Two factors converged auspiciously. A period of very cold weather occurred about the same time as my arrival at the first town directly on trail. Thus, I spent three nights and two full days in the little town of Hot Springs, NC.
Small town Appalachia
it’s the sort of town where everyone’s doors are always unlocked. Where are you see the owners of one business walking down the street to chat with the owners of another nearby business. Where everything is super walkable, so people (occasionally) walk.
For me, this was where I listened to my friend Honey Badger’s spoken word poem about the trail at the vinyl booth of the Smoky Mountain Diner during our second visit to that establishment in about four hours. Where Honey Badger and I chatted with local musician Phil Madeira in the Artisun coffeeshop about the process of creating art. Where bones and tendons could strengthen and recover without additional stress. Where I lingered in the kitchen of the Laughing Heart Hostel and chattted with the passersby after Fresh Grounds prepared us breakfast. Where I philosophized late into the night, with Elmer, my host and innkeeper 60 years my senior with whom I shared much in common. Where Elmer prepared home-cooked meal another night.
Unplugged
What facilitated these events? Again, an auspicious confluence of two features. One, the small town atmosphere, which makes even guests feel at home, prevents anonymity, and slows people down and changes their priorities. Two, the lack of technological devices. One of the rules at Elmer’s Sunnybank Inn was no cell phone use. I took this to mean not just talking on the phone but any taking out of a cell phone whatsoever. I complied, happily. Both in the town and in the days before, I had no cell service (partly responsible for the lack of blog posts for awhile).
A phone as interlocator between two people necessarily depersonalizes the interaction. You get a fine personal interaction talking on the phone, less of one (in my mind) on Zoom, quite a bit less over text, and zero interaction when sharing the same physical space as someone who’s engrossed in a device. These days, this chunk of a week where the phone did not insert itself between me and other people, any worthwhile conversation or big paperback book from Elmer’s library, are taste of liberation.
There is a time to write more, a time to share it, and a time not to. A time to be present. And being present is the greatest gift we can give each other.
