Three Days in Asheville: Where the City Meets the Mountains
By Caitlin Rothstein
Editor’s Note: Due to Hurricane Helene, some spots mentioned in this article may be closed or damaged. Please consider donating to recovery efforts—a list of organizations can be found here.
My first impression of Asheville was a disorienting blend of mountain vistas and kaleidoscopic storefronts. I found myself at the foot of the Blue Ridge Mountains, the peaks looming like overbearing relatives I hadn't quite decided if I liked yet. The air had a crispness I'd only previously encountered in the produce aisle of a Manhattan Whole Foods.
As a born-and-bred New Yorker, my idea of "outdoors" has always been the Central Park Zoo—one part curated wilderness, two parts high-strung tourists. But here, nature wasn’t a background character; it was the main act, the star of the show.
I checked into the Kimpton Hotel Arras, a newly minted boutique hotel in the heart of downtown Asheville. The lobby welcomed me with an unsettling amount of calm—no taxi horns blaring, no street vendors hawking knockoff handbags, no throngs of tourists in Yankees caps. Instead, there was an art installation that looked suspiciously like a series of stacked rocks, which I would later learn was called a "cairn" and had some sort of spiritual significance, though I couldn't help but think it would make a great paperweight.
The room was tasteful, minimalist. The minibar had kombucha, a far cry from the Diet Cokes of my youth, and the bathrobes were made from organic bamboo. I threw myself onto the king-sized bed, feeling both luxurious and eco-conscious—a true Ashevillean juxtaposition.
For the next three days, I would dive headfirst into this Southern city known for its eclectic arts scene, its farm-to-table food ethos, and a local population that seems to have an inexplicable love affair with hiking. I had arrived with a healthy skepticism and a closet full of black, thinking that my version of connecting with nature was limited to watching reruns of "Planet Earth." But Asheville, with its quirky charm and unabashed love of all things earthy and artisanal, was determined to show me otherwise.
Day Two: The Art of Hiking and the Hiking of Art
My second day began at Early Girl Eatery, where I tried my first "real" Southern breakfast. The waitress, with a smile that could rival the sun’s, suggested I try the sweet potato pancakes. They were fluffy yet substantial, served with a side of candied bacon that tasted like an epiphany. I briefly contemplated becoming a breakfast person, a morning person, even—a different person entirely.
After breakfast, I was scheduled for a "gentle hike" along the Blue Ridge Parkway. I had imagined a brisk walk, maybe a saunter, but certainly not anything that required waterproof shoes. However, the guide, a lanky local named Caleb with an intimidatingly long beard and a PhD in forestry, had other plans. As we ascended, he pointed out various trees and wildflowers with names I immediately forgot, and I couldn’t help but admire his passion. The city slowly receded behind us, replaced by layers of verdant greenery. A moment of panic set in—what if I liked this?
The trail was more rigorous than I had anticipated, and I could feel my Upper West Side muscles protesting. But Caleb’s enthusiasm was infectious. I started to notice the delicate beauty of the wildflowers, the music of the wind rustling through the leaves, the distant calls of birds. By the time we reached the summit, my skepticism had been replaced by a profound appreciation for the simple, rugged beauty around me. I wouldn’t go so far as to say I had a spiritual awakening, but I definitely started breathing with my whole lungs instead of just the top half, as if I'd been introduced to some new form of oxygen.
Day Three: High Art and Low Lights
The next day, still riding the high from my unexpected communion with nature, I decided to explore Asheville’s renowned arts scene. I headed to the River Arts District, a revitalized industrial area now teeming with artist studios, galleries, and cafes. Here, the city's creative spirit was palpable. I wandered into a ceramics studio where a woman named Myrtle was sculpting what looked like a mug but could also be a vase—who was I to limit its potential?
Lunch was at Chai Pani, an Indian street food restaurant that had me questioning everything I knew about flavor. The okra fries were a revelation, and the lamb burgers, spiced to perfection, had me wondering if I’d stumbled into a parallel universe where Asheville was known for its Indian cuisine rather than its barbecue.
As night fell, I decided to experience Asheville’s nightlife. This, of course, meant heading to the Orange Peel, a famed live music venue. The band was something folksy, with more banjos than I was typically comfortable with, but the crowd was lively, and the atmosphere was contagious. There was a sense of community, a palpable joy in the shared experience that I hadn’t felt since my last chaotic family Passover. I ended up dancing—a mix of awkward flailing and tentative bopping—but it was fun, freeing even. It turns out there’s something about Asheville that makes you forget how to be self-conscious.
Day Four: The Return
On my last morning in Asheville, I had breakfast at Sunny Point Café, where I tried grits for the first time. And, Reader, they were life-changing. I know, I know, it’s hard to believe someone could have their life changed by what is essentially glorified porridge, but it was true. These weren’t the sad, watery grits I’d imagined; they were creamy, rich, and deeply satisfying.
As I prepared to leave, I found myself lingering. The city had charmed me, not in the flashy, neon way of a Times Square, but in a slow, earnest way that grows on you. Asheville, with its juxtaposition of city culture and mountain ruggedness, its love for the quirky and artisanal, had left an impression.
On the flight back to New York, I felt different. Not dramatically so—I wasn’t about to start wearing flannel and brewing my own kombucha—but something had shifted. Maybe it was the fresh air or the slower pace, or the fact that I’d walked more in three days than I usually do in three months. But I had a newfound appreciation for the outdoors, for the simple beauty of nature that Asheville embraces so fully. And maybe, just maybe, I’d be back. After all, they say there’s something magical about the mountains. Maybe they’re right.
I leaned back in my seat, feeling strangely light. Asheville might not have been where I thought I’d find myself, but it was certainly where I found something—perhaps a new piece of myself. And really, isn’t that what travel is all about?
After the destruction of Helene, chefs and restaurants in Asheville have appealed to customers to help their employees pay the bills.
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