interesting.

And best of all, I can be in the mountains for hiking in minutes, or on my deck, as I am now, writing, even in a tightly populated community that respects the quiet, Sunday mornings that I live for.

Peace be with you all,
gwen