The event was advertised as “The Big Chill” at the small Yoga studio that I attend. It was described as an enticing hour and a half of true relaxation. It was to be held late on a Saturday afternoon.
I arrived with only 5 minutes to spare. My reasoning was that 5 minutes was all that was needed to enter my name on the register and set my mat down. As well as this, I thought that there would be just a handful of others whose Saturday night meant a quiet night in and a large glass of something to dull the senses that are not being used in any type of vaguely exciting weekend way.
Therefore, I was more than a little shocked to open the door of the studio to find that the room was full. I mean, it was so crowded with yoga mats and bodies arranged in two lines against the walls that there was little space left for me. I felt an unpleasant warmth creeping from my core to my facade.
The feeling got warmer and more distressing still as I realised that there were no studio mats left to use. I did spy one mat on the floor under the desk of the teacher, but of course, I made the decision that this was his. I wasn’t happy (and a lot less ‘chilled’ than when I left home) but instead of asking the teacher what I should do, I came up with a solution and asked the teacher if I should use two of the old scrappy, ultra thin mats as there were no proper mats left. I actually did not need to ask for permission to do this and I really wish I hadn’t been at all resourceful. Other people followed me in the door, with even less than 5 minutes to go. One wandered in and asked for the mat at the feet of the teacher and it was handed over. Others meandered into the path between the two lines of mats and a couple of people offered mats that were beside them, all set up. Again, I had assumed too much – that these belonged to bodies already present in the studio. I now needed a lot more chilling that originally planned!
The instructor had a set of postures for us which were designed for us to relax into and give ourselves over to the quiet and the ambience of his melodic voice. So while I can see now that I may have needed quite a lot more time and effort to relax than when I walked in, I was struggling to feel comfortable in poses which required me to hug and rest my chest on a bolster. I would not describe my bosom to be large, it is more medium, I would have thought, but despite this, I felt unable to locate myself in any sort of comfortable array of limbs and torso and struggled through the 10 or so minutes that was set aside for each of these positions.
However, around halfway through the class, the instructor turned to postures which required slight backbends. The bolster was at my back and with the help of blocks, made me into a gentle convex curve. My head and shoulders were slightly inverted, my chest the highest point of my position. At this stage I suppose I had become more relaxed and I was relieved not to have to deal with trying to organise my boobs around a large rounded cushion, although I still would not have considered that I was in any euphoric state. Therefore what occurred next was a little disquieting. I was lying comfortably back and there was a sense of peace and relaxation created by the instructor. My heart was open to the heavens (okay, better described as the ceiling). Regardless, I experienced something that I did not expect. I felt my heart open. While that sounds physically impossible, and I guess it is, I definitely felt a great surge of energy that seemed to broaden my chest and leap out upwards. Heart opening is something that one hears about in a yoga class but I always thought that it may have been something that was more a metaphor rather than a real felt sense. I was wrong.
I cannot explain this actuality which in itself is discombobulating (I always want to use this word but rarely have the chance!). As well as that, my experience has only been related to one friend who I knew would not judge me as being sensational, overexcited or plainly ridiculous. I am confident that this was not imagined so this experience has taken me to a new conversion of belief in yogic practice.
The only explanation I can take from this experience is that perhaps all things in the world are not explicable. Yoga is also a “practice” so I shall continue to practise, knowing that I may never reach that particular state again.
While this experience has not affected my physical body to my knowledge, it does remind me that heart opening can be experienced in one’s thoughts and emotions. I think the world could do with more people who opened their heart to themselves and others.
Our first introduction to Memphisians was the Hotel staff at the Marriot’s SpringHill Suites. They were helpful and delightful people. The walk down Main Street to dinner was interrupted more than once with still pleasant but some of the more needy population. Dinner at BB King’s Blues Club was appropriately populous and pulsing. After a photo with the waiter (who was obviously au fait with customer congeniality – that is not my lipstick), Will and I headed out onto the famous Beale Street in search of more music.
Our senses alerted us to an harmonica (with harmony) so we headed into that doorway. Blocking the entrance was an Afro American with a beanie and great padded jacket. Despite the exterior covering I estimated him to be very large in girth. He asked us for ID. Will’s response was “You’re kidding aren’t you?” The extremely solemn look on his face was indicating to me that maybe he wasn’t. And indeed, he was not making any jokes. He insisted. We could not comply (as I had left any form of identification in the hotel). Will and I had no choice but to head to bed.
The next day the weather was what you might term tumultuously wet. We arrived at the Gibson Guitar factory dripping but this didn’t dampen our awe of the craftsmanship we espied in the Gibson shop while waiting for the tour to start.
A Blues Piano?
Our tour guide was a young lady who was humorless. Perhaps she was just tired of the repetitiveness of her job. If that was the case, strange that when asked about the responsibilities of each person in the factory, she replied that it was the company’s policy to train people for one job and one job only within the factory. I asked what happened when people took holidays or were ill. She replied that there were usually at least two people who worked in each section and that the one person would continue alone until the other returned. This did not seem like progressive thinking to me and surely counteracts worker motivation involving diversity or feelings of importance in the company? The ‘light misty rain’ that fell from one source in the roof space within the walls of the factory was explained as the system which liberated the workers of dust masks. While I understood the theory – (yes, I know that it wasn’t particularly scientific) – I was not convinced that this system was reliable in preventing the inhalation of sawdust. Just inside the entrance doors to the factory, there was extensive shelving which towered above us and housed guitar cases. Most of these were covered in substantial amounts of sawdust. Walking along, it was interesting to see the processes and watch the workers dutifully doing their jobs. One lady was retrieving parts of a guitar shaped mold from shelves and placing them on a table. ‘Placing’ is probably misleading as it was more of a throwing motion. She was probably not risking any damage to the parts but she sure wasn’t looking like she cared about or enjoyed her work either. As we continued along the designated path we came to the men whose job it was to sand the finished, glued pieces of a raw guitar. One of this team seemed to be preparing to go on a break and used air pressure to ‘hose’ himself down. He let the stream of air run around the collar of his shirt and top of his shoulders to remove the dust – (which if their system was effective, should not have been anywhere near his face). The painting booths were interesting (and thank goodness workers did wear masks here) as the guitars are decorated by a few individuals without any strict regulated pattern, making every one unique.
We crossed the road and ventured into the Rock ‘n Soul Museum. It did not have a lot of glitz but I liked that about it. It was well-organised, informative and included interesting arrangements of memorabilia. I loved the display about WHER – the first all girl radio station which first broadcast in 1955.
An early press release described the station: “The studio and offices have been feminized from front door to rear exit. The disc jockeys are called jockettes, the studio is known as the doll’s den, the control rooms are called playrooms, the hallway is mirrored, the equipment room has been decorated with murals depicting the evolution of feminine clothing, the stationary is perfumed, the advertisers are listed in a date book, and the exit to the parking lot is labeled “Bye, Bye ‘Till Next Timeâ€.
The images and text about the death of Martin Luther King was certainly dispiriting and together with our still wet clothes we headed wearily back to the hotel to change and have a bit of a lie down.
Rock ‘n Soul Museum
We rallied though and headed out to Beale Street, and feeling a little like teenagers, we armed ourselves with ID!
Pig – Pork with attitude – was our choice of Restaurant. The name certainly did nothing to entice me but the place had been recommended by our guide. And I am not sure exactly why. I suppose the servings were generous but not for the price although that seemed to be quite standard for the southern states. There was only beer and soda to drink and eating the ribs and the burger which arrived on plastic plates required a bit of manhandling as the plastic cutlery was not really up to the job.
Despite the fact that I felt like I almost needed another shower to get clean after eating, Will and I headed over to the exact same bar where we had been refused entry the night before. The same robust gentleman was guarding the door but we smiled and offered our ID this time and he was much more generous with his welcome. The quality of the three musicians at the Blues Hall was wonderful. We ventured into the Rum Boogie Cafe as well but while the music was just as good, I liked the more intimate space of the Hall.
I am not referring to God with large biceps but there is certainly a correlation between strength of emotion about both these topics in the southern states of the US of A.
In Georgia, Tennessee and Mississippi I spied odd combinations and contradictions:
Conservative appearances of people – to the point where I needed to check my phone for the current century;
public sale of fireworks including Artillery shells — balls containing pyrotechnic stars that are launched from a launch tube – this was quite shocking to us Aussies who only had a dim memory of being able to purchase anything but a sparkler;
a world-famous whiskey distillery set in a county where its product is illegal to sell;
an astonishing, tangible array of guns and ammunition available in the local supermarkets;
billboards and products using loud, colourful and assertive promotion of god and religion.
The Old Country Store here had what was described as “charming†Southern gifts but included two stands of hats that clearly defined the local feeling about being allowed to own guns and use them. Slogans such as “America’s Original Homeland Security†and “The Second Amendment – I will defend†– (along with beautifully embroidered images of a variety of patriotic emblems and guns to illustrate). I had to wonder whether the petite, grey-haired lady who attended to my purchase of a Casey Jones train whistle (made in China) for my grandson, shared those sentiments.
Where does the second amendment interact with the sixth commandment? Is it okay to murder if you are defending your property? Whether I was ready for it or not, the importance of religion and church-going was obvious in these parts.
There was a building of worship, sometimes grand and sometimes not, on many corners of even the smaller towns we passed through. And there were products the likes of which I had not seen before and some which were downright aggressive.
Divine tea – one would hope!
In Birmingham’s Walmart, squeezed between the gun and ammunition counter and the refrigerator packed full of 1 pound buckets of Dairy whip (which had no discernable traces of dairy product or for that matter natural substance of any sort) were racks of reasonably priced T-shirts.
Some of these were shameless calls to Christianity.
Another shirt which I desperately wanted to, but chose not to photograph (as I felt that I was being scrutinised by another customer who was probably only looking at me because of the anxiety on my face as I trawled the children’s section) – was one size 4 t-shirt which had an image of what I recognised as “Bob, the builder†with the text “The Lord made everything†written in upper case with an exclamation mark, the size of which belittled poor Bob!
Hmm.. in my opinion this is confusing bibles with balustrades and as I returned to my hotel room for the night, my final and awfully pun- ishable skepticism involved wondering just how constructive this product could actually be!
Having travelled around the US and Mexico just recently and other places in the world over the years I have seen the trend of having two double or two queen sized beds in rooms become very popular. I am confused about this and wonder at the reasons for this. Have hotels seen a surge in the number of friends travelling together? Have hotels eliminated most rooms that cater for a couple? Why is this option such a standard for married couples?
Surely two double or queen-sized beds are more expensive than one in the first place – even one King-sized bed? Would not the space required for two beds be more than one? When time and money is a consideration then would it not be more efficient for hotel staff to be changing and/or making one bed rather than two?
My husband and I have been asked if we would like to upgrade to a King-sized bed. Upgrade? – in other words, pay more for what I might consider for the above reasons to be a cheaper and more convenient hotel option? No thanks.
Why would the first option for a booking under the name of Mr and Mrs Whatever be a room with two beds?
Am I just ignorant of some sort of common social phenomena that married couples prefer to sleep apart in large beds in the same room? Perhaps many do? I suppose it could be considered a luxury to wallow in more space than you might have on a daily basis. I don’t consider this to be a luxury that I need but I have never been asked if this would be a requirement.
By the way, I am not criticising any married couple for choosing this option. I just want to know that when I make a hotel booking, there is not some sort of gauge that is used to determine whether I would be better suited to have a room with two beds and not one.
Hopefully there is not a pop-up which appears when I log on to a booking or hotel site that says – old lady, old couple, married forever – two beds.
Clarksdale was not visibly alive with the beat of music or even human hearts the day we visited the Delta Blues Museum. It was a cool and dull afternoon and the view of the street where we stood seemed to be in keeping with the weather and defer to its music origins.
We wandered and browsed a few of the stores and even though Miss Del provided all the “stuff” we might need and the Cat Head having a vast array of both new and old unusual and atypical folk art products (no cat’s heads though thank goodness) we didn’t make a purchase.
Perhaps the idea that Morgan Freeman (a part owner) might be lurking within was an encouragement or just the fact that we were tourists meant that we wanted to see more than just the outside of the blues venue, Ground Zero. We were not welcome to stay for any length of time as it was being set up for a private function. The outside of this club was what you might call casual and more shabby than chic. It had the odd (and I mean mismatched) lounge chair outside and every surface of the windows and door was covered in signs, stickers and added notes from past clientele. It was good to know that the large graffiti work of Clint and his gun across the street was just a reference to a movie and in no way indicating support of weapons – at least inside the club (although rules about smoking inside seemed much more important). Passing through the door we were assaulted – by the sheer volume of graffiti. Most interior surfaces had been saturated in more than you could imagine, unedited, free-form text. Despite the fact that I thought it was quirky, I cannot say that I could really see this decorating style taking off.Â
We headed down the road in our vehicle to a hotel in Cleveland but we returned in the evening to see the crossroads which are the intersection of Highways 49 and 61 where Robert Johnson, a blues musician, was said to have sold his soul to achieve success. His music success was mostly all posthumous so it didn’t seem like a particularly agreeable deal to me!
From there we went to Reds – another classic juke joint.
Juke joint (or jook joint) is the vernacular term for an informal establishment featuring music, dancing, gambling, and drinking, primarily operated by African American people in the southeastern United States. The term “juke” is believed to derive from the Gullah word joog, meaning rowdy or disorderly. en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Juke_joint
Reds was darkly lit with a variety of lighting effects – none of which would be abiding by any home decorating trend. The interior style was ‘Multifarious’. Walls and ceiling appeared to be layered in parts with unrefined attempts to make repairs and, I concluded, there might have even be tape and glue used. The furniture had a recycled, (the term upcycled not finding any place here), found feel about it. The toilet door had to be lifted to be opened as one of the hinges was not being employed and was on an angle. I suspect the dimness of the interior might have been hiding other characteristics as well.
We paid at the door, bought a drink and sat at the side of the area which was less cluttered and acted as an unraised stage. By the end of the evening I understood that this experience in the past would probably have been much more spontaneous than the current situation, as any friendly and unceremonious meeting of more than one musician might prove to be anywhere. However, this night’s performer, Terry Harmonica Bean tried to instil some intimacy by chatting with the audience between playing and explaining some of the characteristics of the Delta Blues – demonstrating some of the traditional blues which is meant to be felt not played via written bars and notes.
Exhibiting learned audience behaviour, when we had to leave we tried to quickly and inconspicuously pass by the musician leaving our tip and some money in exchange for a CD, a variety of which were displayed beside him. Terry promptly stopped singing mid song and asked what CD we wanted. Will said “the best one”. He replied that they were all the best ones! We had a laugh, made a decision, waved goodbye and felt suitably sated with our juke joint experience.
Anyone who has heard Gospel singing in church might totally understand why Elvis was inspired. I was lucky enough to do this and I didn’t have to sit outside.
Brochures
As part of our music tour we were given the choice of attending the Pilgrim Missionary Baptist church for their Sunday service. The tour guide assured us that we would be welcome at this Sunday service and that she had done this before. There were 4 of us who were going to attend the 3 hour long service (yes, I know – my experience of church had never been quite so lengthy). As we were going to leave ¾ hour early to attend a buffet lunch which was almost the only eating option in the small town of Natchez, on a Sunday, we organised to sit in groups of 2. This idea was supposed to disguise our premature exit.
The plan seemed sound.
We dressed in our best, which did not feel ‘best enough’ once we were among the parishioners. Apparently churches have colours, much as football teams do and this one’s owned red and black. This information was not in our brief and we hoped that the autumn shades that we had chosen did not represent a rival team or make us stand out too much. (The colour of our clothes was probably not the most serious of our considerations, due to the fact that we were the only 4 white people in this meeting of 200 or more Afro-Americans.)
The experienced contrast was made more conspicuous still by the exceptional height and breadth of many of these people. This congregation was a visual feast of Mississippi church-going fashion. There were smart dresses and pleated and stretched skirts, pressed pants and tailored jackets, shiny high heels, elegant suits, sharp-looking waistcoats and perfectly knotted ties in patterns and shades of rose and ebony. And hats! They were gorgeous! Women sported feathers, flowers, sequins, jewels and swathes of fabric swirled and twirled around the crowns of turbans and wide brims alike. No wonder church starts at 11am! The ladies must take hours to get ready! If they have children, they must take even longer! Little girls and boys of all ages were dressed to perfection. There were gathered skirts and sparkly tights, tiny coats with furry trim, matching purses and hair in plaits, braids and corn rows, all highly decorated with bows, beads, ribbons and colourful ties. Young boys were in smooth formal shirts, some with ties and all with long trousers. This was no poor black Mississippi community.
We had joined the constant, moving line of people into the church from the car park and we chose to sit in the back row, near an exit door in one of the four sections of seating in the church. Two rows in front of us we could see the very broad shoulders of the local sheriff and his deputy and behind us was a church representative or warden who seemed to be guarding the exit. For what reason, I do not know – hopefully not to keep an eye on the white folk who happen along every now and again. We might have been feeling just a little uneasy at this point.
However, Will and I enjoyed the singing, of which there was much (3 hours now seemed a reasonable amount of time). Renditions were joyfully presented by the choir who made a statement of bright red in the high choir stalls behind the floor area in the front where the reverend and his six curates stood in their best Sunday suits. The band played many hymns and the choir also led the congregation who heartily joined them, rocked and moved, sometimes into the aisles and clapped in time. We could not participate as we did not know the words and there was no helpful songsheets or hymnals. This however, did give us time to listen and appreciate the feeling of community and obvious pleasure that was being gained from the music and singing.
The Reverend spoke clearly and prayed and with gusto and there was much “Aaaamen -ing” and agreement in the form of “ah hm’s and “yes sir’s”. At one point Pastor White asked one of the choir to make the announcements. A lady stood and read out times and events and then asked that any new members of the congregation to please stand now. I froze and tried without much success to shoot a look at Will without turning my head. We both sat perfectly still while there was a deafening silence and space in the proceedings. The Reverend may or may not have spotted us, but thank goodness he moved on. The warden behind us however, rose from his seat and came to the end of our row and bent over us blocking all light from the day (or perhaps it just seemed that way). He asked “Are you new here?” (- knowing perfectly well that we were). We nodded, our voices retreating into shyness. He presented us with a bookmark, with a lovely pic of the Pastor and a form to complete:
– Insert your name and address and tick your preference –
Visitor for the first time
Would like to unite with this church
Would like the Pastor to call
He probably thought we needed the Pastor to call and talk about honesty!
The next item in the program was the offering. Will and I had pre-organised this. We each had a $5.00 note ready. However, seconds before we had to be directed by our tall imposing guardian to stand and follow other parishioners in a parade out to the front, the Pastor advised that there were two plates to donate to on this particular day – a Christmas plate and the regular church plate. Will and I mumbled to each other that I would do the Christmas plate and he would do the other and we felt chuffed that we looked smooth in our orchestration of this move – probably mostly in our own imaginations!
Despite the deliciously friendly proffered assistance to find a particular bible passage being read, by an about 11 year old boy who sat beside me, I was distracted for most of the remainder of the time we spent in the church as I was trying to figure out what exactly I would do when it was time to go. Should I smile and thank the warden who had looked after us with severe devotion? Should I apologise or explain our departure or just pass by him with polite determination? I was in a dilemma. Whether by divine intervention or just sheer luck, our particular warden was called away minutes before our intended departure. Will and I watched as the other two of our party left another section of the church. We waited an appropriate five minutes, gathered our coats, rose out of our seats and turned to the exit door. The older man who had stepped in to cover his colleague smiled generously and nodded at us as we walked through the doorway.
Our gospel experience was wonderful, daunting, and we did feel blessed to have attended such an authentic and entertaining event.
When the name Elvis Presley is mentioned I still visualise a young, attractive man in fitting shirts and pants who had exceptional charm which managed to have every woman (but the one he wanted) falling over themselves and on him. He exhibited an amazing array of expertise in fields such as car, motorcycle and boat racing, cliff diving, swimming and surfing, piloting out of control planes, death defying acts on the trapeze, diving into volcanoes or under trains, saving the world – okay yes, now I think I am just being silly but of course, in my 13 year old mind, watching “Blue Hawaii” or “Fun in Acupulco” or “GI Blues” on my black and white tv, there was little he could not achieve – not the least of which was singing in a deep melodic voice and playing musical instruments to induce romantic moods (ahh, swoon) or to simply provide visual and auditory pleasure. He appeared, not just to me, I might add, but, to the world (at least the females of the western world), to be an all round nice guy. And perhaps he really was…. Having just visited his original home and museum in Tupelo as well as Graceland, heard and read the many, many accounts of his life, it seems that we may not have been far off in our estimation.
Shotgun house – one that if a shotgun is fired in the front door the blast will leave by the back door without hitting anything.
The shotgun house where he was born and raised was an understated modest. The recalled tidbits of Elvis’s history, preserved in large signs around the museum, tell of a humble, god and family loving boy who just simply enjoyed sitting outside the Baptist church on Sundays and listening to the singing.
The teacher is not talkin’ dried fruit here!
These quaint recalls of Elvis (names of story characters included) tell of his family’s poverty and of a boy who was a little troubled by the fact that he lived while his twin brother died (so sad and you have to wonder who put that idea in his head) but who had a positive attitude to life and to people, both black and white. There is one story which is of Gladys, his mother, taking Elvis to the Tupelo hardware to buy his 11th birthday present. Elvis wanted a 22 rifle or a bicycle. Gladys refused to buy either as she decided they both had the potential to hurt her son. Elvis was so disappointed that he cried and when the hardware shop salesman, Mr Bobo, suggested a guitar, Elvis was not interested. However, his mother was losing patience and perhaps to humour his mother, he tried picking the strings on the guitar. His mother paid $7.90 for the present “and Elvis gave a wealth of music to millionsâ€. Another of the recounts is of a friend taking Elvis to his relative who ran a radio station. Elvis was only young, and only knew a few songs, but keen to perform live as others did on the radio. The relative said that Elvis wasn’t too bad but really couldn’t hold a tune. (Wow, that guy might just have had to kick himself later!) Also included was one from his schoolfriend “Bitsy†– who described Elvis as a kid who wore overalls and shirts that were too big for him and not a good athlete but never afraid to try. He and Elvis tried to get into the fair free one afternoon by climbing under the fence. They were caught and marched up to the front gate and sent on their way. Bitsy didn’t see him after the Presleys moved to Memphis until 1956 when Elvis came back to the same fair to perform – Bitsy remarked that this time he was escorted in and given the key to the city. He also noted that Elvis was wearing a well fitting shirt and definitely no overalls !
The pool room
The recordings on the ipad (with which each guest is provided for their tour of Graceland) and the tags on exhibits all tell a similar story of the man – someone who never forgot his background or the people in it, including his family for whom he lovingly cared for and housed.
The jungle room
The picture painted was of an adult who was religious, obsessive, who liked to have fun, a man who was generous and kind to everyone, no matter their colour or beliefs.
1955
the pink cadillac
What’s that you say? This information is in a museum devoted to Elvis and is going to be biased? Well, yes, I have considered that. And I must admit, there are no fat photos of Elvis anywhere in sight in Graceland nor any mention of how he died and even the staff seemed to be genuine fans (one older Afro-American guide asked why I wouldn’t want a photo of the wall-sized King because it was such a lovely picture of him).
The grave
I believe that, given the fact that the conclusion I have come to is not only based on explicit information but the implied as well and that, considering we allow the ordinary guy, in his demise, a public display and recall of the good and ignorance of the ugly – I can, with conviction still believe that Elvis was that all round good guy who I can tenderly love.
Now I am not saying that I dislike any of these names (and frankly, I am not really saying I like them either).
Yes, yes, I know that I am in the states and I am in country and western music territory and that there may be some names that are simply reductions of or stage names (please lord, let it be so) but this era and music code certainly had parents experimenting or toying with names, didn’t it?
I mean; Buck, Hank, Clay, Doris, Conway, Webb, Harlen, Chubby, Tex, Roy, Merle and Spade, Gene, Maybelle, Jelly, Fuzzy, Dolly (Guess who?), Roger (one for my good friend Mark), Gram (really?), Emmylou, Trace and even our dear Keith, and Faron..(seriously, Faron?) ….
When confronted with these stars of the music industry, I thanked my own stars that my parents were not serious country music fans – I’m betting my children might also think they escaped a life-long chip (yet another name I didn’t see but was possibly among them) or burden to have to endure.
My dear Will, who chose this tour and likes country music always told me that the name Bonnie, our first born, came from a desire to reference his father’s homeland….
Suspicion can also be a burden or at least a niggling concern…..
We left Atlanta rather hastily on the first morning of our tour and it was a tad disappointing that we got to see so little of the place. However, we looked forward to Nashville, Tennessee.
line dancing – Nashville
Dinner that night was at The Wild Horse Saloon where live music and line dancing are accompaniments to dinner. And yes, Will contributed ungainliness and mistimed steps (and a bit of a giggle) to the already struggling front line.
 From there we went to the Grand Ole Opry which is also known as the Ryman Theatre.
Ryman theatre – Grand Ole Opry
 As we walked into the former Baptist church the ushers who were grey-haired ladies – Will described them as very experienced – directed us to our place on a hard wooden pew. We looked around and we swore we would have to be the youngest audience members by at least 10 years – a bit of a boost for our aging egos!
The format of the show probably hadn’t changed for years. The announcer stood at the side of the stage and read advertisement scripts as well as the introductions to artists. And all of this was being broadcast as it happened. It is among the longest-running radio broadcasts in history, dedicated to honoring country music.
There was a variety of performers, including an 89 year old mandolin player and his guitarist grandson. The last act, a young male and female stole the show with their fast-paced guitar playing and singing (in our opinion).
Despite the very uncomfortable seats and the quite loud audience surrounding me, I could not for the life of me keep my eyes open. I worked out that I had slept about 8 hours over the previous 2 ½ days so I could certainly forgive myself.
Thank heavens that Vanessa, the tour guide, was a delightful, entertaining, Afro-american lady (who was a public school teacher taking a break from teaching and maybe just working for tips). She passionately described the stories and history of the original recording studios in Nashville as we drove around the district.
Inside Studio B
Studio B was particularly important, if not for the many famous names mentioned and immortalised in the large photos in the foyer, but for the fact that Elvis recorded “Are you lonesome tonight†in the very studio where we stood and on the very piano we were looking at. She described Elvis as an insomniac, a man who liked to begin work in the early hours of the morning and who liked to record in the dark.
This particular recording, if listened to closely actually includes a small percussive noise at the very end, which is, according to this guide, Elvis standing up and knocking his head on the overhead microphone. This error remained in the final recording.
Vanessa also told us about a lady who became very upset at this stage of the tour. She asked, and this visitor replied that she was a medium and had felt the presence of Elvis. Vanessa replied that she was a large and believed that the lady had nothing to complain about! Vanessa gave us such a vivid description infused with her own enthusiasm that I almost became a little teary too – or could this have been grief for my binned coffee? I will never know.
I had to change my name to protect my identity!
The Country Music Hall of Fame was quite wonderful and with the young and fearless tourist in mind (and the silly over-fifties), a pot full of fun. I collected my badges as I went to stations to complete quiz questions and tasks. Will and I created our own recording and produced it as well as making an album cover.
Another opportunity to laugh at us, for our children! Alas (or perhaps thankfully), the recording and images are no longer available. (I photographed the screen when my albums appeared! )
Broadway
Playing for tips
That evening we went to Broadway, the street of music venues, bars, shops and restaurants. We were in awe that so many places had so many excellent musicians and bands who all played for tips – yes, that’s right just for the measly sums that tourists were willing to part with. I don’t know how well they do but you have got to think that in the off-season it cannot be spectacularly good. My thinking is that the bars certainly seem to get a good deal out of this arrangement.
Between visiting a couple of places, I wanted to do a little shopping if I could. For anyone who knows me well, you probably know I don’t mind a bargain.
I saw this sign and my heart began to race! Wow! And then I saw the boots.
Yep, I don’t think my wardrobe would be ready for 1 pair of these, let alone 3!
I guess I had heard that the USA did things bigger and better but imagined that it was stereotypical media hype. If I am going to talk about food and beverages, ‘bigger’ certainly features in my glossary – ‘better’ not so much…Â I am, however, only relating my limited experience of 13 days and I have only been in the ‘deep south’.
Let’s begin with breakfast.
Breakfast was included with our stay at each of the hotels we visited in Georgia, Tennessee, Mississippi, Louisiana and Alabama and the choices were always quite similar – there was granola (a healthy granular cereal), but there was always a variety of highly manufactured and sugary cereals as well.
Scrambled eggs were most often the variety of eggs on offer – these did not have much taste at all and in some places came in unnatural ovals! Bacon, glistening with fat and in suspiciously uniform pieces and turkey sausage (which contained tough granules of something which could not be identified), also sat in bain-maries in pools of oil.
There was quite an array of bread (although no such thing as wholegrain), and cake-type products: bagels, English muffins, biscuits (as in scone type), although there were sometimes also cookies (extremely large and dotted with choc chips), muffins, corncakes, patty cakes dusted in icing sugar, croissants (often the chocolate variety). Apart from these sweet asides there was always a waffle maker. The process of making your own, consisted of dispensing a cup full of mixture from a machine, pouring it into a waffle iron, closing the lid and flipping the whole iron which was on a pivot. This would initiate the timer so that your waffle would be perfectly cooked. I succumbed to the temptation to try this but I will have you know that I only filled a quarter of the waffle maker. (To this quarter, I added the expected butter and syrup.)
Fruit juice was available as was coffee in serve-yourself thermos bottles. Will and I have become accustomed to American coffee which is strong and quite bitter but I must say, I am quite disappointed that there has not been more variety and so few lattes available!
Bigger – Of course this breakfast is far bigger than most home breakfasts and one would expect that given that it is hotels offering a breakfast fit for all guests. However, I have got to say that I was a little shocked at just how much fatty, sweet and highly manufactured foods there were presented. At one stop there was even a soda dispensing machine, from which children and many adults served themselves generous cups of Coca Cola, Sprite or Fanta to accompany their morning meal.
Menus
Menus here offer appetizers or starters and entrees but no mains. This was a little confusing at first but experienced traveling companions explained: appetizers are as big if not bigger than an entree I would expect to have at home; entrees are main meal size – (often quite a deal larger than one would expect in a restaurant at home). Bigger – This is not much of a plus, although ordering appetizers for meals is cheaper.
The first authentic cafe experience was in Lynchburg, Tennessee. Will and I sat in a booth amid other lunch-goers who were predominantly large men (and I do not mean tall) many of whom were clad in bib and brace overalls, checked shirts and trucker caps. (I felt as if I had fallen into a retro American sitcom). The waitress was only just understandable as she asked us in a broad southern accent what we would like to drink. I decided on lemonade. Will asked for coffee. She bustled away and arrived back rather quickly with a very generous, tall glass with ice and what tasted like lemon cordial – not a bubble in sight or on the palate. She brought a mug and filled it from a pot of coffee. It was black and strong. We then ordered food – Will, a catfish burger and me, a cheesy melt. Will rather liked his burger but the small taste I had of the catfish seemed slimy and I could not say enjoyable. (Expectation could have had a lot to do with this!) As Will finished his burger and slaw and got 3/4 of the way through the mug of coffee, commenting that he was not aware that his coffee would come in such a large format and that he hoped that getting 3/4 of the way through it would be acceptable practice. Having barely finished that sentence, the waitress arrived at our table and promptly filled Will’s mug with coffee, to the brim. The look on his face was one of shock which quickly changed to stifled hilarity! This was our first experience of ‘refills’.
Refills of soda based drinks and coffee without extra cost are commonplace. So is sweet tea, which we tried and is a cold drink but paradoxically, it does not taste sweet. It just tastes like cold tea.
Perhaps because we are in the southern states, there is rarely anything on a menu that is not barbequed or fried. It is quite difficult to find something on a menu that has any vegetables or salad with it and if “seasonal vegetables†are ordered, in my experience, they seemed to be doused in a sauce. I had no idea what vegetables I was eating as they were cubed, all pink and tasted of sweet syrup. Green vegetables were obviously not in season.
Sandwiches are always on the menu – I took this to mean 2 slices of bread with filling. I was wrong again! Sandwiches are burger buns with filling – most often a stack of meat and perhaps a slice of tomato or a generous two. They always come with fries (what we might term chips) or chips (which are homemade potato crisps).
On the last day of the tour, I tried fried green tomatoes with shrimp sauce. The shrimp sauce was rich and tangy. The breaded and fried tomato slices were not tasty or very special.
Food adventures and glossary
Will and I have tried:
grits – breakfast grits are like cerevite for those who remember that product but ‘cheesy grits’ are a smooth, cheesy, very thick sauce
alligator legs – these were quite tough and did not taste of anything but the (surprise, surprise) sweet, chilli sauce
a muffaletta – sausage, salami and ham, cheese and an olive sauce
a po’ boy – this term is a contracted “poor boy†– originating from people giving the poor a sandwich of day old bread and whatever filling they had. Our bread was not old, thank heavens but again the focus was on a filling of lots of meat and little else
biscuits – these are basically what we would call scones. They look like them and tasted similar. These are eaten with white gravy. This gravy looked particularly unattractive to me so I did not partake – Will said that it was salty and peppery.
cornbread – this was served with many meals and looked like a small patty cake. The texture was grainy and the taste quite sweet.
gumbo – This is like a hearty soup. This was one of the highlights of this food adventure for Will. There are many types of gumbo and as you travel further south they are often tomato-based.
jambalaya – this was given a big wrap by our tour guide and she took us to the best place in New Orleans to eat it. I must say that we were disappointed, not that it wasn’t an enjoyable mixture of meat, vegetables and rice but that it was not unlike paella and not exceptional at all.
collard greens – I don’t know whether these vary from state to state but our experience of them was not particularly positive – like silverbeet but not as nice – yes, seriously that nice!
crawfish and shrimp – Crawfish is a size of shellfish that could be described as between a King prawn and a lobster. Shrimp are simply prawns – New Orleans tended to serve shrimp in most forms and in most menu items.
Alcohol
Keeping in mind that I have been in Nashville, Memphis, Clarksdale, and Natchez frequenting bars which offer the local music passion, such as Country and Western, Rock and Soul and Blues it was probably not surprising that a request for a glass of Sauvignon Blanc was met with raised eyebrows, a quizzical look or ‘We only have beer’. What I have discovered though is that if a glass of wine is poured, it is filled to the brim – there are none of those pesky lines to interfere with bar tending skills. This also goes for the pouring of spirits – there are often no measures – there is the cup, here is the vodka, pour until you think you have enough in there and then put a splash of soda in the top! Bigger – this is a plus but I admit only because Will and I do not have to consider driving at any point in this particular trip. As we headed into New Orleans with at least some French influence, wine was much more a common menu item but still had no glass limitations. Yesssss!
 “Anyway, like I was sayin’, shrimp is the fruit of the sea. You can barbecue it, boil it, broil it, bake it, saute it. There’s shrimp-kabobs, shrimp creole, shrimp gumbo. Pan fried, deep fried, stir-fried. There’s pineapple shrimp, lemon shrimp, coconut shrimp, pepper shrimp, shrimp soup, shrimp stew, shrimp salad, shrimp and potatoes, shrimp burger, shrimp sandwich. That, that’s about it.†-Bubba
