In Nashville... Day Six

I spent most of the morning of my last day in Nashville touring around Bridgestone's bus and truck tyre factory at LaVergne; it was roughly a 35-minute coach ride along the Interstate.

There was something very pleasant about the tyre factory, and it has a lot to do with the smell of rubber that filled the air wherever we went in the plant. It was wonderful and, in a way, calming. The plant was fairly quiet too because some of the lines were undergoing PM, that's plant maintenance, so the whole experience was almost surreal in a way, especially the safety video we had to watch prior to putting on protective shoes and eyeware, not forgetting (as I almost did) earplugs, although we didn't need the plugs that often.

Bridgestone LaVergne, Nashville TN.

Apart from the sense of calm brought about by the pleasant smell of the rubber, another interesting aspect of the plant was the robotics and these strange little rounded shapes that moved around the factory under their own steam, guided by laser scanners. They had a certain robotic cuteness about them that I think everybody on the tour appreciated. At one point there was a screen on which one could see where in the plant the robots were headed. 

One of the reasons I like the smell of rubber has plenty to do with my love of bike shops where the overriding scent is that of the tyres and it always reminds of being a kid and my dad buying me a new bike. I hasten to add that I'm not some kind of gimpy pervert. I mean, I like the smell of a freshly creosoted fence too, or the waft of hops from a pub doorway, both of which I find comforting for some reason. Perhaps they all harbour distant childhood memories.

The tour lasted until noon, roughly, and after that I was a free man, which is just as well as I've got to be out of here first thing in the morning in order to catch my flight from Nashville to Dallas and then Dallas to London; it's not going to be pleasant, I can tell you. In fact, I'm going to check out the BA website to see if I can get a better seat the aisle, preferably something similar to my outward trip when I was getting the best of both worlds, namely a window seat but also plenty of legroom thanks to being on the Exit row. But coming out was a jumbo, I'm not sure what the plane is on the return leg of the journey. We'll see what transpires.

Steps from Demonbreun lead to The Gulch

I went back to the Gulch for lunch at City Fire where I opted for salmon with spinach, a couple of beers and once again I was tempted into dessert, not by the waiting staff but by my own need to chill and relax. I had an Americano too and chewed the fat with one of the staff who hailed from Birmingham, Alabama, and was an artist by trade. She seemed to earn good money at City Fire and liked living in Nashville, Tennessee, rather than her home state, although she originally came from Vermont, which is up north close to the border with Canada.

My dessert was a kind of apple strudel, but I'd prefer to describe it as an apple mess. I'm still amazed how the Americans take something healthy – in this case apples – and then make it unhealthy. They even manage to take something unhealthy (ice cream) and make it even unhealthier by covering it in caramel sauce. I still finished it, but that might have been because I didn't have a big breakfast (who am I kidding?). And besides, last night in 'The Pub', also part of The Gulch, I only had salmon with rice and brocolli, not exactly high fat, although again I had that awful dessert with another huge blob of ice cream. Yesterday was excusable as I hadn't had any lunch, but there was no excuse today other than I wanted somewhere to chill that was off the street so I could read more of my book, Hotels of North America by Rick Moody.

On Demonbreun heading downtown...

After what amounted to a late lunch I wandered about in the heat, stopping for another Americano in a coffee shop across the street. I ordered a banana too in an effort to convince myself that I was in control and I was health-conscious, although it was highly tempting to have chosen a huge cinnamon whirl, but I managed to resist. 

There are good shops here for women, but they're pretty pricey so I left them alone, even if one was offering 30% off advertised prices. Eventually I moseyed on back to the hotel and sat by the pool for a short while reading Hotels of North America by Rick Moody. And now here I am again, on the lap top, in the room, contemplating all sorts of things, like when am I going to pack, will I even bother with dinner bearing in mind my late lunch and should I really bother about going on-line to check out a better seat for the Dallas to London leg of my journey? I'll probably do the latter and then I might even take a last swim in the pool if the warm weather here has warmed it up a bit since my dip on Sunday.

I took another look at the Thompson hotel, this time checking out the rooftop bar. It's not that hot. I know I said it was cool in a previous post, but I might revise my opinion of it; it's certainly got nothing on the Ace Hotel, Portland, Oregon. I'd like to say the rooftop bar offered great views of Nashville, but it doesn't, and if I'm honest I began to see the join, so to speak. I left disillusioned and continued to mosey around, eventually returning to the Best Western Plus.

Postscript: Should I stay or should I go?
It's 2007hrs and I'm still in my hotel room wondering what to do. I'll admit to feeling mildly depressed, probably at the thought of the mammoth flight I must undertake tomorrow night and the journey that begins early in the morning with a taxi to Nashville Airport and a flight to Dallas from where my transatlantic 'adventure' begins. I'm sitting here now wondering whether or not to go out and have a drink and something to eat. Something says don't bother, something else says go out and yet another voice says stay in, watch CNN and hit the sack. They're all rather tempting options in their own way and to be honest I don't think I could stay in all night, here in my hotel room with nothing but the television to keep me company. There's always Del Frisco's Grille, but can I really be bothered to hike all the way there, across the interstate and, well, I'll go down to the front desk and see how I feel.

I write a lot of hotel and restaurant reviews on Trip Advisor, which can be read by clicking here.

In Nashville, Day Two...

I shower, I clean my teeth, I shave and I'm ready. For breakfast!

I take the elevator, press 1 and travel down to the front desk, I turn left and there is the breakfast room. The television is on: Good Morning America. They talk about Trump and abolishing Obamacare, cue images of disgruntled, worried people and big, fat Republicans with bald heads in suits lying to them, telling them it'll be alright, but it won't be alright, we all know that.

Breakfast – a little sparse, shall we say, but it did its job

Breakfast is good. Melon, a banana, two cups of English breakfast tea, two small pastries; there are newspapers and people and all is well with the world. There are paper cups and paper plates and plastic knives, forks and spoons, but I'm not phased by this anymore as last year the Hilton Doubletree offered the same and the year before that a Best Western in East Washington, Indianapolis.

Sunday morning in Nashville – no cars, how pleasant...

My fellow breakfast takers are normal Americans, nothing flashy, just run-of-the-mill people like me and they're all friendly, a little overweight (some horribly so) and willing to engage in conversation. I chat with an elderly gentleman as he pours himself a coffee. I long to see him again just so I can say, "Hey, old timer!" Perhaps he won't take too kindly to it.

Breakfast is a self-service set-up offering the usual stuff, but for some reason I'm not enjoying it as much as I should be, although I should be elated as Sunday is my only day off. Today, as I write this, at 0539hrs on Monday 8th May, it's day one of a big convention I'm attending. In other words, the work starts today.

Crossing the railroad. I love those diesel engines...

I walk into town, it takes about 20 minutes along Demonbreun, over the freeway, over the railroad track where huge trains, so ugly they're beautiful, pull endless trucks of coal or graffitti-daubed containers carrying unknown cargo. It's a straight road, the sun is shining, the skies are blue and there are people jogging.

As I walk I discover a bike share scheme, the same one as in San Antonio so I check it out with a view to a ride, but as always when I first encounter a rack of bikes for rent, it's difficult to understand how to release one. I need a zip code, which I don't have, so I move on into the downtown, which hasn't really come alive yet; it will later, though, as there's an ice hockey game and the city will become flooded with Predators fans in their bright yellow shirts.

The Cumberland River, Nashville

Occasionally I see the odd bum looking particularly down-in-the-dumps but not bothering anybody. I take a few photographs and wander about and then link up with my colleague and we continue to wander around, looking in to shop windows, peeping around the doorways of shops that sell tatty souvenirs and wonder what to do. This continues until lunch time when we end up in Nashville's Hard Rock Café. Here I find an amazing beer: Tailgate's peanut butter stout, so good I order two of them along with Norwegian salmon fillet, mashed potato and green beans. I was slightly annoyed about the ID policy at the Hard Rock (you need to show ID before you can order alcohol) even if, like me, you don't look underage. I didn't have ID but they waivered it and all was well, but when we went back in later I had my passport just in case. On the second occasion I order a burger, which is not, in retrospect, at all good. I won't be having it again, but then I doubt I'll eat in the Hard Rock for a third time.

The hotel pool – that water is very, very cold...

As the day progresses the streets fill with yellow shirts, there are live bands in virtually every bar and the feeling is one of carnival. Nashville is known as the music city, there are museums of country music and every other store front is a live music venue. Groups of people, mostly in yellow shirts mill up and down the main street ahead of the game and we decide to part company and meet up later at the convention centre.

View from room 507 – a skip and a half-finished condo block. 

I take advantage of the good weather, take my book and sit by the poolside debating whether to take the plunge. While the weather is now hot the pool is not heated and it takes me a little while to slowly acclimatise, but I do and end up swimming a dozen or so lengths before drying and sitting on a sun lounger reading Hotels of North America by Rick Moody. It's very good.

Walking towards Nashville's downtown early Sunday 7th May 2017

The sun is hot and I am a little 'tanned' as a result but that doesn't stop me moseying on up to the room to change and head down town where we end up in the Hard Rock for our second visit. I'm feeling tired by the end of the meal and decide to walk back to my hotel – a good 20-minute walk – for an early night.

I write a lot of hotel and restaurant reviews on Trip Advisor, which can be read by clicking here.

In Dusseldorf, day four

I had a strange dream, somewhere between 0500hrs and 0800hrs. The dream involved Donald Trump and my old green sofa, which, for some reason, was no longer mine but Trump's and he was using it for some kind of television appearance, an acting role of some sort. The problem was it needed to be painted yellow (I'm guessing the colour of his hair, but I can't be sure). So, with a tin of paint and a brush I set about the task and the end result was piss poor, not that Trump seemed too bothered about it. At roughly this point in the dream my alarm went off and I remember feeling relieved that it was a dream and nothing more. It was vivid and realistic and when I initially regained consciousness, a few minutes elapsed before I realised I had been dreaming. There were other sofas in the dream, one a kind of floral pattern, but they were not to be painted, I was told. And then I woke up, as the saying goes. Very odd.

I had breakfast (this time I added a cake and an extra cup of tea) and then I checked out, much earlier than necessary, but I figured there was little I could do in the surrounding area so I pulled my suitcase towards Dusseldorf HBF, purchased a ticket for the Flughafen and then spent some time in the station bookshop. I eventually bought a novel, Hotels of North America by Rick Moody, and boarded the 1123hrs train to where I am now, at the flughafen. I've just enjoyed a chicken stew and rice with a glass of red wine, not bad, but a little slow on the service front. It was one of those mildly stressful situations where I needed to put my cases down to secure a table before I could deal with the self-service scenario that had presented itself, but I was aware that 'leaving my bags unattended' (in an airport) could result in them being blown up for being a security risk! I might be branded a terrorist in the process and slammed in the cells to await trial. So while I was waiting for what seemed like ages to be served, I kept looking over in the direction of where I had left my bags, on the look-out for 'uniformed officers' or 'armed police' and while dealing with a member of the cafeteria's staff who was uncertain what I meant by Merlot. I didn't see any police – always a little worrying – and my bags seemed fine. Soon I was clasping my tray in both hands as I weaved my way towards the table I had chosen earlier. Bistrot Airport was where all this was taking place. The food was fine and during the shortish time I was there I called my taxi company in the UK to arrange a pick-up at T5.

They can't even spell 'bistro' properly...

Right now I'm sitting at gate B35 awaiting the moment when I can board the flight. I'm glad I've eaten already because I resent paying BA any money to eat food. It's normally free, but they're cashing in and I don't like that. Fine for easyJet and other 'budget carriers', that's what they do, but not BA. Why should they join the dark side? Well, they have and it changes things, believe me, although I'll be flying with them again, long haul, next Saturday, not this coming Saturday but next week, to Chicago O'Hare, and I know that on long haul flights passengers get their food for free, just like it should be. And listen here, I love airline food. Seriously! If I had my way there would be restaurants shaped like aircraft fuselages and seating inside laid out just like on commercial airliners. Instead of waiters and waitresses there would be cabin crew serving the 'passengers' and yes, airline food would make up the entire menu, right down to those 187ml bottles of red wine I love so much. I doubt it will ever happen, but where's the harm in dreaming?

As somebody who reviews a lot of hotels for Trip Advisor – yes I know, I'm terribly sad – I'm really pleased that I found Moody's aforementioned book. I made a start on it once we were in the air. I've got an exit seat (10a) but that's not always as good as it seems. First, if there's a problem in the air I'm the guy who has to save everybody. Me! And just because I wanted a seat with a view! Sod that! While there's a little bit more legroom, there's often no window in the exit row, defeating the object of the initial request, but on this flight there was a full window so I was happy and fortunately there was no need for me to rescue anybody.

The flight home from Dusseldorf to T5 was just 55 minutes and we arrived 'ahead of schedule'. While I said I wouldn't buy anything on board, I weakened and bought a small bottle of red wine and a couple of biscuits. I could have done without them, of course, but I can be a serious pig when the occasion demands it. I'd barely finished my feast when the plane landed and then, after going through immigration and customs, I emerged at arrivals, found my taxi driver and headed off around the M25 towards home.

I reached the house around 1600hrs and then realised I'd be heading for Nashville Saturday week. In the USA they take their food seriously, or rather they take something that is relatively healthy, let's say fish, chicken and vegetables, and add a few gooey sauces or some batter, or both, and transform them into something worth avoiding. The only time I ever ate anything a little minimalist and decent in the USA was in Irvine, California, at the Hyatt Regency. Everywhere else it's veered towards unnaturally large portions accompanied by copious amounts of French fries and cheese and, strangely, the word 'chipotle'. But enough already! Time to forget about planes and hotel rooms, time to chill and sleep in my own bed at last. But first, chilli con carne with rice and (ahem) a small glass of Rioja.

I write a lot of hotel and restaurant reviews on Trip Advisor, which can be read by clicking here.