nasvhille

In Crema Cafe of Nashville, there was a woman perched in a leather armchair, wearing a running jacket and eating from a large bowl of toasted oats. There were other solitary coffee drinking females like myself, enjoying the coziness of the mild Sunday afternoon, tented in cardigans and hunting down sockets to plug in their laptops. There were couples, dressed so trendily I thought they might be headed to a quirky engagement photoshoot, plucking crumbs off herbed scones and stroking one another’s knuckles.   I finished off my blood orange tea in about ten minutes, and swapped out the second one to taste Crema’s salted pistachio chai latte.  

Hello, Nasvhille, and for the third time! My first time visiting I wore a blue dress, and my father and I ate at Athens Family Restaurant for breakfast. Guy Fieri recommended it, and even though we both find him a bit loud, the man knows a good Mom and Pop.

The second time was on my way out to Memphis just a few weeks ago.  It was around 11am, and I had been snacking on almonds and carrot sticks while listening to some Avett Brothers.  I was alone and curious.  There’s a street in Nashville called Broadway, which is essentially the Times Square of the city, minus the molesting Mickey Mouses and adding about 300,000,000,000 square feet of cowboy boots. I did not buy boots, but I did eat free samples of  chocolate praline candies that a man named Doug gave me. Doug worked in the candy and fudge shop, something that despite my paleo tendencies, I could not ignore. I was just planning on looking(damnit Doug!!!!!!!), but who can resist a charming smile and buttery voice offering you free sugar.  If history shows us anything, friends, I cannot.

My third time in Nashville, just a few nights ago, consisted of the aforementioned Crema trip, a solitary hotel sleep, Celtic shenanigans, Clarksville Shenanigans, a giant dog who hated me, Biker Bars, and mistaking a cat for a ghost.

Saturday evening I took advantage of my hotel’s wi-fi to turn in a few articles for my editor. (This may be the the most adult thing I have ever typed/done in my entire life. I made up for it  by straightening my hair while watching Netflix,  a habit of mine since Netflix was born.)

Sunday evening was much livelier, because I stayed in a haunted house, or at at least that was how Mariah pitched it to me. Said house was located about an hour outside of the city, in a small town named Clarkesville where Mariah had grown up.   Upon arrival, Mariah and her mother combined forces to whip up some alcoholic orange julius.  As Mariah emptied orange juice, coconut milk, ice, and Bacardi (!!!) into the blender, she warned me about the ghost that sometimes visited in the wee hours of the evening.

In the middle of the night, I heard a munchin’ and a crunchin’, and thought “THE GHOST!” When I felt a tiny stampage of paws across my thighs, I realized it was just the cat, looking for a place to sleep after a midnight snack. How could I blame her? I had done the same thing, swapping kitty treats for that orange julius.