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.
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