Away We Go For A Weekend In Nashville
Loaded with snacks, coffee, gloves and coats to combat the freezing weather, my boyfriend and I made the trek from St. Louis to Nashville in the middle of December, where neither of us had been before, prey to the rush of excitement that comes with visiting somewhere new—how it permits a momentary dissociation from day-to-day life.
We had less than 24 hours in Music City—it was Saturday, and we had to be back Sunday evening. But instead of trying to cover everything, we took our time slowly, with racing hours slipping by one by one in the background. We walked around The Gulch, where we had dinner at 404 Kitchen. The Nashville fangirl within me came out, so of course we had to see The Bluebird Cafe. The hostess at 404 Kitchen told us she had actually been an extra on the show, and that the Bluebird Cafe used for shooting on the show is actually a replica built on a soundstage—not the actual music locale open to the public.
In my melodrama I was a bit more disappointed about it than I should have been, but it was still exciting to see the blue awning and think of the young ingénue Scarlett O’Connor pulling drinks, discovering her own creative power as a brilliant songwriter, about which she had no idea until she fell in love with a tall glass of handsome: a guitar-strumming hipster named Gunnar. We also drove through East Nashville, the city’s burgeoning artist haven, taking in the beauty of the individualized architecture and quaint design of the homes.
We stayed at the most quaint Daisy Hill Bed and Breakfast in a beautiful home in the Hillsboro West End neighborhood, where a lovely, hospitable couple took care of us. Part of the art of the hospitality business, they say. It is in these adventures bumbling across the heartland that I fall in love with it more every day, even when I’m so sick of the cold and ice that I could puke, wrapped in its layers of sepia tones.