I woke just before 6 feeling genuinely refreshed—a solid night’s sleep after we’d turned the lights out before 11 post-Opry. Amazing what actual rest can do.
Refreshed and ready, we decided to walk downtown. Two missions: find the Arsenal match, then tackle the Country Music Hall of Fame.
Finding My Tribe at Fleet Street
Pre-trip research had revealed The Fleet Street Pub as Nashville’s unofficial Arsenal headquarters. The website claimed 11am opening, but kickoff was 9am local. Risky. We compromised—left the BnB at 9:15 for the 40-minute trek, aiming to catch the second half.
Nashville greeted us with another brilliantly bright, bitterly cold morning. Church Street delivered us past a depressing parade of derelict offices, vacant lots doubling as dumps or car parks, all while relentless traffic roared by and the cold gnawed at my fingers and ears. The walk assaulted every sense—sight, hearing, comfort. Not our finest stroll.
Printers Alley eventually welcomed us. The Fleet Street Pub looked closed from outside, but the door handle turned and we slipped in.
Heaven.
Screens everywhere showed Arsenal vs Sunderland. Fans packed the place, sporting shirts from every era—I’d found my people. This underground bar felt instantly like home. Drinks ordered, I initially sat where the view was rubbish, so I migrated to the bar where two guys kindly shuffled aside to make room.
The atmosphere crackled. When Arsenal slotted home their second and third—Gyokeres doing the damage—the place erupted. One fan befriended Maggi, showering her with New Orleans recommendations. You couldn’t manufacture friendlier vibes.
Country Music’s Cathedral
We climbed the steps of the Hall of Fame’s sleek modern building with no real expectations. The lobby buzzed with visitors as we snagged senior tickets—$30 each, thank you very much. Staff guided us at every turn, practically requiring permission slips to approach the elevator. “Wait here. Now go here. Now the lift will open.”
We started on the third floor as instructed, winding our way down through a dizzying array of exhibits. The volume and variety overwhelmed—country music has 100+ years of stars to draw from, and they’ve drawn from ALL of them.
One section puzzled me: a substantial dedication to Muscle Shoals and its two famous studios, Fame and Muscle Shoals. They mostly produced soul, R’n’B, rock and pop, with only a country sprinkle. But who am I to question the curators?
Throughout, archive footage played—TV shows, mini-documentaries on eras and artists. I emerged genuinely impressed. The whole production sang.
Lunch Redemption
Hunger struck as we exited. We aimed for a Mexican spot spotted earlier but got waylaid by a sign for Puckett’s. We ducked into this warm, working-class eatery and struck gold.
Maggi’s fried chicken sandwich with chips scored higher than my spare ribs, but the peach cobbler we shared stole the show. Tasted authentically homemade—no factory microwave job here. Our friendly waitress anticipated our needs, and we left agreeing: best-value meal of the trip so far.
The Walk Home
We retraced our steps, pausing at Whole Foods for tomorrow’s picnic bread. Inside, an Irish girl overheard our accents and stopped us, sounding glum about US prices and politics. Maggi perked up—maybe Alex will feel that way someday. I hate to be pessimistic, but I’m not holding my breath. If it happens, we’ll be ancient.
We finally escaped the cold into our apartment, utterly done with going out. Maggi crawled into bed just after 9; I followed shortly after, reading until 10 when the lights finally went out.
Tomorrow: Memphis.