Skip the country in Nashville

We listen to obscure 80s music on the drive to Nashville, harassed by billboards like “JESUS DIED FOR OUR SINS” or “Life is short. Eternity isn’t—signed God.”

We’re staying on music row in what appears to be a seminary of sorts that rents out dorm rooms in the summer. We admire the 1970s textured wallpaper, two twin beds, and moldy shower curtain. It’s like summer camp all over again.

Our first stop is Nashville’s version of the “Parthenon,” built for the World’s Fair in 19-whatever. I’ve seen the real Parthenon, so this is less than thrilling. For lunch, I consult my tour book to find the one Jewish deli in Nashville called Noshville. I don’t get the joke until after we leave.

We take a small detour to the Grand Ole Opry, a sprawling mall filled with overweight white people. Feels like home! My guide recommends the Bluebird Café, an acoustic music venue buried in a suburban strip mall. We arrive to intense humidity and a line snaking out the door. I realize that my faded black sundress isn’t cutting it here. Three nymphettes in mod minis alternately swoosh their highlighted hair, dab at their mascara with their pinkies and ask, “Do you see my sweat?” “Groupies,” I mutter.

We manage to get in, but only because we forget that Nashville is an hour behind us and arrive a full 90 minutes before the show. The three singer-songwriters—one recently won best songwriter of the year--are mind-blowingly good, though there is a definite Christian subtext. They sing of reality—falling down, getting back up, traveling the road to nowhere, remembering old friends. We are bonded by the idiosyncrasies of life, raw emotion rising from their voices. From my perch in the back next to the amp, contentment washes over me. For the first time in a long time, I don’t want to be anywhere else.

Later, we hit the downtown bar strip, ducking in and out of western bars, not really feeling it. George, who is biracial, is reminded of being dragged to hick bars with his uncle in rural Massachusetts. We discover a blues club sharing space in an alley with nude karaoke, a surprisingly authentic version of “Proud Mary” streaming into the street. Inside, a sexy plus-size singer wearing a flowy white dress and cowboy boots sways next to a guitarist who could work as a body double for Jack Black. We turn in early, following an unfortunate Led Zeppelin set.