Three steel ladies get out of their steel vehicle and head for the shops. Their manner of walking was a bit overdone, but this is Asheville…

Look at the color of this wall; those flowers. See that it is good.

Two gentlemen of Asheville play nonchalant while those steel ladies from an earlier shot try to pick them up.

A beautiful mural on Broadway by a really accomplished muralist, whose name I neglected to write down and post here, but I will. I'm an admirer.

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Okay; went back down there for another look: The title is "Simple gift" by Sally Bryenton.

This is a woman who occasionally dresses as a monochromatic angel, sometimes black, sometimes white but always beautiful and intriguing. When the mood takes her, she appears in Pack Square and stands within a circle formed by the pattern of bricks in the sidewalk. She takes a pose, holds it as long as she can, then gracefully and slowly moves to another position. Sometimes buffeted by the wind, she persists bravely. The first time I saw her, she wore a black gown, black wings and blackened skin; the absence of light making it difficult to see the definition of her facial features. In white, the lovely proportions of her face are apparent. Just look at her. Who is she?

He is saying that a parliamentary system, with parties represented by their proportion of vote is far more democratic than our two-party "system." His little friend was trying to collect bone money from the crowd. Then they lost their train of thought.

I stood outside an open restaurant window one warm evening, listening to two men playing Spanish guitar, while two women accompanied their melodies on drums. The music was so good, but I was tired and wanted to go home, so I walked away from their sound with regret. By the time I reached Haywood Street, the Earth had turned enough to block the sun's precious light and darkness had descended. From inside Malaprop's bookstore, came the sound of six women singing in very early American harmonies to an enraptured crowd, their music simple and beautiful but sometimes intricate, their voices intertwining in almost medieval fashion. Ah; early American Madrigals.

I went in to listen and watch the faces of the audience, which occasionally broke into grateful song. After a few songs, I turned to a lady next to me and said "I love Asheville," and her eyes glowed as she spake, "So do I". And again, annoyed at that which doth make us tired, I left the music and closed Malaprop's door behind me.

There was a distant rhythmic thunder coming from the direction of Pritchard Park. My car lay in the opposite direction and my feet protested, "Oh no; here he goes again," as I pointed them toward the thunder and we argued about pain versus weakness.