On our last morning in Louisiana we got breakfast at an apparently famous joint called “Mother’s” which was conveniently located about a hundred yards from our hotel. Stoked.
We enjoyed some grits and pancakes while we left our Benz to regale other cars in the Lowes garage with tales of its adventure so far.
Mother’s certainly had the motif and waiting time you’d expect from a famous establishment, but Jess and I had to agree that it might have poured the worst. Coffee. Ever.
Including that time Austin Powers drank poop thinking it was coffee.
Imagine brewing a gallon of coffee, letting it sit for a day, microwaving it, letting it sit for another week, draining the waste oil out of a New York Taxi into it, microwaving it again, and serving it a week later. Unfortunately for Jess, the milk had gone off as well so she was in for an even more trying experience.
Needless to say, we hit Starbucks as soon as we crossed the Alabama state line.
“That’d be a cool photo op,” I thought to myself, but I quickly became distracted as my phone reminded me it was someone’s birthday.
Before I could finish the obligatory wall post a giant Mercedes-Benz emblem rose out of the horizon, foreshadowing the enormous facility it was mounted atop of.
I almost suggested we stop, but Birdie was at the helm and therefore we were WOT in the left lane.
I shifted from Facebook to Google and discovered that not only was there a Mercedes factory here in Tuscaloosa, Alabama- it was where the M-Class was built!
We had inadvertently driven right past the very birthplace of the car we were riding in. Awesome.
We took advantage of the last Bo’Jangles restaurant we would see on a trip (heartbreaking) and proceeded to arrive at the Nashville Econolodge around 10:00PM.
“It’s $42 for a double bed or $47 for a king,” said the surprisingly cheerful dude behind the counter.
“Meeeeeehhhhhhhhhh we’ll take the double.”
Boom, that’s a beer right there.
Like New Orleans, Nashville had three standout qualities that happened to be alliterative. Those being- bands, buskers, and babes.
The last time I passed through Nashville I left with a favorable impression. And that was on mid-week night right after a catastrophic flood.
Tonight was a Saturday, in the throes of college basketball finals, and the scene was unbelievable.
Live music poured out of every door, and when we weren’t in earshot of a bar the street musicians were out in force. And not just your typical gutter punk with an upside-down bucket and two spoons, these were full-fledge rock bands occupying the sidewalk.
I don’t know if there was a convention in town or if the local population is just well-presented, but the women of Nashville are flatout jaw-droppers. What is it about a dress and cowboy boots?