Intermezzo

What a pleasure it is to be at Las Brisas de Santa Fe: doves cooing on a cool quiet morning with coffee on the patio instead of "free" raisin bran bolted down in the lobby of a chain hotel before hopping into the car.

And we had a good night's sleep here, as opposed to our night in Amarillo. There, the night clubs revved up--it was Saturday night, after all--but that was not a problem. We only heard the occasional throb from a hip-hop-mobile until about 2 a.m., when we were awakened by a preacher's harangue, magnified so that we could hear every word, blasted into Polk Avenue from a bullhorn:  "....the bible says so!  You will burn in hell fire, FOREVER!   The only way is through Jesus Christ..."  blah blah etc. etc.  Without parting our draperies, we assumed he was publicly castigating the cattle-country "meat market" crowd as they left the clubs to sleep until time for church. Welcome to Texas.

Adios, Texas.

From the Asheville hotel room, on the 4th of July, you could see an intermittent glow where fireworks were ignited at some low altitude. Because they weren't rocketing upward, the buildings blocked the real display, and all you could see was a kind of Northern Lights against the blackness behind the shadowy, boxy cityscape. This made me think of Plato's allegory of the cave, where constrained observers only see shadows dancing on a cave wall, but they think it's reality.  That is sort of the overall effect of our drive West, where even "taking our time," not barreling through 6 states as quickly as possible, we only caught a glimpse of our surroundings, accepting the surface and making assumptions about the rest.  There just wasn't enough latitude to stray from our itinerary--and indeed, we only scratched the surface of that--and enjoy serendipitous discoveries.  All in all, more traveling than touring.

But still, there were some fine experiences.  My ode to Asheville:

Urban chic and mountain roots,

Little short skirts with sturdy boots.

In Nashville,

loved hearing The Silver Threads at Layla's, late afternoon--some of the band members play four hours there then go on to another gig. Eileen Rose belts out Patsy Cline and Loretta Lynn.

 The lead singer (Mandy Allen?) of Savannah at The Second Fiddle announced that "the only place you can come where the band can play a song they don't know and it sounds like the original is Nashville." They also introduced patrons to the local tradition of "holler and swaller":  raise your glass, whoop, and take a drink. "Raise your left hand and wave at somebody you don't know," they said to the audience. "That's called Southern hospitality," then sang "put some gas in my truck/butter on my biscuits," [Josh Thompson] "I love good cold beer/and mustard on my fries," [Eric Church] and Joan Jett's "I Love Rock and Roll." A gray-haired couple danced to a Ronny Milsap song in the back of the club. After singing "heads California/tails Carolina," Miss Allen called out, "Where are my Carolina people?," having asked where everyone was from; they work hard to please even sometimes sparse weeknight crowds. These great musicians play only for tips, a Nashville custom. We wanted to write our own country song with lyrics to the effect of "cash on the bar/is better than a credit card" after seeing how people pay for one Bud Lite with Visa. That's somehow a much less personal, comfortable transaction than leaving some bills out for the bartender to deduct from. But we didn't get further than that.

The Silver Threads

Savannah

Hatch Show Print was cool.

Walking back from there in the morning, I stopped at a corner with two down-and-outters with bags of cans, who turned to see who was behind them. "Morning," I said. "Making my way back," one said, cigarette stub bobbing in his lips, "to the Shelter. I'm not a millionaire, you know."  "Not many of us are," I said.  His seedy companion muttered, "Yeah, gov'ment took it all."

Do you think they vote Republican?

We drove directly to Sun studios.  Really amazing to stand on the very linoleum where rock 'n' roll was born.

Lunch at Central BBQ was a treat.

In Little Rock, cruised the impressive Clinton Library. There, also, happened to be a gallery exhibit of wonderful photographs, large black-and-white prints, of Elvis from 1956. Then we visited Central High School National Historic Site.  Later, we had "six degrees of separation" moments:  at a trendy wine bar we met a community leader who is friendly enough with Clinton to have been teased by the former president about his flashy designer socks, for which he is now acclaimed in his city.  In our hotel, Tim fell into conversation with a guy from Chicago whose father (now deceased) was a freshman at the Stoneham, Mass., high school when Tim was a senior there.

On the way to Oklahoma City, we paused at Fort Smith for the historic site commemorating the despicable history of U.S./Native American relations, and the taming of the white frontier. In Oklahoma City, walked through the well-designed and moving Memorial, but felt no need to see the related museum.

We highly recommend Russell's truck stop in Endee, New Mexico. Diner decor, swiveling stools at the counter, a vintage car display, immaculate, friendly.

The highlight of Amarillo was Cadillac Ranch--I'll save that for another post. Time for breakfast.