On the shuttle back across the street from the Graceland mansion, the gentleman seated next to me, an off-duty bus driver, told me this was his 12th trip to Graceland. He’d wanted to make this trip ever since acquiring a new camera (an Olympus) that would take better indoor shots. He showed me some of his photos and he was right. This made me pout internally about my puny, beat-up Cannon Powershot that hates taking pictures in low-light and I made a mental note to eventually buy a better quality camera.
I next headed to the National Civil Rights Museum. Pulling up to that iconic motel, and stepping out of my car, the quiet felt eerie, somber. I toured the museum, appreciating most the original documents such as Rosa Parks police report and legal briefs filed in the fight for equality. I concluded my visit by watching a documentary in the museum’s theater entitled “The Witness,” a powerful film about Martin Luther King and his time in Memphis, ending with his horrific death. The audience and I sniffled, trying unsuccessfully to fight back tears. The film left me quite shaken and I had to hang out in the restroom a bit while I regained my composure.
After this intense and emotional morning, I was about ready for some levity. First a pit stop back at the hotel, to scarf down some leftovers for lunch (remember, they do portions big in the South!). I left the car parked and proceeded to hoof it Downtown for the next few hours, up and down and over, to the point of blisters on my toes. I gawked at great old buildings; examples of Italianate architecture, Beaux Arts, Romanesque, Gothic Revival standing elegantly alongside modern skyscrapers. I meandered through the ornate lobby of the Peabody Hotel and winced at the sight of the sad little ducks in the fountain. I browsed the uber-cool clothes at Lansky’s, spent some more time on Beale Street (by now well over my culture shock and very appreciative of all Beale had to offer!), and listened to some world-class blues.
Some more thoughts on Beale Street: It’s like Bourbon Street in New Orleans on acid, also grittier, more authentic, less tourist-trappy. There are only a couple blocks given over to the clubs and the flashy neon signs, so what you’ve got is an intense concentration of music and lights bombarding you from all sides. And not only am I sensitive little thing (the deafening roar of a snail crawling 50 yards away can give me vapors), but I’ve lived the last few years of my life in the teeny-tiny, idyllic university enclave that is Charlottesville, Virginia, population 40,000. About the flashiest thing there would be the IHOP on Rte 29, with its garish blue and white sign. Charlottesville’s Downtown Mall, along with the Corner, are the party zones, and you just *might* hear someone speak above a whisper there. I have a saying; “Virginians use their inside voice outside.” They’re a quiet, non-flashy people. Add to this that I lived on the outskirts of town, in a semi-rural environment, with chickens in the yard of my neighbors. Okay, so I think I’ve hammered my point home none-too-subtly. A little goes a long way with me. But while Beale Street resembles Bourbon Street, it doesn’t have Bourbon’s sleaze, no strip joints here, Beale is completely about music and most of it, the blues. And the more time I spent on it, the more I loved it. If I lived in Memphis I’d surely spend a lot of my waking hours on Beale.
After Beale, I walked down to the river and around Confederate Park, which featured a statue of Jefferson Davis, one-time leader of the Confederacy (to me a little incongruous in this land where civil rights came to its head) then finally heading back across the street to my hotel for a brief break.
I didn’t last long in my hotel. I’d been itching to pop over the Hernando de Soto bridge into Arkansas, so I could add another state to my “been there” list. It was now going on 4pm and so I got back in my car and made the quick trip over the Mississippi. Oh yeah, did I mention I’m afraid of heights? Well I am, and this bridge soars over the river at dizzying heights, giving you the sensation of flying. As a kid, I used to amuse my parents to no end whenever we’d cross a bridge. Whenever I’d see one approaching, I’d yell “duck!” and would crouch down and cover my head. My parents thought this was hilarious but I was sincerely scared of heights. So I tried to ignore the woozy feeling in my stomach and concentrate on keeping the car operable, impressed with the sight of the great river below. Once in Arkansas, I got off the highway and had a look around, noting the very flat and farmy landscape, no more hint of Appalachian or Smoky mountains evident in the terrain, just plain flat.
Time for dinner, I walked about four blocks from my hotel to the Flying Fish restaurant on 2nd Street, where I slurped down some fabulous fish tacos. Emerging onto the sidewalk over-stuffed, I spied between the buildings the beginnings of a beautiful sunset, so I swiftly made my way down to the Mississippi River. There I found a place where I could scamper down to the very edge of the water, to the fabled banks of the Mississippi and shot a dozen photos of a spectacular, fiery sunset. Standing there, drinking in the view, I was all alone in what looked to be an abandoned industrial area. I knew coming down here alone wasn’t the brightest move on my part, but I was willing to risk it since I would be leaving the next day and the sight was so stunning. But I was cautious not to let my guard down and soon proved right in my guardedness, as I was approached by a couple of ragged guys who looked to be chemically altered. A normally relatively soft-spoken type, at times like this I use my “big, firm” voice and gave them a hearty “hello, nice night isnt it?” to demonstrate I was strong and alert. That worked and they mumbled and shirked away and I decided it was time to scram before total darkness fell and an assertive personality would be worthless for a little blonde chick in the black of night.
I went back to Beale Street, felt like I finally “got” it, just wanting more, more, more. I plunked myself down in a courtyard to listen to yet another great band. There was a crowd gathered of about 35 enthusiastic listeners and after awhile, it dawned on me that I was the only white person there. And I’m not just white, with my bright blonde hair, blue eyes and pale skin, I’m like Lightbulb Girl. All along though I’d found the people of Memphis to be some of the most genuine, truly friendly, kind people you’ll meet anywhere. Folks seated on the bench near me asked me where I was from and soon others gravitated to the conversation. We swapped stories, enjoying the crystal clear night and the wonderful band. Lots of laughing, lots of smiles, lots of warmth. Just a really great time.
Tomorrow....my last day in Memphis...
The Mississippi River at sunset
The Nat'l Civil Rights Museum, formerly known as the Lorraine Motel
