An influx of bluegrass (Tennessee part II)

My itunes is a mess. Thanks Tennessee.
Crack out some Dolly Parton, it's time for the tales of Dollywood!
 

All too soon we were kissing Nashville goodbye. Cramming our suitcases shut we stumbled along to the bus station to head on our complicated we-really-needed-a-car-to-get-to-Pigeon-Forge journey. Now I know a lot of people have a load of crap to say about the greyhound which has always turned out to be totally unfair and untrue in my experience, but in this case perhaps avoiding the 1.30 bus would've salvaged the years that this journey took off my life. It's my own fault for being a paranoid mess. There I am thinking I'm all down with the locals (y'know being all wise and shit now that I've been in America for all of four months which has me totally culturally adjusted) chatting to the three truckers in the line to get on the last greyhound of the day from Nashville to Knoxville (people, especially in pdx and the South are wayy too friendly, especially queing for public transport - planes, busses, grocery store lines, you name it! I've been in trouble getting on buses back home and offering bus drivers cheery smiles and good mornings - they are having NONE of it. Stupid unfriendly Londoners - I might have to fix this before I instigate the brunch revolution). Anyway, we eventually get on and settled and I'm being nosey at the passengers around us when a little glint of silver flashing in my periphery has me turn and watch a guy, very casually, get out his gun, give it a little shine and load a couple of bullets. Well, there went any chance of me getting any sort of sleep for the next 4 hours as I'm trying to remember all the advice I gleaned from Grey's anatomy about what to do when confronted with a gun, whilst flinching every time he moved. Pathetic really when Oregon gun laws allow for concealed weapons so I've probably passed a small army of guns popping to grab a coffee or browsing for yellow rain boots. Gun laws fascinate me in America, I had a really insightful chat with a couple of girls just before winter break about Reed's campus gun policy. As part of our housing contract we have to declare that we won't store weapons on campus, but outside the dorms... so if I get a gun and start shooting, as long as no-one gets hurt, the worst I can be prosecuted for is vandalism!!!!! But some of the Reedies argue that if we instigate a weapon-free campus wide policy, 'others' will 'know' and target Reedies because they know they will be unarmed. American logic right there for you. Even somewhere as 'liberal' as Reed. I wonder how many Newtown's will have to happen before the government decide its worth taking on the NRA...

That was a bit of a heavy tangent. But it definitely hit home how different, especially in the South, American culture can be. Especially as the more we headed into rural Tennessee, the more apparent it was as to how insular and closed off the communities were. Nashville, a lovely relief from the ethnically homogenous Oregon, appeared very removed from the racial stereotypes of the South (but being two white girls travelling around, how much could we really see?), at least comparably to Pigeon Forge - the strangest little slice of backyard America!


Enough said.
But we had a pretty hilarious time exploring this curious little town and running around Dollywood. particularly catching the park's version of A Christmas Carol with the thickly accented actors attempting cockey accents. One of the only things I won't miss about America is the amount of really shockingly bad British accents I've been subjected too! Bless. (Not patronizing at all).





So there we go. Heads far too full of country music we began our difficult trip home (let's just say after the taxi driving getting confused and driving us to the wrong side of Knoxville so we nearly missed our bus (first time I've ever been grateful for Greyhound's lack of comprehending the word 'punctual' ) which did however, leave nearly 2 hours late, overnighting in Nashville airport with no means of coffee and vending machines for dinner, boarding pass nightmares and an 8 hour layover in Miami with no free wireless (#firstworldproblems) where it had decided that it was still summer and everyone, other than me in my thick furry coat, was wearing shorts and t-hirts I absolutely kid you not, I was ready to come home!)

So I guess with it being half-way now (how? HOW? HOW?) I should be really self indulgent and self-reflexive about everything, but I think I'll stop wittering on and give you a break for a little while longer before subjecting y'all to that kind of mushy crap. I can't believe what time is doing. Slow down. slow. down. please?

More stetsons than I can shake a banjo at (Tennessee part I)

PDX-DEN-BNA-MIA-LHR

(if nothing else, this year has supplied me with enough airport abbreviation codes to be potentially useful on a pub quiz team)
More pre-Christmas American shenanigans for y'all.
7 days. 2(ish) cities.
Tennessee whiskyed me.

Here are all the pretty pictures:
click

Olivia and I went venturing to the mystical south. 3 days in Nashville followed by a 3 day adventure to the real rural East Tennessee - what would a trip to Tennessee be without a visit to Dollywood?

Rather than give y'all the ins and outs (because what would we have to talk about?/ As a rather overdramatic storyteller you'd be scrolling along forever wondering when you've been a good enough friend to stop reading/ I really could talk about this forever) of this magic trip, I'm going to hit you with concision and precision. BAM. A whole new me.
So here's the abridged version (hopefully)


NASHVILLE

- So if you've been living under a rock and missed hearing about the insane amounts of crazy crazy snow America had just before Christmas, we were trying to travel  through it. Around it. Over it. Luckily the only drama getting there was O's 3 hour delay which left me at Nashville airport rocking on a rocking chair in baggage claim, snooping on all the stetson wearing, guitar case holding cowboys (and boyyyyyyyy was I not disappointed). Sadly all these musiciany types made me pretending to huddle over my journal, doodling, in the hope that I was looking all writerly and might be mistaken for some sort of cool artsy lyricist and be swept off into the magical land of Nashville by some producer or other. Sadly, all that did happen was me dribbling chai all over the page when I accidentally made eye contact with one, said, musiciany looking guy and the brain, motor function dichotomy was temporarily disconnecting... smooth...  This fabulous incident was then beautifully followed by Hottie Mchothot at the hostel check-in desk. So distractingly hot, it made Olivia lose her ipod. I left my laptop in an elevator.
I need to learn to be a  real human being.

- First night, eyes glinting with that fluorescent delight in the tourist mecca that is broadway. Even on a Saturday night (being December and all) it was surprisingly quiet. A much more chill experience than coming at peak times if you ask me! But still, 'quiet' in Nashville doesn't really mean much - music spilling out of every doorway, lights strumming neon banjo signs, and more stetsons than every Western I've ever seen put together. We had to hit a grand ole opry show at the Ryman (not because I'd been watching ABC's Nashville avidly or anything...) and holy smokes (as O would say), Miss Clare Bowen happened to be performing. Done. Trip already made on night one.











- Cowboy boot shopping. Worst. Vegetarian. Ever
< But look how preettyy. Don't ask me how much. I'm refusing to look at my bank a/c. I blame the stupid plaid-shirted beardy guys calling me maa'am and lifting their Stetsons before holding doors open for me. I wasn't behaving rationally. But I must say, Southern hospitality, not going to complain...

 - We wandered. We took photos. Fell in love with a lush little coffee shop. Hit the Johnny Cash museum, the Frist gallery, Hatch Show Print. Wangled free breakfasts. Forgot to ask for hot tea and ended uo drinking more sweet iced tea than I'd've preferred in December. Toured the Ryman (narrowly missing making a cameo in the next season of Nashville) and had dinner at little Jazz bars. Oh sweet lord the food. Saweeeet potatoe fries. Enough said. Followed up with a peach whisky chaser (I was in the south y'all) and southern comfort hurricanes (I was in the mood for cliches) at a blues bar on printer's alley that the two girls in our hostel room recommended (which we returned to enough afterwards to call 'our spot')

- oh TheBluebirdTheBluebirdTheBluebird. A few weeks before I braved a 6am early morning in order to reserve a table. Dedication. So so worth it. We went back. Twice. They stage open mic writer's nights for song lyricists to showcase their original works as well as showcasing established writers and musicians. So naturally, we had to see a night of each. Both were spectacular. Crammed in on tables with strangers, the whole room literally stacked human-jenga-esque, even off-peak this place is a guaranteed sell out. My obsessive compulsive googling pre-coming worked in our favour and we arrived 2 hours before opening to queue and got chatting to a lovely song writer jess who was showcasing her work that night. Eager to chat, she shared her 'living out of my car', trying to make it in Nashville story. She writes a blog. I'm yet to find it :( before offering us a ride back to the hostel (thank god because The Bluebird is tucked away near a bunch of strip malls on the outskirts of Nashville.) Now with BRIT having instilled ridiculously high expectations of theatre/music/performancey things I'm a pretty ruthless critic but my God she was easily the best of the night. This more than made up for the shit we had to endure at another open mic night at a 24 hour greasy spoon. Yeah, we should've known better...

- On a side note YES, IT'S A REAL FREAKING PLACE. If anyone can enlighten me as to why the film is set in NYC not Nashville though... http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0200550/

in a cassette tape and record shop naturally

I don't know what it was the hooked me about Nashville. Maybe it was seeing others chase smoke that reminded me why I write. Maybe it was because I had so little preconceptions (stetsons, banjos and cowgirl boots aside) and a stressful end of semester run up (that had a dorm mate walk in on me having scooped out my shoes and writing essays with a lamp squished in the bottom of my closet...). I don't know. But I left with a heck of a lot more than I arrived with.

TBC.

They're selling red cups now in Sainsbury's. That's it. America is everywhere now.

Thanksgiving on the Cape

So judging by my still bursting waistband, it's still close enough to Christmas to discuss turkey. Ergo (new year, new classy approach to blogging - although I'm glad you weren't there to witness my googling of 'herego' and the paradigm shifting moment when I realized no no, that's not right) I can just about squeeze in a blog post about thanksgiving through clever associative word play right?

A 4am alarm, seriously questionably sized 'handluggage' hauled onto shoulders and I began my first thanksgiving (a notion that Americans found hard to wrap their heads around) trudging up Woodstock in the 5.30 blackness - my only prior thanksgiving experiences amounting to the 'performative banquet' in my PS conference the day before and the time last year where we squished too many people into our teeny teeny lounge, drank too much wine, and witnessed the sexual harassing of a door, the revelation of Amy's astoundingly accurate Beyonce impression and some graphic charading from Chloe. You can't tell me that wasn't a proper thanksgiving. It made me very thankful. For wine. For food. For Friends. Very thankful indeed.

So here I am, barely conscious, strapped into my Avatarian blue turtle shell, stumbling up a hill in the dark, and seriously regretting my penny saving decision to skip the cab fare and brave early morning public transport when SUDDENLY... a huge shadowy beast appears on the path ahead of me. Having seen a warning sign taped to a telegraph pole a few days earlier about racoons and coyotes in the area, let's just say that my 'irrational fear' of  the Oregonian wildness and my unanswered questions of 'what do you do if you meet a mountain lion?' weren't looking so stupid now. Because who knew raccoons were so freaking huge!! Wide eyed I rooted to the spot, locked in a stare off with this suburban bandit, all googling of animal survival techniques rendered mute, before scarpering as quickly as I could in the direction I'd seen some (clearly fanatic) joggers heading. It's amazing how quickly an overstuffed argos hiking rucksack can move when confronted with these scary scavengers. Don't be fooled my friends, they might look all cute and cuddly on National Geographic but trust me, my little friend looked much more like this:

Scary stuff right?
My journey's are never dull.

A few hours later I'm on the plane cracking up over Catlin Moran's How to be a woman whilst trying to not let the chatty, guitar strumming deacon sitting next to me see that I just highlighted the whole section on names for your vagina. Not that I'm tarnishing all religious men with the same misogynistic brush, but there is something inherently  awkward about the word cunt and a deacon being within your same field of vision (another reason we need feminsim). After discussing life, writing and the joy of saxophones with Deacon Sal, I did feel a little guilty (not being a christian and all) for being very relieved he was sat next to me when we landed in Boston in the middle of a huge fear inducing storm (which turned out to be the red and blue flashing lights mounted to the wing of the plane and a hell of a lot of wind and rain).













Then I found Olivia at baggage claim.
That Olivia
The friend you really don't deserve because she is so sweet and kind and wonderfully thoughtful, she replies to texts straight away when you don't, and by the end of thanksgiving you're rolling around shaking with laughter, faces stuffed with pumpkin pie and coffee fro yo because you've planned an impossible trip to Tennessee where the only conceivable way of getting from Nashville to Dollywod is via horse owning cowboys who fancy taking us for a ride.

So together we zoom down to Cape Cod (it never changes), marvel over how great a non-student bed is and get down to the serious business of thanksgiving feasting. So here's the (American schoolkid version) lowdown of thanksgiving for y'all still in the dark.
http://www.scholastic.com/scholastic_thanksgiving/feast/slideshow.htm
It was one of those funny coincidences to find myself celebrating my first thanksgiving only 34 and a half miles away from Plymoth!

Unlike the first thanksgiving however, my thanksgiving looked more like
This:

Recognize the acorn squash from safeway shenanigans in my first week?

My Aunt and O bonding over cooking

What would thanksgiving be without a little bit of family humiliation? Thanks xbox connect.


















The rest of the vaca we spent exploring the little town of Chatham - it's funny, I've been there 4 or 5 times in past summers growing up and it never changes. Small town America wrapped up in pretty white Cape Cod chocolate box houses and Main Streets.


If my Laptop hadn't crapped out last year when it flew across my bedroom in Norwich and I lost all my files I could do some cool Chatham through the ages photos. The best I can do is us at Chatham's 4th July parade in 09 (stolen from the brother's fb)

Ah nostalgia.

Speaking of, on my last day we headed up North to New Hampshire to see other Olivia - an old friend I haven't seen for years. For two people on other sides of the globe it's frightening how on the same wave length we are, and how many words we can cram into a minute! Oh time, what are you doing to me?

Having felt like I'd only just stepped off the plane than I was back at the airport. No deacon this time just a lot of rain. And I mean a LOT. Portland was on top form. And so obviously, drenched and dying for a cuppa my next bus deciding it wouldn't be coming until 5.30 the next morning and so I trudge, through Portland storms, back home.

why StumbleUpon may have just sliced a sword through my bank account

Here I am, sitting in my bed at home, nursing my tofurky stuffed christmas stomach and listening to the beautifully horrific English rain rage against my windows like they have personally incited some serious injustice to the weather gods, when the combination of stumble upon (if you're a sucker for procrastination and have no idea what I'm talking about TURN AWAY NOW BEFORE IT'S TOO LATE AND YOU NEVER WRITE AN ESSAY AGAIN), New Years New Found Spirit and a £4.99 piece of paperchase wrapping paper splashing a map of the US over my already heavily  blue-tacked walls, threatens to destabilize my savings, my future credit score and everyone and my neighbour's cat's bank accounts if I can get my hands on it. Curious as to what the holy crap could've caused such an extended sentence? Me too.

There I was. Grey's anatomy happily chatting away in a background tab as I happily avoid looking at filling out Student Finance expense claim forms or ringing STA to unblock the visa cashcard I managed to break the first time I used it. Enter StumbleUpon. The three year relationship we share means it knows me like the back of my neck (because seriously, you know if someone/thing can tell you what that shit looks like you have a legit intimate relationship where they clearly can reach the blind spots you'll never see (ooh the cliche metaphors) I mean, I flip my pasty little palms over at least a dozen times an hour so any hand perve could learn the contours of my life and heart lines) I digress. Stumble upon. Does what it says on the tin. With webpages. Google it. First stumble I kid you not reads thus: (I'm not sure what punctuation to use here, I'm like a 5 year old when it comes to keyboard squiggles. Any clarification welcome) "27 surreal places to visit before you die". Now I have totally banned the would 'should' from my life (it causes so much strife), but come on, I'm masochistic. So ofcourse I take a peek. First line - "This is when a savings account would come in really handy". Excellent, 6 years of horrific bank tellering, student guiding, bar work and cleaning in a psychiatric hospital were about to metaphorically disappear. So I'm scrolling, I'm scrolling, I'm scrolling and

BAM

no..wait, that's just the Grand Canyon. How cliche. Yawn. I don't want to live a google image life.
WAIT. WHAT AM I TALKING ABOUT. LOOK HOW BEAUTIFUL IT IS.
QUICK.
TO GOOGLE IMAGES.
(And you know how girl loves to google)

A half hour search later, eyes bulging with the gluttonous promise of achingly beautiful landscapes, and a terrifyingly adventurous plan is born, mapped by previously mentioned wall map conveniently located directly in front of me. Let's not be a passive pinterest pinner and actually see if there's weight behind any of these stumbled upon places.

Finish my year in Portland (somehow tear myself away from the Pacific North West. Panic about levels of crap that need to be shipped back home. Amassed libraries included.)
Head south to Cal (hopefully pick up Miss Brown)
And then this. All of this...

before getting kicked out of the country for overstaying my VISA and running up more debt than any one person can even imagine at 21.
But hell. Ima do it. And y'all are going to be bored to tears with every detail of me making this crazy crazy plan come to fruition.

Thoughts on a postcard? In exchange for legit promise to update you on real run ins with TERRIFYING WILD ANIMALS raccoons, first Thanksgiving Turkeys in Cape Cod, Reed kids gone wild at Spring/Fall, When Tash and the Californian contingency came to town, Nashvillian Cowboy Boots, Dollywood and Men with guns on greyhound busses (yes, I did unnecessarily  lose my shit a little)?