August 16: Memphis to Macon

For the second year running, I spent my birthday in transit. We said goodbye to the Johnstons and headed south across county roads so minor that the entry into the state of Mississippi was not signed. We soon hit a good highway, a future Interstate no less, and struck out ESE toward Birmingham and Atlanta. We were pleasantly surprised at how hilly, wooded and scenic the route was. We knew we were in The South, though, by the kudzu vine that so thoroughly covered almost everything in sight.

August 16, of course, is not only my birthday but also the day Elvis died, so we continued the pilgrimage by visiting his birthplace in Tupelo, which is conveniently just three miles south of the highway. The shack where he was born has been well preserved, and the church where he sang as a child has been relocated to the site as well. It was a nice little place for a sandwich break.

After lunch, we continued on through consistently attractive countryside. I was very disappointed not to find CD's for sale at the mini-markets, as I desperately wanted my first visit to Alabama to be accompanied by the tunes of Lynard Skynard. Skunked at the filling station, I had to resort to the radio, but just as the Memphis stations were disappointingly Elvis-free the day earlier, so as we approached Birmingham, it seemed that there was no one to love the Governor but us. Birmingham turned out to be a remarkably hilly city, very attractive, and I regretted not having been able to track down any friends to stay with there. Only later did I remember that I have a friend in Montgomery, which, it turns out, is also the capital, so why they love the Governor in Birmingham is beyond me, but with nowhere to stay, we pushed on east, exiting Alabama accompanied by Talking Heads' "Burning Down the House" without having made so much as a gas stop. (According to Kid Rock, they also love the Governor in New Orleans, which is even more mystifying. I don't really know which Governor they mean. I have always taken it to be a sort of magnanimous blanket endorsement of hard-working public servants, but perhaps I am missing a sub-text.)

Soon, we had turned south on I-75 for Florida. I knew we were in Georgia when we saw Chic-Fil-A, Home of the Original Chicken Sandwich,of which my Georgia-born colleague Sharon Denny had always spoken fondly, so we stopped there for dinner, drove another hour, and stopped at a Holiday Inn near Macon. Tired though we are of fast food, Chik-Fil-A turned out to be a winner.