The Beautiful South

I went to America for the first time in 2022, and I absolutely loved it. I couldn’t wait to be back, and this time the itinerary was a specific part of the country that I’ve always wanted to travel through – namely the journey from Nashville, to Memphis, to “the big easy” New Orleans. My dad and I had saved for a long time to do this, and we finally had the opportunity. We set off from Heathrow (a perfectly pleasant flight with the obligatory British Airways’ complimentary booze and a badly streamed England win in the Euros) and touched down in our first stop, Music City itself, Nashville, Tennessee. It was good to be back where it’s actually hot in summer, and we took a taxi straight to our hotel in the middle of Opryland to immediately start appreciating the weather and what else the city had to offer.

Now, I booked the holiday through a travel company (this has its ups and downs as you probably know), and, having heard of the famous ‘Grand Old Opry’ radio show/entertainment venue in Nashville, I assumed Opryland was right in the centre of everything, but it’s actually a little out of the way. It was still a complex of hotels and restaurants, however, so we thought we’d explore before heading into the city centre the next day. I immediately saw a garage with a bar attached to it and thought damn, this is the American cliché I came for, but it was closed. In fact, we weren’t having much luck, just seemed to be a load of hotels and some restaurants that had closed. I was cursing myself for not googling the Opryland’s location, frustrated that a precious night in Nashville was to be spent at the hotel bar, when we heard the faint sound of honky tonk tunes drifting round the corner. And well, from that moment on I was in heaven. I stumbled in and it was exactly like everything I’d ever dreamed of. Cheap beer, fried chicken, cowboy hats all round, and the band doing a fantastic rendition of George Jones’s ‘He stopped loving her today.’ Beautiful.

We ordered up a couple of cold ones, if you will, and told the barman to stick them on the tab. And this wasn’t cheap rubbish, these were proper craft IPAs, brewed in Tennessee itself. I had to tell my dad about 100 times that craft beer is an American invention (thank you James Earl Carter Jr). I was enjoying the friendly American vibe, knowing the words to all the songs, when the singer announced that “we have the great Jim Vest drinking with us tonight, so I’m going to do a few of his tunes.” Now, I’d never heard of Jim Vest, but I can confirm that I recognised the tunes, and upon googling him, I discovered he was an established Nashville producer and songwriter, who’d worked with the aforementioned Mr Jones, alongside Waylon Jennings, Willie Nelson, Charlie Rich, and many more (I also confirmed from the photo that the guy sat behind me was in fact him). This was simply brilliant on every level, I’d been in Nashville for about five hours, and I thought that I could quite happily move there forever. But this was just the beginning.

Hotel breakfast next morning disappointingly didn’t have the biscuits and gravy I was craving, but it was still nice. I listened to a guy tell another guy that their mutual friend, “Papiss” had passed away, aged 56, to which the second guy replied “ah man, I guess we won’t be getting any more raw meat at the cookouts then huh!” I appreciated his gallows humour, and reflected briefly that life may well be a lot shorter than you think. But that’s why I was in Nashville!

I checked to see how far aways the city centre actually was by taxi and it said it was a five minute drive. I then learnt an important lesson about differences between Britian and the states. See, upon reading “five minute drive” I thought, oh, we might as well walk, so I typed in the destination on maps and switched it to “walk” – FIVE HOURS. Yeah, that country is just endless highways man, and those folk drive all over the place. Wouldn’t be ideal for me as a person who enjoys a few drinks, but we were at least in a part of the states where they enjoy a drink a lot more than others, so to the city centre we headed.

I’d booked the Country Music Hall of Fame, but we were a little early, so I thought we’d wander up to the park near the university to see the full scale replica of the Parthenon that they have. I once told a geography teacher that I thought it would be nice to visit the Parthenon, and he told me to just go to Sunderland and look at Penshaw Monument. I have done so, and it’s safe to say that I still thought this replica would be worth a visit. I neglected to remember, however, the lesson I only just relayed, as it turned out to be, in fact, quite a walk … in the mid-day heat. I thought I might’ve killed my dad at one point, but, after stopping to get some water at a garage, we made it safely. It was fairly impressive, but not as impressive as the park could have been, after both an old man and a sign explained that it used to be full of various unusual attractions and follies, including a giant seesaw, but these were dismantled after the Centennial exposition in 1897, with the Parthenon eventually becoming a permanent feature.

A nice bit of history, but onward, back to the city centre for the Country Music Hall of Fame. This was, as a country music fan, an absolutely remarkable museum. I believe it has the world’s largest collection of private artefacts belonging to famous people. I mean I don’t even know where to begin – Hank Williams’ boots, Johnny Cash’s jacket – EVERYONE’S guitars, and even a ‘Western edge’ special exhibition talking about the California country that I so love, including Gram Parsons, the Eagles, the Byrds and Linda Ronstadt. And then of course there was the Hall of Fame itself, which is a lovely tribute to the greatest stars of the genre, including the late Toby Keith, who was elected just hours after he sadly passed away in February, and of whom I’ve been a huge fan for years.

Speaking of Toby Keith, on the way to the museum, we had wandered into a bar on the main strip, Broadway, where the guy had just been singing ‘Should’ve been a cowboy’ and where a burger and a beer cost 10 dollars. It was good food, good music, and, although we tried a few different bars (they’re all great), this one, The Valentine, became our stop after the museum. I will give a shout out, however, to Losers bar and the guy who played Jimmy Buffett, and Robert’s Western World, where we dined on a “recession special” – six dollars for a fried bologna sandwich, chips, a moon pie and a beer. Post Malone and Luke Combs were also filming their music video for ‘Guy for that’ on the street that very week, but I didn’t see them.

But The Valentine was a great vibe. All budding country musicians come to Nashville, and they all want to hear your requests, they all want to play the songs everyone loves, and they all want to have a great time doing so. And I was all for it. Sang my heart out, and never felt so at home in somewhere so far-flung. Country music fandom may be on the rise, and I’m all for it, but in the words of Barbara Mandrell, I was country when country wasn’t cool. I think Nashville may have overtaken New York as the second-greatest city in the world. It had my heart, but the journey had just begun.

After being poured the biggest “shot” of bourbon I’ve ever seen by the night manager at the hotel bar when we got in, we inevitably slept in the next morning, but by happy accident this meant we went to Bob Evans for breakfast, for some filthy biscuits and gravy and the nicest sweet tea you ever did taste. Even managed to squeeze in a couple more honky tonk bars before we boarded a famous greyhound bus to Memphis. Famously the cheapest way to travel state to state, it was an authentic American journey. I found the bus to be okay - particularly enjoyed the no-nonsense sassiness of the driver whenever somebody’s music was too loud, and my dad befriended a fellow traveller from New Zealand.

A taxi took us from the bus station to the hotel, and my dad had begun a habit (much to my chagrin) of asking all taxi drivers what their thoughts were on the upcoming election. This was pre-assassination attempt (number 1) on Trump, but our driver was a big Trumper. Which is fine by me, to be honest, but when his proud statement about the unconstitutional way Trump was being taken to court got more passionate, I genuinely thought the star-spangled banner was going to start playing, and I was going to be asked to swear allegiance, so I was glad we arrived at the hotel. My initial panic on arrival, which I had at every hotel on this trip, was that I was going to have to share a bed with my dad, as twin rooms don’t appear to be a thing in the states (can you all really afford your own rooms in that economy??), but thankfully we were gifted a twin room (Nashville had a sofa bed). So they do exist, you just can’t book them? Beats me.

Anyhow, now we were in Memphis, so we were obviously going to go to the famous Beale street. After walking down several vibey streets, we did in fact arrive, only to find that you had to pay to enter, and then walk through security. Okay, no problem (I wasn’t paying anyway, my dad was), we quickly went to the nearest bar to listen to some blues and order what are literally called ‘Big Ass beers.’ My dad was already making friends with the locals and I was admiring the neon, which, despite my best efforts, I never quite managed to get a good picture of with my shitty phone.

A bar crawl did ensue, and we ended up in a great little place that could’ve come straight out of the 1950s, complete with checkered tablecloths. It was called the Rum Boogie Café, and there was a great band playing called Free World. We had a few more beers and I was really enjoying the vibe. I am of course, a sucker for country, but live blues is really something, especially in the home of blues itself. Unfortunately, thought, we were there quite late, and the lead singer informed us that he and the band were taking a quick break, and would be back in “approximately twenty hours.” Time to get some food, we thought, at a nice little late night eatery which equally could’ve come straight from the 50s, my dad had gumbo and I had shrimp and what was probably the unhealthiest but tastiest toast I’ve ever eaten.

I went to the toilet and returned to find my dad had moved tables and was laughing hysterically with a load of very hip looking people. I immediately offered them my apologies but was told “no man we love him!” and promptly invited to join them all at Coyote Ugly’s. We were tempted, I won’t lie, but it was getting late and we had to be up pretty early for a pilgrimage to Graceland, so home it was.

So, Graceland. The home of Elvis himself. It was the decision of his wife to make it into a museum, I believe, and a very successful decision at that. In fact, when the taxi dropped us off, it wasn’t at Graceland mansion, but a large complex of museums, restaurants, and shops, all of which together made up the Graceland experience. To get to the mansion itself, you first had to have your 40 dollar photo taken next to a fake background, and then join a long queue for a shuttle bus. I filled my time in the queue trying to figure out if the couple in front were having an affair, before we were eventually awarded a place on the bus, which pulled out of the complex and towards a main road. I jokingly said to my dad “imagine if the mansion is just across the road” .... only to discover that it LITERALLY WAS. I could’ve walked there and back twenty times in the time I’d waited. But no matter, here we actually were at Graceland itself.

There was a lot of things I liked about the mansion – the bar was cool – it was interesting getting an insight into Elvis’s life, but it is very much seventies tat haha. It’s a strange concept when you think about it, because you’re preserving the life of a rock and roll star who’s life was cut short, it isn’t like a stately home or a castle, so it’s quite unique.

I’m not entirely sure what you’re supposed to take away from it, but I think it mostly made me sad, sorry for the pain and difficulties that Elvis clearly faced in a difficult and controlled life, where he was never really able to meet his full potential. This feeling of course increased when you visited the gravesite, of the man himself, alongside his family, which of course tragically includes those of his daughter and grandson. The message on Elvis’s tombstone, written by his dad Vernon, is, I think, very touching and says a lot:

The many museums cashing in on the Elvis experience, that I described earlier, were actually really interesting to visit after the mansion, I’m not a petrolhead but the sheer number of cars was astonishing, alongside details of his military service, movie career, and, indeed, his legacy. I also really enjoyed being able to see his planes (I found it fascinating to see the inside of a private plane). On the whole, Graceland is well worth it. Even if you have to pay about 40 dollars just to look at it and an extra 40 just to get in. But hey, what do you expect?

Back to Beale street it was, because we weren’t going to leave Memphis without sampling their famous BBQ ribs. Happily, as it was a bit earlier, Beale street appeared to no longer be a private venue, and we simply walked onto it for free, straight into The Pig on Beale, where, not only did I have my beloved checked tablecloths, but old movie posters adorned the walls, and a blues band played in the corner of the restaurant. The ribs were authentic, big, drenched in BBQ sauce, and delicious. But the highlight for me was the pecan pie that followed. Damn I’d love to taste food like that again soon.

Donald Trump was also shot at whilst we were enjoying the ribs, and people have since said things along the lines of ah man what was it like being in American when it happened, and to be honest, nothing really changed. I believe the next taxi driver (when inevitable asked by my dad) was like “yeah what about it?” So, yeah, can’t offer any interesting insights on that, other than that I also thought, at the time, that I would come back with some.

Straight back to the Rum Boogie Café afterwards, and Free World’s singer had just come back from his twenty hour break. They sang a couple of great songs about Memphis, which I have since added to my spotify and make me long to be back there every time I listen, before introducing an additional female singer for the evening, who was outstanding and who managed to get the whole bar involved. I could’ve stayed there all night, and we arrived at a much better moment this time, but unfortunately an early rise was required once again, so with a heavy heart again, I bid farewell to another fantastic Tennessee city.

Good morning America How are ya?! I exclaimed the next morning in the words of Arlo Guthrie, sung so brilliantly by Willie Nelson. For today I was doing just as that famous song states, riding on the City of New Orleans, the famous train route from Chicago to the big easy itself. It was a 7/8 hour journey, and exactly as the lyrics promised, we rolled along past houses farms and fields. I marvelled at the little towns straight out of a movie whilst enjoying amazing legroom, and just appreciating a train journey as I always do.

This journey also featured a badly streamed England game, the final no less, but this ended in defeat unfortunately. This meant that, although when we arrived at our French Quarter hotel I was relieved that there were two beds, I was feeling a little low about my country’s inevitable defeat in the Euros.

But I can’t stress enough how much the big easy lived up to its name. We went straight to Bourbon street to sample some po’ boys (admittedly just a sandwich – something my dad wouldn’t let me forget), but the bars, ah man the bars. It’s hard to describe, the whole city is just .. on another level. It’s like going back in time to an (admittedly imagined) land of love, understanding, and good vibes.

My dad made friends with some mad Rasta guy, who told me all sorts of things that sounded very profound but I’m not really sure I understood, and we then found the perfect spot, in an open bay window next to a band playing, cold beers, warm air, the music from the band and the vibes from the street. New Orleans isn’t really a place, it’s a feeling, and I thought England could never win a trophy again for as long as I live and I don’t care, I am at one with the French quarter.

And, yeah, I then got so sucked into the vibes (drank a lot) and blacked out, waking up the next morning with a roaring hangover. But I wasn’t going to let that ruin anything. We first had to find somewhere for breakfast, as we’d missed the hotel’s. Nearest place we found looked like everything was big, and I tried my best to order the smallest thing knowing I would struggle to finish anything else, but was unsuccessful. I think I did a decent job, and I must say the butter on those biscuits was crafted by the Gods, but bloody hell that breakfast did me in. I felt physically crippled.

In my attempt to walk it off, however, I enjoyed the colourful architecture, marvelled at the impressive St Louis Cathedral (nice to finally see some Catholicism in the Bible Belt), and passed a streetcar.

We then booked a Mississippi river cruise, but had some time to kill and were both very thirsty. We thought we’d just pop into a nearby café and I ordered a coke. The waiter seemed bemused that I wanted this, and that I didn’t want anything to eat, but I thought nothing of it. However, I soon noticed that people everywhere seemed to be eating little donuts and drinking coffee. I clocked a nearby sign and googled it, finding out I was in the word famous café du monde, famous for its chicory lattes and “beignets” – fried donuts loaded with sugar. Ah, that makes sense now. Despite the breakfast still warring with my insides, we powered through and ordered some beignets and the lattes. More absolute filth, and I was all for it. Especially when a guy with a sax was absolutely belting out the choons on the adjacent sidewalk.

Time then for the cruise, which was just brilliantly put together. Not only are you on a proper old paddle steamer, you go up the Mississippi and you’re provided with a comprehensive and brilliantly told history of the city, including sugar refineries, battle sites, and of course the devastating effects of Hurricane Katrina. On the way back, you’re treated to a live jazz band, all while sitting sipping an ice cold IPA. I was feeling that feeling again.

We grabbed some souvenirs, and headed back to the hotel before setting out again for tea. On the way back, a guy stopped me and complimented that he liked my shoes. I politely said thank you, of course, being British. He then said ‘I bet I can tell you where you got ‘em,’ and I was a bit bemused to be honest, as they’re nothing special, but he persisted, saying ‘If I’m right will you be honest?’ I was like ‘ehm’ and was thinking that they were from either Next or M&S and I don’t think either of them have branches in Louisiana, but before I could comprehend what was going on, I was hit with the reply …. ‘You got ‘em ON YOUR FEET… on Bourbon Street! New Orleans, Louisiana, USA.’

Ahh, yes, very good. But, again, before I could comprehend what was going on, he had quite literally shined my shoes, and demanded I paid him 20 dollars. His mate (‘Mike Tyson lookalike’ my dad later insisted), had also shined my dad’s. Now, as it was a good scam, and my dad paid because I had no cash, I was very much in a “fair play” mood, just part of the Bourbon street experience, and to be honest my shoes were in need of a clean. The sting in the tail, the aspect that caused a pit in my stomach, was the American lady who walked past as it was happening and commented ‘yo asses are as dumb as fried chicken!’ Yeah, that got me haha.

Along with the pit, the war inside my stomach was also raging on, and I was beginning to get worried I wouldn’t be okay for my evening meal, jambalaya, a famous cajun dish that happens to be both my favourite and my dad’s speciality. We went to a place called Coop’s, and my dad insisted on telling the staff (and just about everyone else for the rest of the holiday), that it was considered the home of the best jambalaya in the world. It wasn’t – I’d merely heard it recommended on a podcast – a podcast the staff had never heard of … or cared about. But despite all that, it probably was the best jambalaya in the world. Phenomenal. Washed down with a mint julep, of course. I really liked Coop’s too. It had shades of Beer Culture in NYC (see my NYC review for very important details), but with a New Orleans twist.

Later, after some authentic jazz and (sensibly not so many) drinks later, I was in the mood for some fried alligator, which I can confirm, as you might expect, tastes like chicken.

For the final day in New Orleans, we visited Armstrong park (that’s Louis, not William like the one in Newcastle), and the museum, which had a lot of Mardi Gras floats on display (I particularly liked the satirical ones), but also a very detailed Katrina exhibit, which was shocking to read, and an amazing testament to human character. It was also just astounding to see how many experts had warned about it happening, and nothing was done.

Well, it was hard to say goodbye to New Orleans, and hard to say goodbye to America once again. I honestly think that was the trip of my lifetime. I’d love to go back. I won’t dwell on my return journey, which involved a 24 hour flight delay and a day spent in Charlotte, North Carolina (didn’t see any of it), but when I got back I went to meet a friend in Newcastle city centre, and there was a guy with a sax playing some very familiar music. Maybe, just maybe, I’d brough a little bit of it back with me. I certainly hope so. Thanks for reading y’all.