Music City, Side One

A long time ago I drove all the way across Tennessee. Afterwards I thought I knew a lot about it, but I didn't even know it had the distinction of bordering more states than any other except Missouri, with which it is tied. I've been through seven of the eight states Tennessee borders, but I didn't have this fun fact in my pocket until it was put there by a tour guide cousin in Nashville just weeks ago. Three trips to Tennessee behind me now, I hardly know anything. 

Technically it's not my own but my sister's cousins who live in Nashville; technically my sister and I have different moms, and it's hers whose niece has settled in Tennessee. But we like moving beyond labels in this mixed family, so my sister's cousins invited us both to stay with them for a few days. I'd only stopped in Nashville long enough to eat a sack of White Castle burgers, that long time ago. I wanted to see more, to fit a missing piece into my Southern puzzle, and my sister, already enchanted by this Music City, wanted to show me.

Both a better early riser and a more practiced traveler than I, Katie flew from the Bend airport at 5:00 in the morning to meet me at SeaTac. I found her around 8:30 in the 12th Fan Cafe, plinking at her laptop with an empty plate of eggs beside it. I was impressed that she'd packed five days of clothes plus a computer into one carry-on bag -- and equally pleased to have only my computer-less backpack to deal with, my roomy suitcase checked. She settled her breakfast bill while I grabbed a large dirty chai to keep me going until plane snacks; I had finished it by the time our hour-late flight boarded. It was maybe good for us to be stuck at the gate for awhile, though, getting used to the idea of our first sister trip. We had never even been on a plane together before. I was rapt watching her field a high-stakes work phone call while wrestling her suitcase down the gangway. Settled in our seats, chatting in the lulls between her bursts of grant writing, things felt natural enough; I was confident in our balance.   

When the plane landed in Nashville there was still light in the sky, but no swoon-inducing proof from the landscape that I was in the South of my mental scrapbook. Then the man at the end of our row spoke for the first time, to a kid in the row across from him, about the college ball advertised on his hat. "How we lookin' this year, Son?" I think it was baseball they discussed while pulling their bags (and my sister's bag, among others) from the overhead bins, but it was the rich drawl of the man's inquiries, the state pride, the graceful neighborliness, that set me to smiling. A Southern road sign. More followed at the rental car desk, where the clerk showered us with guide brochures and dinner recommendations and congratulated us on being in Nashville. One particular source of pride may have been their airport, which was clean, green, airy and well-organized. In minutes we were inspecting our little white rental car and on the road. Five o'clock traffic choked a confused cloverleaf of freeways, but Katie was an unflappable driver, and we coolly navigated just one u-turn to get us moving in the right direction.

Under a thin slash of pink sunset, all that stood out was the stone wall which held in the highway, and the trees, looking just like the Austin trees had in the twilight. That was the closest connection I could make, to Austin, and I wondered what the map distance was between them and if I had pre-cognitively divined this pair of trips to be butterfly wings. Then we left the highway and entered the state-named streets of Sam and John's neighborhood, where the stone bungalows, the reaching branches and the air around them, finally got me situated east of Texas, closer to some edge of Dixie.

In the glow of porch and moon light, the cousins' newlywed house looked inviting, though the newlyweds themselves were not yet home. Waiting in the front window was a big-eared shepherd-mixed dog, so I cautiously pushed Katie through the door first, but the dog covered us -- both strangers to him -- in happy kisses before we were over the threshold. Winston the welcoming committee, all the encouragement we needed. We rolled our bags into two different guest rooms and gave ourselves a tour of this partially renovated, spacious and really cozy home. Sam arrived from work, opened a bottle of white to sip while we caught up around the kitchen island, and then took us to the 12 South Taproom in a nearby neighborhood. We ate delicious, though not detectably regional, sandwiches there and then crossed a few blocks to a different neighborhood where we switched to red at Nonna's wine bar. Katie was trying to remember all the places she'd been on previous visits here, piecing together a map in her head, and I was already categorizing the city by its governing structure of cute neighborhoods, equating this with Seattle, rather than with my version of any other southern city I knew.

Back at the house we had one more welcome drink with John before the locals had to turn in for an early work morning, but Katie and I stayed up whispering on the front porch, now effusive with excitement and wonder, until past midnight. I vaguely heard first John and then Sam clack down the driveway in the white whispery dawn, but the bed in their front guest room was so full of creamy quilting, down pillows, warm soft sheets, and filtered sunlight, so like a cloud, that I dozed quite a while. My sister emerged from her own room after I did, and I would have called our late start a time zone recalibration, but actually Katie had been up until 4am working. She continued to polish her grant and extinguish email fires across the country for the remainder of morning, and I continued to reconcile the peculiar freedom of having nothing to do but read a novel. I was a sort of ghost; only Winston, gluttonous for cuddles, could see me.

Before noon we drove to the Belmont neighborhood and chose Jake's funky diner for lunch. We would now plunge into the regional fare. The only grits on the menu were with shrimp, which I approved of but wasn't in the mood for. The other appropriate choice was the hot chicken. I'd learned the night before that hot chicken was Nashville's main culinary distinction. But neither my sister nor I were chicken fans -- hot, cold, winged, fried or otherwise. We weren't big on barbeque either; we were not very good southern imposters. What we liked were burgers, so we ordered those, and bonded in our Western skin. I would find my side of cheese grits or greens or a hush puppy or catfish fritter at the next stop. Meanwhile, after lunch, we would bond more by losing an hour across the street in a used bookstore jumbled with treasures, including four shelves two rows deep of Faulkner alone. Then we needed ice cream from Jenni's, where the gourmet flavors included churro and pistachio honey. We took a walk through the wide sidewalks of historic and precious homes, cooing at the painted brick, bright lawns, and fine porches. We wandered past Belmont University and the most charming student housing complex we'd ever seen, and checked out their theater, before returning to the car.

On the way to our evening downtown we discovered 16th Street, what Sam had called Music Row. It was another broad tree-lined lane full of lovely southern bungalows, which happened to house the recording studios that made Nashville the country music pulse of the world. The higher traffic volume signaled that it was not as residential as the other neighborhoods we'd seen, so we pulled over even though we hadn't set out to see this. Three blocks of walking revealed that almost every house had a modest sign in the front yard to identify a record label (or lawyer or agent) doing business inside. Many houses also had less modest but fabulously collegial banners strung across the porch congratulating their label's hottest artist on a recent billboard hit or Grammy nomination. Such low-glam, sweetly unabashed publicity in what I thought was a gold-plated town made a strong and singular impression. I could force no symmetry or category; this was a street like no other.  

Celebrity kept a low profile around here, more synonymous with Nashville outside of town than inside of it, perhaps? I could not tell where one might run into the famous people. I wondered if it would be downtown, but I thought downtown would be a cosmopolitan bundle of breezeways through 30-story towers of commerce, with high-end shopping and pastries and photo ops on the ground floors, fancy folks stepping out of taxis. Incorrect. Downtown was Broadway, another rowdy neon road, with wobbly girls pouring out of disco buses. The #2 bachelor/bachelorette party destination in the country, as John would tell us later. Since #1 must be Vegas, and this "downtown" is in the tradition of what they call Downtown Vegas, the comparison might suggest I'd be perfectly enchanted by Broadway. I was indifferent.

We parked in a church lot across the street from the Ryman Auditorium. That's the original Grand Ol' Opry if you didn't know. We didn't know either and walked right by. Instead our first downtown stop was a Nashville souvenir store, featuring a wall of GooGoo Clusters ("the world's first ever combination candy bar" was invented here), Mini Pearl joke books and coasters, and Americana shirts with slogans like "back to back world war champions". We bought a water bottle and strolled Broadway until it ran into the Cumberland River. There, a seemingly homeless fellow drew our attention to how high the river was compared to last year and asked if we remembered the Great Flood of 2010. We didn't of course, but we listened to his tales while the sun went down, then turned around and inventoried the festive options.

Various peals of country music were starting to fill the street, and we had a couple of hours to culturally immerse before dinner with cousins. Coupons for the Wild Beaver Saloon were thrust at us, Elvis statues beckoned from doorways of several over-sized clubs, a karaoke bar called WannaBs was tempting for later. At present I wanted something I'd call authentic. The clearest sound cutting through the din was a bluesy-rock blend from a place called the Tin Roof. I'd never heard of it, so I decided it was not  a franchise, and in we went. The crowd was thin so we could pick a high table with a view of the stage but just far enough from it to hear each other as well. The band played lesser-known covers with a ton of heart, the front man wailing to the brinks of his range on every one, his bassist always smiling and his backup singer harmonizing soulfully. Somebody walked by with a tip bucket, but I was occupied with a happy hour menu featuring shots and moonshine cocktails. We ordered yellow and pink whiskey punch that came in plastic cups and meant business. When we ordered the second round we agreed that a pre-dinner snack would be good, too. I might have noticed that the menu was a thorough joy -- here was not only pulled pork and catfish po boys beside the hot chicken, but also the only tacos and quesadillas I'd see this week -- alas, we only had eyes for the brisket mac and cheese.

As evening became night a steady stream of patrons came into the Tin Roof and we had fun studying the assortment. Middle aged girl groups, pairs of couples, tourists from near not far, older dudes at the bar, in denim, cowboy boots, beads, hoodies, leather jackets, business suits. The best dressed people went directly upstairs to what must have been a private party. A work party, overlooking this rocking raw band and this paper serving ware? What did a life here, work included, look like -- Katie in particular enjoyed imagining. With just enough buzz, we passed some of the trip's most satisfying hours, and I'll nod to the Nashville spirit (and be reminded again of Austin) by crediting the music. I loved this band, who took not a single break in the time we were there. When we left I saw the tip bucket on a stool in front of the stage, and I put in a $20 bill. It was getting full already, but just with singles, so the $20 felt a little wrong and a little right. At home I would have had to pay a cover just to walk into a place this electric whether I liked the music or not, and this guy was terrific, so what the hell.

We found Sam and John, looking sharp after work, in the bar at Merchants. This place was a turn of the century classic, lovingly maintained or restored with black and white chevron tile, marble tables, copper bar, crisp molded ceilings and glass chandeliers. There was a formal dining room upstairs; the waiters downstairs wore red bow ties. We had duck-fat-fried tots and deviled eggs, and after that just salads for me and Katie, who managed to sneak our credit cards to the hostess so John would not be able, in his infinite hospitality, to pay. He would assert himself as a Nashville ambassador, though. After we talked about Davie Bowie and other celebrities and he revealed that Shania Twain was his top crush, he talked about this city's business, politics, colleges and arts. In his opinion the Ryman Auditorium (here's where we got wise to its famous origins) is the greatest place to see a show in town, never mind the garish pyramid arena visible right out our restaurant's window. He mentioned that we could go to the Hermitage, Andrew Jackson's house. Andrew Jackson was a son of Nashville? More news to me, and potentially the most scholarly interesting attraction I'd heard about so far. I jumped on this idea, and since it was a not-yet-done item on Sam and John's own to-do list, we made it the plan for Sunday. "What's else do you guys want to see?" he asked. "Anything or nothing;" we said, "we're just here for real-life Nashville." But if this was true, why were we on this Travel Channel street? Or if this was not true, why didn't we beeline for the Grand Ol' Opry or at least Blake Shelton's house this morning?

For all this time, had I been learning these places I traveled, or learning merely the tour book, or languishing in some lazy space between the two versions? Was that last, and most likely, answer a problem? What was the pressure to capture a thing, tie a tag around it, hang it among a collection of birdcages? Did I willfully rattle against that instinct, or just cop out? Was this all a long, long exercise in letting a place, and furthermore my place, just be?     

Outside Merchants, we debated going to another bar and decided to go home, to real-life. We sunk into the sectional and played with the dog. Sam talked John into episode two of Making a Murderer. Katie watched from the kitchen island, updating emails. We all went to bed by eleven. And again the workers began their day hours before I did. When I disentangled myself from the cloud room, I re-packed my suitcase and rolled it into the sun-drenched front room, where I lounged on an old couch reading most of Wide Sargasso Sea while Katie completed her grant. She clicked submit and was the picture of liberation, and it was time to hit the road for Memphis. We needed food first so we stopped at the only pub we could find before the highway, and besides the sweet tea, there was no regional fare to relish on the small menu, so it was only fuel. Real life. Highway 40, here we come.