Morganton, NC. to Asheville, NC. We arrived in Asheville Thursday afternoon and settled into the Comfort Inn. I've been making my reservations through this Choice Privileges program and supposedly I pay for 2 nights at select hotels and they comp me a third night. Sounds like a plan. I'll let you know how it works out. This is all our crap. I have two camera bags, 1 computer bag, 1 bag of computer and camera connections, 1 bag of crossword puzzles and books, 1 small bag of clothes, another bag full of maps and brochures, and another bag full of AAA books that I go through every night to plan the next day's leg. Mr. Hawthorne has a few bags also plus that big ass cooler which plugs into the cigarette lighter. I remember when I used to travel light. And the Comfort Inn graciously offers the Queen of England's royal carriage for transporting our stuff. Here's the view from our fifth floor window. We've been to Asheville several times now and we weren't going to Biltmore or the NC Arboretum again on this trip. Basically just passing through, but I did want to check out St. Lawrence's Basilica Friday morning before heading to Cherokee. Anyways, our hotel was right next to one of my favorite restaurants: The Harbour Inn. We've been there for lunch every time we've been to Asheville and it's always good. I didn't particularly want to go out to supper. We had yogurt and fruit in the cooler. But Mr. Hawthorne was drawn to the Harbor Inn like a moth to a flame. I pouted a bit and when he pouted and said he'd just go alone, I begrudgingly said I'd go with him. I did not want fried. I did not want a salad. My options were limited. I ended up ordering a salad anyway and the oyster appetizer. He ordered the fried oysters. This is the first time I've seen him not polish off every oyster on his plate. He left half of them. He said they weren't "bad" (as in rotten) but they weren't favorable to his palate. He can be so damn diplomatic at time. Twenty-four hours later, he had this to say about his oysters: "Very undesirable oysters," he said. "Borderline offensive." I really wasn't thinking. I know September has an "r" in it, but it's still too soon for oysters. My "appetizer" came. Instead of plump, succulent, oceany oysters on the half shell on a bed of shaved ice, I got six limp, gray, disgusting, warm bivalves plopped unceremoniously on a plate of iceberg lettuce. I almost heaved. I sent the plate back. I wish I'd taken a picture of them but I was too overwhelmed to think straight. Bad food can do that to me. Their Suicide Chocolate cake comforted me a bit and
helped to get the bad taste out of my mouth.