Bluebird in Nashville

Nashville seems a city of bits and pieces to me: not at all coherent. At one end there is a full replica of the Parthenon in Centennial Park. At another there is the 32-storied 'Batman Building' (AT&T) finished with distinctive spiky spires. Odd. Both. There is a reconstruction of a small log fort, and a glass atrium resort hotel as big as some small towns. There is glossy Music Row where major players in the country music recording industry nowadays make their pennies; then there is Ernest Tubb's tired little shop down on Broadway, which was once where all musoes were heard, played and sold. 

Broadway is a street for Honky Tonks. Bars blare out live music from wannabe musicians and songwriters, purely for tips. When we were there it was so quiet as to be almost deserted. Broadway, and behind it the old Speakeasy joints and brothels of Printer's Alley, all looked more than a little tired, in fact a whole lot weary, as though the effort made to keep their doors open was all too hard, these days. 

Thank god, then, for Bluebird Cafe -- an unprepossessing little spot we'd tracked down way out in some very ordinary suburb where we found four excellent singers presenting their work 'in the round'. To those lucky few of us able to scramble for seats in time. An excellent evening in what seemed a rather tired, lacklustre, and characterless city. 

Upcoming stars of Nashville  

State Capitol, Nashville

Replica Parthenon, Nashville

Replica of Fort where settlers drove off Indians in 1781

Old brothels down Printer's Alley are mooted to be demolished

Still there are shoe shine joints

Bluebird musicians at twilight

Memphis blues

Sometimes it is timely to remember that America is not all beautiful: and that the oft-touted American Dream is not always accessible to everyone. Going south in the states was such a reminder.

We headed into warmer, dryer places: soybeans, corn, rice, and cotton grew in scraggy fields to the road edges. Hot dry climes, for some reason, tend to look more impoverished, even tho' as the song goes: it ain't necessarily so.

Houses became more shack-like, roads increasingly pot-holed, sections of town more obviously impoverished. And, in deeply-desperate parts, signs on community billboards advertised free food drops for those in dire need. This is not America, the beautiful.

After dropping our bags at our funny little Arkansas cottage with its rickety deck rattling out over a lovely oxbow offshoot of the Mississippi, called Horseshoe Lake, we headed on into Memphis town. First stop was #306 Lorraine Motel, where Martin Luther King was assassinated by James Earl Ray an escapee from a jail in Missouri, whose dream was to kill the King. Number 306 is now part of a larger civil rights museum and exhibition and as we arrived there were crowds and a stage in the parking lot of the Lorraine set up for the finale of a Memphis Diversity walk and concert supporting diversity and tolerance in the community.

Dr King would no doubt have approved. Tho' he may well have been dismayed by the state of many of the local buildings around the Lorraine.

Much of Memphis is fairly grim. I am sure there are nice bits: we just didn't seem to come across them. Much money evidently goes missing in Memphis. Unaccounted for. Somewhere between lobbyist and politician, between the collection of funds and receipt, there is a strange little custom -- a little shake, rattle and roll that goes on locally-- nicknamed the Tennessee Waltz. As a result, many elected politicians in Tennessee reputedly end up in the clink, for corruption.

Gracelands is set in one of the Memphis-grim sections. It is nowhere near as tasteless and tacky as most reviews quote. Elvis loved purple and he splashed a little gold with his purple. The era was the 60s-70s, and it could all have been so much worse. Such a small house. Most people live in larger. But the grounds are lovely and the boy-toys numerous, and in multiples: buggies, bikes, cars, airplanes. Some he used so little before he bought another they have less than a thousand miles on them. It is easy to see how the dream palled, and so easily became destruction.

We traipsed up and down Beale Street, spent time listening to some fine Memphis Blues musos at different venues, ate catfish and hickory ribs at Blues City, then made a special trip to visit the Peabody Ducks -- a tourist attraction in their own right.

At five on the dot a clutch of small ducks shimmy-shake their tail feathers as they exit their daytime pond in the marble lobby of the exclusive Peabody Hotel. They do a charming little Peabody March down a special red carpet past their adoring fans, waddle up a carpeted elevator to their penthouse palace on the rooftop for the evening, where five star greens are laid out for their dinner. Accompanied by their own personal impeccably groomed red and gilt suited Duckmaster. 

If ducks have a dream it is possible that a gig on a rooftop in a Peabody Penthouse might just be it. Though, they, too, may well be singing the blues up there in their starry Memphis nights.

Our delightful rickety Arkansas jetty 

Our delightful rickety Arkansas house

Martin Luther King died here

Birthplace of rock and roll 

Gracelands

Elvis loved gold

Dining area

Shabby Beale Street in Memphis 

Chairs with a view

Iconic Peabody ducks 

Bridge over troubled town

We planned a round trip to Memphis and Nashville and headed down to follow the mighty Mississippi (folk around here say, Miiiiiis--ippi) in the style of Stephen Fry in America, tho, Stephen made his way up from the sultry south: we came from the rich green north.

Our first glimpse of the Mississippi was from a cantilevered bridge looking across to its full-flowing confluence with the Ohio River. Looking down from there over a town called Cairo (folk around here say, Kero). 

The shock of the town as we drove into it, ramshackled and all but ruined, had us ignoring the Mississippi completely. In uncomprehending, disbelieving silence, we drove street after street in Cairo wondering if we'd been transported to another planet. It looked Armageddon-whipped. Beaten to ruin and rubble. 

We could see that once upon a time, not too long ago, there had been one or two decent public buildings in Cairo. With two full rivers out front and back, paddle steamer traffic must once have been so plentiful here that a distinctive Customs House had warranted being built, and had once been busy. Now it is but a flared match away from being a pile of historic rubble in this ruin of a town. 

An official sign informed us that Ulysses S. Grant ran his tough Union army headquarters camp from Cairo for a few months. That sign is peppered with graffitti: that camp a desolate weed and rubbish-choked space. Crusted in a thin coat of dead leaves.

In Victorian times a milling merchant built a manor house in Cairo, and, in happier times, named it Magnolia. A sunny colour. He must have been happy here to name it that, I think. 

Nowadays, the main theme is black. Decorated with char. Dead buildings everywhere. Those not boarded up, or barred, or both, are being burned down--with deliberate regularity. And deliberate intent. By whom?

We wonder, perhaps, if all the locals have left. If they've been taken away somewhere safe, shipped to a sunnier place, en masse. As in the aftermath of a bomb, or a dreadful earthquake. Down in the dead park we ask a passing A T & T man where have all the local folk gone. He said they haven't: they are around. 

But, we saw no one. Until a lone man roared up, aggressively, in a rusted wreck of a vehicle. Ignoring old roads and paths he drove straight up to the water's edge over grass. Skidded to a halt. Unwound himself from his vehicle. Leaned against its battered car door. Stared sullenly out at the roiling meshing of the Mississipi and the Ohio, then raised a brown paper bag of booze to his lips. With slow and deliberate intent. Striving, perhaps, to find his magnolia morning. In Cairo. Say Kero. 

Sad, lonely bridge across the Mississippi 

Not even a vehicle 

Boarded up, weeds thick down the main street

Not a soul to be seen 

Any traffic is passing by

Desolate

Chianti dreams and the Amish

We are all fascinated by the Amish. I am not quite sure why. Part of it, I think, may have to do with dreams. When we were young uni students groups of us used to spend dreamy nights drinking Chianti, encircled in the dim glow of candles spilling thick wax trails over raffia basketry of our empty Chianti bottles, as we talked long into the night. Dreaming. Imagining, even designing, a tiny perfect Utopia where we could all live differently, communally: sharing, caring, a simpler life than that we could see ahead of us.

We didn't, of course. Tho' we were sure at the time we would. But the Amish did. And their reality is a little like our Chianti dreaming.

Plain and simple folk, they are, and claim to be. And that's their philosophy, their way of life, which defines how they live. Pacifists, they hark back to a far simpler era than we ever dreamed -- where there is little or limited use for computers, motorised vehicles, engine-power, tho' they don't, these days, rule them out.

Some might call their beliefs rigid, restrictive. Others abhor their shunning practices used to keep non-conformists in line. That aside, horse and buggy is a fine speed for the simple yet busy lives they choose to lead.

They came to America when followers, under the leadership of Jacob Amman (Amman - Amish), split from Annabaptist Menonnites in Switzerland during a schism. They emigrated, their descendants ending up in Montgomery, Indiana -- not far from here.

We are drawn to them. We dawdle over every Amish encounter. We ate at their Gastof Inn. Slow-ate their simple but freshly prepared Amish fare, served by apple-cheeked waitresses in long skirts, flat functional shoes, hair tucked demurely under summer-white, head-hugging, fine cotton caps, who cared for us with meticulous charm. We checked out their beautiful hand-crafted rugs, quilts, folk art and handicrafts in small shops nearby.

We drove an entire lazy afternoon up and down white grit roads checking out the small Amish school watching children there at happy play. We admired Amish farms and hay barns --so neat and white, so simple and functional. We followed countless charming Amish horse-drawn buggies as they kicked up soft white dust down untarred but picturesque country roads.

So entranced were we that when we found an Amish buggy repair shop we simply had to stop. And we all were welcomed in and invited to see the fine finished products of their craft which involved many Amish men in the community sharing the load of wheelwrighting, upholstery making, chassis building and cabinetry.

We learned the differences between a vis a vis buggy (face to face seated, essentially open, tho' hooded) and a gentleman's Brougham (a more formal closed carriage with a box driver's seat) and watched numerous men in long shirts, brace-pants, and straw hats set about their work in the various buggy repair sections in this busy but happy community.

Men's work, the buggy building. Women were close by mowing lawns in long dresses, some in bare feet; others were feeding and harnessing horses, and some were heading off in buggies, probably to collect children from school. As the day was nearly done. Sweet dreams there under that soft September Indiana sun.

Postcard pretty 

Clip clop on the white gravel

Wall art, Amish style

Resting carriages

Resting carriage horses

romantic vis-a-vis horse drawn carriage

Bird houses galore on Amish farm

Fragile glass palaces

In just a week of travel we came across three extraordinary hotels: the historic West Baden Springs and French Lick resorts in Indiana, and the more modern Gaylord Opryland Resort in Nashville Tennessee built in a similar style. All are notable for being built under giant domed atriums of glass making the structures appear airy, light filled, and fragile, despite the visible solid mechano metal ribs holding them aloft.

Such hotels almost define a life style: an age of wealth and pleasure, gilt-edged and showy. Flappers, Capones and Gatsbys would all have frequented these historic pleasure domes. But, almost from the moment the first two opened their doors early in the 1920s they have struggled to survive. No sooner do renovations near completion than owners fast admit to being over-extended. The rot quickly sets in, and the whole cycle of decay and renewal starts over.

We were lucky to see all of them at a peak period: they were fresh and shiny and gilded, and they truly are breathtaking. Listed on the National Register West Baden Springs and French Lick are historic and engineering landmarks. Beautiful. Gaylord Opryland similarly so, though a touch more theme-parked in its conception. 

These days they are not hugely expensive to stay, or eat in. They need the general public, now, to help them pay their way, so the prices have become flexible and competitive. 

Hours you can spend wandering through Gaylord's three massive atriums, ogling nine vast acres of indoor air-conditioned tropical gardens, filled with rock-hugging waterfalls, Delta riverboats meandering down their own watercourse, colourlit fountains dancing, all a glittering fantasy.

Indoors. Air-conditioned. All nine acres. Each month the power bills alone must have the owners turn a whiter shade of pale. Fragile, these palaces. How can they forever keep the coffers stoked? 

West Baden Springs historic glass atrium

The atrium was once the largest in the world 

Lobby at French Lick which offers mineral baths and gambling, and a $17 million expansion 

Elegant lighting 

Fountain at French Lick

Indoor boating under a canopy of glass at Gaylords

Glitter, bling and twinkling lights

Pallisades and prayerhouses

Just a few miles southwest of Lafayette we visited Ouiatenon (hwe-at-enon) Park. This was once a thriving fort occupied by French voyageurs from Quebec who paddled down the Wabash River to trade for beaver and buffalo pelts captured by the Wea Indians. And to convert them to Catholicism. And to act as a barrier to the British who were inching westwards into what would later become Indiana. As you stand on the edge of the riverbank it is easy to imagine the welcoming hoots and hollers as the French moored their craft and the whiff of woodsmoke as animal skins were stretched to dry over charred wooden racks layered atop hot coals.

They were mates, the French on this bank and the Wea, settled on the opposite bank. But then came the Brits, muscling in for their share of the spoils, and the hollers soon became howls as the interactions turned increasingly nasty, warlike and destructive. Until, finally, even the memory of where the Wea and the French voyageurs once lived, laughed and traded, was lost and long forgotten. 

And the cumulative guilt from such history might possibly explain what calls folk nowadays to build the ubiquitous prayerhouses around these parts. There are so many. Faith, hope and charity is available on practically every major intersection. Often in massive religious complexes bigger than supermarkets on entire city blocks that might house schools, community meeting houses, retreat facilities, private residences for the needy or the religious, contemplative nooks and revival meeting halls. And, many times, all of the above in each complex.

So numerous are these, with so much money tied up in their construction and maintenance, that you can't help but hope that, unlike the French, the Wea and the British, they all continue to make happy. And that there's always enough to go around.

Replica blockhouse from the days of the French often built into pallisaded walls 

Replicas of fort buildings in Ouiatenon Park

Typical of Indian settlements with wigwams of sapling, reed and fur and lean-tos as shelter for the fire pit and village folk 

Wabash river was once hectic with fur trade 

What home might have looked like during the Wea times

A tiny portion of one of the massive religious complexes in town. This one is called Faith. 

Squirrel ensuring there is enough for the winter

Happy days and homespun ways

Lafayette appears to be Middle America in a very big way. Our three-storey exchange home is lovely, set in a leafy outer suburb it is all space, comfort and convenience. It has a large private back garden rich in lush green lawn that slopes down to a fat pond that sprawls behind most of the houses on this side of the street. There is a stunning red cardinal resident in yellow bushes skirting the garden, and a crazy obsessive woodpecker rat-a-tat-tatting a nest in the house siding. Caulk. We're onto it. Caulk, flying silver foil pellets, and other such weapons of singular destruction are being employed to rid us of the pesky tapping bird.

On one of our early adventures we checked out the local Lafayette historic farmer's market, one of the longest running in the States, harking back to 1839. Local growers are there selling fresh corn on the cob by the truckload, ornamental orange, green and yellow pumpkin gourds especially grown for Hallowe'en, and Amish-baked angel food cakes, rich cherry pies and snickerdoodles-- a magic mix of sugar and cinnamon cookies, delicious with hot sweet tea.

We ate at the Coney Island Sunshine Diner on the corner which surely came direct from the set of Happy Days, with red-checked oilcloth tablecovers, slide-in booths with moulded red seat backs, and jumpin' jukebox decor, it purely oozes homely waitresses bearing giant servings of 'biscuits' (scones) doused in thick dollops of pale gravy topped off with traditional bottomless, albeit desperately bland, American coffee. Their buttermilk pancakes spilled over the sides of massive breakfast plates, two measured an inch in height, topped even higher with a mountain of artery hardening whipped fluffy butter and lashings of corn syrup. Seconds anyone? Brunch for five (literally mountains of food!) cost $25.00, with coke and coffee on tap.

In a downtown square one evening Lafayette Citizens Brass Band conducted an excellent concert just on dusk, attended mainly by the grey-haired contingent in town. We had hoped for a bit of bunting: the red, white and blue flounces and flags we've often seen on television, but we had even better: two old dears hopped out of their walkers with a little of their old spry and began waving their hats specially striped in patriotic colours, whipping the crowd into a real stars and stripes fervour. Those were the days, my friends.

Someone in the crowd recognized us from somewhere, perhaps from the performance of The Mousetrap the night before that played at the Civic Theatre. That started a flutter of queries wanting to know about our accents, and whether Australia is anywhere near Austria, and if we drove all the way to America. We must remember to carry a map with us, we think, as these continue to be the most frequently asked questions we are faced with in the states.

On Labour Day we found ourselves at the Globalfest Celebrations in the Moreton Community Centre celebrating cultural diversity in Lafayette. Turkish belly dancers vied for stage time with German bierhalle musicians and Irish Ceili dancers, and the smell of delicious ethnic foods wafted along corridors filled with Indian bead art, Chinese calligraphy demonstrations, and Nordic folk art pieces. It is all wholesome, finger-lickin' good, traditional amiable fun.

It is soon to be Hallowe'en 

To market with fall flowers

Our home in Lafayette 

Where the red cardinal hid

Winter is coming

Gourds everywhere 

An evening of band music

Stars and stripes forever 

Stunning Tippecanoe County courthouse

Our local Lafayette diner, straight out of Happy Days 

So many homes decorated in patriotic stars, stripes and bunting