On the Road to Memphis
My eyes opened at 6am to find Maggi already awake, scrolling through her phone. By 6:15 we were stirring properly, the promising aroma of her freshly brewed coffee pulling me from the warm cocoon of blankets.
Morning ablutions, breakfast, packing—the familiar rhythm of departure day. Then we pointed the car west and let Interstate 40 do the rest. Once out of Nashville, the journey couldn’t have been simpler: one road, straight shot, three hours to Memphis.
We fancied breaking the drive with a scenic picnic. ChatGPT suggested a spot just off the highway near some lakes—sounded idyllic. What actually happened was a 30-minute wild goose chase through middle-of-nowhere back roads, our faith in AI crumbling with each wrong turn. Ten-mile detour, zero beauty spot. We surrendered and rejoined the interstate, incompetence or imagination the likely culprit.
Jackson Stop
Thirty miles on, we tried again: Jackson, Tennessee. We rolled into the centre and parked on Main Street for our picnic.
Sunday. Midday. Deserted.
The civic buildings gleamed in pristine condition, but the surrounding commercial area told a bleaker story—mostly derelict, with a few desperate survivors clinging on. We found a Starbucks that had apparently forgotten the concept of service entirely while mastering the art of terrible coffee.
Memphis at Last
Our Airbnb materialised easily enough—two flights up to our temporary home. Then the key code defeated us. And we heard voices inside.
Slightly panicked, we got the door open to find a family still cleaning. Mother, father, child, all rubber-gloved and seemingly pleased we’d arrived early. Seemingly being the operative word—their heavy southern drawl defeated my comprehension entirely. They soon departed, leaving us with the pungent aroma of cleaning fluid and the slightly awkward sensation of having gatecrashed our own accommodation.
Beale Street Blues
Our apartment sits conveniently close to Main and Beale Streets, the latter famous for music bars. We headed that way, but February 8 meant Super Bowl Sunday, and the famous street sat eerily quiet. We walked its full length, hunting for a lively spot. No luck.
On the return leg, four people loitered outside an Irish bar. Good enough. We stepped in.
The barman proved delightful—Maggi got her margarita, I secured a double Bushmills. One became two, and two became dinner. I ordered chilli; Maggi took the barman’s gumbo recommendation. The food cleared the edible hurdle with room to spare, a hint of spice adding interest.
As kickoff approached, the bar filled. Three hours of pre-game build-up—the media saturation reminded me of FA Cup final mornings in 1960s Britain.
The Big Game
We slipped out as the game started, ambling slowly back to the flat. I switched on to find the Seattle Seahawks systematically strangling the New England Patriots’ offence. The Patriots barely troubled the scorers until the final five minutes, by which point Seattle’s lead had grown insurmountable.
Maggi had retreated to bed around 8:30. I followed just after 10, the sounds of Super Bowl commentary fading as I turned out the light.