Nashville Confidential

no brag, just fact

I live in the best place in Nashville. This was reinforced last weekend during the Downtown Home Tour, which featured downtown residences that currently exist and those currently in development.

Guess what? My favorite building in Nashville is being converted into luxury condos. (And the Kress building didn't even have a model unit to show yet ... I still think that is a great project.) How could you resist a development called Utopia Place? I am intrigued, except for the fact that the building backs against Printers Alley and has a gentlemen's club in the basement. You could say the site is just staying true to its roots: The Hotel Utopia was reknown for gambling and for other shenanigans.

Here is a picture of the former Hotel Utopia. (It's the tall skinny one with the Downtown Cleaners sign.)



Why is mine the best place in Nashville? The location, the views, the architecture and the fact that the Titans actually, finally moved out last Saturday! And after the other sites I saw on Sunday, I shall never again complain about the size of my place (although a little more closet space would be nice ...)

clifford 101

CLIFFORD 101. I'm home for about 48 hours, and while I'm here I would like to take my 4-year-old nephew to see the international film classic "Clifford's Really Big Movie." Slight problem: The movie hasn't come to Peoria yet. Unlike Nashville, Peoria is not a "select market." Too bad, because I would like to spend time with my sweet little nephew, and I have a lot of things to learn about Clifford.

My brother (my nephew's dad) reinforced this on our walk tonight:

Me: Hey, is Clifford an Irish setter?
Brother: He's a big red dog.
Me: I know. An Irish setter.
Brother (matter-of-factly): Just a big red dog.
Me: Well, you can take [nephew] when the movie comes to town. It's about how Clifford runs away and joins the circus.
Brother (shocked): That can't be right. Clifford would never run away.
Me: Well, that's what the capsule review said -- that he and the other dogs joined some kind of carnival or circus and they are trying to get back to Emily Elizabeth and Birdsomething Island.
Brother: Birdwell Island.
Me: OK.
Brother (in a professorial tone): Emily Elizabeth had to move to Birdwell Island after Clifford got too big. Her family had a normal house in the city but then Clifford kept growing and growing. Emily Elizabeth loved him so much, it made him grow. That's why he would never leave her.
Me: Her love made him grow?
Brother: Yes, that's what it says in the song.

He proceeded to sing the "Clifford" theme song ... something about "love" and "grow" and "big red dog" ... maybe they couldn't get anything to rhyme with "Irish setter."

i'm just stating the facts, people

The girl who terrorized me in high school was born on this day.

Saddam Hussein also was born on this day.

Draw your own conclusions.

passions

Yesterday I went to three places and watched people do things they truly love. Nobody would do these things unless they were very inspired and committed and maybe a little off their rocker.

The first was the Country Music Marathon. As you guessed, this involved people running 26.2 miles. Read that sentence again. Participants ran from Centennial Park to Music Row to David Lipscomb University to Metro Center to downtown to Shelby Park and, finally, to the Coliseum.

When visitors come to Nashville, I generally take them to every place I just mentioned, with the exception of the Lipscomb area, because it's just too FAR AWAY. I am delighted that part of the race route went along my beloved Metro Center Greenway.

While those folks were making the turn to Music Row, I was in bed, listening to the rain. The window was open about two inches and a cool breeze was keeping me under the covers. Marvelous. Finally I decided to get up and go see my friend C. as she ran through downtown, because I remember how much it meant to me when the Horns did it for my 55 minutes of athletic glory. (Most other competitors in my event wrapped it up in less than 35 minutes, but I just wanted the whole experience to last longer. Please know that I am being very sarcastic.) I will never forget running down Hamilton Boulevard and seeing them there in the median, cheering me on. So I got up and did the same for C. She has been training so faithfully, so intensely, and as I waited for her I was trying to imagine the training ritual and dedication of each person who ran (or walked or limped) past me.

In the afternoon VGG and I went over to the City Cemetery for a "living history" tour. We walked through this old, lovely, long-neglected cemetery while actors pretended to be some of the permanent residents. They stood in period dress, in the sweltering heat, and adopted theatrical voices and sang 19th-century songs. For no pay. For minimal applause. For the benefit of the cemetery. You've really got to love a place in order to do that. It was a very enjoyable experience.

Then in the evening a bunch of us from work went to a nearby college town. Some of them attended Middle Tennessee State and wanted to revisit the campus; there's a goldmine of a shoe outlet in town; and Webb Wilder was playing at a local club, so everybody had a reason to make the trek. We all bought shoes we didn't need, ate wonderfully greasy bar food (fried pickle chips, anyone?) and realized how old we are when we saw today's college students. Our dotage was reinforced when midnight came and went and the band kept on rockin'. Those guys have at least a decade on us, and they are still up there playing incredible songs in an incredible way. They haven't had a new album in I don't know how long, and only true devotion and the joy of performing music would keep them onstage in Rutherford County, Tennessee, in the wee hours of the morning.

I tried to convey this to a less-than-appreciative patron in the ladies' room; she was complaining about the band to the attendant. [Note: this club was little more than a roadhouse. Why there was an attendant in the ladies' room defies logic.] The woman was grousing, "I can't believe they're not playing any songs I know. I want to hear a song I know." As in, a cover version of someone else's material.

Webb's band features four incredible musicians, playing interesting and often funny original songs, and she wants to hear Journey or something.

I advised her thusly: "If you want to hear a song you know, you could always listen to the radio."

What can I say? I felt inspired, committed, and a little off my rocker.

extended vacation

You don't have to go to Europe to enjoy the finer things in life, and after nearly every long trip, I return with a resolution to experience vacation highs in my own backyard. So tonight I went to the Frist Center for the Visual Arts to see "Masters of their Craft" before that exhibition closes. I loved it. As you know, I love everything about the Frist. Stopping in on the way home from work on a weeknight seemed like stealing a few treasured moments.

Lest you think I'm too highbrow, I cracked myself up as I looked at a ceramic piece by Richard DeVore. Maybe I'm fearing shorts season too much, but I thought it resembled a scary thigh or dimpled lower part. Then I read the nearby text, which explained that Devore does hint at the temporal, deteriorating nature of the human body in his work. He is able to make ceramics look like skin. All I could think of as I stood at the Frist was "Ass Jar." (Here is a similar piece, also called "Untitled.")

I wrapped up my evening of culture by taking a book down to the restaurant closest to my home. It was filled with my neighbors and we waved to one another but were happy to sit and have dinner separately. Some came in just to have a glass of wine and listen to the singer-songwriter in the corner.

I cannot think of anything that makes me more content than eating in a stylish place, reading a great book, and contemplating the wonders of an ass jar.

photo op

I haven't had a chance to write too much about my parents' / aunt and uncle and cousin's visit, but I should mention that it was wonderful to have them here. The weather was inhospitable. Fortunately, they whiled away some pleasant hours at the Frist seeing the aforementioned "Masters of their Craft." (No word from them on the DeVore ceramic and their take on it.)

My cousin, a high school freshman, is the embodiment of hip. He sets his own style (I think it's called "vintage") and has his own unique viewpoint. He was very patient to endure his spring break in rainy Nashville. Near my house he recognized the site where one of his favorite bands, Relient K, had an album photo shot. So he was able to have himself photographed in that exact spot.

One evening we were able to knock around the Hermitage Hotel, where a very kind employee gave us a thorough, impromptu tour. And so it was that my collected family stood in the famous Art Deco bathroom in the Hermitage basement. It was surreal and hilarious. I hope my cousin writes about that if he has to do some kind of lame "What I Did on My Spring Break" essay.

hey, you, get off of my cloud

Whenever I come back from vacation, I come back on a cotton-candy cloud that softly glides over my town, my street, my abode. I look down on real life. I ride the cloud through unpacking, reviewing my mail, doing my laundry and going back into work.

Then the cloud usually dissipates by 11 a.m.

But I am happy to report that thanks to the solid work of my team, the thoughtfulness of my pre-vacation houseguests, and the fact that my parents / aunt and uncle and cousin accompanied me back to Nashville, my cloud hung around until the end of the week.

(Even the fact that my idiot next-door neighbor scraped my car, then failed to disclose this and even tried to conceal it, didn't wreck my cloud. Fortunately, my pre-vacation houseguests took photos.)

I'm still working on the Europe log. But hey, I was gone a long time and experienced a lot of things! I do have one entry done, and I'm going to put it up here. See below.

some might say 'practice, practice, practice'

(Full disclosure: This technique is shamelessly ripped off from George Singleton's short story, "How to Collect Fishing Lures.")

HOW TO GET TO THE ROYAL ALBERT HALL.

Torture yourself, as you usually do before any vacation, by looking up concerts on Pollstar.com. Notice, with disbelief, that the Ronnie Lane Tribute Concert will take place at the Royal Albert Hall the night before you fly out of London.

Contemplate the marvel of having Pete Townshend and Paul Weller on the same stage ... at the Royal Albert Hall. Recall that "See a show at the Royal Albert Hall" is on the "Things to Do Before I Die" list.

Vow that you will attend. Juggle travel arrangements accordingly. Ask Peterborough friends to buy the ticket and have it posted to their home to avoid the vagaries of international mail, knowing you'll pick it up there during your visit.

Miss the arrival of the ticket in Peterborough by one day.

Receive the ticket in Brussels from Peterborough friends' relatives, who graciously take time out of their own European vacation to hand-deliver the precious envelope to you.

Arrive at Waterloo Station on the day of the show, on time and ready to execute a full list of fun London activities.

Lug 27-kilo piece of luggage (not including duffel bag) up three staircases and out of the bowels of Victoria Station. Emerge onto street hot, tired and completely disoriented. Walk in circles as it starts to rain. Decide to consult "Tourism Information Office."

Break retractable handle of borrowed luggage as you ascend the one, single step into the "Tourism Information Office."

Try to explain difference between "Holiday Inn" and "Holiday Inn Express" to pleasant but misguided "Tourism Information Office" lady. Give up and walk to Holiday Inn anyway, because you're sure they will know where the Holiday Inn Express is.

Walk at a bizarre angle to grasp suitcase. Avoid protruding metal bar that used to be a retractable handle. Experience intense lower back pain. Wonder if it will stop raining. Realize that you are now worse off than when you entered the "Tourism Information Office." Take some small comfort in the fact that at least this is all happening where people speak English.

Find the Holiday Inn and consult with concierge, who tells you the Holiday Inn Express is a 10-minute walk. Ask concierge to get you a taxi.

Greet the taxi driver. Listen as the taxi driver tells you it's only a 10-minute walk. Realize that everyone you've met in the last few minutes thinks you are a lazy American who is unwilling to walk 10 minutes.

Explain luggage predicament to taxi driver. Evaluate avuncular driver's suggestion to drop broken luggage at hotel, then proceed to Oxford Street to buy another piece. Consider exchange rate, traffic, curtain time, distance you have to walk to get to / around Heathrow tomorrow with broken luggage you will ultimately have to replace.

Hear your father's voice repeating his crisis-management mantra, "Any problem that can be solved with money is not a serious problem." Wonder if your father has seen how weak the dollar is doing against the pound.

Tell the driver to take you to Oxford Street.

Hear the driver tell you how badly the dollar is doing against the pound. Listen as he tells you about his upcoming vacation to the U.S.: San Diego, L.A., Pacific Coast Highway, San Francisco, Tahoe, Vegas and national parks. Speculate that his trip will cost less than the piece of luggage you are about to purchase.

Tell him about Nepenthe in Big Sur, where you experienced one of the greatest meals, followed by one of the greatest sunsets, of your life. Remember that entire trip and how marvelous it was. Sigh with contentment thinking about how many wonderful trips you have had in your life, how many amazing things you have seen, how many interesting people you have met.

Let the exchange rate go. Remember you are bound for the Royal Albert Hall. Sit back and watch a great city go by as the driver shows you Mayfair, the U.S. Embassy and Oxford Street.

Wish him well in the States, thank him for his friendliness. Buy the luggage within 10 minutes of getting to the store. Navigate the Tube at rush hour with an empty suitcase. Wonder if you look suspicious and how you might explain this to the cops, should they ask.

Get your bearings as you come out of Victoria Station. Think fleetingly about going back to the "Tourism Information Office" and explaining the difference between "Holiday Inn" and "Holiday Inn Express," but figure that no good can come from it.

Rejoice that it is no longer raining. Find hotel. Change clothes. Take bus to Royal Albert Hall, as suggested by two British women you met in Brussels. Discover this is a delightful, speedy and efficient way to go. Find yourself outside the hall with about an hour until curtain. Do a few laps, reading the inscriptions on the building and statues. Marvel at the neighborhood, the park, the people streaming toward you.

Realize that your total caloric intake for the day has been one NutriGrain bar. Decide to cram in dinner before the show. See a nice restaurant within shouting distance of the hall. Get welcomed by an enthusiastic, handsome maitre d'. Decide this will do nicely.

Order twice-baked goat cheese souffle and German beer. Marvel when the German beer, Jever, arrives at the table and is GIANT. Wonder why different fabulous-looking guys in tight black T-shirts are bringing different components of the meal. Decide not to worry about it. Drink more German beer.

Decide, in the spirit of the trip, to eat the beets on your plate. Be pleasantly surprised. Wonder if the beer is a factor. Eat more goat cheese souffle. Think of all the great goat cheese entrees at Red Wagon. Experience a tiny pang of homesickness. Wonder what is happening back in the States, how everyone is doing. Wonder how you could ever explain that you miss them right now, but that you are savoring this time alone and that you are thrilled to walk by yourself into the Royal Albert Hall.

Try to remember everything about the building on the way in, through the lobby, to your seat. Wonder why you are the only moron who thought the "no cameras" statement on the ticket was for real.

Admire the view from your seat, which is straight back from center stage, and on the aisle. Rejoice in the fact that you sprang for the good seat.

Say silent prayer of thanks for your Peterborough friends who procured the ticket. And for their relatives who brought it onto the continent. And for your Brussels hosts who arranged their day so you could meet the relatives. And for the British women's good bus advice. And for the helpful taxi driver. And for the good-looking men in the black T-shirts.

Realize you are the luckiest, most blessed woman in the world at this particular moment.

Rock out.

i'm back

Incredible friends. Incredible sights. Incredible food. Incredible music.

It was a wonderful, superlative vacation.

More on this later!