This must be the place: To rouse the spirit of the earth and move the rolling sky
Hello from Room 827 at the Marriott Town Center in downtown Charleston, West Virginia. The outside temperature is dropping, all while soft snowflakes cascade by the hotel window onto the cold pavement below.
This must be the place: Morning comes wearing diamonds, where she is, the sun is shining
Hello from Room 128 at the Red Roof Inn in Hardeeville, South Carolina, just north of the Georgia state line off Interstate 95. It’s 10:01 a.m. Yesterday, I awoke in Room 208 at the Hampton Inn outside of Lake Wales, Florida.
This must be the place: One man practicing kindness in the wilderness is worth all the temples this world pulls
I had about an hour window of no rain before the remnants of the tropical storm would slowly, but surely, slide into the North Country. The clouds were already darkening above the Adirondack Mountains as the nose of the truck was aimed west, heading out from my parents’ farmhouse on the outskirts of Plattsburgh, New York.
This must be the place: You want to find the truth in life, don’t pass music by
Hello from Room 307 at the Hilton Garden Inn amid the coastal community of Monterey, California. It’s 11 a.m. and I have a flight to catch from San Francisco to Atlanta later tonight. But, for now? I figured I’d wander up the along the Pacific Coast Highway, ole Route 1, en route to SFO for that 10:50 p.m. takeoff.
This must be the place: The air was soft, the stars so fine, the promise of every cobbled alley so great
Editor’s Note: While on assignment for Rolling Stone out in Monterey, California, last weekend, Garret decided to hang out in San Francisco for a couple of days beforehand, just to hit the ground runnin’ and once again feel the vibe of the city he missed. The following is what he felt, and wrote about, in real time.
This must be the place: I’ll eat when I’m hungry, I’ll drink when I’m dry, and when I get thirsty I’ll lay down and cry
Emerging from his merchandise table at The Grey Eagle in Asheville last week, legendary troubadour Ramblin’ Jack Elliott moseyed on over to where I stood in the lobby. With a signature grin rolling across his face, the 91-year-old folk hero extended his hand and said he was looking forward to our interview backstage.
This must be the place: Well, I love home, but the road’s got all I need
The alarm on the smart phone shook me out of some foggy, odd dream. Par for the course, in terms of the subconscious realm. Lots on the mind lately, whether near or far from my inner thoughts and emotions. Turn off the alarm and emerge from one’s slumber.
We Won't Soon Forget
The fact that it was after midnight, two members of our party had been traveling for most of the day and one had to begin her travels at 4:30 the next morning did nothing to stop us from ascending the mountain on the banks of the Adige River to the church that overlooks Verona. That’s just what it’s like to travel with Loretta — and all the women in my family — full of heedless wonder.
Breaking down walls and sharing some magic
“… I hear Mariachi static on my radio / And the tubes they glow in the dark / And I’m there with her in Ensenada / And I’m here in Echo Park ….” —Warren Zevon, “Carmelita”
‘You’re OK,’ and more notes from the road
She was 70, or so she said, but looked 15 years younger. She was alone and sipping wine and eating “chips” in the pub at the Ceilidh Inn in Ullapool, Scotland. She was a child of the 60s who spoke of how crazy London had been at that time. Eventually, she had sold her house in the city and relocated to wilds of Scotland. For decades she has been scratching out a living as a painter.