Cross the southwest and the Heartland

Memphis Tennessee, birthplace of the blues. It is blazings hot here, I cannot fathom how the two gentlemen soaking in the hot tub can stand it. One of them has flung his lolling head to the side of the tub like a dead thing. Later he revived himself, emerged from the tub, strolled over to my table and commenced to recommend the lesser-known sites of Memphis while he smoked a cigarette. After he left, Mariana, who had been casually listening to us converse from the cool safety of the pool, hissed to me, "I do not want to visit a cemetery!". We opted instead to see Beale Street at night, two blocks of neon clad bars, shrimp and catfish specials, live music emanating from every entrance, and raucous crowds of early 20-somethings spilling from bars with pints of ale in hand. It felt like a giant fraternity party.