First Full Day in Music City
My body clock hasn’t got the memo about time zones yet—I was awake ridiculously early this morning, though I lazily hugged the duvet until Maggi stirred just before 6. Jet lag’s an inevitable travel companion on day one, I suppose.
We hatched a plan to beat the crowds and scout out Nashville’s highlights by car at dawn. The National Museum for African American Music (NMAAM—try saying that acronym out loud!), the Country Music Hall of Fame, and the Grand Ole Opry were on our hit list. Both museums sit just off Broadway in the city’s pulsing heart, and we ticked them off in no time.
The Mall That Never Wakes Up
The Opry, however, sits on Nashville’s northeastern fringe beside Opry Mills, a sprawling shopping complex. After a 25-minute drive from downtown, we rolled into a vast, eerily empty car park. 8:30am. Of course, nothing opens until 10. Still, the mall doors beckoned us into their warm embrace.
We wandered past row after row of shuttered stores, sharing the polished corridors with a handful of elderly power-walkers getting their steps in. One couple had commandeered some mall chairs for their stretching routine. Another pair, kitted out in serious lycra like they were about to compete in some athletic-fashion hybrid event, kindly pointed us toward a coffee stall.
Mission: Accomplished
Our Opry Mills expedition had a purpose: locate the Grand Ole Opry, suss out parking, and find evening eats. The barista recommended two spots—The Cheesecake Factory and P.F. Chang’s. Chang’s felt like a step up from another burger joint. Mission accomplished, we retreated to our 22nd Ave Airbnb, pottered about, and enjoyed a picnic lunch before regrouping.
Back to the Beat
We decided NMAAM would be today’s cultural feast, saving the Hall of Fame for tomorrow. We found the museum’s parking garage and stepped out into a transformed city. Compared to our dawn patrol, the area now buzzed. Tourists flooded the sidewalks, bars flung their doors open, and music spilled into the streets like liquid sunshine.
Inside the museum, we settled into a cinema for a powerful 15-minute introduction—the story of Black music intertwined with America’s painful history of oppression and racism. Then we dove into the exhibits. Room after room celebrated different genres: Blues, R’n’B, Jazz, Soul, Hip Hop. Each had its own short film.
But my favorite part was an interactive diagram mapping artists within, say, blues. You could see the connections—who influenced whom, who their peers were, who they inspired. You’d pick an artist, listen to their sound, then leap forward, backward, or sideways to trace musical lineage. Fascinating.
We lost two hours in there, making the $33 entry feel completely justified. I noticed we were among a minority of white visitors—probably only 5-10%.
Rooftops and Republicans
The afternoon sun had warmed the air beautifully. Across the road, rooftops teemed with life. We ducked into a bar on ground level—band playing. Climbed to the next floor—another bar, another band. Up again—third band, third bar. Finally, the roof: a fourth bar, a fourth band, and glorious open-air seating.
I grabbed two beers and we found seats opposite two women from Ohio, who’d driven six hours to get here. They’d clearly arrived several drinks ago. When one enthusiastically revealed her strong support for Trump, I decided our beers were finished. Time to move.
Then I realised—I’d left my antibiotics behind and needed my third dose. Oops.
Back in the underground car park, we hit a snag: QR code payment plastered everywhere, but their system rejected non-US phone numbers. We drove to the exit, explained, and the attendant just waved us through. Free parking—I’ll take it!
Dinner Disappointment
After my antibiotic pitstop at the BnB, we headed back to Opry Mills, parked near the Opry entrance, and made for P.F. Chang’s.
Our servers were pleasant teenagers who’d clearly memorised their scripts but hadn’t quite mastered timing. Mid-main course, the dessert menu appeared with a detailed recommendation. Minutes later, she was back asking for our pudding order while we still battled our entrees. Given how mediocre the food was—Maggi and I agreed—dessert wasn’t remotely tempting. The $9 margarita was the meal’s only saving grace.
Our Night at the Opry
We trudged from our disappointing dinner to the Grand Ole Opry, climbing to our balcony seats centre-stage, just behind the sound desk. Twenty minutes early. Behind us, a school party chattered noisily. Then, ten minutes before showtime, a video began—10 solid minutes of Opry self-celebration, peppered with ads and country stars counting down to curtain-up.
The auditorium sat maybe half-full, offering occasional whistles and screams but mostly mild enthusiasm. Maggi and I aren’t country fans—we came as observers, not devotees.
Seven acts performed, each doing two or three numbers. Carly Pearce headlined, but honestly? They all blurred together. The differences seemed more about onstage personality than musical distinctiveness. I didn’t know any of them. The Isaacs performed with their mother on stage—she looked, well, rather odd to my eyes.
Every performer kept emphasising what an “incredible experience” it was being inducted into the Opry, and how special it felt standing on the stage section salvaged from the previous building.
The compère plugged the Opry relentlessly, plus sponsors and video ads between acts.
The house band? Terrific. They made everyone sound good—maybe too good, contributing to that same-y feeling. Would I return? No. If I wanted to see any of these artists, I’d catch their full concert, not a two-song snippet.
The Lineup
Carly Pearce
Noeline Hofmann
The Isaacs
Rissi Palmer
Ricky Skaggs
Rhonda Vincent
The Whites