Jackson, MS: Day Two

Up again at 8am, I showered and packed my bags as did the other two. Our train was at 11:20am, but in our usual careful manner we had arranged for Nigerian Joe to come and pick us up at 9am to take us back to town. Once back in the city and having finally extracted money from an ATM to pay Nigerian Joe, we walked back to the Amtrak station from the bank where we’d had the cab leave us.
While Déborah and I were travelling with a small rucksack on our fronts and a large backpack on our backs, Sam was lugging a 50lbs suitcase around with him, so when I said that in the 75 minutes before the train station even opened (we had definitely given ourselves far too much time) I was going to go for a walk and take pictures, Sam elected to stay at the station and Déborah did the same. Not particularly wanting to sit on a bench on a concrete taxi-rank for over an hour (bear in mind that even at 9am it was already 80F (27C), I left my bags with the other two and set off, camera in-hand. It was then that I realised the stupidity of staying in that motel room on the edge of town all afternoon the day before.
Jackson is a staggeringly pretty city. A prosperous business district quickly gives way to streets filled with undeveloped lots but unlike Memphis and Nashville, Jackson has no litter and the constant shade of large trees that line the sidewalks. The downtown area is very small in comparison to the other cities we had visited, but still large enough to feel like a real city. Unlike other places, there is no sense of homelessness on the main streets (even Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington DC suffers from that shameful consequence of the lack of a welfare state), and the only word I can summon to describe the atmosphere and setting of Jackson is ‘cosy.’

I headed for the Old Capitol Building and was greeted by a kind and informative woman in the lobby. At 9:10am I was the only visitor, and she told me the architectural history of the beautiful building. As the house of the Mississippi legislature until 1903, the building and its grounds had weathered the Civil War but had fallen into disrepair during Reconstruction. Its architect was the same gentleman that had built the North Carolina Capitol in Raleigh, much of the quad at UNC in Chapel Hill, much of the University of Alabama in Tuscaloosa, the Alabama State Capitol and the administrative buildings in Baton Rouge, Louisiana and New Orleans. The woman proudly told me as she led me through the House and Senate chambers that this was his true masterpiece, and it truly was. The only unfortunate part of this brief tour was the prohibition of photography.
My eye was on the time so I began to explain my need to leave to the woman in order to see more in the hour I had remaining and take pictures, and she asked me if I had seen the Governor’s Mansion. The Executive Mansion was down the street towards the Amtrak station and I had taken a picture of it on my way over. Having told the woman this she said, “I don’t suppose you’d like a tour then.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, “but I’ve just not got time.”
“How long have you got?” she asked.
“About an hour, but I need to see the new Capitol Building, too.”
“Well, let’s go then! I can get you on a quick tour. Barbara’s on the front desk and you’re the only visitor in the building at the moment.”

She led me out of the building and down the street, opening the gates and ushering me inside the residence of the Governor of Mississippi. The building resembled a mini-replica of the main mansion of the White House, though it was nestled in among drooping trees and pristine lawns of grass the kind of green only a humid climate produces. I joined a small group about to start their tour. The tour took 20 minutes, and with the absence of both photographs and an adequate descriptive vocabulary I can’t describe how plush, regal and ‘Southern’ it was, but it was absolutely fantastic to have witnessed this just an hour before I was on the train bound for New Orleans. I cursed myself again for lying on the bed in the motel room watching Blackadder and not just coughing up the money for a cab into the city. I knew, however, that all of the accommodation we were in for the next 26 days was extremely central.
The final treat, however, was found on the walk back to the train station. The cool marble walls of the Governor’s Mansion gave way to the dog’s breath of the outside air, but I walked down President’s Avenue, dodging the rehearsal for the Jackson State University graduation ceremony taking place at the Cathedral, and rounded the corner of Mississippi Avenue to see the present State Capitol.
I’d been to the capitol buildings in Oregon, Washington, North Carolina and Maryland before the start of this trip, and I’d found the capitol in Nashville to be the best one I’d seen. Many are if not ugly, unimpressive (North Carolina, Oregon), while others are simply small (Maryland). Tennessee had been a happy medium, but the building in Mississippi was just breathtakingly beautiful.







Well, its 2:29pm and we’ve just crossed the Louisiana State Line, so from a seat the size of which a British train-traveller could only dream of, good night and good luck.

Jackson, MS: Day One

Oh, it started out OK. We were in a hostel just around the corner from the Greyhound station so we were there bright and early for the bus, and we were pleased that the bus originated in Memphis so we had plenty of seats to choose from given our place at the head of the queue. We set off on time from Memphis and headed South, straddling the Tennessee/Arkansas state line, and soon I fell asleep. In order to save space in my bag I had gone completely ‘country’ by dressing in the clothes that took up the most room. Attired in jeans, brown shoes, white shirt, leather belt and my hat (don’t worry – I’m aware that I looked about as American as Richard Hammond did in the Top Gear road trip – as May would say I probably looked like a gay cowboy and a clot) I perhaps blended in a bit too well, as I found out when I awoke as we passed through rural Mississippi.

A couple of hours later the bus pulled into a small gas station that looked like the kind of place where the Greyhound bus is the only evidence of an outside world, and the driver said that we had a few quick minutes in order to smoke if we wished but we had to be very quick. I hadn’t eaten a proper meal since Denny’s the morning before thanks to the lack of options in Memphis and the presence of a baseball game when we would normally eat. I’d munched on bread and peanut butter in the time between, but when I came out of my deep sleep at this town in WTF-ville, Mississippi, my stomach was yelling at me that it was starving. I therefore jumped down and headed into the store next to the gas station and got some Doritos and a banana. While the guy behind the counter was taking forever inspecting my “foreign-lookin'” credit card (the only means I had of paying) a guy came in and said,
“Awl y’all gittin’ ther Greyhound bitter git back on thuh bus, ‘cording tuh thuh dravver.”
“Mmmmmhmmmmm, thanks man,” came the reply from a spherical woman behind me, leading me to believe that with her armful of honey buns and vanilla coke she was one of my fellow passengers. The fact that she didn’t move and was happy to wait for the checkout teller led me to think I could certainly do the same. My credit card went through after a couple more minutes, and I took my receipt, turned and addressed the globe of a woman.
“Don’t worry; I’ll keep the bus for you!” I said in a jovial English way, enjoying the silhouette of my hat in the shadows by the store entrance.
“Ah ain’t gittin’ no bus, man!” came the reply. The woman hadn’t had the patience to pay for her honey buns before ripping one open and cramming it into her face whole. “Ah thowt yo wuz frum roun’ here. Yo’ one o’ the Smiths, right?”

I didn’t have time to ask or find out who the Smiths were that I apparently fitted in with, and as an elongated “shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit...” ran through my mind and I turned and burst out of the store. Sure enough, the Greyhound bus door was closed and the hiss of the handbrake escaped from the hydraulics indicating the impeding movement of the bus. I waved my arms frantically as I dodged cars on the forecourt scrambling towards the bus, finally banging on the tinted windows of the door. The driver opened the door and said to me “I always scare stragglers like that – tends to teach 'em to hurry up.”
As I sat in my seat, waited for my heart to stop racing and frantically stuffed Doritos into my mouth in a way the woman in the store would have been proud of, I looked at the desolation of where I could have been left if I’d had the audacity to take avail myself of the lavatory as well as purchase some food. I reconciled from thereon in that my arse was to remain glued to my seat until I’m at my final destination - every time.

We’d booked the hotel room in Jackson over the net in Nashville. We’d not taken care of this bit of the trip as there were no hostels in Jackson (most travellers seemingly wanting to do the full ten-hour blast from Memphis to New Orleans) and we thought it would be easy to find a room once we got into town, in the jovial way travel writers do. The one asset these writers have, however, is a car. Greyhound stations are invariably located in industrial areas of downtowns and when we had realised this a few days before, we booked ourselves into a room at a Super 8 Motel that came to $20 each for the night and appeared on the deceptive scale of Google Maps to be ‘only’ a couple of miles from the centre of town. We’d walked 1.5 miles to the hostel in Nashville and this seemed easy, but as we entered Jackson on the bus we found that Jackson was a small city nestled within a spaghetti-network of Interstate highways with no facilities for the endangered species of pedestrians.
Knowing we’d need a cab we headed out into downtown Jackson and the city struck me as a very attractive place. (Sam, being from a somewhat questionable area of London, had been sceptical of any area not patrolled by a battalion of police officers and headed down streets in most cities it seemed with a nervous complexion.) What was most noticeable, however, was the incessant heat. It was easily 95F (35C) but the air was thick – you could taste the humidity – you could almost drink the air. We walked down Capital Boulevard under shady trees and in an office building I saw a sign marked ‘Visitor Information.’ While Sam looked around nervously, Deborah sat on a bench and craned her neck towards the sun while I popped inside.
After enjoying the sensation of having an inch of sweat freeze-dried onto my face by the air conditioning, I asked the kindly girl behind the desk in the cavernous lobby for the location of nearby ATMs and for the number of a cab firm. Armed with both I went outside and we walked towards the banks down the street. I got $20 but knowing I’d need change for a cab I went into the bank itself. As the woman opened the cash drawer I realised I’d been meaning to go into a bank in Chapel Hill to get hold of an all-too-rare $2 bill. The lady graciously gave me ten of them.



Déborah lent us her phone (she being the only one with credit) and we called the first number on the list I’d got from the Tourist Information Centre. An African-accented man answered and I arranged that he would pick us up in ten minutes and the fare would be less than twenty bucks.
The cab was right on time and the driver got out and introduced himself as Joe. A fifty-something man with a huge frame and a big smile, Joe weaved us out of Jackson and told us he was a Nigerian immigrant and was delighted to hear about Europe, but not so delighted to hear about Chelsea’s triumphs in the Premier League – he was a Manchester United fan. I liked Joe.
The motel really was on the edge of town, far too far from anywhere, and the word ‘creepy’ fails to capture the atmosphere of the place. Still, it was our home for the night, there were no bullet holes in the walls and other than the attic-like smell of the room that was quick to adjust to, for $20 a night we seemed to have got just about what we paid for. If this had been just a place to sleep it would have been fine, but given that short of spending $40 on another two cabs to get back into Jackson and back we were stuck there from 2pm until the next morning, we began to twiddle our thumbs.



Sam did what Sam does best and fell asleep, and I eventually did the same while Déborah read her Harlan Coben novel. My blog writing and photo-sorting had kept me up until 3am for the past few days so I was in need of sleep, especially before our arrival in New Orleans the next day. After a few hours we headed across the road to Wendy’s and armed ourselves to the teeth with burgers, fries, shakes and chicken and made camp in the room for a calorie-filled night of NBA-playoff action on ESPN. (For those that are interested – perhaps LeBron’s last game for Cleveland?) It was frustrating to be in the room, but it only became apparent to me the next morning just how frustrating spending an afternoon like that had been.

Good night and good luck.

Memphis, TN: Day Three

This morning started productively – we were out of bed quickly and off up Union Avenue to the Denny’s in Downtown for a hearty American breakfast and that’s exactly what we got. I stared out over the intersection of Union Ave. and 2nd Street drinking hot black coffee loaded with sugar drifting in and out of Sam’s thick and deep morning voice slurring as he tried to wrap his brain around the concept of three pancakes to begin with followed by two at a time as part of the ‘All-You-Can-Eat Pancakes’ offer for four bucks. Describing food is probably a really boring topic, but the last Denny’s I’d been to had been opposite Old Town in Kissimmee on US-192 back in December 2008 and I remembered the service had been excellent and the food delicious and plentiful. We had the same experience here, despite our collective sleepiness. Sure enough after paying just $6 for steaming plates loaded with pancakes, syrup, fried eggs, biscuits and gravy I was alert and ready to do…nothing.

The stifling heat of the city had reached a new high, pushing 95F (35C) and 90% humidity. There wasn’t anything obvious to do until the evening and given that we had found that wandering out of the centre of the city meant traversing neighbourhoods we didn’t feel quite comfortable with (life without a car in America is the gauge of abject poverty it seems) we returned to the hostel where we filled an air-conditioned afternoon with swimming, the wonders of YouTube and its stand-up comedy archives, and sleep. We had something to wait for however, as that evening we were headed across the road to watch the Memphis Redbirds take on the visiting Portland Beavers in Triple-A baseball. AutoZone Field ballpark overlooked our hostel and we’d been waiting for this evening when we could lie back and bask in the wonders of the National Pastime.
We had met a fellow-traveller named Dominick at the hostel in Nashville (he was a tablemate during our impromptu and free steak dinner back in Music City) and had taken his number as he was shadowing our path through the South two days later. 34 years old and from Frankfurt, Dominick was a photographer by trade but had decided that he wanted to see America and was as eager and excited by all the sights we’d seen as us. We met him outside the ballpark just before the game, and with tickets in hand headed through the turnstiles.



There’s something wonderful about an American sports venue in the thirty minutes prior to tip-off/first pitch/coin-toss. The ballpark wasn’t full, in fact from a glance only 15% of its capacity could have been filled, but with baseball a crowd isn’t necessary. In the way that I imagine county cricket to be an enjoyable experience with just a few hundred people, the same applied to minor-league baseball. The ballpark was a particularly beautiful specimen, but AutoZone Field had a brilliant feature I hadn’t seen before that we had decided to try. Opposite home base where bleachers would be in a major-league ballpark, there was a grass-topped bluff, giving a panoramic view of the game and the entire ballpark. With the floodlights bathing the ground and its surrounding in light, the skyscrapers hooked overhead and it really was a fabulous evening to lie back on a blanket, chat and watch a game. Déborah and I discussed France and teaching French; my conversation turned again to Rach and how she was headed to Melbourne from Sydney as we spoke; Sam and Dominick talked; and we all enjoyed the phenomenon that is a breeze that feels like a hot, muggy hairdryer and an evening in May at 84F (29C).



(For those interested, a six-RBI 7th inning killed off Portland and Memphis ran out 7-1 winners)





It was then back to the hostel for bed and the start of what would be the most frustrating day of the trip so far.

99 days until I see Raquel.

Good night and good luck.

Memphis, TN: Day Two

Memphis is not what one might have expected. The distinct lack of Elvis in the Downtown area that we are inhabiting for these three days, other than the billboards advertising trips to Graceland, is surprising enough but moreover it is the physical and economic austerity of the city that is immediately evident. Our first night was taken up with the simplistic majesty of the blues clubs on Beale Street, but our second was taken up with seeing this small city on the banks of the Mississippi in daylight for better and for worse.
It's hard to describe how surrounding can change from one street to another. Walking down Union Avenue the lush, tree-shaded boulevards with the trams run adjacent to you and the financial corporations in the skyscrapers of Downtown Memphis give the city the vertical dimension that every American metropolis has. This familiarity ends, however, when you reach the end of the East-West Streets and are faced with the banks of the Mississippi River. Nothing quite prepares you for that moment when you realise that this is it. The iconic waterway that effectively tracks our path south to New Orleans made a profound mark on us all, and we walked south along its banks as far as we could until the preparations for the Memphis BBQ Festival this weekend blocked our path so we decided to sit in the cloud-blocked rays of sunshine and relax enjoying 32c and 90% humidity. Once the talk between Deborah and Sam talked to the fickle subject of classing women's and men's attractive by their place of origin, I stole away down the river tram lines in search of picture taking spots. Walking down the railroad tracks in the killing heat of the sun was something so American I just had to take a picture.


Once I'd returned to the others after a half hour stroll we headed back into the city. I was keen to see the Civil Rights Museum, expecting the sensationalised historical experience the United States usually provides. If you're not aware the Civil Rights Museum is located in the former Lorraine Motel - a building where on the night of April 4 1968 a bullet from James Earl Ray's rifle ploughed through the neck and chest of the Rev. Martin Luther King, Jr and the race riots of that year were sparked. I knew that this building was the site of the museum, but what I hadn't realised was that the Motel is still intact as the site of the museum. Its worth stressing that this Motel still stands in the run-down, ghettoised area of Memphis that still suffers from the socio-economic problems that plagued the neighbourhood fifty years ago. The sheer lack of people here on a hot Monday afternoon made the experience poignant and eerie. If you can remember the black and white pictures of the Motel from the newspapers of the late 60s, then the pictures below will perhaps convey the awe and eeriness of visiting such a neighbourhood yesterday afternoon. To say we made haste for the familiar, comparatively affluent and (if we can all admit to such a shameful feeling) somewhat more Caucasian area of Downtown would be an understatement. But I shan't forget the sight of the Motel for as long as I live. The way that balcony is there within arms reach from the street with no barrier (a fate many sights protected from the public suffer, insulating their impact) was one of the most startling experiences of my life. I must reiterate, though, that it was the neighbourhood that it sat in that magnified its significance most.




Back in Downtown we took a walk through town including Beale Street in order to scout out our venue for this evening's entertainment. Given that other than the soundtrack to our periods of relaxing in our room, Elvis would be absent from our Memphis visit, the blues was the focus for us and it cannot be stressed enough - Memphis has the best live music in the world. Ever. It really is as simple as that. Knowing the rest of the day would be taken up with trying to escape from the heat and then heading out for the bars, we decided to not tire ourselves unnecessarily, while the other two found some food I swam in the hostel's pool looking at the skyscrapers hooking over the yard and thinking that this must surely be the hottest place I have ever been. The Mississippi River in Memphis marks the border of Tennessee and Arkansas but it seems to mark the point at which humidity reaches levels not found nearer the Atlantic. I thought to myself, this is our entrance point to the Deep South. North Carolina and Nashville were the South, no doubt about it, but the Deep South is something else entirely.

Once the clock reached 9:30, once Sam had urinated once again, and once Anglo-French relations had been reassured as stable we moved out towards Beale Street and once again we had a night of riotous fun in the company of a simply breathtaking blues band. Memphians are spoiled like no one could possibly comprehend until they visit Beale Street. Beer was expensive this evening, but we had the need to buy only one as we befriended George Higgs, a partner of law firm in town who was here to support his friend who not only was a John Lennon lookalike, but could play a mean keyboard solo. George bought Sam and I beers as we compared the ways of life and the Special Relationship, discussed marathon running and how if we were in town we would love to take up his offer of lending us his downtown Condo, as "he never had the time to use it properly." Before we knew it, it was midnight, and our cheering voices were hoarse from beer and whoops and another night filled with sheer magnificence was over.




Goodnight and Good luck.

Memphis, TN: Day One

Today was an interesting day. Yes, interesting. On reflection it seems curious how a day can change so much compared to how one's mind's expectations of a day pan out in advance.
The day began with a cold and boisterous awakening. A noise that sounded not dissimilar to Brunelian plumbing emanated from our new quarters that we had taken in what turned out to be a vain attempt to escape the torture that is snoring. Deborah's impromptu roommate turned out to be not a hefty woman as was first assumed but in fact the mechanism by which Victorian London operated its sanitation system. The snores were beyond belief. Whereas last night our roommate was vocal to say the least while slumbering, this creature was something from another world.
While it had been decidedly parky the previous evening in comparison to what we were accustomed to in the South, the day started with a distinct chill. We were told by NBC news that rain was headed to Nashville, coming in from about thirty miles east of the city. We made haste, after Sam took his ritualistic just-as-we're-about-to-leave piss, for a Greyhound station that seemed a lot further away than we had found just 36 hours before as we ventured in excitement to our first port of call. Anxious to be aboard before seats ran out we found ourselves at the gate with 90 minutes to spare at the front of the queue except for an older gentleman we found to be nursing the lower end of 85 years of age. Our brief conversational companion was a man of casual employment and was headed to the next opportunity to make money that was far off in Aledo, Texas. He would reach this destination on the bus we were waiting to board just 20 hours after we got off in Memphis. Once again, the characters one meets on them there buses are not folks one forgets in an instant. (As a brief inside joke to Sam : "I say, you looks all SORTS o' good!")
We sat aboard the bus for 30 minutes beyond our departure time, thankful we were aboard, as it seemed a good twenty people were waiting for the same bus behind us in line but would not get a seat. Lesson one: get to a Greyhound station at least 90 minutes before departure. This was a lesson I had learned to my dismay in Raleigh, NC on the evening of my 21st birthday just five weeks earlier.
Once we were off and away I pulled the brim of my new hat over my face and settled back in an attempt to sleep. Deborah sat across the aisle to my right listening to French classics (and sneakily taking pictures) while Sam fell asleep immediately. Having switched seating positions, I thought the space the aisle provided would allow me to relax a little more but this was not the case. I then turned to the trusty companion that is We Shall Overcome: The Seeger Sessions on my mp3 player and smiled as 'John Henry' finally accompanied me across the entirety of Tennessee as I'd hoped it would someday as I lay on my bed looking out at Sartfell years before thinking, "surely one day what I'm listening to will be enjoyed by me in its intended location!"
A prompt two hours after departing Nashville we were alerted to our impending ten minute break in Jackson, Tennessee. The bus depot would summate the feel of the town. This place hadn't moved or changed since c.1950, as Main Street and the Half Way Station show.
Following this brief stop I finally got comfortable but the moment I felt I could fall asleep the driver cranked up the PA and announce in a tinny voice, "this ‘ere is Memphis, Tennessee." Attempting to sleep was now pointless and once we were off the bus we picked up our luggage. Well, Deborah and I did while Sam nervously waited for his massive suitcase to emerge from the bowels of the bus before feverishly seizing it from the luggage cart with a look of distinct relief.
Having found our close, cosy and secure hostel room we headed out into Memphis and it was at this point my expectations dwindled. I had had such a great experience in Nashville I was hoping Memphis would at least equal its safe, friendly charms. What we actually found in the daylight was what can only be described as a ghetto. The decent area of downtown Memphis is situated in a very small area in the West of the city that our hostel just bordered. Anything we found east of that point was downright scary, and even Beale Street (the point to which we had pilgrimaged to find the home of the Blues) in the daylight resembled the Red Light District of Amsterdam without the laborious Ukrainian women in their amber-lit windows. As we found a cheap burger place (‘Huey’s’, Union Ave.) to settle for a meal, my mind turned to money and I placed a mental check on making sure I spent the minimum possible here if what we had seen was all Memphis had to offer.
We returned to the hostel, and as Deborah fell asleep and Sam and I pondered heading out to town, we listened to everything from Elvis to B.B. King in order to get our hopes of Memphis gee’d up again. Sam and I slipped out as Deborah headed to bed and moved towards Beale Street once again. The familiar feel of Amsterdam returned again in the neon glow but many bars were open. Our apprehensions remains, however, as we guessed that beer would be dear and any cover to get in to a bar with live music would be steep. In an uncharacteristic manner Sam took the initiative and led the way into Beale Street Tap Room, just a block from Ray Charles’ first venue and across the road from the home venue of the one and only B.B. King.

The blues act on stage was blisteringly good just from the first notes we heard but we quickly noticed that even the cheapest beer was expensive and at that price our stay would be short and probably sour. We proceeded to order two PBRs but then found as we opened our tabs that with it being Monday night our beers would cost us just $1 plus a tip for the kindly and efficient barmaid. Our sentiments changed immediately and suddenly the leather backed bar stools felt homely and ready to embrace us for a good night out. We clinked glasses and sat back to enjoy the riotous and ridiculously-talented Duke Newing All-Stars as they blew us and the rest of the small but dedicated crowd away with renditions of blues classics that surpassed any live recording you could find anywhere else in the world for free. The smoke haze lowered and we settled in for the long haul.





After their main set and a ten minute break, the band produced a talented female singer to match their incredibly gifted line-up (the bass and Sax players were out of this world) and proceeded to play more familiar classics in their own improvisational-filled style. Mustang Sally, Born Under A Bad Sign, Proud Mary and Stand By Me filled the bar as the beer continued to flow for $1 until Sam and I headed out with a tipsy kick to our step and a smile the showed that we had just paid approximately $10 for what was the best night in a bar either of us had ever had in our lives.

Memphis, day one: a completely polarised day.

Only 102 days until I see Ribera.

Good night and good luck.

Nashville, TN: Part 2

Sitting outside in a hostel in Nashville was never going to be boring. The hostel provided us with a guitar to jam with on the deck and as the staff fired up the BBQ for their evening meal, the quiet hostel was a pleasant environment for kicking back and playing guitar. What we found, however, that everyone who works at the hostel came to Nashville for one reason and one reason only - to get a break in the country music scene, and 'Clinton' (the only name we caught) asked for the guitar a struck up a few of his own tunes. It was actually really good, but the lyrics were the kind that can only be non-laughter-inducing here in the South.

Sat to the right of Clinton is 'Mike' who then provided us with yet another example of good ol' Southern hospitality when we were invited to sit down with them for a steak the size of a dinner plate, baked potato, corn and lashings of sour cream. Sitting there with our knives and forks set us apart from the hands-on approach favoured by our hosts, but this was a great surprise, despite the Chinese buffet we'd had only three hours before.

After this is was time to hit the bars again, with our brief travel companion Dominick (a native of Frankfurt) who enjoyed the steak dinner with us and the staff. This was, however, Mothers' Day and in the South it would appear that such a holiday is taken very seriously - or maybe the Sabbath means that open bars are few and far between. Despite this, we headed to 'Rebar' in midtown, next door to last night's venue, and sat enjoying cold beers and the neon glow of the American bar scene.



As a humorous aside, for the South we thought these signs were an interesting combination!



Good night and good luck.

Nashville, TN: Part 1

So, to pick up on yesterday's events.

You meet some people on your travels in America who make you think. Americans like to tell their stories in a way that just isn't done in Britain, and we found our first 'friend' at Durham station. We didn't catch his name, but the big man was friendly and asked us if he was in the right place for the 10:45 bus. Over the next 15 minutes we exchanged pleasantries about our travels but found that in the last five years this man from Georgia had been shot in the spine in Iraq, had recovered and went to work on oil rigs in the Gulf spending weekends in New Orleans, and had now worked his way North on Greyhounds to end up in Asheville where he hoped VA healthcare would cover the treatment he needed from the UNC-Asheville hospital for his recently diagnosed prostate cancer. Wow. You don't meet boring people in the United States.

The Greyhound ride was incredibly smooth, and once I'd got my painful knee into a position that didn't feel like it was going to crumple in the Ryanair-style seating I was able to sit back and enjoy the mountain passes on I-40. The interstate, however, drove right through the middle of the passes and having spent some time in the Smokies last autumn, it was a little disappointing knowing that deeper in the mountains the views would have been incredible.

We took in Cooksville, Waynesville, and WTF-ville on our way towards Tennessee and having been at Greyhound terminals in the major conurbations that had expansive facilities and a lot of activity, seeing the Greyhound stations in sleepy mountain towns was a prominent reminder of how quiet life can be in small-town America. Listening to our fellow passengers point out vintage pick-up trucks on the road and get excited at the possibility of hearing some Elvis at the next rest-stop as the sun set over the Ridge and Valley region made Sam and I smile.

So, we got to Nashville and walked in the dark for about 1.5 miles to the hostel, quickly finding that downtown Nashville doesn't feel dangerous - that was a feeling that would be confirmed on our next full day in this friendly city. We got to the hostel and found that like many of the others we'd collectively visited, hostels in America are excellent.

We dumped our stuff (well, I did but Sam dutifully made his bed so he wouldn't have to do so in a drunken haze later on - a wise decision) and headed out to find food, drink and music. We found a frankly terrible burger at a drive-thru joint, but then headed to the plethora of bars in Midtown. After wondering which one to head in I wandered towards 'Winners'. We walked in to find three acoustic guitarists playing country tunes and plenty of happy patrons sipping Buds from table ice buckets. The music was good. The beer was cold. We were happy.

After sleeping in a room with a snorer that would put my father to shame (I woke him by slamming the taps on in the middle of the night in an attempt to stop the alien-like sounds), we woke up and hit the city. In the distance the State Capitol loomed and we headed there first. I'd visited five Capitols before and Tennessee's was a stellar exhibit. Nestled on a hilltop in the middle of the city the Capitol, Supreme Court and statue gardens overlook the surrounding city. Tennessee's White House alumni were a stark contrast with statues of flamboyant Andrew Jackson and Reconstruction-villain Andrew Johnson set apart in the gardens. Following this we headed into Nashville's downtown and basked in the sunshine overlooking LP Field by the Cumberland River. I don't know if its the clay, the copper or the pollution, but something discouraged me from taking a dip.



We then moved onto Broadway where I finally got my first western hat (its practical sun-shielding uses immediately became evident) and we moved out of downtown back the the hostel where the internet, sofas and the NBA playoffs on TV waited for us.

The trip rocks so far, and I'm happy as my laptop tells me its only 103 days until I see Rachy.

Good night and good luck.

Day One - Durham, NC to Nashville, TN

Its hard to believe that we've started what is sure to be the most ambitious trip anyone in the international crew has dared to undertake. The itinerary will be attached when the trip is over, but here's the fill-in for the first 24 hours of the trip that will criss cross America with two British lads and a young lady from Paris.
Having slept in over my alarm until 15 minutes prior to departure time from Granville Towers we all got into a very kind Erin Meachum's 4x4 and attempted to find our way to the Greyhound Station in Durham, NC. I'd not bothered to get directions to the terminal as I thought I could remember my way once we'd found our way into Downtown Durham, but getting into Durham in the abyss that is the signpost-lacking interstate highway system in the USA was the real issue. Still, having had a last hug from Erin we then waited the 90 minutes we'd given ourselves before getting the Greyhound bus headed for Knoxville, Tennessee.

The greyhound ride was an eccentricity-filled experience as one always expects, but the fact that it ran on time all the way to our final destination was incredible and made the journey much better. The bus ride was interrupted between Greensboro, NC and Winston Salem, NC by a small boy heading into a tantrum. His 'momma' took him to the back of the bus to isolate him from his siblings and forcefully kept him in his seat. This exercise of swift southern-style discipline did not go down well with the boy, who proceeded to SCREAM for the next hour. Literally. A whole hour. The screaming was so loud that eventually a guy sporting a handlebar moustache, a Harley T-Shirt and an NCS Wolfpack cap came to the back of the bus and yelled "Boy, I ain't your Daddy, but I'm gonna..." as he raised the back of his hand, only to be reprimanded by the bus driver who told him he was tredding a thin line to say the least. This was a lively interruption to the trip to say the least, but from thereonin it was a generally quiet trip filled with conversation between Sam and I, and casually eavesdropping on the stories people were telling each other about where they were headed, how much Elvis had changed their lives and how they were heading across the state line "to find something else." I finally felt like John Voigt in Midnight Cowboy.

I'll get to the episodes from evening that followed in a later post as I'm stuck for time at the moment, but needless to say we got into Nashville with plenty of time to hit the city streets and find a bar with cold beer and live country music.



More to come in the next post which will no doubt be enormous, but here's me signing off on Mother's Day in America - (love you, Mum!) - Good Night and Good Luck.