I Have Found Me a Home

“The days drift by,
They don’t have names.
None of the streets here look the same.
And there’re so many quiet places.
And smilin’ eyes match the smilin’ faces.

And I have found me a home.
I have found me a home.
You can have the rest of everything I own,
cause I have found me a home.”
--Jimmy Buffett

My transition from life in New Orleans to life in middle Tennessee is complete. I was already in love with the cows and the hills and the gentle side of life here; but there was something missing.

In New Orleans, I had my favorite dives and hangouts. Places where you could go and get lost for a while. There were places which aren’t around anymore, like the Marlin Bar or the Bun-n-Biscuit, where only a kindred soul would dare to follow and you could therefore escape for an hour or so whatever realities were pursuing you at the time. Then there were places that will survive forever like Port-of-Call on the “other edge” of the French Quarter, the one where the tourists don’t make it down to so much and where you’ll see a lot of rainbow flags; there you will stand outside in line even when it’s raining because there is no where to stand inside, and where once inside you experience something like the doctrine of eternal security in that no one is trying to rush you back out.

Until recently, the closest I had come to finding such peace in my new home was the Starbucks near my office, where they generally remember my name and my standard order. Lately though, I have been venturing out to two neighborhoods that could be in New Orleans. Hillsboro Village—with the Belcourt Theatre, Bosco’s, Sam’s, and innumerable other bars and nighttime places—feels like it was plucked from Magazine Street. Driving through East Nashville makes me feel that I’ve been transported back to any of the other checkerboard areas of New Orleans, like Uptown above St. Charles Avenue, where the coolness of it all outweighs the places that don’t seem so safe. There are others pockets of course, mainly that I learned about from friends who share the same love for food, and who, just like a good New Orleanian, will make conversation at one meal by talking about where they are going to eat the next and offering recommendations and giving directions to other restaurants that must not be missed.

The Wife, the Boy and I went to the Pancake Pantry in Hillsboro Village yesterday morning. This place is something like a morning version of the Port-of-Call. Its one of those “If You’re In Nashville, You Have to…” places, so it may seem like a tourist haven; however, it completely holds its own as local favorite. There is always a line on the weekend, and probably a line on any given day if you don’t get there before 8am. And what is their response to this high demand? What sort of through-put acceleration techniques do they employ? None; they do, however, offer a coffee station and reading material for those waiting in line. How refreshing to find someone who takes the approach that “We won’t solve your problems for you, but we will give you the tools to cope with them. Don’t like the line? Get here earlier.”

Once inside, were it not for seeing the line build outside, we could have assumed our table was reserved for us for the day. The food wasn’t rushed out, so there was plenty of time for drinking coffee and observing the crowd within. There were tables put together to fit three-generation family groups, where the middle-generation bounced the younger generation to placate them from the wait, and the older generation appeared to quietly revel in the fact that everyone has made it this far and to wonder how it had all held together. In the corner, there sat a couple: he stroked each of her fingers, dainty porcelain figures set on the table for just such a purpose; she bit her lip in restrained pleasure at his attentions, and placed her foot under his pants leg; they ate heartily as though storing nourishment for a day of strenuous activity.

And seated next to me was a boy whose napkin was clean, but whose mouth and shirt sleeve gave evidence of the chocolate milk and chocolate chip pancakes recently consumed.

When the three of us walked out, I tried to read the minds of those in the line who had no doubt stared at us through the window and silently urged us along to see. I sought some indication that they transmitted such thoughts as “About time”, or worse. I didn’t pick up any extra-sensory messages, but smiled and said “Excuse me” and “Good morning” as the three of us broke through the line to return to our car.

To paraphrase Charlie Robison, “I’ve packed my bags heavy and I ain’t never more to roam.”

******************************
What I’m Listening To Now: John Prine, Great Days: The John Prine Anthology on Rhapsody.
What I’m Reading Now: Billy Collins, Ballistics.