People are always in my way in New York. Sitting in my stairwell smoking, blocking my door when I leave, clogging up the sidewalk talking loudly or deciphering maps, and blocking the doors to the subway car. Besides the noise levels, this constant existence of people in your face is unescapable. They defecate on the sidewalk or let their dogs do the same, allow their children to run amok wherever they feel like having coffee or beer. Too often there is simply not enough space for everyone to coexist in this city.
When the plane touches down in Nashville, all that changes. No one is here. The gates are empty at this “international” airport, only one Southwest plane taxis to takeoff as we pull in. No one waits for the bus bound for downtown. I almost feel like the breath has returned to my lungs even though I am still surrounded by concrete.
The bus driver smiles as we board the brand new bus and head into town, paying $1.60 each. There must be something to this personal space problem we all face in New York City. People here face the same problems as we do, being happy, making money, getting to work, and the like, but here it all seems more simple.
It might be the fact that for a couple years now New York City has really started to grind on me, a continuous battle against the rest of humanity for that subway seat, or sidewalk space, or view to the stage. Nothing comes easily. Do I value and miss my personal space more than ever because of ingrown American tendencies or simply because it has been 35 and humid every day this summer?
Nashville on a Saturday is like the ghost town that most American cities are on weekends. A hot, steamy ghost town is this, without a soul in sight save for a passing car every few minutes that must contain at least one. No one sits with us on the steps of the state capitol or walks down the hill to the city's beautiful new Bicentennial Mall.
You do not have to work against or inconvenience people to get a favor. I needed five one dollar bills for the bus and took a five into a thrift store and approached the woman. “Aww, hun, I just shut my drawer.” She gladly made change for me after the next transaction, seemingly delighted to help. What a concept. A waitress later laughs when I trouble her to break a 100 dollar bill for our dinner. “Never heard that one before.” No trouble.
The spaces are vast. The bathrooms are larger than our apartments. There is room to breathe, simply put. And breathe we did, joyfully at the top of a hill where the wedding we went for took place. Seated outdoors facing a university observatory, guests arrived from Texas and Taipei, Shanghai and New Zealand. Laughs were had, high-fives given, feasts consumed.
Throughout our trip we ordered food that ended up being far too much for the two of us to eat, but almost without fail we were always asked “Is that it?” upon reciting what we wanted.
As we traveled further from Nashville, to Memphis via the Natchez Trace Parkway and smaller roads, down the Blues Highway through Mississippi, into Louisiana and onto New Orleans, then west along the Gulf Coast towards Texas and eventually Austin, things kept getting nicer and nicer. My notes became more sporadic and eventually faded away completely, but here are some photos from the journey:
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