Welcome to the Dirty Dirty.

This city girl thought that camping in the dirty-dirty would be fun. Ha. We are at our camp site, some fifteen miles outside of Memphis, for no more than twenty minutes when I realized that the bugs down here were going to give me an anxiety attack and the heat might just sweat us to death. I have a hangover from the show in Hot Springs the night before, I’ll I’ve had to eat is a pop tart and a banana, so the hungry grumps are starting to set in, and I’m on the verge of crying when Jarvis tells me, “it’s okay if you don’t want to stay, we can go get a hotel.” I was trying to man-up about the whole scenario, but as soon as my wonderful hubby offers me an out, I take it without thinking twice. Nothing compares to California camping! That shit was ridiculous.

We checked into a Holiday Inn near downtown Memphis. The room has two double beds and for the first time since the wedding we both choose to sleep on our own. I make a pillow donut around my body and pass out for nearly ten hours. For anyone who knows me, this is a pretty impressive feat. Jarvis is thankful that I’m not waking him up at the crack of dawn for breakfast or cuddles. I guess even the overly OCD ambitious need rest from time to time.

Late morning, we finally wake up and have breakfast and some boob tube and then take a taxi to Beale Street to check out the famous shops and bars. I’m on the hut for some Elvis memorabilia since we decided to opt out of Graceland (we drove by and realized that Elvis Disneyland was the last place we wanted to spend our day and money). After we walk the strip and do a bit of shopping, we duck into a dive for some drinks and snacks. The bartender asks me, in her cute little southern voice, “ya’ll want small er big uns?” I mistakenly respond, “big ones please,” thinking we will get more bang for our buck like when your at the airport and you can get twenty-two ounces for a dollar more than sixteen ounces. That plastic cup damn near held forty ounces of PBR and I’ll tell you drinking that much beer wasn’t the most proper way for a girl to start the day. Jarvis and I share a rack of dry-rub Memphis style ribs, and then head down the road for some live Blues.


We dip into the Blues Hall Juke Joint. The joint is old, and the air is a bit thick and sweaty. There are old photos plastered on the wall, and bits of the wall paper are worn down to expose the rotting wood beneath. There are old faded American flags and of course, the standard “No firearms permitted signs” which have been a regular occurrence since we stepped foot into the South. Our bartender there is actually from San Francisco, so we get to chat with her a bit about home. The local house band starts rockin’ the blues and the sax player blows my mind. We can’t imagine what kinds of great tunes you would hear in Memphis, considering this is just a house band jamming at four o’clock in the afternoon.

We take a taxi back to the hotel for an evening swim. I made friends with a cute little girl in the pool. We have some handstand contests and I teach her how to have a tea party like sister and I use to do. We will by taking it easy tonight in Memphis – we have a six hour drive to New Orleans in the morning, and we want to save our energy for the Bayou.