Catch Your Hare

I’m due to head to New Orleans, but I’m scared by the crime rate. After a night worrying, I decide not to go, change my mind three times and start the six-hour drive.

En route, I have a brief conversation with a large gentleman (the standard “Where do you come from?” one). He disconcerts me by continuing the conversation at the urinal and, worse, talking about the process of urinating.

Afterwards, I take slightly too long at the urinal before washing my hands.

“Draining it, huh?” he says.

Yes, I am.

“That’s important, to drain it.”

Yes, it is.

On the road afterwards, I have my first scary moment. I overtake an Oldsmobile, who proceeds to overtake me back. Fair enough. He’s going slowly, so I overtake him again, at which point he slowly overtakes me back and waves cheerily.

I can’t see the driver’s face: it may be the man who talked at the urinal.  He proceeds to drive alongside me. I don’t look. I am rather nervous.

Luckily, a parking area approaches. I’m getting ready to pull in, to lose him, when he overtakes me, pulls in himself and waves for me to follow him. I don’t, of course, and speed off as fast as I can.

It’s a long, straight road. I am wary of stopping in case he catches up. I don’t see him again.

Listening to the radio, I realise that New Orleans’ crime rate is the least of my worries. There is a hurricane, Gustav, on the way. When I stop at the Louisana Welcome Centre, they explain that an evacuation is planned for Friday, when the road I am on will turn into a contraflow, with both lanes leading out of town.

When I arrive into New Orleans, it’s Wednesday, with two days until the proposed evacuation.

The last few days have been eventful. I’m now in Quincy, Florida, having driven from New Orleans. I started at 5.30am and I’m exhausted.

Where was I?

In Memphis, I’m staying with a friend’s parents. After swearing at roadsigns, I find the house in a quiet, residential area. Within minutes, the father, Fuzz, takes me out to lunch. His truck is crammed with bags. On the seat, there’s leather-bound King James Bible.

We go to Corky’s, a barbecue chain, where Fuzz proceeds to flirt with the waitresses and suggest food. I get dry ribs, paprika-covered and wonderful, and various side-orders that are excellent but too big to finish. Fuzz fires questions at me about the UK: how is George Bush perceived? Have I seen the Queen? After the main course, the waitress offers me desserts by bringing a tray and asking “Which one of these are you gonna eat?”.

I spend the evening at the house. By this stage of travelling, I’m tired, and sitting on a sofa is a rare pleasure. We watch the Democrats’ convention.

I’m slow to rise the next day and it’s noon before I’m wandering around Memphis. It’s a real city that feels less tacky than Nashville. I’m drawn into Automatic Slim’s out of curiosity to find how you can put lemon curd and catfish into the same motherfucking sandwich. (The answer is: they just do and it’s delicious).

The sandwich was a catfish po-boy, served with what we call crisps in the UK (in the US, they’re “chips”). The waiter further complicates matters by calling these “fries”.

The sandwich is preceded by an astonishing savory chocolate butter, served with small semi-sweet muffins. I ask the waiter what this is: “Oh,” he says, “That’s just a Cajun chocolate butter with muffins”. The dish is so good that I’m silently offended at his dismissive “just”. It seems, to me, rather like saying “Oh, that’s just a bit of foie gras” or “Oh, yeah, that’ll be the Rolls Royce”.

I wander around the Rock and Soul museum (vaguely interesting) before panicking that I’ve lost my passport. When I get back to the house, it’s on my suitcase. I seethe a bit, before Fuzz takes me out for another meal.

Before going out, I decided that, if I had a good night in Nashville, I’d stay an extra night; if not, I’d move on to Memphis. 

After underwhelming ribs at some restaurant or other, I hung around bars, listening to music. I was quickly adopted by two girls: an extraordinarily loud girl who dragged me to dance; and Brittany, a quieter and pretty girl, who seemed to like my accent.

Loud Girl dragged us to the Second Fiddle (”my friends are playing there!”), where we listened to the most extraordinary country band. They were, I gather, an impromptu combination of two up-and-coming bands: an electric guitarist, a steel guitarist, an acoustic guitarist, a bassist who looked as though she was having much too fun much playing her instrument, a violinist who played pizzicato, and a drummer.

They were great. I accidentally tipped too much, as the bassist brought around the tip jar, and she thought I was hitting on her. Halfway through the night, line dancers began dancing in front of the band.

In a pavement cigarette break, Brittany explained to me she was a Christian and her ex-boyfriend had been a Physics major, which meant they couldn’t have kids: she’d be telling the kids one thing about how the world was created, while he’d be telling them the other. (It didn’t seem the moment to mention I was a Physics graduate too).

Around now, Loud Girl began screaming at the band and making the “rock” symbol with her hand. The violinist looked scared. I stayed most of the night listening to that band, even when the girls left.

The next morning, I changed my mind: I’d had such a good night, I decided, that there was little point staying in Nashville, as I couldn’t hope to top it.

So I drove off to Memphis, which is where I am now, being fed extraordinary amounts of food by the parents of a friend.

Well, that was bloody great. The music was superb.

I may have to stay another day.

I don’t feel as drunk as I probably am.