A Musical Interlude

Whilst New Orleans was a great experience I had higher hopes for Memphis. New Orleans is the home of jazz, not my musical cup of tea, whereas Memphis is Blues City and thus right up my alley. In order to prepare for more "larging it" we stopped off in Jackson, the state capital of Mississippi, over the weekend having unearthed an absolute bargain on Lastminute.com. Consider that our cockroach infested 10 bed prison cell on Key West cost us $110 per night and that the Hilton in Jackson, including pool, jacuzzi and door opening people just $125 and you will perhaps understand our delight at this upturn in our fortunes. Holing up in Jackson was decided upon for two reasons: one was that both New Orleans and Memphis' room rates spike over weekends and the second was that I needed to rest up having experienced a gradual recurrence of my 18 month old, mysterious gut ache since we started this trip. I'm not one to gripe, I can take a bit of discomfort (see previous escapades) but this was beginning to put the mockers on things whilst also being a tad concerning. Our departure by train from New Orleans saw stomach based nadir and I was really looking forward to doing absolutely nothing for a couple of days, particularly surrounded by such opulence. The train was one of those double decker jobs and we were sat on the top deck, just to the left of and behind a rather aggravating bimbo whose intolerance of vino was such that a couple of slurps in she was making loud pronouncements and just talking inanely, unnecessarily and incessantly. On arrival at Jackson we stood outside the station looking at our Lonely Planet and our hotel confirmation to see if there were any clue as to which way we should start walking. We fended off the advances of a cabbie which was just as well because the Hilton was only 50ft away, literally just over the road. Walking in that door, opened by two people seemingly employed to do just that, we found ourselves in a beautifully appointed lobby with chandeliers, marble and tastefully understated gold. As I caught sight of myself in a mirror wearing flip flops, cargo trousers, tee shirt, shades and with dishevelled barnet I felt terribly out of place, especially as all of the other patrons were resplendent in suits and gown-like dresses. Once in our room our excitement reached fever pitch as we: lay on our bed and realised it had a tempur mattress, flicked light switches to find they all worked, tweaked the air-con, sat at our writing desk and felt the fluffy wonder of our towels. It's only the sort of place I stay in when away with work but it's amazing how quickly you forget that sort of thing. Plus, the contrast with recent accommodations couldn't have been greater. Having tweaked and fiddled to our heart's content we went out for food, asking our doorman which way to head and mindful not to trip up on the red carpet. Luckily there were 3 restaurants within a couple of blocks, just as well because I was struggling to walk much further. We discounted the first two places and opted for number 3, a homely and absolutely buzzing place run by a good old southern couple. We were shown to the last booth in the place and I delighted in my 3 course meal of veal for a fabulous $8. It was fascinating to watch middle America sit and eat out. The clientele were all middle-aged, white and probably read whatever the equivalent of the Daily Mail is. We tried not to hold that against them though. Back at the Hilton we made use of the pool and jacuzzi before turning in. Next day was a big day for me for it was FA cup final day. Since 1977 this day has been set aside for: trying to bond with father and brother over football, revelling in the one day of the year when live football was on TV (younger readers raise eyebrows here)  copious drinking and football with my mates in the late 80s and through the 90s, trying to escape my fatherly responsibilities using football as an excuse and reunions with long-lost mates using "our day" as the basis.  It is ritualistic, cast in stone, a holy day in my personal calendar and I haven't missed a cup final for anything, ever. So where was I going to catch the game today? First things first, what time is it on? 3pm kick off in Blighty is 9am in Jackson. Gawd help us, that's a bit unearthly but c'est la vie! Flicking through the channels on the tv in our room was getting me nowhere so I checked online to discover it wasn't at 3pm but at 5:15.  Was it 5:15 last year? I can't honestly remember but if it was I presumably vented my spleen then. I mean, would Roger Osborne have scored in '78 if kick off had been 2 hours 15 minutes later? It's doubtful. Would Dave Beasant have guessed correctly if he was having to do so in early evening rather than bright mid-afternoon sun? What next? Women lines(wo)men? So 1115 gives me another couple of hours to track the game down. I established that the tv in my room would not be showing it and, following a 10 minute chat with the ladies on reception, neither would the hotel bar. They phoned a couple of Irish pubs and a sports bar or two and offered to drive us there gratis but it was no use, nowhere in Jackson seemed to have the Fox Soccer channel and therefore, for the first time since 1976, I wouldn't watch the cup final. The one lifeline in such situations is the BBC sport website live text. It's a mix of BBC text commentary and texts and tweets from fans and is amusing enough but a sorry substitute for the real thing. Anyway, by the sounds of it it was a pretty dire game so I'll just have to console myself it wasn't a '79, an '87 or an '06. We spent the afternoon in the pool, ate again at the Daily Mail readership canteen where the freckle-faced waitress was drooling over our accents and that was about us done in Mississippi. In fact that's all there was to do in Jackson Mississippi. Never a more dead town have I encountered on my travels. Wellingborough on a wet bank holiday Monday shows much more sign of life; there simply is nothing in downtown Jackson other than office blocks, empty at weekends of course. Our bus on Sunday wasn't until nearly 3pm so we had a bit of waiting around until then. We ate at the bus station, a hideous and negatively nutritionally valuable hot dog and then fended off the obligatory crackpot as we waited to board our bus.  I think I mentioned before, Greyhound buses are not exactly the last word on refined and luxurious teams-continental transport. With the guy in front of us having reclined both his seats and the guy behind being so large and prostrate  that it wasn't viable for us to recline ours we were in the unenviable situation of sitting bolt upright with a seat back approximately 2 inches from our nose. Nevertheless we managed to zone out and I finished the first of the 5 books I've been lugging around before spending the last couple of hours of the 5 hour journey taking in the scenery. We stopped in a real Mississippi backwater for a pit stop and, thinking it might be our only chance to eat, we decided to partake in a rib sandwich from the roadside bar-b-q. It was a real Heath-Robinson affair with a corrugated iron shack protecting the cook and her half-barrel home made barbies. Corrugated iron is a conductor of heat and so our portly chef was sweating for all she was worth as she prepared our food. I watched with dread as the beads of sweat trickled down her cheeks to form a pea-sized droplet on the end of her chin. She couldn't wipe it away. Her hands were adorned in plastic gloves and her arms too chubby to manoeuvre her sleeve into position to mop it.  I don't know if it ended up in my sandwich because I couldn't look any longer but there was certainly a salty twang to my grub! And so to Memphis. Blues City and the home of Elvis.  As ever there's a hurdle to overcome when travelling in this manner. We'd booked our hotel based on the fact that it was only 500 yards from the bus station. On departure from Jackson I'd seen a poster saying that the bus station had moved to near the airport which of course is miles out of town. With it being a Sunday there were no buses running into town so we were stung for $25 in a taxi which was an unexpected blow. Our room though was a joy, even though we'd only just left the Hilton. Fabulous king sized bed and good shower, it's all you need really. Because of my concern over my innards I'd decided that I was going to get myself sorted in Memphis come what may. On Monday we went to the local hospital from where I was directed to a subsidised practise for the homeless and uninsured. To cut a very long story short this wonderful hospital and it's doctors have given me a full diagnosis of my condition and advice on how to manage it over the coming months until I can get it sorted properly when back home. All I'll say is; I bloody KNEW I had a hernia! Uk diagnosis: you are getting older, you must expect the odd ache and pain. So what else have we done except ride the Madison trolley to hospital every day?  Well, we went to the Rock and Soul museum, listened to street performers, ate "po-boys" which are delicious sandwiches and relaxed by our pool. Beale St, the famous street where artists such as BB King, Howlin Wolf, Isaac Hayes and others performed many years ago, was our Mecca each evening. It's very run down now, sad almost, particularly in the daytime, but at night it comes alive with every bar competing for your trade and all offering live music.  We caught a couple of fantastic bands, one in the Rum Boogie cafe and another, complete with Doors-esque organ, in BB Kings. On Wednesday evening the local basketball team were playing at home, swelling the crowds further, and the local motorbike boys were in town all showing off their Harleys. There's a few "must do's" for me in the USA, one of which being to take in a baseball game. As we found ourselves staying opposite the Memphis Redbirds stadium this week we took the opportunity on Thursday and had a great time. The yanks really know how to ham up their sport but it makes for a great evenings entertainment.  And of course there was Graceland. We caught a local bus out along Elvis Presley Boulevard and went for the full tour which includes the house and gardens, his planes and various museums and displays of his awards and clothes. Although I love Elvis anyway it really is a tremendous day out.  It's utterly fascinating to see inside Graceland and has given me some great ideas for decor in the future.  Green shag pile carpet on the ceiling will mean no more painting and a waterfall in the living room should satisfy Kerry's desire to be near water. One final observation. Up until Miami we'd only seen relatively slim and beautiful people and thought that the "Americans are all overweight" was a myth. New Orleans and Memphis have shown us that there is an inordinate amount of overweight people here, in fact, it is remarkable to see anyone who isn't at least portly in Memphis.  Sadly I seem to be joining their ranks. With breakfast generally consisting of cake and with vegetables seemingly thin on the ground in restaurants I'm looking forward to getting into Mexico and away from all this fried food. Onwards and upwards. Next stop Dallas to visit Dealey Plaza, go to a rodeo in Fort Worth and then hire a car to drive Route 66 to Vegas.