A Mustang to Memphis

by Sarah Rogers (Colombia)

Making a local connection USA

It starts with a Mustang. At the car rental, a wholesome man with dimples and walking boots sells us overpriced insurance and mentions, offhand “you know, you could hire an American sports car for the same price.” I must light up, as Louise hits me with a skeptical look that says “remember, bitch, you aren’t the one driving. Don’t get carried away.” She’d already conquered the automatic driving system, and jeopardised our lives only once on the wrong side of the road in the midst of the Smokey Mountains. We’d managed so far in one of the ubiquitous SUVs of the South: outsize cars for outsize roads in an outsize country. But when she sees the cherry-red Mustang for herself, she surrenders her fears to the fantasy, and agrees to ride out from Nashville to Memphis in something as sexy and iconic as Elvis himself. Our first stop is Graceland. In the rain, the white entrance sign looks a little underwhelming. It’s dull, like an over-washed jumpsuit, but I push down my disappointment. Inside the mansion, spectacles are thankfully more impressive. We join the crowd in marvelling at the outrageous and dated decadence on display in jungle-themed rooms with carpeted ceilings. I close my eyes and try to commune with the spirit of the King, but my attempts at a spiritual experience are thwarted by the guides who follow our group, herding us like cows into the next room then the next, alway insisting that we are standing in the wrong place. We finish the tour where Elvis was buried, before his Dad was buried, before even his Grandmother was buried. It’s sad and surreal, and we distract ourselves afterwards with hot, hot ribs at a local barbecue joint. Later, we bump our suitcases up the stairs to the hostel and a sign greets us: “here we believe that black lives matter, love means love, no human is illegal, and kindness is everything.” Having spent a wide-eyed week spotting MAGA hats and NRA shirts in the wild, it may as well have said “welcome home.” I change into a blue velvet jumpsuit - in lieu of blue suede shoes - and we Uber to Beale Street to begin our night at the Blues Hall Juke Joint. It’s midweek, so relatively quiet, but an elderly man sits singing with a voice that easily fills the room. He’s accompanied by a grey-haired woman giving Jimi Hendrix licks on the electric guitar. I resist the urge to empty my entire travel budget in their tips jar. Don’t get me wrong; I’m a sucker for flash and hype, but I’m also a music-fiend and a dive bar aficionado. I’ve done comprehensive research to ensure we avoid the corny tourist bars selling sanded-down soul music to dilettantes. On every journey it’s imperative that I sip a cheap beer in the right place, in the middle of the mythology, with as raw a soundtrack and as sticky a floor as possible. I tell Louise the story of Earnestine and Hazel’s, one of the South’s most haunted dive bars. She’s reluctant until I mention their legendary Soul Burger, supposedly the best in the city. We go. It looks like everything I want it to be: checkerboard floors, neon signage, an ancient jukebox. I play Patsy Cline - Crazy and perch on a barstool, delighted. Next to us are two women from the Bunny Ranch in Nevada, there to visit the upstairs rooms that used to serve as a brothel. “Do you think it’s haunted?” I giggle. The blonde at my side grabs my arm and looks straight into my eyes. “That isn’t funny,” she snaps, “people have been hurt.” When the barman takes us upstairs, The rooms are sparsely decorated, shabby and cold. Ghosts aren’t funny anymore. Back at the bar, we drink beer after beer, and a group of local guys brag about their knowledge of soul music, competing to impress us. I explain that we have Stax City Records to visit tomorrow, a whole to-do list of tourist attractions to conquer. “In fact,” I announce, “this is my last beer. I need to see Memphis tomorrow.” The barman laughs and gestures around the room. “Girl, this is Memphis"