For my dear friend, Jeff, who just heard that he's passed the Bar Exam. Back in the good ol' days, we used to fancy ourselves the star and co-star, respectively, of this film noir gem. I was the prettier one, although he had the better hair.

Note: The conclusion of the Nashville trip. Admittedly, taking two weeks to detail (in detail!) a four day trip, immersed almost entirely on the sociocultural monolith that is traditional country music is probably kind of teeth-rattling for the brave few who read my blog, but it did succeed in re-upping my interest on the whole blog thing (that's good, right?)

8:15 PM: La Nuit Avant

After decamping from the Complex Shuttle, we decided to take the boat tour around (but inside) the palatial artifice of the hotel. After a short wait on a small jetty that appeared to be made of real wood, our group were ushered into a small round boat, like the sort one might find on one of those water rides at an amusement park, along with another group of four or five teenage girls, out to celebrate Tiffany's birthday.  The boat launched, along with our tour guide, through the strange and wonderful area (it actually was very pretty at night) along the banks of the fake river. The guide was very chatty, if maybe a little too reliant of some of the scripted tour-guide patter, which resulted in some genuinely unfortunate (if funny) little ironies. The guide cheerfully chirped that the river and grounds consumed ginormous amounts of water and electricity, completely oblivious of the cringe-inducing effect it was having on her audience. As we passed the 80-foot waterfall, the guide noted that two Japanese koi had escaped the small ponds on the terrace level, braved the waterfall, and were now in the river. The hotel staff, the guide remarked, named the koi "Romeo" and "Juliet." This seemed to perplex the angst-filled teenager, who started craning his neck and looking around the boat:

A-FT: I don't see any dead fish.
ME: I'm not sure she's all that familiar with the original Shakespeare.
A-FT (louder, trying to get the guide's attention): But the play ends when they...
ME: Shhh, I know, I think the names are about how the fish wanted to be together, oh never mind.

The guide then went on to point out the $3,000-per-night Presidential Suite, supposedly a preferred stopping place for Dolly Parton and then went on to suggest, in what must've been a mangling of the usual scripted patter, that, for the asking price, we could then tell our friends and loved ones that we slept in Dolly's hotel room, without mentioning, the guide suggested, that Dolly wasn't there.  Lest any of the children who were with us choose to explore what the veracity of such a claim might imply, the adults quickly shielded our looks of abject horror with distracting, exaggerated motions at the big-ass waterfall. As we rounded the corner back to the jetty, the guide led whole group in singing "Happy Birthday" to Tiffany, who seemed kind of embarrassed by the whole thing.

8:45 PM: Any Fish You Wish

Dinner that night was at the highly unusual Caney Fork Fish Camp, which was decorated with lots of taxidermy specimens. The "shrimp and grits," while not quite up to the Lowcountry standard, were quite tasty and we all enjoyed posing for photographs with the animals, both live and otherwise. After a lovely dinner, we took a leisurely walk past the Opry and back to the hotel for an after-dinner cocktail.

11:45 PM: The Long Way 'Round

In the center of our lucrative digs was a cocktail bar that rotated around the spacious atrium area that stood in for the "outdoors."  A somewhat competitive bunch at heart, we were bound and determined to make a complete revolution before calling it a night. About three-quarters of the way through our "trip," the bar stopped moving! Being good tourists in addition to our penchant for gamesmanship, we demanded of our hostess that the bar be "turned back on" so we could "cross the finish line."  Thankfully, our hostess was, like the Eagles said, "programmed to receive," and, after a brief discussion with those responsible for the mechanical operation of the place, we were finally rewarded with a complete revolution, just seconds before last call, and we retired to our rooms for the night. 

8:05 AM: Le Jour Suivant

Another early morning to tearfully say goodbye to half of our group. The angst-filled teenager, perhaps feeling conciliatory in the midst of all the hugging and such, admitted that he didn't think all country music (pre-1975, we were quick to qualify) was horrible, and, as we all drove out of the massive parking area, text messaged us to say "so long and thanks for all the fish" - the young lad's outlook no doubt being indelibly changed by Caney Fork and the Nashville adventure.

The rest of us took a trip a few miles outside of Nashville to visit the wonderful Loveless Motel and Cafe for breakfast. And what a breakfast it was!  While no longer an active motel, the cafe has been serving up world-famous Southern cuisine since 1951, when Lon and Annie Loveless bought the former Harpeth Valley Tea Room along US Highway 100 in hopes of serving both hunting parties and visitors to the nearby Natchez Trace. Word-of-mouth about Annie's delicious buttermilk biscuits soon reached a fever pitch, and the cafe has been a destination for connesseurs of Southern delicacies of all kinds ever since. The place has had several owners, each of whom carried on the traditions of the place, as well as the closely-guarded biscuit recipe. Most recently, the mantle has passed to Ms. Carol Fay, who has entertained such culinary luminaries as Martha Stewart and Jefferson Morgan, a contributing editor for Bon Appétit magazine. While both raved about the food, neither was successful, I'm happy to say, in wresting the recipe from Fay. If you live within 1,000 miles of this place, eating there is well worth the trip!

3:05 PM: Au Revoir

Sated by our Loveless breakfast, we traveled to the small town of Franklin, Tennessee, to walk around and see our English guests to their bed and breakfast before heading back to Atlanta so I could catch my return flight to the Midwest. Franklin is home to The Carter House, and site of one of bloodiest battles of the American Civil War.  It's a somber place, and stands as monument to one of the more cruel ironies of war.  The Carter family lost three sons to the War, with Tod, the youngest, after escaping from prison and rejoining his regiment, found himself literally on the steps of his boyhood home in the thick of the battle. Shouting to his fellow soldiers, "I'm almost home!", Tod was shot and mortally wounded, dying two days later in the House to which he tried so incessantly to return. While the story of the battle is likely of great historic import to some, for me it was just a reminder of how deeply horrible things have scarred the South, and the places that remain are important, if often painful, reminders.

We went back to the quaint bed and breakfast and said our goodbyes to our English friends, who were really so wonderful to agree to share their time here in Nashville with us (it was, after all, their honeymoon!) It was so great to see them, and I doubt seriously if I would have made this trip or seen anything of Nashville without them.  As we made the drive back to Atlanta, I was really happy to have made the trip, and gladder still to have shared the experience with such wonderful friends.

1:05 AM: Forever Delayed

By Tuesday morning I had been delayed twice in efforts to get to Chicago, and lay perched on my carry-on bag, trying to lean my head against a pretzel stand in LaGuardia airport.  Again plagued by cancellations, with the weather in Minneapolis making further travel at this point ever more precarious, it seemed a good a place as any to end my telling of the Nashville adventure. Even after a 16-hour airport stay, bounced from Atlanta to New York, I still, just as the intercom sizzled with news that our flight had been given final approval to land in a April-snow showered Midwestern tundra, managed a smile, and, as I boarded, heard the nasal twang of our Atlanta-bred stewardess mock drawl to the travel-wearied passengers, "y'all come back now, you hear!" and thought that Southern hospitality still exists - and it's a good thing.  

Note: More belated accounts of my adventures amid the sights and sounds of Nash-Vega$. The trip was only four days long, so you'll only have to endure one more of these, o.k.?  I mean, PLEASE endure one more of these, o.k.? Also, this post contains relentless a little playful mocking of the locals, but rest assured that no actual snark is intended.

9:20 AM: Breakfast of Champions

After waking late and inadvertently using up all the hot water in the room shower, much to Anne's chagrin, we descended to the swanky pavilion on the banks of the fake river that ran through our palatial digs to meet up for a group breakfast before heading to downtown Nashville. What greeted us was astonishing, to say the least. There was literally a buffet of breakfast foods that ran for nearly half a city block, with several signs boasting the native countries from which the delicacies being served originated. These ran the gamut from the obvious (Belgian Waffles, anyone?) to the slightly-less-obvious, Eggs Benedict being a slight modification of the French œufs bénédictine, an origin our hosts correctly presented. This proved something of a Pyhrric victory, however, when we all realized that the buttermilk biscuits slathered with white gravy were being advertised as a product of the United Kingdom. The English folks seemed a bit non-plussed at the gastronomical faux pas, in particular as we were in Tennessee, and given the South is somewhat limited when it comes to contributions to the palette of the discriminating gourmand, one would think they would've tried to win this one for the home team, as it were. I mean, you can't even get biscuits in the UK, in fact, "biscuits" aren't even called "biscuits" in England - biscuits being the word for little, mildly blandish cookies you eat when your tummy's upset. Our nationally orphaned biscuits, in all their post-colonial glory, were really good, though.  After consuming four or so pounds of the carb-filled delciousness from around the globe, we were ready to take on Nashville.

10:31 AM: The Mother Church

After boarding what was called, for reasons I still don't know (and was afraid to ask) the "Complex Shuttle" to downtown Nashville, our first stop was the legendary Ryman Auditorium, the 116 year old theater and former home to the Grand Ole Opry, called by many "The Mother Church of Country Music."  One needn't be the religious sort to understand the name, as the acoustics in the place can literally make anything sound heavenly. As we tooled around, glancing at a pictorial history of the place, and gazing into small display cases with memorabilia from the likes of Tex Ritter and Wanda Jackson, what looked like a High School marching band (albeit seated) began to warm up and play on the stage. The sound was incredible, and even the angst-ridden teenager in our group sat down in one of the pew-like benches (another possible origin for the nickname, I'd guess) on the ground level and listened intently. A church choir (they were really driving the symbolism home that morning), all resplendent in matching navy blue robes, replaced the band as we left, passing by a short film being shown in the foyer to a tour group on the history of the Ryman. We watched for a while, and, exiting past the statue of famed riverboat captain and man-about-town, Thomas G. Ryman, walked out into the overcast, but bustling, city streets.

11:54 AM: The (Other) Mother Church

Opry legend has it that, prior to the move away from the Ryman in 1974, cast members seeking a spirit other than the more metaphysical kind offered up by the Opry, would sneak out the backstage area of auditorium, travel through a small narrow alley, and appear at the back door a old honky-tonk called Mom's.  After Mom's was bought by Nashville matriarch Tootsie Bess in early 1960, a train-wreck of a redecoration effort effectively reinvented the place as the World Famous Tootsie's Orchid Lounge, and the place continues to live up to its colorful moniker and decor. After the sanctity of the Ryman, and with the noon hour upon us, it was nice to sit back, have a beer, and enjoy the sounds of Jimmy Snyder and the house band. Jimmy, a Nashville songwriting fixture, co-wrote one of the most characteristic country music ballads of all time with the so-depressing-it-actually-physically-hurts "All I Want For Christmas Is My Daddy," which became a minor hit in 1966 for Buck Owens. The band eventually took a break and was briefly reprieved by a man who I believe was only ever referred to as "Elmo" or "Elmer" or something. Elmo treated the crowd to a wonderful solo acoustic rendering of the Kitty Wells classic "It Wasn't God Who Made Honky Tonk Angels." I wondered aloud to the group as to who this great balladeer might be. The angst-filled teenager, who, up to this time had been busily text-messaging his friends back home "OMG DRIVE 2 NASHVILLE AND GET ME TEH HELL OUT OF HERE" mentioned that he thought he "used to be Mayor."  Elmo proceeded to play another song, in fact, one that, although lyrically different, was played in exactly the same vocal style and chords as the previous one (not that this was a bad thing entirely).  Again, the crowd was very receptive, but by the time the familiar sound accompanied a third, we knew it was time to continue on to our next stop.

1:44 PM: No Ribs 'Till Brooklyn

We decided to grab something to eat at another great Nashville institution, Jack's Bar-B-Que although the line of carnivores waiting for a taste seemed a little daunting at first. Still sated by the obstreperously large hotel breakfast, we braved the line for nearly a half hour when, amid all our meat-related planning, we were informed that there would be "no more ribs until 5:00 PM."  People exchanged nervous glances, others checked their watches, but, as we were on a schedule, we stood our ground, each choosing some substitute to Jack's signature dish. If you happen to like bar-b-que, and happen to be in the Nashville area, you can't go wrong with Jack's. Everything on the menu really is delicious. As the word spread throughout the place that a moratorium had been issued, the crowd thinned out a little. As I got up to refill my glass of iced tea, I noticed that some time in the midst of our dining experience, the bovine embargo must have been lifted, as happy little rib-eaters frolicked merrily to their booths with plates piled high with

ribs. Before I could give complaint, though, we were headed off to what was sure to be the highlight of our day's activities, the Country Music Hall of Fame and Museum.

3:37 PM: WWHWD?

We realized, upon getting to the steps of the Hall of Fame, that there was some kind of commotion going on outside and crossed the street to get a closer look. Several long-haired, bearded men were standing around, dressed exactly the same in black t-shirts bearing the legend "The Opry Has Sinned".  Upon closer inspection, the shirts also said "Reinstate Hank" and bore the likeness of Hank Williams.  Apparently, that day, the Hall of Fame was opening a large exhibit on Hank Williams and his progeny and was going to feature Hank Williams, Jr. as a keynote speaker to launch the exhibit. The Opry has had its share of controversy over the years, mostly relating to its stalwart adherence to the tee-totaling crypto-fascist holier-than-thouness that once drove Johnny Cash, in 1965, threatened with a lifetime ban after being arrested earlier that year, to begin kicking out the footlights on the Ryman stage during a performance. Cash and the Opry eventually made their peace, and he went on to use the Ryman stage for his critically acclaimed television show, perform with his wife, June Carter Cash, at the last performance at the Ryman, and appear in a documentary film about the Opry in 1994. Nothing, though, stings more than the eventual sacking of Williams from the Opry line-up in 1952. Although the official party line by the Opry was that Hank just wasn't showing up to performances, by that time Williams was an inveterate drunk, with a rapidly disintegrating marriage and expecting a child out-of-wedlock. How (or why) the Opry thought firing the guy would help, I have no idea, and, again, it smacks of the kind of thoughtless image self-preservation that generations of fans have harbored resentment about for years. In the cruelest cut of all, Hank would never get his reprieve from the institution that kick-started his career, succumbing to a heart attack on New Years Day, 1953. Being a fan, and someone acquainted with social protest, I was glad (at first) to see folks shining a critical light on the proceedings, although I hoped it wasn't just a "protest" geared up as some kind of marketing gimmick for Hank's grandson, known as Hank III, who, despite being a look-alike and sound-alike of his old grandpa, ends up being a kind of clown for the more "hell-raising" elements of country music, regaling in all its excesses while seeming to altogether miss the point of the music itself. The youngest Hank also fronts a truly awful punk-metal band, which, for some reason, he equates with bringing the "outlaw" element back into his father and grandfather's musical family tradition. I'll bet he never kicked a footlight out in his whole privileged life.

Nevertheless, my friend and I made an attempt to involve ourselves in the protest. We figured, since we had paid admission to the Hall of Fame, we'd put on the t-shirts, make our way into the exhibit, and hopefully raise some consciousness. As we were walking away, after a nice lady handed us shirts to wear, one of the bearded throng approached us and asked us where we were going with the shirts:

MY FRIEND: Well, we're going to put these on and go inside
DUDE: You can't have the shirts if you're not going to help us.
ME (noticing that the throng were just kind of milling about): Were you going to picket now?
DUDE: Not right now, later
MY FRIEND: We've got tickets to the museum.
ME: Yeah, we were going to go inside with these on.
DUDE looks blankly at us
MY FRIEND (a little frustrated): Never mind. (hands back t-shirt)
DUDE: Come on, man.
ME (handing back t-shirt): Sorry.

It appears the nuances of civil disobedience were lost on the folks, but it looks like 40 or so stayed on message on the opposite side of the street from the Hall of Fame. I think the rest split for Tootsies.

4:43 PM:  These Boots Are Made For Runnin'

After thoroughly enjoying the Hall of Fame and the Williams exhibit, we figured we had plenty of time to catch a drink or two at the wonderful Robert's Western World lounge. We ended up staying to see two sets of the great Scott Icenogle & A-11 playing some really fabulous honky-tonk music. Elmo, from Tootsie's, even stopped by our table to say hello!  As we nursed our beers behind Robert's beautifully back-lit collection of used cowboy boots, we debated whether or not to return to the hotel for dinner or stay downtown, since the Complex Shuttle ran until 2:00 AM, we really weren't in a hurry. We decided to head back down to the Ryman and figure it out and, after waiting for some time (along with some unfortunate fellow tourists who thought the Opry was still there) we realized that the Complex Shuttle had an abbreviated schedule on the weekends, and would be departing from another location for the final journey back to the hotel in only a matter of minutes. Sprinting down to the idling bus, we clambered on and headed back to the Epcot of Nashville to plan our next move.

To be concluded.

Note: Due to the incredibly hectic schedule during the trips to Nashville and Atlanta, the live day-by-day blogging routine was quickly and unceremoniously ditched. What follows, over the next few days, are some reflections on the major highlights of the trip.

[T]he essential movement of the spectacle...consists of taking up all that existed in human activity in a fluid state so as to possess it in a congealed state...

                                                       -Guy DeBord, La société du spectacle (1967)

Elwood: What kind of music do you usually have here?

Claire: Oh, we got both kinds. We got country and western.

                                                        -from The Blues Brothers (1980)

The road trip to Nashville began too early after a day (and night) of airline travails, not to mention a cold snap and overcast skies, but my spirits lifted as we got closer to our destination—the music buzzed around us and we sang along with favorably-remembered songs from our adolescence and braved the climb over the mountainous landscape to Music City.  As we left the mountains behind and nestled ourselves into Nashville proper, we finally saw what was to be our home for 48 hours - the Gaylord Opryland Resort and Convention Center, which looked to our sleep-deprived eyes to be like a gigantic antebellum mansion set amid what was, for all intents and purposes, a gigantic shopping mall parking lot. I was expecting the mansion part, but then, after parking and stepping into the foyer of the hotel, I realized the whole place seemed to be encased in several large glass domes.  Here's a little description, from the resort website:

Under majestic, climate-controlled glass atriums, you'll be surrounded by nine acres of lush indoor gardens, winding rivers and pathways, and sparkling waterfalls where you can unwind, explore, shop, dine, and be entertained to your heart's content.

And they aren't kidding about those waterfalls. Big ones. Buttressing large Greek Revival facades and Vieux Carré walls of brick and mortar, festooned with whitewashed balconies and sub-tropical foliage.  The effect on us was a heady mixture of astonishment and discomfort. Something just felt wrong about the place, but I couldn't quite place what it was, and the unease was complicated further by trying to avoid rushing to prejudgments and prejudices that would simply reinvest traditional views of the American South and, well, its own legacy of prejudgments and prejudices. This was, no bones about it, a reinvention of the South, encased now in the postmodern bell jar of late-period capitalism, and here I was, trapped within it, and paying for the privilege.  As each one of my friends arrived, their reactions were all about the same. This was definitely not the place (or space) that one heard on the country music we enthused about: the lonely bedrooms of George Jones or lonesome highways of Hank Williams, the three-feet high and rising flood plains of Johnny Cash or boozy barrooms of Merle Haggard. This was, to quote the name of a more recent nothing-to-be-enthused-about artist—big and rich—and perhaps one giant, temperature controlled recycled-waterfall away from being fat and obnoxious.

We unpacked, caught up on each other's lives, laughed and joked and had an absolutely wonderful afternoon, spotting gigantic catfish wading through the mechanical river and a bird who had somehow found its way through the glass barrier that separated us from the real outside world. We promised ourselves (and each other) that tomorrow we would venture out of our glass menagerie and explore the authenticity we were sure to find (we assured ourselves) downtown, amid the drunks, deadbeats, and honky tonks that littered the streets like so many leaves, caught up and scattered in a whirlwind of light and sound. At least, we said, that's how it is in the songs. We'd find the pure authenticity in those lost souls—those little prickly, spindly things tied together with kite-string-thin steel guitar lines and bumpy, rattling bass rhythms sending plaintive high, lonesome harmonies into space, toward heaven.

But first, we would, after dinner, head directly into the heart of the concrete beast around us;  what, I surmised, this whole opulent prison was meant to protect—the Grand Ole Opry. Relocated from the historic Ryman Auditorium, the Opry, a fixture of both live performance and live radio broadcast since 1925, had lent its stage to a staggering array of performers, from the aforementioned Williams, Jones, and Cash, to Patsy Cline, Kitty Wells, Wanda Jackson, and a

young Elvis Presley. Despite the environment, which now boasted high-tech lighting and large television screens, the show seemed to capture a great deal of the spirit that started it all, encapsulated by its headlining act that night: Dr. Ralph Stanley, who, as part of the Stanley Brothers and the Clinch Mountain Boys, has typified a purity of songwriting and performance that comes closest to what Southern music was, and is, at its largely agrarian roots. Stanley's heightened visibility of late is largely attributed to the success of the Coen Brother's O, Brother Where Art Thou (2000), which featured Stanley on the soundtrack and utilized as its leitmotif the Stanley standard "I Am A Man of Constant Sorrow," which Stanley performed, wanly noting it was an "audience request."  Despite the blissfully-unaware-of-its-own-irony structure of the Opry, what with its hokey announcer-spoken ads (e.g., "I bet many of ya'll wonder how The Cracker Barrel Restaurant and Old Country Store got its name...") and trite appeals to the family values, flag-waving demographic, Stanley's performance needed no flashing lights, wide screens, or rhetorical gloss to convey its message. Despite my initial unease at the spectacle all around me, the communitarian message of the music seemed largely unhindered by it.

As we rode back towards the shining lights of the resort, I was reminded of Bill Malone's excellent book, Don't Get above Your Raisin': Country Music and the Southern Working Class, which put much of the Opryland spectacle into perspective. In the aftermath of Reconstruction and the transition away from agriculture as a viable means of economic sustainability and cultural way of life in the South, dispossessed families of differing races and religions took hold of what they could of their culture and tried as hard as they could to forge some new economic paradigm, some product or service that could save them, would be lasting and profitable, and yet, remain wholly their own. Perhaps the excesses of that lasting profitability shine a little too glaringly today, but it is still possible to find, even in the midst of all that, the very same energy that fueled and continues to sustain the powerful musical heritage that birthed the blues and gospel traditions, and laid the foundations for rock and roll and modern folk music. Before we walked up past the big tumbling waterfall to our room, I squinted my eyes one last time, heard the music in my head, and found a little bit of it for myself.

11:51 AM: Via Chicago

On little sleep, and with great anticipation and eagerness (to see Anne and my friends, to get to warmer climes, and (actually) to begin recording this "blogoventure" in earnest) I set out to the airport with some time to spare, hoping to find a clean, well-lighted place to get some work done on a paper I'm writing before my flight. Today was going to mainly be a travel day, since I also had some time built in, via an hour layover in Chicago on my way to Atlanta. But, I figured, it was an excellent opportunity to catch up on writing, reading, and the unique social experience that airports avail, as I'd written about before. Unlike trips past, I was practically comfortable with the comparatively leisurely pace that the afternoon promised, given that it was a Thursday afternoon on a not-particularly-travel-heavy season (post-Spring Break for most of the collegiate crowd, off-day for most business travel, etc.). Although I was initially skeptical about taking the Thursday off, as I stood on the empty escalator to Ticketing, I was giving myself mental high fives for my foresight and practicality.

Wow, am I an idiot.

Of course, in my haste to pack and tie up the inevitable pre-travel loose ends yesterday, I hadn't bothered to check either fore- or newscasts and I too-quickly dismissed Anne's suggestion to keep checking my flight status online. Standing there at the Ticketing counter, I winced slightly as the stricken look on the ticket agent's face sent my high five-ing sense of self over the precipice and into the black abyss of uncertainty, already subsumed by a stranded, disaffected sea of humanity. Red-faced, rapacious, identically dressed businesspersons walked tight circles or ambling figure-8's, barking changes of plans into Bluetooth headsets with stares so vacant, so unfocused, it's like watching a thousand little oblivions. Children, some of whom had been waiting with their families for flights since dawn, had so thoroughly exhausted every toy, game, question, foodstuff, condiment, and adult in a 100-yard radius that they now gathered, almost solemnly, around an ATM machine to play with what looked to me to be a small pile of dirt on the floor. Unevenly tanned people in Panama hats looked at LED Departure screens like the faithful in the face of some utterly indifferent digital God.  And this was just Ticketing!  Without my asking, the ticket agent found me a seat on a direct flight to Atlanta, making me no longer subject to the delays and cancellations. I was actually considering high-fiving her until I heard the catch - the flight did not leave for another six-and-a-half hours - putting me in later than my original flight. Naturally, it was facing being overbooked with folks trying to divest themselves from now non-existent or chronically delayed Chicago-centric flights. Afraid that fortune would soon pass me by, I hurriedly thanked my guardian agent and gingerly stepped over the dirt and children to the Security Gate.

12:34 PM: "The Department of Homeland Security Welcomes You..."

When I showed my driver's license to the security agent, I was informed that I had been randomly selected for "secondary screening."  Given that I now had plenty of time, I cheerfully responded, saying something to the effect of "oh, boy" and acting as if I had won something.  This gave the agent some pause, but after taking me out of the line, he returned to his senses and shouted for someone to take over the screening. Amid the throng in the security line, there was no movement over to where I was for several minutes.  The guard shouted again.  Still nothing.  Finally, the exasperated guard led me to a small room off to the left of the Security Gate with a small table and two chairs. On the far wall was a large banner that read "THE DEPARTMENT OF HOMELAND SECURITY WELCOMES YOU". Other signs pasted to the walls with Scotch tape spoke vaguely of search procedures and the none-too-subtle fact that "Sexual Harassment Is A Crime."  Needless to say, the change of venue cooled my initial enthusiasm considerably. After a few minutes, an older guard came into the room, patted me down, searched my bag, and led me back out to the line.  He was very friendly while being efficient in carrying out the search, and, dare I say, welcoming.  They must take the signage seriously around here.

8:14 PM: Strange Weather

After a few short delays due to last-minute gate changes and refueling, we took to the air.  The ride was probably (knock on wood) one of the most turbulent I have ever experienced.  As I expected, most of the folks on the flight were businesspersons, who took their luck in obtaining a direct connection to Atlanta as a sign to engage in taking epic advantage of the in-flight alcohol selection. Given that we still had to fly over or around the trouble spots that prevented our previous connections from being able to land, it was a bumpy ride, but I was heartened to see that a few sudden dips (keeping us plastered to our seats, frozen by the continued presence of the "fasten seatbealt" sign) didn't dent the convivial spirit.  After a safe landing, the deplaning music was Elvis Costello's 'Every Day I Write The Book' - and not the Musak version but the real thing!  Way to go, Big National Airline!

11:51 PM: Arrival

Home at last and, after a twelve hour plus ordeal, I'm ready for bed. Tomorrow brings the road trip to Nashville before a return to the Home of the Braves on Sunday.

In just a few short hours, gentle readers, as sort-of preamble for my impending summer move from Large Midwestern University to Large Southeastern University to continue my academic career, I’ll be headed to Atlanta and Nashville for the next four days to (belatedly) celebrate the wedding of some dear friends from (ye) old(e) London town(e).  In an effort to make managing my life through technology more, er, manageable, I’m going to attempt to “blog” the trip.  While this might only entail a few scant sentences from the front lines, as it were, I thought I’d start off by sharing some of my “road music” for the drive to Music City.  I’ve put together a mix on Muxtape.  It does seem to be excellent way to share the soundtrack of your life with others, as, in the space of a spin-cycle, I was uploaded and already awkwardly dancing in my chair.  Give it a try.

You can listen to mine here: http://slowlearner.muxtape.com/

“No one wants to deny a child a right to a family. Adoptions should be about finding the right family for a child, not about looking for the best child for a family”

—Bruce Harris, Executive Director of Latin American Programs Casa Alianza (Covenant House of Latin America), San José, Costa Rica

NAN: So you've got us over a barrel. At this rate the baby will be talking full sentences by the time we get it. I don't want to have to undo all that.

ERNESTO: Undo?

—from Casa de los Babys (2003), by John Sayles

It has been nearly eight years since the US signed the Intercountry Adoption Act, in accordance with the specifications outlined in the Hague Convention on Intercountry Adoption, seven years from the time that document was initially drafted, which, to this date, our country has yet to officially ratify (*see below). What exists now is a kind of legal limbo, where many American couples continue to look to international adoption when many countries are embracing policies of adoption reform. Within these reforming nations, building schools and orphanages and supporting local and intrafamilial adoptions are now top priorities. However, at the same time issues of child homelessness, poverty and exploitation continue to grow. For many of these countries, there is now an entire generation of “street kids”.

In 2000, the now-defunct Minneapolis-based Resource Center of the Americas produced a series of reports on international adoption in Latin America, profiling the social, economic and cultural impact on children and families on both sides of the adoption issue. One report in particular, titled “The Baby Trade”, elicited a scathing response from adoptive parents in the US and Europe, who felt that depiction of this legal limbo, resulting in what the United Nations has termed “illegal adoptions” and a statistical rise in birth record falsification, bribery of attorneys and government officials, and even smuggling, was harsh and deleterious to the character of the adopting parents. This implication of malfeasance in the name of cultural imperialism, having trickled down from the hallowed halls of The Hague to the alleys of Guatemala, is a major issue today. Notoriety about this issue, while staying far from the front page of most US newspapers, has cropped up in some unexpected places.

In 2003, writer and director John Sayles (Lone Star, Men with Guns) released Casa de los Babys, a film that explores many of the issues addressed in “The Baby Trade”. Working with a sextet of actresses, including Mary Steenburgen, Lili Taylor and Darryl Hannah, Sayles uses the group dynamic as a catalyst for character study, allowing bits and pieces of each woman’s history to emerge as the group splits up, pairs off, and regroups in subtly different configurations of power and personality. While the women wait in a resort hotel for their adoptions to be finalized, Sayles allows his camera to peer around the corners into the often hidden world of the street kids. The intertwined narratives are played for emotion, but the sociopolitical and economic aspects of the arguments set forth in “The Baby Trade” resonate throughout Casa de los Babys. The result is a salient example of the true nature of cinema, and an indelible commentary on what, in the interval of years since the film's release, has rapidly become one of the most exemplary (and the most obscured) aspects of our political impact and transnational cultural reach. As Sayles himself remarks, absent of the rhetorical machinations that typify our media during an electoral cycle:

 

The most politicized people make the connection between economic imperialism and the kind of poverty that creates these street kids, but also point a finger at their own government and culture.”

Perhaps now more than ever, we, as globally "politicized" people - that is to say, an educated and aware electorate, regardless of our determined citizenry - must begin the difficult work of looking toward solutions that may, someday, truly collapse the barriers between us, not simply hide, avoid, or ignore the apparatuses of privilege.

(*UPDATE: The U.S. did in fact enter an instrument to ratify on December 12, 2007, and intercountry adoptions to the United States will fall under Hague oversight beginning April 1, 2008)

As suggested by Iris, I've done the following:

1. Pick up the nearest book (of at least 123 pages).
2. Open the book to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the next three sentences.
5. Tag five people.

As I've been reading nothing but research articles on neoliberal economic theory and the current condition of French labor policy for the past several days, this exercise comes not a moment too soon.  It gives me a chance to rest my head on my desk for a few minutes, closing my eyes as the cat steps lightly over me in the last few hours of recently saved Midwestern daylight. As the sun dips down around the old rowhouses in my little corner of the city and the radiator starts to rattle and crack me out of my doze, I reach for the book, mechanically flipping the pages and scanning through the chiaroscuro of periods, colons, and commas and, with head still firmly to the level of the keys, raise a wrist to retype the words:

Do not cast off the burden of life which you bear with such a nobility that it will always ensure for you instant communion with noble souls. You will have other friendships, greater, less barren, less unhappy than mine. You will find, at the heart of your humble and painful destiny, a glorious old age.

In a flash, the moment's past, and it's back to work. But I'm left with a sort-of self-aware resignation, a quick scramble of joy and pain, that crepuscular in-between of not knowing whether to laugh or cry that the best and most familiar of books can so effortlessly impart. And, a minute later, maybe more, there it is, out the window - l'heure bleue.  How many days go by and I not even notice? 

I hope the following of my neighbors can share a moment or two, provided they haven't already and are so inclined: Jen, Emily, Rachel, Katra, and Kitty.  Merci.