American Journal: The Pancake House

With Thanksgiving rapidly approaching, and the week of solitude whilst all my friends went home to their families approaching with it, I looked around to try and find myself something to do in the meantime. I had wanted to do some travelling whilst I was here, so this week provided me with the perfect opportunity to finally get out and see some of the country that I’m living in.

Somewhere in the fistfuls of leaflets I had been given during Quad Day, I had found something advertising a bunch of volunteering trips, and before long I managed to get myself booked on a trip to visit Nashville for a few days. More specifically, with the volunteering bent of the society, I was going to do maintenance work on a park in Nashville for a few days, with the promise of visiting the city itself at some point buried in there too. But hey, it was better than nothing.

As it was taking place during Thanksgiving, almost all of the people going were international students like me, looking to kill some time whilst everyone they knew went home for a while. Altogether the group consisted of me, 6 other international students, and one American who was probably only there because she was on the board of the organisation. Together, we filled up a minivan with barely any room to spare.

The drive down to Nashville would take 6 hours, and when I told that to the Americans I knew here, they responded completely un-ironically with “Oh, that’s not bad then”.

Well, it turns out that they were right; by the end of the day I would have killed for 6 hours. But between waiting for everyone to arrive, the car not initially coming with enough seats and us having to go back to the rental place, stops for food and petrol, and whatever else ended up slowing us down, the journey, if not the drive, took much longer than that.

Upon arrival, the first thing we had to do was buy food for the next 3 days. Having been on group expeditions like this before, I knew that this is actually a much harder task than it initially seems. Trying to find group meals to please multiple people, all whilst on a tight budget takes lots of corralling and organisation, and most importantly, a strong leader that’s willing to make decisions that aren’t always going to please everyone.

Our group had two “Trip facilitators” who were in charge of organising the trip and making the decisions. We had actually all been asked when we initially signed up if we wanted to be trip facilitators; the position came with a mildly reduced cost and a weekly prep meeting to make sure the trip got organised properly. Unfortunately however, it became rapidly apparent during the course of our supermarket excursion that the two girls who had volunteered to lead the group had done so purely because of the reduced price, rather than any actual desire to tell people what to do.

The going ended up being so slow that we started getting calls from the woman meeting us at our accommodation, saying that she didn’t have much time to wait around for us any longer and that we needed to hurry up. We ended up having to leave the American girl behind to do our shopping alone whilst the rest of us went to collect the keys to where we were staying.

The accommodation in question was a church on the campus of the local university. The word church I think probably brings the wrong image to your mind though, there was not a single stone or stained-glass window to be found anywhere. The whole place looked a lot more like some kind of modern youth hostel, albeit one with bibles and crucifixes littered sporadically throughout the premises.

We set up in on the Sunday school room, laying our sleeping bags out between educational toys and stacks of bibles. Children’s drawings and interpretations of bible stories plastered the walls, as did map after map of Israel during various points throughout history. I don’t know if I missed a memo or something, but I hadn’t previously been made aware that we would be sleeping on the floor, so my pillow for the next 4 nights ended up being hastily constructed by stacking my coat and my jacket atop one another and hoping for the best. At least I could learn plenty about Israel whilst I was lying awake all night.

It had been snowing for the first time that year when we left Champaign the day before, and I had hoped as our journey was mostly southbound, that things would be considerably warmer in Nashville. But as we made our way, at a sunless 6:30am, from our car to the base of the hill where we would be helping coordinate a marathon that day, a raw wind tearing down it to meet us from above, it became clear that although there was no snow here, my desires had not been fulfilled in any meaningful way.

Almost immediately though, we were told by the race organisers that they didn’t actually need us to do anything just yet. We would be setting up the refreshments for when the runners were finished, so most of the work for us would only begin once the race was underway. They told us we could sit in our car for half an hour and then come back, but once we did there was still nothing to do. Half an hour turned to an hour, and then longer still after that. The woman that our leaders had been talking with kept trying to give us things to do, but every time she sent us to a new person to give them help, they brusquely brushed us off and told us they already had everything under control.

Our volunteering was organised with Warner Park themselves, but no work is done on the park on Sundays, so they had gotten us in contact with this group that does an unofficial marathon in the park every year instead. But now after spending the last 3 hours having any attempt to help anybody completely shut down, it was clear they didn’t really need or want us there. Eventually we made our polite excuses and slipped away, hoping to get a bit longer that day to explore the city.

Despite the hours we had spent doing absolutely nothing, the morning hadn’t been a total loss. The woman we had originally coordinated with spent some time telling us where we should go and what we should do in the city. She told us the best places to visit downtown, a place we could park really close to the centre, and a good restaurant to eat at for lunch.

The restaurant was on the other side of the city, but we had been assured it was worth the drive. Now I had been noticing it in bits and pieces for a while, a missed turn here, a drift towards the wrong lane there, but this was the drive that fully confirmed it for me. Our driver couldn’t drive to save her life, or ours for that matter.

It hadn’t been so bad on the drive from Champaign because we were just on the interstate the whole time; straight line, the entire way. But moving into the network of freeways around Nashville, suddenly there were a lot more turns to take and a lot more interacting with other traffic to be done, and this is where things started to get dicey. Normally I wouldn’t feel the need to make fun of someone else’s driving, but it’s not like I’m talking about a couple of stupid mistakes here. I’m talking about us actually almost dying, lots and lots of times. When I say the words “I’m surprised I’m not dead”, please understand exactly how little hyperbole is meant here.

I really don’t know if it was a lack of understanding of the American system, or whether she would be just as terrible if driving in her own country, but either way we were still stuck with her. We were driving a rental, and in the USA you need to be at least 21 to do that, so she was the only one legally allowed to drive the car. According to the law, she was the only one out of all of us that was considered road-safe.

It mostly stemmed from being bad with directions. She would take a wrong turn and then upon realising that, just try to undo it and take the right one, regardless of what traffic might be in the way at the time. There were horns, there was screeching, there really should have been crashing.

Once, after a particularly close call on the freeway, we found ourselves passing under an electronic road-info sign. In typically southern fashion, it cheerily displayed the message “Buckle up y’all! It’s the law!”. I didn’t need to be told twice.

The restaurant was out on the far side of the city. A long driveway led up to a grand, old house that stood alone against a vast backdrop of fields stretching into the distance. Four impressive columns stood supporting the front of the house, shining white sentinels silently observing all that passed between them. The décor inside was just as opulent; long, varnished tables bedecked the open space, with ornate chairs lining their sides. Delicate, crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, and art and restaurant commendations hung proudly from the walls; no doubt to the owners, the two were one and the same.

The restaurant was what’s called “Family Style”, which means that the tables are all designed to accommodate multiple groups at once, with all of you sitting together with other people you don’t know. Furthermore, there isn’t a menu, instead all of the available food is brought to the table at once, and everyone passes it around to each other. That meant that there was just one set price for eating, $22 a head; not insane, but a lot more expensive than the sandwich from a gas station I think most of the group had planned for.

Even so, everyone had agreed to come here anyway, or at least they had all stayed equably silent when the suggestion was put to them. We must have mentioned the price a few times in fact, and no one ever said a word. Of course, it was only once we had driven all the way there and gotten inside the restaurant that one of the girls finally worked up the courage to say it was too expensive for her. At that point though, we decided that maybe making her sit there and watch us all eat might teach her a lesson on the importance of speaking up at the proper moment.

Of course, in keeping with the style of the restaurant, it wasn’t just us she would have to watch. Being a group of 8, we did take up a considerable chunk of one of the tables, but sadly not enough of one for us to be granted the privilege of eating in peace. Not long after we all sat down, another group was lead to our table to fill the spaces that were left over.

They were a group of 3, a couple and their friend, all old enough to be retired. The waiters were very polite and accommodating as they lead the group to the table, talking and making conversation with the group the entire time as they got them seated. The two women in the group seemed normal enough, but the man stood out in an instant.

His hair was completely white, but there was still plenty of it, and not just on his head either; a full moustache and goatee, cartoonish in their perfection, stood brilliantly to attention as well. He was kind of reminiscent of Colonel Sanders actually, of course made ever more perfect by the fact that this was a southern dining restaurant. He wore a full suit and tie too, and not just a regular suit either, but one too formal and too pristine for even the décor surrounding him. He exuded a kind of authority in him that I think would have been evident even if it weren’t for the way that the staff were treating him. The way, for instance, he positioned himself so deliberately at the head of our table, his two womenfolk flanking either side of him. The way his body language was so laid back, so comfortable, but with that hard edge glinting at us just underneath the surface; demanding respect from everyone, but never saying it in so many words. The way what little conversation we had been having completely dried up at this point, as we all stopped to take note of the spectacle before us.

All of that paled though, before what was, to my view, the crown jewel of his aesthetic. Pinned to his lapel was a giant blue badge the size of a hockey puck, displaying on it in big, bold, white letters the words “Trust Jesus, Jesus ONLY!”.

From the opposite end of the table I could still read it clear as day, and it nearly broke me on the spot. The way it goes from just a little preachy, but good-natured and compassionate, to so authoritarian and suspicious of one’s fellow man in the space of just four words is, to my mind, unparalleled in how succinctly it sums up that kind of conservative Christianity.

I felt like I was in Uncanny Valley, like I was living in a fever dream of my own most stereotypical imaginings of what the American South was like. Eating fried chicken and pecan pie in what was most likely an old plantation, across the table from a fanatically religious version of Colonel Sanders, who was now taking an undoubtedly creepy interest in all of the college-age girls he was sharing a table with. All that was missing from the picture was a Confederate flag hanging proudly behind the man.

Not only did he want to know all about us and what we were doing here, but he was also weirdly obsessed with making sure we were enjoying the food, asking everybody if they had tried this or that yet and immediately getting things passed to someone if they said they hadn’t. “Oh you haven’t had the pork yet? You! Yes you, hand her the pork, she needs to try it.”

This of course meant that he took a special interest in Mandy, our member who had elected to sit the meal out. “Why aren’t you eating anything?” he demanded, trying to seem confused but instead just coming off as annoyed. “You’re missing out!” He said the same thing every five minutes, never satisfied with the meek shrugging and murmuring she gave in response. Every time he said it, I half expected him to add something about it being “Finger-lickin’ good” in there, but he never did.

Multiple people came over to him during the course of the meal to make sure that he was enjoying himself sufficiently, including the manager himself, who sat down and had a conversation with him for a good few minutes too. Everyone laughed at his jokes, agreed politely with whatever he said, and fetched whatever he wanted immediately. The waitress even pretended to like it when he openly started flirting with her directly in front of his wife.

I don't know what sway he had with the establishment in order to be treated that way, but it was clear that this was well beyond the limits of southern hospitality. Afforded no such treatment ourselves, we got out of there at our earliest convenience.

The city itself, was fortunately able to counter the morning’s events with the much more pleasant side of the south I had been interested in seeing. We illegally parked in the football stadium parking lot, and crossed the bridge over the river from there directly into the heart of downtown. From the bridge we had a great view of the city’s skyline, a modest yet proud display of towers and buildings stood at once against the blue behind them and reflected back in the blue beneath.

Descending the other side of the bridge, already we could hear music coming from below us. A medley of strings, some whispering softly as gentle fingers brushed over them, some ringing with an impassioned twang, some shouting rapid and thick as the vocals they accompanied soared to a crescendo. Every bar, every restaurant, every street corner housed a different person playing a guitar.

Hopefuls plugging away, trying to get noticed by someone, anyone who might be able to help them become the star they dreamt every night of being. Guys struggling to get by, trying to make money the only way they knew how, the only way that made sense here. Lovers, displaying their broken hearts for all to see, hoping that some solace, for them or for anyone listening, might be uncovered somewhere in the depths of their misery. People playing for no reason at all, other than the simple joy of bringing music into the world.

At various points on the street stood these metal boxes, initially I thought they were electrical transformers, but as we got closer, they could clearly be heard playing the classics of Nashville to world at large; funnelling music into the rare spot here or there where none could be heard naturally. Walking around, the same message could be seen every few feet. Signs, buildings, buses, all proudly displayed the motto “Nashville: City of Music”.

We spent the afternoon walking the streets with no real plan in mind, just taking in the feel of the city. My ideal evening would have been spent relaxing in a bar, listening to people playing music, and drinking a beer. But aside from the obvious roadblock there, the idea of corralling the group into doing something more organised than aimless wandering was more than I could handle after the morning’s events. We managed to get a few more things in, like seeing the state capitol building, but eventually it was time to head back for the night. The music dwindled behind us as we crossed the bridge back over the river, the individual songs and artists slowly blurring together again until no sound was distinct from any other, all of it just a faintly melodic buzz in the background, one that was fading further and further with every step. Somehow our car hadn’t been towed when we got back.

The next couple of days were less eventful, but maybe that was a good thing. We went to the park, we worked on the park all day, and then we went home. On the first day we were tasked with clearing the trails in the park and making sure they wouldn’t flood when it rains. We were all given rakes and spent the day raking leaves off the pathways, digging small runoff trenches so water will flow off the paths, and pulling up honeysuckle wherever we found it to stop it taking over the forest. It wasn’t complicated, but I enjoyed it. Every time one of the people using the trail passed us all working on it, they thanked us for helping to maintain it. You wouldn’t think that that could be so rewarding, but contributing to society even in such a small way was a really nice feeling.

The day after that, we cleared out this area that children play in when they visit the park. It wasn’t a traditional play area with swings and slides and all that though. It was an enclosure full of earth and rocks, and the children spend their time in there building structures and digging trenches out of the earth; it’s all about encouraging creativity and teamwork and all that other good stuff. The only problem was that all the digging had allowed the area to get really waterlogged and muddy to the point where it was basically unusable. Our job was to fill in all the trenches, remove all the accumulated debris, and somehow drain all the water out of everything.

It was a long day, and I spent most of it with a spade in my hands. Nonetheless, I still found myself really enjoying the work, which is more than can be said for some of the people that were with me. It was becoming clear at this point that some people had only come on this trip so that they wouldn’t have to spend the week alone whilst all their friends went back home, rather than having any actual interest in the volunteer side of things; I watched one of our members dig maybe 3 shovels-full of dirt across the entire day.

Somehow though, progress did get made one way or another, and I found that even looking at the small amount we had accomplished during a single day was enough for me to feel a certain pride. As we left, I was surprised by how sad I was to be going, how sad it was knowing I wouldn’t be getting up and doing the same thing again the next day.

                The next morning, we stopped by this famous pancake place as we made our way out of town. We were on a deadline to get the car back to the rental place, but none of us could resist spending just a little bit more time in the city before we left, even if the queue to get in the door was half an hour long.

                Whilst we ate, I thought of how much I had enjoyed being here, in spite of, or maybe even because of some of the crazier aspects of the place, and decided that I would really like to come back if I got the chance. Next time maybe I could finally spend an evening in bar drinking a beer, and watching a musician perform, like I had wanted to.

                We finished our pancakes and headed back to the car to go home. As we began our drive, I buckled up y’all, because it was the law.

 Until next time.