I stir the bitter coffee carefully and watch the slow gradient of color. The florescent lights in the twenty-four-hour diner flicker slightly as a small woman calls out the only other customers order in the room. I look out of the broad glass window into the dead of the night. The vacant streets of my small town are so lonely at four in the morning. I like it that way because I feel like it’s only us. I observe Carlos across from me at the booth. His eyes are weary but they have a gleam of excitement behind them. He finishes his plate with a sense of urgency and we leave with tired grins as we set off on our adventure.

The streets lined with tangerine lights resonate and the undeviating road stretches before us. My eyes flutter in drowsiness but I’m determined not to let myself drift out of consciousness. I simply stare ahead at the persistant road and let my thoughts drift.  Hours pass and a sunset welcomes itself in the rearview mirror. My fatigue is replaced with excitement as I see the mountains ahead.

We arrived downtown around six in the morning when everyone is getting a slow start to their day. A cheerful old woman unlocks the doors to her bookstore while baristas in the coffee shop are already fast at work, grinding coffee beans and pouring steaming mugs of dark roast. A group of bikers pedal carelessly past us with a soft whoosh.

Stumbling upon a small but notable cafe, we decide to start our day there. This was the day I fell out of love with Chai Latte’s and in love with Asheville. The bitter liquid burned my throat as it slide down and the spices left an unpleasant and bland taste in my mouth. Carlos orders a hot chocolate despite it being mid-summer and I find myself wishing I did the same.

We spend the next few hours visiting humble bookstores and quirky shops. I run my fingers over the spines of the books and admire the delicate pages. I whisper lines to Carlos that interest me and we giggle when we spot a picture of a dog on a poster that resembles mine except he’s dressed up in silly clothing with his tongue sticking out. We try on funky clothes at a thrift shop and observe the tiny knick-knacks on the shelves. The record store was my favorite. I found so many vinyls that I adore and the whole aura of the room was exciting.

Next we visit an area where tents are set up and people are showcasing their art. I found it genuinely interesting to see all the different types of paintings, clothing, pottery, and jewelry.  As we walked through, Carlos filmed for a short video he was aspiring to compose. The people down here are so interesting and creative and he was trying to capture that in his own form of art.

Midday, we decided to take a break and get something to eat. The restaurant was nice because we ate outdoors and this allowed us to admire the beauty of the park. It was a sunny day but the cool breeze kept it from being sweltering. The vibrant green trees stood tall and provided the perfect amount of shade for people to rest.
 

At this point, Downtown was thriving. Families strolled down the street with their children tugging at their shirt in excitement, dogs laid obiebently by their owners as they got a bite to eat, a large group stretches in a strange yoga position in the park. Although the best part of being on the street is the performers. A group plays a catchy song on the side of the road as a crowd gathers in entertainment. Their expressions are joyous and interested.
Carlos and I walk by a man sitting on the pavement with his legs crossed. He has long, shaggy, blonde hair and his clothes are slightly ragged in an intentional way. The most interesting thing about him, though,was the vibrant blue typewriter sitting in front of him.

“Would you like for me to write you a poem?” He inquired calmly. Carlos looked at me for a moment then back to the man. “About what?”

“Anything you want.” The friendly man stated. “It can be an idea, a place, or a person. Anything.”

“And you can type it up right now?” I asked in shock. The man nodded with a smile. “It will take me less than five minutes.” He seemed very confident in his abilities.

“Okay, write about Asheville.” Carlos challenged.
“Very well.” He laughed. Then he immediately began typing.

His fingers skimmed over the worn keys in quick, jerky motions. I was amazed at how fast he was typing and how he didn't even have to second guess himself. It is as if he knew what Carlos was going to say before he even opened his mouth.

And he was right, in less than five minutes I was holding a sturdy piece of paper in my hands with bold writing. The poem was beautiful, written in descriptive language and the words flowed together perfectly.

I remember Carlos saying “Where else can you get a poem written just for you on the street?” That day we left with something no one else has.

On the way back home, Carlos and I decided to stop at another thrift store. We like to go thrift stores because you never know what you are going to find and everything you get has an unknown story behind it.
I’m browsing the electronics section when I hear Carlos gasp in excitement. “You’ll never guess what I just found!”

I look over to see him holding a sleek black 1981 Minolta film camera. My eyes widen and I grab the camera in eagerness. I had been wanting a film camera for the longest time and I was in amazement that we finally found one that works.

We purchase the camera and I am content with happiness. It was the perfect ending to an exhilarating adventure when I found out where my favorite place is and now I can capture all of our memories to come.