What can I tell you about Nashville. Well, not a great deal really. Having booked a hostel in haste I ended up several miles away from...just about anything. A classic holiday folly.
After enduring 17 hours on a Greyhound bus I wasn't too excited about trudging round in the sweltering midday heat in the vain hope of stumbling across somewhere I knew nothing about, with a rucksack that could drown a horse.
The woman at the transit authority, who I had put at a great inconvenience by interrupting a personal call, told me with a sinister pleasure that my chosen destination wasn't listed in her ominously comprehensive road atlas.
So after offering strained encouragement to an unconvincing taxi driver, and $55 lighter, I was introduced to the middle of nowhere, Tennessee.
Williamson, the county in which I found myself, turned out to be one of the wealthiest in the country, with Nicole Kidman among the distinguished residents. If I hadn't been conserving every last breath of energy I would have inhaled in appreciation.
When I managed to catch a ride downtown, I was submerged into a big country music festival, with the BBQ joints, cowboy hats and record shops offering occasional distraction from the oppressive heat.
I'm not sure what I was expecting but the intense passion for all things country left me feeling a little uneasy. Everyone seemed friendly on the surface but at any moment I was prepared for the country music police to come and shackle me down as an impostor. A street vending cubicle offered the chance to record your own CD for $18 and a budding young singer told her audience "thank y'all for comin' to see me in this 90 degree heat". They didn't mind. I most certainly did.
Within touching distance of ending what had been a less than successful visit I was hit with the bombshell of America's public transport system. Or rather the lack of it.
I had booked a seat on the Greyhound bus to Memphis days in advance but when I arrived I was bluntly informed, along with several others, that there were no seats left, and if I waited around for another eight hours I would "maybe" get on the next one. My furious dismay was matched only by the apathy of the other unlucky few.
The bus company had knowingly sold more tickets than seats and the surly bruisers at the ticket counter were aggressively defensive of such practice. I tried to whip up a posse of protesters but you could tell such injustice had long since beaten them into submission.
The attitude of Greyhound bus staff seems to suggest that public transport in America is the preserve of the deluded or the desperate and that anyone who can't afford a car should be grateful for the scraps that remain.
Regardless, I had reason to believe we all would be received in Graceland.
Memphis wasn't anywhere near as busy as I'd expected. Arriving so much later than intended I wandered out for some food around midnight and the Main Street was completely deserted. Things scuttled behind me like something from a horror film but I barely saw a sole for about half a mile. The city didn't seem to be benefiting much from its fame.
The solitary white person inside or out, I rode the bus through a seedy suburb to the home of Elvis Presley and later to the famous Sun Studio, as part of a day that was as memorable as my escape from Nashville was distressing.
I stood on the spot where the King cut his first hit, in the studio unchanged from its heyday when its many legends would pass through. In Graceland, an attraction smoothly operated by American commercial nous, I was reminded of the staggering impact Elvis had on the world, despite never performing outside of his homeland.
You cannot underestimate the extent to which people like Elvis Presley promoted US popular culture. The fast food diners, the Cadillacs, and all that cliched charm have instant recognition on an international scale, but without the undeniable talent of icons such as Elvis, there would not have been the substance to resonate it so deeply into the minds of those so far away.
With that in mind I felt somewhat privileged to while away the evening on Beale Street, taking in some live acts in the home of the blues - where history was made.
Meandering down the great Mississippi River, the train plunged me into the furthest reaches of the south, through the Louisiana swamp land, en route to New Orleans. With limited time to savour the full flavour of the Big Easy, I neglected the hurricane devastation the city was infamously hit with in recent years and made time to appreciate the mystique of the place unlike anywhere else in America.
And it is truly unique. Like a Caribbean island tagged onto the mainland. With the debauchery of Bourbon Street added to the rickety balconies and crumbling brick work, it felt like old Europe had met the wild west. I bumped into Ewan McGregor on a night when the unexpected took centre stage. He's probably still telling his friends the story. Katrina may have chased half of its population away but New Orleans seemed to be delighting the tourists in their numbers. I'd defy anybody to leave there without the sense they had witnessed something special.
After enduring 17 hours on a Greyhound bus I wasn't too excited about trudging round in the sweltering midday heat in the vain hope of stumbling across somewhere I knew nothing about, with a rucksack that could drown a horse.
The woman at the transit authority, who I had put at a great inconvenience by interrupting a personal call, told me with a sinister pleasure that my chosen destination wasn't listed in her ominously comprehensive road atlas.
So after offering strained encouragement to an unconvincing taxi driver, and $55 lighter, I was introduced to the middle of nowhere, Tennessee.
Williamson, the county in which I found myself, turned out to be one of the wealthiest in the country, with Nicole Kidman among the distinguished residents. If I hadn't been conserving every last breath of energy I would have inhaled in appreciation.
When I managed to catch a ride downtown, I was submerged into a big country music festival, with the BBQ joints, cowboy hats and record shops offering occasional distraction from the oppressive heat.
I'm not sure what I was expecting but the intense passion for all things country left me feeling a little uneasy. Everyone seemed friendly on the surface but at any moment I was prepared for the country music police to come and shackle me down as an impostor. A street vending cubicle offered the chance to record your own CD for $18 and a budding young singer told her audience "thank y'all for comin' to see me in this 90 degree heat". They didn't mind. I most certainly did.
Within touching distance of ending what had been a less than successful visit I was hit with the bombshell of America's public transport system. Or rather the lack of it.
I had booked a seat on the Greyhound bus to Memphis days in advance but when I arrived I was bluntly informed, along with several others, that there were no seats left, and if I waited around for another eight hours I would "maybe" get on the next one. My furious dismay was matched only by the apathy of the other unlucky few.
The bus company had knowingly sold more tickets than seats and the surly bruisers at the ticket counter were aggressively defensive of such practice. I tried to whip up a posse of protesters but you could tell such injustice had long since beaten them into submission.
The attitude of Greyhound bus staff seems to suggest that public transport in America is the preserve of the deluded or the desperate and that anyone who can't afford a car should be grateful for the scraps that remain.
Regardless, I had reason to believe we all would be received in Graceland.
Memphis wasn't anywhere near as busy as I'd expected. Arriving so much later than intended I wandered out for some food around midnight and the Main Street was completely deserted. Things scuttled behind me like something from a horror film but I barely saw a sole for about half a mile. The city didn't seem to be benefiting much from its fame.
The solitary white person inside or out, I rode the bus through a seedy suburb to the home of Elvis Presley and later to the famous Sun Studio, as part of a day that was as memorable as my escape from Nashville was distressing.
I stood on the spot where the King cut his first hit, in the studio unchanged from its heyday when its many legends would pass through. In Graceland, an attraction smoothly operated by American commercial nous, I was reminded of the staggering impact Elvis had on the world, despite never performing outside of his homeland.
You cannot underestimate the extent to which people like Elvis Presley promoted US popular culture. The fast food diners, the Cadillacs, and all that cliched charm have instant recognition on an international scale, but without the undeniable talent of icons such as Elvis, there would not have been the substance to resonate it so deeply into the minds of those so far away.
With that in mind I felt somewhat privileged to while away the evening on Beale Street, taking in some live acts in the home of the blues - where history was made.
Meandering down the great Mississippi River, the train plunged me into the furthest reaches of the south, through the Louisiana swamp land, en route to New Orleans. With limited time to savour the full flavour of the Big Easy, I neglected the hurricane devastation the city was infamously hit with in recent years and made time to appreciate the mystique of the place unlike anywhere else in America.
And it is truly unique. Like a Caribbean island tagged onto the mainland. With the debauchery of Bourbon Street added to the rickety balconies and crumbling brick work, it felt like old Europe had met the wild west. I bumped into Ewan McGregor on a night when the unexpected took centre stage. He's probably still telling his friends the story. Katrina may have chased half of its population away but New Orleans seemed to be delighting the tourists in their numbers. I'd defy anybody to leave there without the sense they had witnessed something special.
1 comment:
Hey Jon, Enjoying your entries in a cringing sort of way--the cringing being about things like hostels in the middle of nowhere, and rickety public transportation--if any.
Go well,
Sandy in Vt
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