I was in Nashville last night for work. Being in a new city usually brings out my inner explorer. Well, for the sake of honesty, more like causal stroller. Given the opportunity, I will walk.

It just so happened that my stay coincided with a Country Music Television thing. So, the people watching amp was set to eleven. As I walked Broadway amongst the legion of country music fans—another confession for the sake of honesty, I’m not the biggest country music fan. I do enjoy some of the older outlaw country artists and songs, but newer pop country tunes, the ones that feature lyrics about driving pick-ups under a big sky, on the way to drink a cold one, with a pretty girl dancing in the passenger seat, don’t really do it for me on a lyrical level.

That being said, I was amazed by the sheer amount of people on the streets, it brought a certain electricity to the night. From a people watching perspective, the experience was hard to describe. Well-dressed couples walking alongside cowboys and cowgirls wearing ten-gallon hats, Jeff Bridges looking dudes jamming recognizable songs on most of the street corners, giving a nod and a wink when you left a tip. South Beach meets South Texas? I don’t know. Something like that.

My first stop was Merchants, an architectural beauty that according to the bartender and its bio sheet has been around since the late 1800’s. And also happened to be a brothel, hotel, and prohibition-era gin joint, in previous incarnations. This time around it was a nicer bar/restaurant with local ingredients and fried green tomatoes. The only negative, a minor one, was that the Moscow Mule I ordered wasn’t served in a steel cup, but a glass. First world problems, blah, blah, blah.

After that it was Roberts, a legendary country bar, there I watched as a pair of musicians belted out a fantastic rendition of “They Call Me the Breeze”.

Knowing nothing of the music industry in general, I wondered how they’d be discovered. Would it be a music executive sitting in a dark corner, exhaling a plume of cigar smoke, sipping on a whisky, and nodding along approvingly? The duo stealing glances at him from the corners of their eyes, while simultaneously upping the intensity of their soon-to-be hit. Are they signed to a deal on the spot? Do they instantly skyrocket up the imaginary charts? The inevitable conflict? Perhaps they’re torn apart by a lover they both pine for? A battle with their demons? Booze? Drugs? Their fall from grace, the redemptive third act. Artistic integrity and love shall conquer all?

I hummed along as I paid my bill. Their song acting as a reminder, I had to keep rollin’ down the road.

After Roberts, I began the walk back to my hotel. On the way there, I encountered the Budweiser Clydesdales, and they had seen better days. Their cages (Pens? Whatever) were barely large enough to fit the enormous horses. You can get an idea of it in the two photos at the bottom of this blog. You’ll also notice the giant piece (i.e. diiiick) on the horse in the second photo. One can only hope he will get an opportunity to smack his jailer in the face with that equine dong-hammer.

The trip, while more work than play, was an enjoyable one. Nashville is indeed a groovy town. Blog updated.

Epilogue: I lost my favorite old pair of sneakers in my hotel room. This was disappointing. I also feel for the hotel and its staff. That place will never smell right again. Prediction: Hazmat suits.