I moved to Memphis eight years ago. At the time, it was new and adventurous and so radically different from the towns I grew up in that I couldn't help but fall in love. It felt like I had cut myself out of the ropes that had been binding me in California. Driving across the country on I-40 with my Saturn sedan stacked full, I remember thinking, I have literally no idea what's around the next corner. Those moments in life are exceedingly rare and somewhat heart-stopping.
I stayed for three years. They were three of the best years of my life. I was writing. I was taking literature classes. I was going out. I was friends with wonderfully smart people. I didn't work (unless you can call teaching 1 class a semester and putting in 10 hours a week at the literary journal "working"). I loved my life and I loved who I was. But I always knew I would never stay there. Maybe that's what let me love it so much.
So last Friday afternoon, I rented a car in Little Rock and drove the two hours into Memphis. It was my first visit back since moving five years ago. I tried to prime my nostalgia by playing Whiskeytown--which, for better or worse, was largely the soundtrack of my time in Memphis--but it didn't quite fit. I knew before I even saw the city rising on the horizon that I wasn't wishing I could go back in time. That was surprising, because I was sure I would feel that way.
On Friday night I met up four of my dearest friends from grad school. I haven't seen one of them in five years; it's been four since I've seen the others. Since then, Jerome has published a novel, Scott and Ashley got married and have a daughter, and Sarah has three children under the age of three. We live in Massachusetts, Alabama, Texas, and Memphis. But as it is with good friends, it felt like we had been apart no longer than a week. We met at the bar in the lobby of the Peabody Hotel. The Peabody Hotel is renowned for the ducks that live in the lobby fountain. It's the fanciest hotel in Memphis, and there are ducks that live in the fountain. This is the kind of city Memphis is. I don't even know what I mean by that statement, but I know it's 100% true. Every day at 5:00, they roll out a red carpet and herd the ducks into an elevator, where they go up to their rooftop fountain and nest for the night.
From the Peabody, we went across the street to Automatic Slim's. We shared some Thai-spiced calamari and 3 spring rolls. We might have made a mistake by not eating more.
On foot over to the new Madison Hotel and its rooftop bar overlooking the Hernando DeSoto Bridge (the one that makes an "M") and the Mississippi, which I could stare at forever.
Final bar of the night via the street car. Ernestine & Hazel's was a turn-of-the-century general store, then it was a brothel, and it is now a bar. The original paint and plaster are still hanging on--barely. The original claw-foot tub is still in the bathroom, but don't look in there. It's dirty. The lighting is low, bare bulbs with barely 20 watts. Beer only. We had one of the upstairs rooms to ourselves. Back in the day we were all living off $800/mo stipends, so any money we had went to drinks. And we were beautiful and in our early 20s and there was no future beyond the next drink. But now, all of us over 30, that many drinks takes a toll, even though we can finally afford them. Luckily, we could take the street car home. Drunk 30-somethings are not as cute as they seem at the time, I bet.
I stayed for three years. They were three of the best years of my life. I was writing. I was taking literature classes. I was going out. I was friends with wonderfully smart people. I didn't work (unless you can call teaching 1 class a semester and putting in 10 hours a week at the literary journal "working"). I loved my life and I loved who I was. But I always knew I would never stay there. Maybe that's what let me love it so much.
So last Friday afternoon, I rented a car in Little Rock and drove the two hours into Memphis. It was my first visit back since moving five years ago. I tried to prime my nostalgia by playing Whiskeytown--which, for better or worse, was largely the soundtrack of my time in Memphis--but it didn't quite fit. I knew before I even saw the city rising on the horizon that I wasn't wishing I could go back in time. That was surprising, because I was sure I would feel that way.
On Friday night I met up four of my dearest friends from grad school. I haven't seen one of them in five years; it's been four since I've seen the others. Since then, Jerome has published a novel, Scott and Ashley got married and have a daughter, and Sarah has three children under the age of three. We live in Massachusetts, Alabama, Texas, and Memphis. But as it is with good friends, it felt like we had been apart no longer than a week. We met at the bar in the lobby of the Peabody Hotel. The Peabody Hotel is renowned for the ducks that live in the lobby fountain. It's the fanciest hotel in Memphis, and there are ducks that live in the fountain. This is the kind of city Memphis is. I don't even know what I mean by that statement, but I know it's 100% true. Every day at 5:00, they roll out a red carpet and herd the ducks into an elevator, where they go up to their rooftop fountain and nest for the night.
From the Peabody, we went across the street to Automatic Slim's. We shared some Thai-spiced calamari and 3 spring rolls. We might have made a mistake by not eating more.
On foot over to the new Madison Hotel and its rooftop bar overlooking the Hernando DeSoto Bridge (the one that makes an "M") and the Mississippi, which I could stare at forever.
Final bar of the night via the street car. Ernestine & Hazel's was a turn-of-the-century general store, then it was a brothel, and it is now a bar. The original paint and plaster are still hanging on--barely. The original claw-foot tub is still in the bathroom, but don't look in there. It's dirty. The lighting is low, bare bulbs with barely 20 watts. Beer only. We had one of the upstairs rooms to ourselves. Back in the day we were all living off $800/mo stipends, so any money we had went to drinks. And we were beautiful and in our early 20s and there was no future beyond the next drink. But now, all of us over 30, that many drinks takes a toll, even though we can finally afford them. Luckily, we could take the street car home. Drunk 30-somethings are not as cute as they seem at the time, I bet.
The next day I had to myself. I drove around all my old haunts, and once again, expected to be teary-eyed and nostalgic. But I wasn't. The mystery and newness that I used to feel about living in Memphis had given way to a kind of low-grade shock: the city is a little rough. Mostly it feels like it has a tired spirit: sunburned, sitting on the banks of the Big Muddy, weary to the bone, just trying to survive.
The duplex that I lived in for two years, the one without a proper shower and that only cost $275 a month, has been restored to a single-family home. It's an adorable little craftsman-style cottage. You literally can't go home again.
That afternoon I went for a walk down S. Main, which is experiencing a rebirth similar to South Congress in Austin. Ten years ago you would have been knifed walking down that street; today it's all cuteness and boutiques and coffee shops. But the turn-of-the-century brick architecture remains: sure, it's all high-ceilinged lofts and American Apparel stores, but it's not as obtrusive as a lot of new development in Austin. Whatever its faults, Memphis has managed to maintain its vernacular architecture--that's something to be applauded.
On Saturday night we went to Ashley's father's house for dinner and drinks. It was the very definition of Southern entertaining: whatever you think might fit under that idea, it was there. Dinner at 10:30, boy-girl-boy seating, roses and tulips and peonies, candles, china, crystal, silver, a centerpiece with gilded seashells. Art on the walls. Low lighting. Just magnificent. But at the same time, so comfortable and relaxed. It is a great gift to be reminded of how much you love your friends. And to know it's mutual. It is one of life's joys to feel like someone really knows you. And I haven't laughed like that in a long time.
So I was surprised that after it all, I teared up a little as I pulled onto the DeSoto Bridge and watched in my rearview as downtown disappeared on the far side of the Mississippi. I think I was sad because I knew I wouldn't be back, and I knew I didn't need to go back. This weekend was closure on something I didn't even know was still open. But: nostalgia without longing; memories without regrets. Somehow, those 48 little hours in Memphis this weekend was a like giant validation for everything that's come in my life since. That feels pretty big.
The duplex that I lived in for two years, the one without a proper shower and that only cost $275 a month, has been restored to a single-family home. It's an adorable little craftsman-style cottage. You literally can't go home again.
That afternoon I went for a walk down S. Main, which is experiencing a rebirth similar to South Congress in Austin. Ten years ago you would have been knifed walking down that street; today it's all cuteness and boutiques and coffee shops. But the turn-of-the-century brick architecture remains: sure, it's all high-ceilinged lofts and American Apparel stores, but it's not as obtrusive as a lot of new development in Austin. Whatever its faults, Memphis has managed to maintain its vernacular architecture--that's something to be applauded.
On Saturday night we went to Ashley's father's house for dinner and drinks. It was the very definition of Southern entertaining: whatever you think might fit under that idea, it was there. Dinner at 10:30, boy-girl-boy seating, roses and tulips and peonies, candles, china, crystal, silver, a centerpiece with gilded seashells. Art on the walls. Low lighting. Just magnificent. But at the same time, so comfortable and relaxed. It is a great gift to be reminded of how much you love your friends. And to know it's mutual. It is one of life's joys to feel like someone really knows you. And I haven't laughed like that in a long time.
So I was surprised that after it all, I teared up a little as I pulled onto the DeSoto Bridge and watched in my rearview as downtown disappeared on the far side of the Mississippi. I think I was sad because I knew I wouldn't be back, and I knew I didn't need to go back. This weekend was closure on something I didn't even know was still open. But: nostalgia without longing; memories without regrets. Somehow, those 48 little hours in Memphis this weekend was a like giant validation for everything that's come in my life since. That feels pretty big.
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