Pete is up before us, but Karen and I breakfast on eggs I scramble with last night’s garlic potatoes; Karen praises these, despite her having prepared those excellent potatoes the night before:  ever the generous teacher, she is, heaping praise and encouragement.  Over coffee, Pete confesses falling for Karen from the moment he first saw her; I am not at all surprised, knowing her beauty and my own experience of love-at-first-sight.  That is a nice moment.  Pete also speaks of the philosophy behind all his many years of producing, acting, and directing:  put yourself in the time the play was written.  When I mention my Shakespeare manuscript, he offers to read it, and Karen leaps in to volunteer that I was the smartest student he taught in his 50 years of professing.  I doubt this, but Pete agrees, and I am absurdly, unreasonably chuffed by this compliment.

We say our goodbyes and I am off to Asheville, taking the route along the Ocoee River, both beautiful and heavily trafficked with Sunday morning recreational rafters, kayakers, and other assorted white water enthusiasts.  I pull over twice, once to puzzle over trees that appear to be growing right out of the Parksville Lake Reservoir (aka Lake Ocoee, a corruption of the Cherokee word “u-wa-go-hi” meaning “wild apricot” aka passion flower). 

Driving further east, I can’t resist stopping again for the vicarious pleasure of watching grownups enjoying their improvised slide, synchronizing their splashing into the river to avoid the passing kayakers.

Though the weather is fine initially, by the time I reach Asheville, it is dark and pouring rain, and I get confused taking an unaccustomed exit onto Tunnel Road to reach my Best Western Glo, whose bright, Carnaby Street vibe helps to dispel the dark day.

I’m eager to deliver to my step-daughter Susan her framed portrait, a fine piece done by Sigmund Abeles in the early 80’s, before the rainstorm intensifies; safely transporting this was, after all, the primary reason for my long drive south.  Now, at the center point of my sojourn, that mission is accomplished! 

That safe arrival calls for a celebration downtown at the Marriott’s damp but still appealing rooftop terrace across the street from La Strada, not only a 1954 Fellini classic, but a favorite restaurant. I am struck by our granddaughter Olivia, “all grown up,” ordering a mocktail at the bar. (Cue “Sunrise, Sunset.”)

Monday morning means work for Susan and her husband Mark, she to RiverLink and its admirable mission to restore and revitalize the French Broad River, and Mark, retired physician assistant, back to work on the bungalow he’s been restoring and upgrading since first they moved there in 1995.  One granddaughter, Isabel, is back in Chapel Hill following her sophomore year, but Olivia is home for the summer and has a job interview the next day.   So Mark, Olivia, and I plan to have breakfast together downtown in the morning, and we make it an early night.