Love Letter to Asheville

A River Arts District resident reflects on her experience in the aftermath of Helene

All photography provided by April Economides

THE FIRST TIME I SAW THE RIVER ARTS DISTRICT was from I-240 heading into downtown Asheville—its broad, tree-lined river flanked by historic buildings, a tall brick smokestack, and colorful murals. For a year, I visited weekly from Greenville, South Carolina, and became smitten with Foundy Street’s once-abandoned buildings transformed into hundreds of artist studios, the Marquee antique mall, charming Grail Moviehouse, impressive street art, and even a mushroom café and a well-designed skatepark. I frequented The Wedge area and the plethora of art studios and other businesses hugging the train tracks that define the middle of the district.

By the time The Radical opened, the love affair was official. The stunning new hotel, featuring art on every wall, including eye-popping murals splashed onto the walls of guest rooms, was a meaningful addition to the beloved community businesses that formed the soul of the district. Every visit to its restaurant, Golden Hour, resulted in warm conversations with employees and other diners, including Chai Pani owners Meherwan and Molly Irani. I took an art class from Miranda Wildman on the roof, the framed result hanging above my bed, and stayed overnight once, admiring the river paths and connected parkways from my window. 

Little did I know, those beautiful green spaces would soon become my daily biophilic playground, where my dog, Kaia, and I would begin and close each day, jogging and walking through Jean Webb Park, across the river to the French Broad Dog Park, and weekly to the RAD Farmers Market, where I befriended local farmers. It was the RAD that lured me into moving to Asheville at the beginning of August. Our sweet little rental is just two blocks up the hill from Depot Street.

Over the next two months, Kaia and I explored every inch of the district, my usually adventurous self not feeling the need to leave much since the neighborhood’s mix of nature and art felt like all I needed. We met glassblowers and pottery throwers, smiled at the Noble Forge blacksmiths on our walks, and talked with diverse artists during gallery visits.

The first hint of concern arrived last Thursday morning when part of Lyman Street was flooded beyond safe driving. Friday’s early morning power outage, stormy weather, and desolate streets were unnerving, but our apartment was unscathed, and I soon felt safe enough to quickly clear branches off streets and sidewalks. Reality changed in the late afternoon when I stood atop the park above Depot Street and looked toward the French Broad River. My jaw dropped and my heart sank. Everything beyond PennyCup Coffee Co. was under water, as far as the eye could see. 

I looked in disbelief at only the tips of the three-story Foundy buildings poking through the water. My shocked brain realized everything was completed submerged. I nervously walked a block down to Depot Street, where the buildings in both directions were half drowned. I helplessly watched the water line inch toward the door of an elevated building, as I frantically looked for sandbags or anything I could use as a barricade, but found nothing.

The next morning, I returned to see the same buildings flooded. I walked by Noble Forge, but instead of smiling and waving like usual, I soberly offered condolences and help. Hearing the Haywood Street Bridge was the current community gathering spot, I headed there, afraid of what I knew I would see. It was a funeral scene of creative buildings and infrastructure in both directions. The beloved district was now one large lake, some buildings also violently ripped apart. A kind man handed free beverages out of his truck while blasting radio news as community members sat on curbs, looking across the river, speechless.

I was unable to stay. I felt sick to my stomach and too heartbroken to be around people. Holding back tears, I walked slowly home, my heart aching for the artists and business owners who lost everything. I was deeply sad for my little family too, knowing the places that brought us daily joy were either gone forever or would never be the same, but pushed that feeling down knowing how fortunate we were by comparison.

I walked downtown early Friday evening and Saturday afternoon, determined to charge my phone, get cell service, and learn information about Asheville and Boone, where my daughter lives. I had been unable to reach her and was worried. As I gathered and exchanged information—including about open roads, grocery stores, gas stations, and ATMs—with a diverse cross-section of tourists and locals, the next wave of reality set in: it would only be in community that we would get through this. We needed each other.

AS A NEW RESIDENT, I don’t yet have a large community in Asheville. But during an uncertain and scary time, we depend on each other for information, resources, and other help. My next experiences proved this interconnectedness.

I walked into a hotel to buy a snack from its mini café and was gifted one by the manager. A fellow mom I met on the street invited me to charge my phone and use the restroom at her business. Walking north on Merrimon Avenue, I passed a good Samaritan bravely directing traffic in the middle of an intersection, cars lined up in every direction for the sole gas station. I passed Whole Foods, which was giving out apples and strawberries. Old Europe was gifting an endless supply of baked goods and beverages for the second day in a row, and Bear’s Smokehouse was distributing hearty meals. I spread the word about these spots at the two cell-reception locations and to passersby on the street. Everything had to be word-of-mouth, so I used my voice to try and help.

When I reached my stress limit of not being able to confirm my daughter’s well-being, a hotel let me use its computer to email her and my parents and book an affordable Airbnb in Charlotte to read the news and contribute to a crowd-sourced document about basic services in WNC. I also bought gas and cheap groceries, withdrew cash, and used running water again.

While walking Kaia in Charlotte, I saw many downed trees at parks and in residential neighborhoods. The first people I interacted with seemed unaware of the devastation and needs in WNC, though positive signs emerged after a couple days. 315 @ Loso Hotel offered kindness and lower rates to guests, their 120 rooms filled with evacuees of all ages and backgrounds. Shain Gallery owner Sybil Wornall said churches, soccer leagues, and other groups were hosting drives and fundraisers. Bicycle Sport’s owner Ben Cooley organized a drive at his stores for water, food, and diapers. ROOTS Café offered a free meal to everyone affected by the hurricane. “We’re in the business of feeding people,” employee Maira said. “So if we can help, we’re going to do that.”

MEANWHILE, AS I FOLLOWED the news and Instagram accounts of on-the-ground helpers in and around Asheville, doing what I could with my WiFi connection, the power of WNC citizens and businesses was on full display. The owner of Farewell, an Asheville firefighter, was pushing out information about basic needs access daily. Others soon followed suit. The Chai Pani owners I met months ago and other restaurateurs, such as Chef Katie Button of Cúrate, joined forces with World Central Kitchen to create a large-scale food distribution service.

The Radical is now a donation center, also providing food from its kitchen. Eateries and businesses around the city that weren’t completely damaged are giving their money and time generously to their community. Regional helicopter owners are flying in supplies to cut-off areas in WNC, and horse farms are inviting families in for horse therapy. Other farms like Wild East near Marion are driving into Asheville to donate hundreds of organic chickens and other food items. The Orange Peel, in partnership with Griffin Waste, has provided portable restrooms in its parking lot for public use. Hood Huggers is distributing supplies to under-resourced areas. In addition to governmental efforts, hundreds of citizens and private groups around the region are tirelessly working to support their communities.

Folks like me, whose families and homes survived Helene, are determining if it’s more ethical to stay in the resource-strained area to roll up our sleeves and serve others, or if organizing efforts from another location would be more beneficial. Some people must leave to earn income. Everyone’s situation is different. But one thing we all have in common is that no one is getting through this alone. 

“The greatness of a community is most accurately measured by the compassionate actions of its members,” said Coretta Scott King. While the people of WNC and neighboring regions are showing just how deeply compassionate they are, these beloved and resilient communities—home to farms that feed others, well-touristed roads and towns, and Appalachian artists, craftspeople, and musicians—also need the outside world’s help. A few of the organizations providing daily frontline assistance to Asheville or surrounding areas are BeLoved Asheville, Hood Huggers, Equal Plates Project, and World Central Kitchen. GoFundMe also has a dedicated page of verified Hurricane Helene emergency fundraisers to donate directly to specific families and communities—or you can donate via this publication’s GoFundMe page.

Thank you so much for doing what you can.

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