Too brief a stop in Music City.
Talk about an old city turned young. Nashville was founded on Christmas Eve in 1779, located in the western frontier of the North Carolina territory before it came under federal control. The city is lined with columned Greek architecture — from its replica of the Parthenon to Belmont University — to signify the antebellum South’s purportedly ancient and virtuous way of life. Nashville’s “Music City” moniker traces to 1925, when the Grand Ole Opry radio broadcast debuted. This was the recording home of legends: Johnny Cash, Patsy Cline, Willie Nelson, Dolly Parton, and, for a time, even Elvis Presley and Bob Dylan.
Now, the city is literally young. Nashville is one of the top hubs in America for young adults seeking jobs, community, and low taxes. Vanderbilt and Belmont provide an ample supply of college students. Business is booming, and the city builds like crazy to accommodate the influx.
Like any youthful city in the South, Nashville, naturally, has a lot of new bars. But the city finds creative ways to merge its musical past with the present. Take, for instance, this popular joint that’s also a full-service record store.
The place is called “Vinyl Tap.” It beckons to Jeff Blehar.
Why not have a bar that’s also an old-school video game arcade, too?
For lunch, we had to have fried chicken and waffles. In Nashville, the chicken has to be “Nashville hot” — a fiery, cayenne-spiced seasoning and a preparation style that turns the skin red. Tourists tend to flock to Hattie B’s Hot Chicken, a chain that is to Tennessee what In-N-Out is to California. But I must strongly recommend the confusingly named Chicago’s Home of Chicken & Waffles. Be sure to clarify that you want it “Nashville hot,” then pour the syrup directly on there.
Before leaving town, we hit Music Row, the street that’s home to the current and historic record labels, recording studios, and radio stations of Nashville’s country scene. Signs dot the road congratulating native artists on their new releases.
The storied RCA Records (now owned by a Japanese electronics company, of course) is still kicking in a new studio building.
But I prefer the original, more humble digs next door.
It’s not in Nashville, but on the way out of Tennessee, we visited America’s essential rest stop. A world unto itself, one could say. Somewhere that would blow the European mind into oblivion. What else could it be?
Each Buc-ee’s has a designated meat-sandwich station, jerky bar, fudge counter, and tortilla factory. They have an entire wall of soda fountains, with only two cup sizes: “Large” and “Extra Large.” (Apparently the medium size wasn’t doing it for folks.) See how happy I am in front of perhaps the finest barbecue this side of the Mississippi River?
I was so desperate not to leave that I ran into Buc-ee’s sweet embrace. Unfortunately, it’s July in the Southeast, so his little paw scalded my calf.
Let’s hope that Alabama has aloe vera.
This is an installment in a cross-country road-trip adventure.