An Enchanted Land: North America’s North-Atlantic Coast

As much as many people think Canada and the US are sisters, as much as untraveled people think we might be oh, so alike, there is a distinct difference between these countries. Looking over the pictures you snap as you drive over the border to visit our neighbor to the North, you realize immediately where the border was crossed, even if you don’t even take one picture of the border patrol officer’s booth. 

This picture taken in St. Andrew by the Sea, in New Brunswick summarizes exactly what I was after on this trip: a quiet, sleepy fishing town on the Atlantic with a view of the bay.

There is a shift in architecture between a US settlement and a Canadian one. A change of rhythm in the way seconds are counted, in the way people swag. I cannot quite put my finger on it, but once you see it, you get it. 

This was my first trip to Maine and New Brunswick. I always thought the East Coast is where both our land densities are. Small towns, strung together like a clutter of pearls, one after another, close-knit communities that flow into one another; a passer-by unable to tell when one establishment ends and the other one begins. 

But that density was lost on me on the drive from Bangor, ME to Saint John, NB. For miles and miles, all you cross are wooded and water lands. More mountains than you’d think it’s appropriate for a coastal state or province of The East, and way too many “Beware of moose crossing” signs than you ever think would be needed. As a matter of fact, in a week in these parts we saw exactly zero moose. But nonetheless, the promise is that of land and wildlife, and not of humans. 

How you know you're in Canada ...

Maine and New Brunswick are relatively scarcely populated, green states. And I mean green in the literal sense of the word. Rolling hills (or baby mountains), lakes and many rivers that cut through their bones like deep whip marks into young flesh. In July, the air is liquid and yellow, thick with bugs, mosquitoes, butter- and dragonflies; dry and melty warm like warmed up maple syrup. You think stopping the car by a river or the ocean will be breezy and fresh, and maybe it is, but not in July. In July it’s exhaustingly hot. 

The landscape is about the only thing that’s very similar between the two countries in this area. The houses are distinctively different, simply put: Americans care less about the curb appeal; junk cars and used up, beat up farm equipment are left to rot in unmowed front yards. Canadian houses have clean, clutter-free yards with manicured lawns, even in the deep country. 

There is a noisy kitsch aspect of a small American town. There is a quiet, coquette distinctiveness of a Canadian one. 

American vs Canadian home along the highway

In Maine, people are direct and to the point; spend little time on niceties. When you mention you’re not from town, they give you prompt directions and you can sense their sigh in the back of their voice as in “oh, another ignorant outta towner”. Not quite rude, but not sugary sweet nor quite welcoming either. 

Canadians don patient smiles and greet everyone with “Hello. Bonjour.” Without even telling them where you’re from, they notice your license plate and come waving from across the parking lot with “Oh, goodness! I love Maine! How long are you guys staying here?” They ask you questions about America, your trip, your plans and give you unsolicited directions of where they think you should be spending your time. It’s like the long cold winter has gotten them snowed in for so long, they are happy to see another human and happy to reconnect to the world. Americans act as if summertime is a bothersome interruption of their quiet time and are uneasy to be awoken by random drifters looking for a lobster joint. 

For years I thought the best seafood on the American continent was in Massachusetts - Boston and Cape Cod, specifically. But Maine, New Brunswick and Prince Edward Island (PEI, as commonly known) have gotten Boston beat! And no, not just the lobster. All of it - clams and any manner of fish too. 

Maine lobster in Brewer, ME

These parts belong to nature first, and man second - and this is what loudly spoke to me. Maine’s Acadia National Park - an amazing juxtaposition of ocean and sea - is something you expect to see more fittingly in California, as the Sierras slide down into the Pacific, rather than on the East Coast. New Brunswick has the Bay of Fundy, with the world’s highest tides that carve amazing rock formations, slice them off the mainland, and leave them sprinkled on the beaches like a string of Greek vestiges. 

The noisy Atlantic washing the rocky cliffs of Acadia National Park in Maine

There is no metropolis to disturb the small-town feel of places like Bangor, ME, Saint John, Fredericton or Moncton, NB. Even the capital city of Charlottetown in PEI is a lazy settlement, with beautiful old architecture, wide streets that have not yet been narrowed by overdevelopment, streets so quiet and people so calm that I am sure no one knows what a car horn sounds like. Or a police, ambulance, or firetruck siren. 

Crossing Confederation Bridge between NB and PEI - at 8 miles long, it is the world's longest bridge over frozen waters (when the waters are frozen. Not in July)

These are places where battles were once fought, mostly for territory, others for principles only - who gets to keep what piece of land that was not theirs to begin with. But the noise of battles once fought has long been quieted and what you see today is a new world, built from dreams of exiled people who lived to tell the tales. 

Originally, I planned for all of us (my sister and I and our family) to rent a house with a view of the ocean in a small fishing town on the Atlantic Coast, up there, in The North. But we ended up settling for a house in-land on the Richibucto river - in the small community by the same name- a name drawn from the Mi'kmaq word that means either “River of fire” or “River that enters the woods”. The Richibucto is a tidal river, and we passed our time sitting on our backyard dock telling the time of the day by the height of the river benches. The kids knew to drive to the ocean at high tide, when the fishing is plenty. 

There is a health and a peace that heals you when you tune into the rhythms of nature and you block out the modern appliances that tell you the time or the weather. Just watch, and listen, and feel the time passing, read the clouds to learn about the weather gathering up its forces for a quick rain or revealing the sun so close to Earth that it’s melting the air away in the July scorch. 

Plans don’t work out as you dream them up to begin with most times (we meant to put our home base in Maine, somewhere on the ocean, but it ended up being in New Brunswick, off the beaten path, on a river), and the unexpected nature of what they end up being is usually the best, because their mere surprise adds to their memorability. 

Our Richibucto homebase proved to be quite the perfect place for a quiet and peaceful retreat that had the added bonus of being close to everything that the area had to offer: the magic of the tidal bore in Moncton, where when the ocean tide moves inland and the Petitcodiac river looks as if it’s flowing backwards, east to west; the majestic Hopewell Rocks - carved minutely by the biggest tides in the world; a not-so-long day trip to PEI with the Anne’s House of the Green Gables and the birthplace of the Canadian Confederation, Charlottetown. The charming fishing town of Bouctouche, with its rich Acadian history and home of writer Antonine Maillet - author of La Sagouine (The Washerwoman), a book that tells the story of this resilient community and its character through a harsh history, is only a few minutes away. 

Hopewell Rocks in Fundy National Park - New Brunswick

Lucy Maude Montgomery's home, aka the House of the Green Gables - Prince Edward Island

The amazing, strange, unique experience of the Akadi Lumina light and music show in Bouctouche transports you to a fairy tale land that walks you through the history and tradition of the Acadians. In the wraps of night, when the deep, meaningful spirits come to life, you walk through the woods illuminated only by lights purposefully placed to tell a story and induce awe and a sense of magic. It’s a unique experience, not quite scary, but more awe-inspiring than anything else. The scenery is completed by the beat of traditional music. A show that would probably never happen in America - the unevenness of the terrain, and the tricky, occasional inaccessibility for even able-bodied folks would be a lawsuit waiting to happen. 

Think a Lynch movie, punctuated by loud, vibrant, Acadian music (which blends French-language vocal traditions with Celtic, Scottish, and Irish fiddle tunes), in the middle of the woods at night, with only occasional lighting that comes on and off in the rhythms told by the story of the journey itself. 

Everyone is asking us if we had a reprieve from the heat of the lower American states, forgetting that it is Canada that is presently burning from the wildfires of the summer. It was hot. Too hot for anyone, anywhere, but especially too hot for “The True North” as Canada deems itself. 

Restaurants either don’t have or don’t believe in using air conditioning. One of my nephews shared that “we’re Canadian, Alina. Our cold months are so long, we welcome the heat.” I s'pose I see the point. 

Mosquitoes were a different story. Greedy and mean, they were relentless. There was no amount of OFF! spray that could keep us truly safe from their ravenous appetites. 

As I look back to our trip and let the slideshow of memories scroll in my head, the images come and fade away before my mind’s eyes: the lush gardens of  Bouctouche, walks on the beach with my sister, walks downtown Moncton, alongside the Petitcodiac river, street dinners with the freshest seafood on the planet, bald eagles swiftly gliding above our heads as we sit lazily in bright red Adirondack chairs watching the river go by, at our cabin, the crystal-clear bells (polished and finished in a Charleston, SC bell foundry) striking the third hour at The Dunstan’s Basilica, stirring for just a brief moment the sleepy town of Charlottetown on PEI, kind Canadian people that bend over backwards (from our cabin’s hosts to every wait staff in every restaurant to shop attendants in every shop), the angry Atlantic waves washing off the shores of the Acadian National park, the sweet taste of melt-in-your mouth. 

Bouctouche, NB - The gardens at the Arboretum

Dunstan's Basilica in Charlottetown, PE

Our backyard on the Richibucto River, NB

A purple carpet - New Brunswick and PEI were in full lupin season. It was a feast for the eyes - here, in St. John, NB

Time might put a blurry mist on the memories as it passes, but once I will intentionally lift off the blanket of time, these images will always be there for me to go back to and relive - a short but meaningful summer break with my family, when America  turned 250 and Canada turned 159 in the same week and we discovered together a land mostly unturned. 

"River of fire": Sunset from our back porch on the Richibucto River. A view for a lifetime.

24 Rainy Hours in Winston Salem

This has become somewhat of a tradition - we pick a place, mostly in warmer months - and try to fill 24 hours with something to do there. It’s usually close to home, somewhere where we could easily just go for the day, but we allow it more time, on purpose, so as not to be rushed and to give it some space. When you’re not rushed by a schedule you can take as little or as much time as you need to really savor a place, a food, an experience. 

Great message for a 24-hour getaway motto

This weekend the destination was Winston Salem, one of the three cities that make up the Southern North Carolina metropolitan region known as The Triad. I lived in another major city of the same area called Greensboro for 12 years. Winston Salem was always “too far” to really go explore, although it was closer to Greensboro then than it is to my home now, that I moved 50 miles East (in the opposite direction) from Greensboro. 

But browsing through a book a former coworker from The Greensboro News & Record wrote about Winston Salem (or “Winston” for short)  documenting the 100 Things to Do in Winston Salem Before You Die, we found the inspiration to make this city the 24 hour adventure this year. 

The city was clothed in fog and a dense and settled-in rain. It's the time of the year when streets are rich with blooms, from wild flowers and day lillies, to azaleas and every single magnolia tree are all in bloom.

We started at the historic Reynolda House, a renowned country estate that was founded by the tobacco tycoon R.J.Reynolds and his wife, Katherine, around 1926. The house is currently closed for renovations but the adjacent art museum is open. It was one of the most interesting museums I have ever visited, and a testament that you can find meaning and art and inspiration anywhere, not just in the most famous places. The interpretative and “layered looking” approach inspires as well as educates the visitor on how to look at art and how to find deeper meaning. Some pieces like Charles Burchfield’s The Woodpecker, Nam June Palk’s Leonardo Da Vinci or Louise Nevelson’s Full Moon will haunt me for a while. Long after I will have forgotten the artists’ names.  The history of the Reynolda House is also incredibly well-put together, giving it an easy to understand but complete account of the Reynolds family, pioneers in an industry but also inspirations in how they treated their people. 

The Reynolda House Museum and grounds

 

The Woodpecker, Leonardo da Vinci and Full moon (these shots do not do these pieces justice)

We drove around Reynolda Village, the former quarters of their staff and utility buildings, and now a lively shopping and restaurant district. The rain was thick when we left the museum so the streets were empty and the people from the few cars parked in the many parking lots around the property were indoors, sipping hot coffees and browsing books at The Bookstore. We also visited the Reynolda Conservatory which was a neatly put together greenhouse with exotic and native plants.

Inside the Reynolda Conservatory

To get a break from the total downpour outside, we made a lingering stop at The Penny Path Cafe & Crepe Shop (there is a real path made of pennies inside). This was easily the highlight of the trip for me. They accommodated my vegan needs and everything we had, from the decaf latte to the vegan and berry or the nutella crepes was simply delicious. An army of what looked like college kids ran the place and I felt like we have not gotten service as good as that in a really long time. 

The Reynolda Village Cafe & Crepe Shop

Sit at the bar for a full experience

The vintage decor and penny path at The Crepe Cafe

We tried to visit their next-door neighbor, The Graylyn Estate next, but they seemed to be closed for a private wedding. The grounds were even more impressive than The Reynolda House, so we promised to be back. 

The Graylyn Estate House and entrance

We then headed downtown, closer to our hotel. We stopped at the Milton Rhodes Center for Arts, a multi-purpose cultural campus for Winston Salem Arts. We only had 30 minutes before they closed, so we had to move fast, but it was enough time to love the originality and creativity of the arts made by the students of the Sawtooth School, an on-site art school. I was shocked at the versatility and imagination and creativity of these students who, allegedly, were just starting out on their art journeys. The building is an old former Hanes hosiery mill built in 1910 joined to an adjoining, vacated AC Delco auto-repair garage. I personally love when we humans learn to repurpose what is already here, rather than tear it down and build some other new thing which feels wasteful. 

The lobby at Milton Rhodes Center for the Arts

We then checked into our hotel, The Cardinal, a Kimpton Hotel. Having stayed at Kimpton Hotels before, we love their preference to make historic buildings a showpiece in a cozy and welcoming atmosphere. Their welcome cocktails and good-bye coffee bars seem to be their signature and it adds a familiar, welcoming gesture to the whole experience. 

The Cardinal Hotel in the former R.J. Reynolds office building

Elevators inside The Cardinal hotel

We had dinner  a couple of blocks up the street at Jeffrey Adams On Fourth, a modern American restaurant that prides itself for bringing the local ingredients to an upscale plate. I wish I could say go and try their blackberry bbq salmon dish which was outstanding, but it was the special that night so that might not be available all the time. 

The salmon special at Jeffrey Adams on Fourth: grilled salmon, blackberry bbq glaze, asparagus, mashed potatoes, scallops and pickled collards garnish

We had after-dinner cocktails at our own hotel bar which was hopping with guests and very lively for a Saturday night.

The next day, we started with breakfast at The Katherine, the French restaurant at our hotel. The Cardinal Continental breakfast of croissant, fresh fruit and apricot preserves was light and refreshing.

The Cardinal Continental at The Katherine

We noticed a break in the rainy weather which was originally forecasted throughout the weekend, so we made plans to venture out on more outdoorsy landmarks. We stopped briefly to take some shots at the Mickey Coffee Pot - a 7 ft, 11,840 gallon capacity tin coffee pot on Brookstown Avenue. It is said that the Mickey brothers, Julius and Samuel, built it in 1858 to promote their tin business at the time.

The Mickey Coffee Pot

Afterwards, we drove a ways to The Grant Park Quarry. Vulcan Materials Company mined rock out of the quarry for the first half of the 20th century and after the big hole filled up with ground water, they donated the area to the City of Winston Salem. The tall rocky walls around the almost perfectly round lake create a majestic and dramatic drop.  It is now a peaceful retreat where you can take in the lake and its birds, while admiring, on clear days, the city skyline, far away in the horizon. 

Panoramic view of the Quarry lake at Grant Park

The locks of love flank both sides of the railings on the observation deck above the Quarry lake

We made our way back to Downtown to stop for a short while at the Bookmarks bookstore - one of the more interesting indie, independent bookstores I have seen in a while. And after that, we stopped at Foothills Brewery next door for a small snack - some fried pickles (the garlic ranch dipping sauce is incredible!) and to taste a sampling flight of their beers. I have never absolutely loved all beers in a flight in any other brewery I have visited before. But I did at The Foothills! The pours were generous and I did not finish all of the samples, as otherwise, I would have needed a bed to sober up before heading back on the road and as great as they were, they did not provide accommodation. 

The Bookmarks bookstore, off of a back alley - like a well-kept secret

The getaway was a nice stop in our otherwise hectic life of moving from one to-do item to the next. My favorite stop was the Crepe Shop in Reynolda Village, and my husband’s was the Reynolda art museum. But all the stops were unique highlights in a packed 24 hour visit. 

The book that started it all...

We promised ourselves to be back. We want to dive more into the architecture of the city - from what we easily saw it was diverse and full of history, a nice display of various styles that reflect the rich past dating as far back as the birth of this nation, visit both Reynolda and Graylyn houses, and take in more of the cuisine of which we only sampled briefly this time around, but which did not disappoint.

I read about people dreaming of going some place and laying out by the pool, looking at the ocean while some tanned pool boy supplies the drinks to get away and relax, but I know I am not one of those people. I love to see, to learn, to experience and to find beauty, culture, or just another way of looking at the world on my trips. As long as health, time, and money will allow me, I will take to the road in search for the next lesson. Because that is all that these getaways are - lessons on life, people-ness, history, art, and everything that connects them. 

The State of Music

Tennessee is an elusive state for me. The first time I lived in North Carolina (for 12 years), I never so much as crossed the border into it. Not once. Not for 12 years. Then, my life took a detour through Utah and The West for 7 years (some people say “that was needed so that you can fix your heart”; I say it to myself “in more ways than one”), and I have been back for 8 years now and I have been to Tennessee twice. The call of the mountains, or of the music is strong this time. 

Crossing the border from NC and TN would only break your heart nowadays - the beautiful Smokies are still so very much damaged by Hurricane Helene which hit almost 2 years ago in September. The storms practically washed away the mighty Interstate 40 (that connects the West to the East Coast) into a huge ravine. And outside of one lane of traffic in each direction, most of the highway is still broken. It broke my heart. We seem to have no money to fix our own roads but find money for more destruction elsewhere ... Boggles my head! 

We went through The Volunteer State on our trip back from The West, in the fall of 2017. The magic of riding the Music Highway (the stretch of interstate 40 that connects Memphis to Nashville) has whispered to me ever since. In parts visibly poor, Tennessee is like an old country song - winding, mellow and going on forever ... 

Since dad passed in 2022, I have felt even a stronger connection to the music he loved and which he imparted with us all of his life. That music included a wide range of styles and performers, from Wilson Picket to Bob Dylan, from Elvis to The Beatles, The Rolling Stones to Willie Nelson, CCR and The Eagles. Going to Tennessee and listening to the music tales talks to you about all of it. And more. 

The Highwaymen: Waylon Jennings, Willie Nelson, Johnny Cash, and Kris Kristofferson

I found Nashville and Tennessee to be a place of many things and not one thing in particular ... We toured The Hatch Print Shop where many music legends have printed their concert posters since 1879 and we learned that Tennessee was, at the time, known for printing.

Entering The Hatch Show Print Shop, outside The Country Music Hall of Fame and Museum

Then, we toured the Belle Meade Mansion and we learned how it was the premier 19th-century thoroughbred horse farm - if you were anyone who was into racing horses and wanted English-bread racing horses in America, you came to Belle Meade Plantation in Tennessee. Even Kentucky people would come to Belle Meade for their horses. 

The Belle Meade Plantation House

Visiting the “fake Parthenon” construction (or to say it nicely, the “Parthenon replica” in Centennial Park), you learn that the reason they built it there was that Nashville was at one point considered “The Athens of the South” given that since the early 1800s, the city established many schools like Davidson Academy, Fisk University, Meharry Medical College, and Vanderbilt University. 

The Parthenon replica in Centennial Park, Nashville, TN

Athena's statue inside the "Parthenon"

As I said - a place of many things and not one thing in particular. Except, that is, for music. 

Music is what called our names to it this time, and music is what pops in my head when I say “Tennessee”. Elvis and Grand Ole Opry, in particular. But this is one trip that widened that limited spectrum. We found a place vibrating with anything from country to swing to rock’n’roll and pop. 

Looking back to this short trip (only 3 days), it is hard to pick a favorite adventure. 

The Country Music Museum and Hall of Fame was a bucket-list pick. I remember my first country vinyl record. Dad brought it to us back in Communist Romania when I was in highschool. Where he smuggled it from during a time when Western music was all but banned and the acquisition of which was punishable with jail, I will never know. I also can’t remember whether the original artists were playing it or if they were some bands doing covers on it. But I remember playing that thing till it was good and scratched after which it gave it that old-record scratchy sound ... I remember playing Yellow Rose of Texas and Oh, Susanna about 10,000 times a day. I believe those were some of the first songs I learned all the lyrics to in English. 

The Country Music Hall of Fame and Museum

And from then on, I have been irreparably in love with the country stories. There was no turning back ... There is no escape for a writer to not be trapped in the beauty of telling a whole-life story in just a few lyrics that might not even take a page. And that is what country music is for me ... It’s the stories that lodge this music securely into every corner of my heart. The strong, crystal-clear voices (and every single country singer has one, without exception) are second to the perfect stringing of the words. 

That old, scratched up vinyl record held the mystery of what America meant for me at the time, and to some degree this music still does. A country of people always cross with the world, who feel more than anyone can express, and live to tell the tale, despite all odds. And always, always come on top. So, I went to Nashville to try to find some of that mystery, some of that fairytale land that cooked up in my head since I was in ninth grade. 

To this day, I like the old timey, bluegrass, Americana songs. No disrespect to today’s million-dollar stars (and no disrespect to pop, either), but they poppified it too much for me. I wanna be able to pick out the banjo, and the fiddle, and the big-old bass, and the harmonica, and the accordion in the band, one droplet of sound at a time ... “It’s the dialogue between the instruments that makes the magic” dad used to say, “just listen how one talks to another and how the other one replies.” 

I have been to museums where they display statues, and cars, and trains, and paintings, and natural landscapes, and food, and drinks, even. I have never been nor would I have imagined that you can display music in-between 4 walls. But that is the Country Music Museum and the Johnny Cash Museum too ... Every physical display is only secondary to a central music-playing device (a TV, a radio, a computer) ... You walk the history lane of country music, from the early 19th century musicians who passed away in anonymity, playing on barn thresholds and deep, wide, wrap-around Southern porches and you end up with today’s younger artists.

We found out that the  “newly-inducted” artists in the Country Music Hall of Fame does not necessarily mean contemporary ones: I could not quite believe that June Carter Cash was inducted in the Hall of Fame only last year (2025), while her famous husband, Johnny, has been there since 1980, and she played music publicly a lot longer (by almost 20 years) than he did! The Country Music Hall of Fame is a little behind, I thought. 

Listening to this music reminded me why I wanted to be an American so bad. It’s the juice of what’s good in America - the grit, the strong feelings, the passions, the unrequited love and trouble with the law, and its survival despite the odds, the journeys coast to coast, the fearlessness against every challenge...

One thing that will stay with me both from the Country Music Museum and the Johnny Cash one (within walking distance from one another) is, in addition to the music playing constantly at every step, you could read so many of their hand-written letters. Like I said - country music is nothing if not stories first. And you can read those letters and you can see where it all started from. With Johnny, for instance, giving his daughters advice and them journaling about how hard and painful it was to be in the shadow of famous parents. 

If you are ever wondering what town you're in wandering the streets of Nashville, murals like this will remind you ...

After about a half day taking in and paying respect to the many artists in Country music (walking into the round room of the country music hall of fame members has a church-like, reverence quietness about it; it exudes awe and quiet respect) , we headed towards the Honky Tonk District, which I didn’t even know existed until shortly before we arrived to Nashville. It’s a funky mix of live music, “cheese”, Southern kitsch and an opportunity to gawk at drinking people having fun, having left all inhibitions at home, till your eyeballs hurt. 

The circular room of the Hall of Fame Museum

Taking in a new (to me) city, savoring its food and just strolling seemingly focusless, through its streets is my favorite kind of sightseeing ... Spending half of a day on the Honky Tonk highway, where every single establishment is an open bar with a live band, you realize you have indeed arrived in the capital of music. It reminded me of when I visited New Orleans for the first time in 2004: every bar, every pub, every restaurant and every street corner had a live performer. That was gone later, after Katrina and in the winter ... But on this trip, it felt like all that moved to Nashville ... 

The start of the Honk Tonk Highway, outside the Johnny Cash Museum

We had lunch at Lainey Wilson’s Bell Bottoms Up Restaurant & Bar, listening to new local talent playing on the stage, where the light fixtures above your head at the table are real cowboy hats. I had to stop there - I wore nothing but my dad’s old bell-bottom jeans from the 60s all through my college years, and I am sure those pants are still at my mom’s house in the attic somewhere... It had to be done. 

After walking around for a while and listening to live music thrown out from every window, passing by places like the Jon Bon Jovi’s Bar, Nudie’s Honky Tonk (highly recommend seeing the Nudie mobile exhibit at the Country Music Museum; talk about something truly American - wow!), Friends in Low Places Honky Tonk, we stopped for a drink at The Honky Tonk Central, with its three stories all with a different-style band (from country to hard rock). If you wanted to line dance with a pickin’ band, you stopped on the first floor. We climbed all the way to third to listen to rock cover songs and take in the entire district from the balcony. 

View from the third floor of the Honky Tonk Central

Detail of the Nudie Mobile

We had dinner just outside the Honky Tonk Highway, at The Diner - a Nashville staple in the SoBro (South of Broadway) District, a 24/7, 6 story restaurant. Again, we climbed to the top floor to take in the city view, as the sun was setting and everything seemed pink and tired. 

View from the sixth floor of The Diner Restaurant in the SoBro District

People are so nice in Nashville. I guess it’s sort of expected, if you’re in The South, right? But the city has a weird, cheesy, touristy, Las Vegas-like vibe to it too ... An interesting mix. 

I was just a hundreth of an inch close to walking away with two pairs of these. The place is contagious for boots!

On our second full day there, we visited the Belle Meade Mansion and then Centennial Park with the Parthenon replica. It is indeed just a replica, but it is very impressive. On the bottom floor, there is a historic timeline of its full construction which I found fascinating. You can mock it for America being again a copy-cat (Venice-like canals or The Trevi Fountain in Vegas, anyone?!), but there was planning, and thought, and research, and lots of money, and years to accomplish what you look at today. I think, all in all, worth seeing. 

We crowned our stay with the best, most rewarding experience of all: a night at The Grand Ole Opry (the new one, almost outside of town, and not the old, historic one which is now known as the Ryman Auditorium, downtown), where we were treated to a live show from the artists that created the soundtrack for the movie Oh, Brother Where Art Thou?. Can you believe that movie is now 25 years old? 

The Ryman Auditorium (today), the original Grand Ole Opry House

Talk about a bucket-list moment. Alison Krauss, Dan Tyminski, Emmylou Harris, The Whites, The Fairfield Four, Chris Thomas King, Tim Blake Nelson, Billy Strings, T. Bone Burnett put together a show like no other that I have ever seen. I have seen many music biopics picturing acts from the 50’s and 60’s and it was much like that - the stage was never empty, and one act followed another at stupefying speed, with almost no break. An announcer would present them and on the stage they headed, guitars and other instruments around their necks and in their hands. One amazing rendition after another. I thought I died and went to heaven - I knew every lyric. 

Everyone who is is anyone was on that stage

The energy and the passion they put into every song, everyone, from the little girls from The Alaskan Sunnyside Sisters to the old men of The Fairfield Four gave us the spectacle of our lifetime. I have been to many shows, a lot of them I lived to go to all of my life, but never in my 50 years have I seen an entire auditorium smiling and truly, genuinely happy, altogether, all at the same time. Not a frown, not a hateful word, not a petty spat. Everyone sang along and clapped, and stomped their feet and left happy. Especially in today’s world, to see this, to feel it through your bones, it was magical. 

And I blame it all, of course, on this music. This old timey music with relatable stories (the only thing this music requires to relate to is just to be human, although I am pretty sure it could even move my cat) connects people. Makes you happy to be alive, and heck, it even makes you happy to be dead one day, too, when the songs tell you about this fairy land you hope to go one day where “... the little streams of alcohol come trickling down the rocks”. 

That concert cured my troubled soul which has had a hard time settling in the past few years for good and proper. It brought me home - to a stronger home than the physical one - a spiritual and heart-felt one - the only one, the soulful one, the only one that truly matters ... 

And it restored my bridges to what I still (despite all evidence to the contrary lately) love about America. It mended what has been hurting for 10 years now, and it gave me hope. 

Driving out of Nashville, the echos of the voices of Billy Strings, Alison Krauss and Dan Tyminski were still playing softly in my head ... “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine, you make me happy, when skies are blue ...” 

Leaving The City of Music (for me) in the rearview mirror and rolling through my head the slide show of all the many artists we visited at the Country Music Hall of Fame Museum, all the recognizable names I stumbled into on the Honky Tonk Highway, made me also think of my dad and how much, oh how painfully much, I would have loved to share this with him. 

I remember him being puzzled one day because I was telling him a dress he wanted to buy for mom was “funky” looking. He said in perfect English: “Funky? What is funky? You mean honky. Honky tonk women? O-bla-di. O-bla-da.” My dad might have not known English, but he knew his music. And I am glad for this short excursion to treasure more of it myself, right from where it all started. 

One of the several garden interiors at our hotel: The Gaylord Opryland Resort & Convention Center - just 5 minutes from The Grand Ole Opry