nashville

In the Yucatan, Skramly and I got so caught up in the place that we lost a day. In Nashville somehow we gained one.

We asked our local connection what we should see in town. He suggested Graceland. In Memphis. Three hours away.

When Tennessee was settled the land claims were suspect. The classical architecture seems a way to say “Hey, at least we're bringing civilization.” The cheapest little suburban houses have their front doors framed by columns. In the horse country just outside of town, there are epic McMansions, each its own Tara. It was gratifying to see most of them with "for sale” signs. The other highways out of town are carpeted with megachurches. We asked a Nashville local what percentage of people go every Sunday. “100%,” she estimated.

Favorite church signs: “Don't make me come down there. -- God” and “God is like Tide. He gets out the stains others leave behind.”

The people are friendly, and we ate well. “Cracker Barrel” was the most popular recommendation. At the BBQ place we let slide we were from New York. Over the intercom they announced “If they’s any Yankees in the restaurant, your food is ready.”


Monday in the business district was just as dead as Sunday. At rush hour it was so quiet I could hear the flags luffing over the state capitol.

The main honky tonk strip is more Nashville than even the stereotypes. Speakers on the sidewalks pump in country music. An elegant Art Deco bank has been converted to a tattoo parlor. On one short block we saw at least forty guys with guitars. This part of Nashville seems a repository of broken dreams, something like Vegas, or parts of L.A.