Nashville Notes

Five hours in on a mostly interstate drive that was supposed to take about four-and-a-half hours, I was a little bit frazzled. Dire predictions of winter weather hadn’t come to fruition, I’d picked Jeff up a full two minutes early for our weekend, anniversary getaway and we’d had a well-timed pee and snacks break.

Traffic in Louisville got silly just about the same time Jeff started playing around on his Sirius radio dial and blasting the music. Lest you get the wrong impression, I, too, am a music fan. I like all kinds of music, though my brain will only retain a few gospel hymns and country music.

Jeff is an audiophile, and partially deaf. So audible to him is loud to me. And he likes his music loud. 

I’ve lived with him 22 years and dated for two ahead of that, so I know this. It’s part of what makes me love him; his passion is contagious and fun to watch. It’s even educational when I’m of a mind to learn.

So, all was good as we went from hits from the 50s to the 80s to the 90s to the 70s as he found songs that he loved or didn’t. Traffic-wise, we were stuck in the 10s. As I rode the brake, Jeff was flopping around like a fish out of water. If a fish could play air guitar, drums, saxophone and direct the invisible band. And it was 6-feet-2.

But it was still all good. No country music crossed the dial, but I have a passing acquaintance with a lot of the songs and was singing (badly) along when I could. Then, not too far from Nashville, we hit another traffic stall and I had a hot flash hit that had me turning off the heated seat, unbuttoning my shirt and turning down the window to the frosty air.

I was panting. Jeff was still playing all kinds of music and playing air everything as three lanes of vehicles played a brake light show. And then from nowhere, a semi-tractor trailer comes roaring down the break-down lane on my left. It felt like it brushed back the passenger side mirror, and I don’t mind telling you I would have peed my pants had it not been for that earlier stop we’d made.

I mean, who does that? Turns out, a bunch of people. I’m not sure where they thought they were going, and I was hopeful they’d run right into the arms of Johnny Law, but I kind of got used to it. Not that I liked it.

This was about the time my headache started. There's volume control on the steering wheel , and every once in a while, I’d lower the sound. Without fail – or complaint – Jeff would lean over and turn the dial to the right, go back to strumming and telling me the origin story of where he’d first heard this song and how it shaped his musical tastes. Sometimes he’d tell me about the artist.

I normally like this kind of running dialogue, but between the hot flashes, the continual noise and the Tennessee traffic, I was pretty much done. We finally got to the point of origin for the slowdown and sure enough, all of those asshats who’d blown by me were stalled along the breakdown lane as a quarter-mile length of police and highway workers were out in the pitch blackness doing God knows what.

Maybe the asshats were part of the crew and were hurrying in response to some kind of need. I hope not. I hope they were being punished for acting on their impatience like I had wanted to be didn’t.

We got safely to the hotel at least an hour later than we’d expected to, but I’d calmed down by then and all was good. We get in to find the hotel having technical issues which meant we couldn’t get room key cards. We hadn’t had dinner and were planning to explore Nashville.

“Well, you could flip that thing on your door and leave it open so you could get back in when you got back,” said our helpful bellhop, musing out loud that doing so would leave our belongings open for whomever might want to come sort through them.

“How about room service?” I suggest.

The bellhop nodded. That was an option to, he conceded.

I’d begun unpacking and Jeff advised me to let that go and start examining the room service menu, which wasn’t to be found. “It’s here,” he said when I told him it didn’t exist. “Just look for it.”

I called the front desk. “No, we don’t have room service menus in the rooms,” the clerk said. “You’ll have to go down to the restaurant.”

I refrained from telling him that we didn’t have a room key. Jeff went down, took a photo of the menu and gave our order. Which, I kid you not, was delivered in plastic bags and Styrofoam by the security guard.

I may not have chosen our accommodations well.

Ali called while we were assembling our take-out containers, and we were having a lovely chat as she walked back in the snow from a late test she’d just taken. Suddenly the phone cuts out. She doesn’t call back.

After a few minutes, I text her to tell me she’s not dead in the snow of Lafayette, seven hours to the north.

Nothing.

Jeff calls her.

Voice mail.

I take a drink of the champagne we’d brought with us. Krug. The good stuff. We’ve been married 22 years. We deserve the good stuff.

But it was a bit acidic as I pictured her fallen in the snow, bloody and alone because she’d either been run down by a drunk student or mauled by a horde of thugs.

I Google to find her dorm reception. “I don’t want to sound like an overprotective parent,” I said as Jeff nearly choked on his food. “But would it be possible to check on a student?”

Long story short, it was only her phone that died in the snow. She texted back as I was on the phone with the poor kid who was trying to be nice to me but clearly was rolling his eyes and saying, 

“seriously” to whoever was next to him at the desk. He was laughing when I reported that she wasn’t dead and asked him to not tell her that I’d called.

Of course, the Captain ratted me out. I got a “MOM” text.

I am unapologetic. It’s unlike her to drop us and then not respond. She’ll thank me when she’s broken her leg and is laying cold and alone in the dark and the cops find her because I sounded the alarm.

The champagne tasted a whole lot better once she’d resurfaced.

I worked Friday morning, and Jeff explored Nashville’s beer scene. Then, we both explored downtown, intending to have a late breakfast at Biscuit Love. We found nearby parking and left all but our coats in the car. The line to get in was massive, so we opted to walk to Hattie B.’s Hot Chicken. The sun was out.

As we crested a long but fairly high hill on the way there and the brisk Nashville wind found my ears, I was regretting my decision to walk light. But we persevered only to find another long line.

I rarely wait for food, and there were other options all around us, but Jeff was stoked, and I was intrigued. Behind us were two girls who could not stop talking about the menu and should they get this, or should they get that. “The peach cobbler is a must,” one said. They both wanted fries but thought they should diversify. We were in line about 35 minutes. This discussion DID NOT STOP.

We get in but still had a bit of a wait and I spied the size of the chicken tenders I was planning to get. Mind you, I didn’t need to look at the menu as it had been fully described to me on repeat. Jeff had been getting tips from buddies who’d been there before.

I ordered level “Hot,” which was a couple steps up from plain. Jeff leveled up one to “Damn Hot” and declared me a sissy. Minutes later, when his mouth was on fire, he considered his choice. By this time, the chattery girls had sat down at our table. It had been vacated for a spot in the sun by the couple who’d stood ahead of us. They were from London. The talkers were from Connecticut.

Clearly, we were tourists, but it was fun and once the girls found different topics of conversation, they were fun, too. We ended up eating on the porch, that had rolled down plastic over to stand in as windows. The heat lamps made it tolerable, but we still ate with our coats on.

Jeff wasn’t the only one trash talking me. To my left at another picnic table was group of men, one gasping. “Why you got to breathe for anyway?” his unconcerned pal laughed at him. The Londoners had downed their pitcher of beer. I’d gone back for more tea to save Jeff’s life. I ended up giving him one of my tenders – they were huge. The sides were amazing, too.

Before we left, I chatted a bit with one of the cooks and asked him how he’d gotten the greens so tender. “I cook ‘em,” he said.

I laughed and a waiter joined our conversation where I shared that I’d never been able to make them so delectable. “You’re not cookin’ ‘em long enough,” the chef declared.

“How long do YOU cook ‘em?” I asked.

“Three-and-a-half hours,” he said. The waiter chimed in, “But his momma would cook ‘em overnight.”

“Mmm-hmmm,” the cook said.

It was worth the burn. And the wait.

Oh. We got the peach cobbler. I sampled it before my taste buds were burned away. I should have thanked the Connecticut girls. We at the rest of it as we walked back to our car. I was wearing boots, which weren’t really made for long treks, and I hit the 10,000 step mark before we got within site of the parking garage.

At which point, Jeff says, “Want to go to the Johnny Cash museum? It’s not far from here.”

We’d been talking about what to do as we waited for Eric and Tracy to arrive, and Jeff knows I’m a big Johnny Cash fan. I’d found a brochure in the hotel, and he’d seen a billboard. The car was parked. My dogs were barking but sure, how far could it be?

It was far. Along the way, we ran into the Connecticut girls who were on the way to the Country Music Hall of Fame museum. They’d debated between it and Johnny Cash. We ducked into the Hall of Fame for a bathroom break. It’s possible I put a little rest in the restroom, but we went back in search of the Man in Black.

A mile later, we found it, and it exceeded the hype. I’m not sure you have to be a JRC fan to enjoy that place. I learned stuff, and I remembered some other stuff. I’d totally forgotten he had an acting career and had appeared on Little House on the Prairie and Columbo. He even hosted Saturday Night Live.

He was even in a movie where Andy Griffith was the villain, and he took a tiny Ron Howard hostage in a movie when Cash was the villain. It took a bit of thought to realize that was a very young Kris Kristofferson in Stagecoach. Merle Haggard looked the same. And I wondered if that was the genesis of “The Highwaymen.”

Anyway, we were there for a long time, and I sat through one of the movies to rest up and remember. It was super fun, and I felt indulged because the Captain isn’t a country music fan. At all. But who doesn’t love Johnny Cash?

Eric and Tracy hit town and we went back to the hotel where we had a few drinks and pre-gamed before our late dinner at The Green Pheasant, which promised a fusion of Japanese and Tennessee cuisine, and in 2019 was voted Nashville’s best restaurant. It was amazing. Flavors I’d never seen paired before and highly delectable.

The waiter recommended we order at least eight plates and we thought he was insane. But then we did, and it was great. I couldn’t even tell you what all of it was or how it was made. But I’ll remember the meal.

We stumbled back to the hotel and I went to bed while the rest of the team sought out a Blues band fronted by one of the hotel staff – Jeff had figured it out earlier. Sadly, the band had disbanded by the time they got there. It was a good day.

We’ll see what Saturday brings. Pretty sure it's going to be awesome. But I'll see it in more comfortable shoes this time...