At the same time, I’ve been busy launching a brand-new site that has its own bright future: LoveandTrash.com!

It’s a project with some of my very good friends. We’re calling it “a DIY blog for people who do things differently.” There’s a ton of content, some very fun stuff, and lots of “actionable inspiration” to get you motivated.

The truth is, the more I traveled, the more I found that while I love traveling, my true passion was more on the environmental/DIY track. Love and Trash gives that passion a voice, and I couldn’t be more excited about it.

So stop by and check it out! I think you’ll like it. LoveandTrash.com

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For now, I’ve got a ton of photos. Enjoy!

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A congress member speaks at the morning fire ritual

In October, I traveled to The Farm in Tennessee, where the 10th Annual Bioregional Congress was taking place. I was excited to be there, though I couldn’t help but wonder…

What’s a bioregional congress?

Good question. To understand it, you need to understand “bioregionalism”. From biocongress.org:

[Bioregionalism] is taking the time to learn the possibilities of place. It is a mindfulness of local environment, history, and community aspirations that leads to a sustainable future. It relies on safe and renewable sources of food and energy. It ensures employment by supplying a rich diversity of services within the community, by recycling our resources, and by exchanging prudent surpluses with other regions. Bioregionalism is working to satisfy basic needs locally, such as education, health care and self-governance.

Essentially, bioregionalism boils down to getting more out of what you have, instead of importing what you don’t. Many new organizations and communities are working in this way, with an eye toward resource (and human-resource) management.

Shared meals in the common center, prepared and paid for by attendees

The Congress started in 1984, at which age your humble author was just learning to sing to trees. Since then, it’s continued to grow into a vibrant semiannual gathering of people from throughout the Americas who are actively experimenting with new forms of community and environmental awareness.

For example:

• a group called Ecobarrios who are working with residents in Mexico City’s housing developments to institute sustainable practices, composting and gardening (more on Ecobarrios);
• a housewife from Nashville who just got involved in nonprofits and wants to find out what the challenges are from a marketing perspective;
• a self-described eco-punk from LA who organizes traveling shows to teach underprivileged communities around the world about sustainability;
• several members of intentional communities from North to South America, here to discuss what works, what doesn’t, and where they are headed.

There is a fair share of outré hippie yahooism here as well. Tie-dye, massage, singing with the earth, singing Woody Guthrie songs: it all happened. But that hippie veneer was only skin-deep: beneath the surface, every person here is honestly, fully dedicated to working for change.

These guys talked animatedly for a long, long time.

Hippie Soup to Nuts

Each morning, the entire group met to discuss the day’s topics. Nothing was predetermined; it all had to be hashed out by discussion and vote. Laborious, yes—but it meant that everyone present had a voice.

These folks have their system down TIGHT. I’ve never seen anything like it. They conducted a huge meeting, circle-style, in a format where everybody got a chance to talk, with minimal interruption, almost no off-topic ranting, and not a single insult. You try that sometime with a group of 100 people.

That was my first sign that the people here were not just trying to share, give and change, but making it happen.

Proposed lecture topics for a single afternoon

The next sign was the depth, breadth and complexity of the discussion topics. People here were not speaking in generalities, but addressing topics that had direct effects on their work.

One woman wanted to discuss GMO seeds, and how we can keep them out of gardens. A small group proposed a new community and asked for potential members. A man offered dowsing lessons. A Venezuelan woman offered to share stories from the revolution. A short film on Cuba’s survival without petroleum drew a crowd.

Throughout the day, people gathered in various groups and addressed various questions and topics. The level of intellect was high, and the work accomplished was impressive.

In the evening, there was food, music and dancing.

I could only stay one day at the Bioregional Congress, but I left completely inspired. I fully intend to take part in future Congresses: as the environmental movement ramps up, these are the people who are leading the way to the future. I have faith they’ll get us there.

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Intern housing at The Farm

Way out in the Tennessee hills lies a 1750-acre establishment that has been quietly affecting change for almost four decades.

The Farm, an intentional community, was formed in 1971 by Stephen Gaskin and a group of hippies who were tired of the status quo. Like so many other groups at the time, they chose a new path, dropping out of society and moving to a plot of land outside Summertown where they could start fresh. Like other groups, they were dedicated to peace and love and new age spirituality.

Unlike many other groups, The Farm survived.

39 years later, it’s not much of a farm. In fact, almost no farming goes on. It feels more like a small town with its own roads, store, school, town hall and university. The long-term population is around 150 people, with plenty of visitors who come and go. This is a huge drop from the peak population of 1500.

People used to drop their lives and come live on The Farm, but it doesn’t work that way anymore: now, they come for education and training, then take their knowledge back home.

One of The Farm’s biggest draws is its school of midwifery. Ina May Gaskin is the author of Spiritual Midwifery, a seminal book that reinvented childbirth practices in the 1980s. Ina May is now considered “the mother of authentic midwifery,” and continues to practice, teach and write. Together, the five Farm midwives have birthed over 3,000 babies in 38 years.

But that success couldn’t shield The Farm from the harsh realities of survival in America. By the mid-1980s, the group was deep in debt and, to save themselves, had to abandon some of their more radical practices. From a loose commune, they became an intentional community: a group of like-minded individuals who are responsible for their own wellbeing, while still sharing the most important resources.

Residents own the land in common and share property taxes, roads and water costs. Apart from that, they’re on their own to build their homes, create their lives, and figure out how to survive.

As a part of the community’s evolution, Farm residents began taking on individual projects that were supported by community money and chosen by a vote from all members. This led to the founding of Gaia University, Plenty International, Kids to the Country and other endeavors. The Farm had become, rather than a unidirectional commune, a diverse community united by a desire to improve the world.

From what I could tell, the key to The Farm’s success is that it has adapted over time. From a fever dream of hippie farmland to a grown-up, idyllic town, this group has clearly dedicated their lives to finding the answer to that age-old question: how can we all live together in peace, without going broke?

Not to wax overly poetic, but that’s really what it’s all about. Residents of The Farm appear to have figured out that their work here can have wider effects: they are a testing ground for a new type of community that most people only dream of.

That’s why The Farm was chosen as the host of the Bioregional Congress in 2009. And that’s how I came to visit Summertown, Tennessee.

Hilarious: a TVP silo.

Next up: uh, what’s a bioregional congress?

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I like to move around.

Throughout this journey, I’d always been happy to move on to the next spot—but leaving Asheville hurt just a little. Still, there were adventures ahead. No time to stop, not now.

I took the bus to another bus, to another bus, to a hotel in Nashville, Tennessee. The road wound through the Blue Ridge Mountains, and was lined with new sights: little towns that seemed to be no more than bus stops… soda-sipping teenagers in camouflage, heading off to war… endless ridges fading from green to emerald to blue to purple to grey, forever into the distance… and here and there, little bursts of red on the leafy hillsides, signaling the onset of autumn.

I’d hoped to be in North Carolina to see the leaves turn, but with red leaves come cold nights—and after New Mexico’s horizontal snow and Colorado’s ice rain, I didn’t want to get stuck in the cold again.

Hey, it’s another Elvis statue!
photo by SeeMidTN.com

Santa and Elvis on the Roof
photo by robot_zombie_monkey

And so I went to sunny Nashville, where Kevin and Nicole joined me.

We walked Nashville’s strip that night, trying to get excited about Music City USA, but mostly nonplussed by the tourists and the beer-drinking party hoo-ha. We had better reasons to be here: we were in Nashville to visit a friend we hadn’t seen in a while.

Several laughs, a few tears and one bad movie later, I was ready to hop another bus. Nashville had been a renewal, and I was heading toward something exciting.

The next bus was piloted by a driver with Elvis glasses and a pompadour, who had the thickest hills accent you ever heard. He grinned ear to ear while asking me ten questions about where I was from and where I was going. He seemed to know most of the passengers by name. Three of my fellow passengers were Amish: a quiet family in black and purple.

Later we pulled off the two-lane highway and waited for nearly an hour next to a hospital. The driver explained: there was another Amish family in there, the girl had come down with bronchitis, we were waiting for them to be discharged. Nobody on the bus seemed to mind waiting. We all sat silently in the green heat.

Eventually our passengers arrived, and the bus motored on through lush woods, a sunny winding highway into the southeast corner of Tennessee. Traffic got scarcer as we drove, until finally we pulled off at the Summertown bus stop.

  

  

I had called ahead to have someone meet me here, but the bus was now an hour behind schedule. Nobody was here. The town was little more than a scattering of shops, most of them Amish souvenir stores. The six Amish people had all gotten off the bus with me, and were now riding away in black buggies. The Elvis driver winked a goodbye out the window as he guided the bus back onto the highway.

The bus stop was closed. I was out of food and water, and it was late afternoon. My cell phone didn’t work, and there was no Internet reception; how would I get where I was going?

But I hardly had time to worry before the lone bus-stop employee reappeared from someplace. Country manners kicked in immediately: in short order I was being given a tour of the establishment while phone calls were made on my behalf.

And thank goodness: I hadn’t missed my ride, because they’d forgotten to come pick me up. If I hadn’t called, I’d have spent the night at the bus stop. But they were on their way now, for sure this time. I sat down out front to wait.

Soon enough, a muddy Subaru stopped out front. Two barefoot and bedraggled dudes stepped out, all hair and patchouli. I hopped in the Subaru and we toiled up the hill, a few miles outside of Summertown where we came to:

And I’ll tell you all about that very soon.

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By the time I got to Asheville, I was nearing the end of my journey and the bottom of my wallet. The last thing on my mind was spending money: it was beautiful outside, and there were free things to do everywhere.

But. When I’d posted on Facebook that I was coming to town, no fewer than three people told me I just had to visit the Tupelo Honey Cafe. So I checked their website, and instantly fell in love:

“Tupelo Honey Café opened in downtown Asheville in 2000, an early pioneer in the farm to fork movement and an active advocate for the independent restaurant landscape that pervades the city. Our food is fresh, made from scratch, sassy and scrumptious. Our cuisine salutes our love of Southern traditions at the table, but like the good people of Asheville, marches to its own drum. The result is a unique riff on Southern favorites.” – tupelohoneycafe.com

I was convinced—but I wasn’t alone. On a sunny Sunday afternoon, the waiting list was an hour long. After hemming and hawing and assessing my food stash (contents: 10 saltines), I decided to go for it anyway.

By the time I finally got a seat at the counter, I was starved. It took me about thirty seconds to pick out the Charleston Chicken Sandwich: “grilled marinated free-range chicken breast on sourdough with melted havarti, romaine lettuce and cranberry mayonnaise”. Free range? Cranberry? Havarti? Yes, I could dig it.

While I waited for the food, I checked out the back of the store where Tupelo Honey Cafe hawks their homestyle wares: preserves, pickles, salsa, honey, t-shirts, aprons and all sorts of mini-advertisements for the restaurant.

I’ve visited plenty of farm-to-fork restaurants, and this one may be the best I’ve seen at self-marketing. There’s nothing wrong with it: the food in those jars is probably delicious, though I question whether the $10 tupelo honey had to come from Florida or if it’s produced locally.

Either way, it’s nice to see a restaurant built on ethics that also happens to be incredibly busy. Some of that is surely due to good marketing, but the real reason for its popularity is this:

That sandwich was so good, I found myself eating slower and slower with each bite to savor it more completely. The potatoes were light and un-greasy; the flavors were perfectly balanced; the chicken was juicy and rich; and let’s be honest here, I’m always happier eating dead animals when I know they’ve lived a good life. I found myself silently thanking the chicken for its delicious contribution. Thank you, chicken. I will never forget you.

I stopped eating halfway through, not because I was full. I stopped so I could take the rest home and taste it again later.

On another topic, I made a discovery there in the Tupelo Honey Cafe, one which I’d like to share with you now.

If you’re going to a busy restaurant and want great service, bring a camera. Take a few photos of the menu, the kitchen, the food.

No sooner had I taken the above photo, when a server (not even my server) appeared at my elbow. Later when I stopped eating and lifted my napkin from my lap, it took approximately three seconds for someone to take my food away to be boxed up.

Now, I’m not saying the service before my camera-flash was bad, because it was awesome. But wow, it sure improved once I appeared to be some sort of food critic or travel writer.

Which, it just so happens, I am. But even if you’re not, try this out sometime. I can’t guarantee it’ll work, but I personally will do it again—and probably back it up with a stellar review, just like the one I’ve given the Tupelo Honey Cafe.

Everybody wins.

Okay, that’s it! I could talk about Asheville for weeks, but it’s time to move on. Next stop: sunny Tennessee, where I get down on The Farm.

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There I was in Asheville, wandering around on a sunny autumn day, when I spotted this strange berry:

My first reaction was “wow, that sure looks like a poison berry to me.” So I didn’t eat it—but gosh, that thing looked so amazingly toxic, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Never did find out what it was.

So I’m asking you, Southerners and foragers and armchair botanists: how are my instincts? What is that? Was I right not to chew on it? Or should I have merrily popped it in my mouth and gathered more for supper?

Comment below if you’ve got an idea.

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While in Asheville, I spent a few hours wandering the trails at the Botanical Gardens. According to a sign posted there, the Southern Appalachians have the richest diversity of native plants anywhere outside of the tropics. Who knew?

The Botanical Gardens, which abut the UNC campus, were filled with people enjoying the shaded glens and free admission. Students played frisbee on the grass; young girls scampered along the creekbed; a flock of tourists followed a guide along the trails. Me, I just walked and looked. Here’s some of what I saw.

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1. Hear live music on a streetcorner.

On a sunny day, the downtown area is always populated with buskers. Sometimes it’s your basic guy-with-a-guitar setup; sometimes there are a few dudes in overalls or tweed; sometimes it’s a full band with amplification. One sure thing is that you won’t have to walk far to find a street performer to tickle your ears for free (donations appreciated).

2. Feed your head at Malaprop’s Bookstore.

Granted, Malaprop’s is a business, so they also appreciate monetary contributions. But if you’re broke, spend a buck on coffee and peruse their incredible selection of literature.

This store is one of the places that convinced me so utterly of Asheville’s uniqueness. In fact, Malaprop’s seems to assume that its clientele is highly intelligent, educated in self-sufficiency, and actively committed to social/environmental change.

And there’s the proof: a book on Cattle Health in the Green Living section? We’re not in San Francisco any more.

3. Take a nature walk.

While exploring downtown, I picked up a map that indicated there was a botanical garden next to the UNC campus. Heading out that way, I stumbled across the Reed Creek “interpretive trail”, which was a hugely educational resource. It guides you through an area that was once occupied by buildings; along the trail, a series of signs informs you of what was here, what’s here now and why. In the space of a city block or two, I learned a ton about local history and botany.

The Reed Creek trail lets out near the Asheville Botanical Gardens, a huge and beautifully-managed set of trails, greens and buildings. It’s an easy walk, and just like at Reed Creek, the Botanical Gardens are full of information on native species. Make sure you stop at the creek, an excellent spot for a wee nosh and/or nap in the dappled sunlight.

Click for more photos of Reed Creek and the Botanical Gardens.

4. Go on a self-guided art tour.

As I mentioned recently, Asheville is full of art both strange and beautiful. From the underpass mural, to political graffiti, to statuary both commissioned and independent, there’s art all over the place. And that’s just on the sidewalk—but there are also tons of art galleries for your browsing pleasure.

Don’t miss Chicken Alley, a strange little street that looks straight out of New Orleans or Oakland. It’s haunted by living artists and one dead doctor: Dr. Jamie Smith was killed in a 1902 barfight and still hangs around the place.

If you’re more into modern-age ephemera, guess what? Chicken Alley’s got free wifi. Yippee!

5a. (for hippies) Hippie out at the Drum Circle.

photo by BillRhodesPhoto

Apparently this is a big deal, but I am somewhat opposed to drum circles. If they’re your thing, that’s super! There’s a giant one here every Friday night, on Patton Avenue. Just follow the smell of patchouli and sounds of wild djembe.

5b. (for nerds and queers) Get your summer Shakespeare fix.

photo by Zen

What self-respecting town doesn’t have a free Shakespeare-in-the-park series these days? Asheville is right on point, offering free performances all summer (Friday, Saturday & Sunday nights only). The address is #1 Gay Street, so you ought to feel right at home.

Want more, more, more free stuff? I know right? Cheapskate your heart out at Asheville’s official Free Things to Do page.

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