In the shadow of the Pyramid, so to speak. My hotel room faced the freeway, away from the downtown cityscape. I read an online review of the hotel where I stayed; the reviewer complained about the traffic sounds audible in his or her room on the Quiet Floor. The sounds of the motorway to me were like comforting sounds of a mechanized womb. I slept soundly and undisturbed.
I spent the week of 8/30 to 9/3 in Memphis because I’d been assigned to help clean-up a backlog of work out there; for whatever reason, my agency or division was no longer willing or perhaps able to obtain the services through local contract providers.
To save money, I made and packed an oatmeal mix for every morning, Styrofoam bowls, plastic spoon, and a non-refrigerated lunch for each day. Nice thing about most hotel rooms is they’ve got small one-cup coffee-makers that heat water – thus, the instant oatmeal mix solution to breakfast.
As it happened, my free time in the city I spent in that part of Memphis visible through my window, which makes me wonder what my stay would have been like if my room had been on the side of the hotel facing the downtown Memphis skyline.
My first night in Memphis, I ate dinner in the hotel’s restaurant. Took so long for the appetizer I ordered to arrive at my table that I got up, in spite of the fact that I’d brought a book to occupy my waiting time, and walked over to the front desk to inform management that I was going to seek my evening meal elsewhere; but the waitress came and got me, said the order was on my table. The appetizer was just okay – salad I ordered after that was better. Another night, I went back and the service was a lot better.
My waitress, experiencing a vague sense of vocational dissatisfaction, is one of life’s winners. Working more than full-time, working for three employers, she owns outright the house she lives in and carries no debt whatsoever. Her 23 year-old daughter is about to graduate university and intends to further her studies in the medical field. Still, she said, she would prefer not to grow old working as a waitress even though she enjoys the work.
One afternoon, Tuesday probably, I took advantage of the fine weather and the fact that I’d packed some of my gear in the car, and took the hotel’s shuttle to Mud Island and rented a kayak. In addition to PFD, water-clothes, small dry-bag, and bug spray, I should have brought my own paddle and kayak. Although the staff there was helpful and friendly, Mud Island rents stubby, 10’ Perception rec-boats and includes with the rental an unwieldy paddle sans drip-rings. It is possible to paddle thus equipped, but it was painful at the shoulder I’d had repaired last year, and at the elbows. To the good, however, I found that proper paddling form tended to offset much of the joint-pain and allowed me to make some progress on the water.
That small harbor in Memphis was windy with the wind at my back as I started out. After I re-emerged from the storm-drains, I paddled back against the wind to the rental dock. I noticed during my time on the water that its level apparently varies; as much as forty-odd feet, if I recall this correctly, I later learned. Half buried hawsers, huge pieces of marine junk, gigantic and smaller broken barges have become part of the muddy banks. Mysterious concrete footings with padlocked, grated gates leading I know not where, trash-falls from heavy rains, and all manner of garbage were visible along the shoreline.
Paddling a rec-boat is way more tiring than paddling an actual kayak. I was hungry and tired by the time I returned to the rental dock at the bottom of a long, steep boat-ramp. I phoned the hotel’s shuttle guy and advised him to send someone with a pickup truck so I could ride in the back – I was sweaty and stank of sweat. But the driver said, “All we’ve got is the Tahoe,” so I told him I hoped he had a good air-freshener.
I showered and put on clean clothes then went back downstairs to the lobby. I asked the employees milling around the front desk for the name of a good nearby place to get a hamburger. Not the healthiest choice, but I was hungry, it was getting late, and I’d had plenty of exercise.
Because my Pentax Optio WR 3.2 was forgotten in my hotel room until I was nearly at Mud Island, I have no photos of my expedition. In this blog’s previous entry, Underground Paddling, I’ve got a picture I snapped from my hotel room’s window that shows my approximate route through the storm-drains. Because the Pentax has started consuming the rechargeable PowerX batteries’ charges at a bizarro-rapido rate, I was only able to snap photos in Memphis on the Monday afternoon of my arrival. Here are a few of them, all from the window of my hotel room:
Looking straight out my eighth-floor hotel window over flat industrial then then residential landscape to a distant horizon.
Looking left out the window. The building in the frame’s center is a former synagogue, later a nightclub, then pantry for Westy’s restaurant, and currently a storage building. Westy’s is the building to the left of the former place of worship.
Looking further left (and the Pyramid is out of frame, left), at the horizon can be seen what appears to be the Mississippi River in the frame’s center just to the right of what may be a high bank marking the river’s far shore.
When I returned to the hotel after paddling the storm drains and the city’s tiny harbor, as I mentioned above, I was hungry and the staff at the front desk said Westy’s was without doubt the best place to get a hamburger and was within walking distance. “Cross the street, walk through the Mariott, turn right, walk under the overpass, and it’s the first restaurant you come to,” said the bellman. (Edit: Ferrero’s Pizza is the first restaurant you come to, or at least its parking lot) What was that, like a couple of blocks? No problem.
I felt a little strange walking through the lobby of a hotel where I wasn’t staying, but nobody questioned me. Out the other side of the building I walked beside what looked like the ground level of a convention center type building across the street. Under the overpass, the space underneath fenced-in and apparently used for parking during the day, then to a traffic light, and there it was. Someplace to eat.
Inside the restaurant is a Cheers-like central-left bar towards the back, booths lining the wall on the right as one faces the back. One or two tables in the front right window. Some tables in the left-front. I chose a booth on the right side toward the back and sat facing the door. Took a book with me – Did My Neurons Make Me Do It. The waiter quickly got me a menu – six folded pages – about 25 hamburger options. I ordered one with Swiss-Cheese with a side of, I think, fries.
When the waiter came back and brought me water, I asked whether he knew what the building behind the restaurant was. He directed my attention to a man at a table behind and to my right saying I should ask him because he would know. That is how I met Jake Schorr, possibly the most intelligent human being I’ve encountered anywhere.
For maybe the next hour and a half, while I ate my dinner and a dessert of fudge pie and ice-cream, I asked Jake about the neighborhood, places I could see from my hotel window, the route I paddled, historic Memphis, political Memphis, and without ever meaning to, interviewed him about his life. Jake’s biography, from an ordinary human and also from a vocational perspective is the single most fascinating life story I’ve heard. Why nobody has yet made a Hollywood type biographical movie or even a documentary film about him is beyond me. By the end of our conversation, I’d reached a point where I could honestly and did say, “I’m not smart enough to think of any more questions to ask you.”
Jake, on the other hand, gave me contact information for someone who knows more about Memphis history than he does. When I get time to talk with him about my Memphis questions, I’ll take notes post the answers.
My ‘97 Volvo 850 5-Speed Thursday seen from my window
The famous Pyramid at Memphis
I heard you’d posted…
Enjoyable read. Will you write Jake’s bio?
Of course, the question burning in my mind: did you visit Graceland?
Visit Graceland? No way! I worked out in the Chelsea Avenue area. Used up enough grace out there.
I’d like very much to write Jake’s biography, but doubt a publisher would be interested in a manuscript from a guy who hasn’t produced anything of book length for publication. Also, I’m not sure what the time commitment for such a project?
Glad you liked the post. Like a dummy, I put the most important stuff at the end. You’re probably the only one who’ll read that far.
Can Not believe that you didn’t make it to Ferraro’s Pizza!!!!!!!!
It was right there across the street from Westy’s. I saw it as I walked down the hill from under the freeway overpass, but I had a taste for a burger that would not be denied. I think the place’s name is spelled a little differently from that of the Famiglia Fattony. Ever the Philistine, I seem to always do something a little wrong when I do something a little right. 😐
I could be wrong. 🙂 But, I don’t think the name of the Pizza Place is spelled differently. Fattony’s Sister is the one who owns it. Mostly, I enjoyed the family photos.
Shoot, if I’d known that, I’d’ve stopped in there. Guess I’m obviously wrong about the spelling.
So, this is where you’ve got to? There has been a dearth of ‘oatmeal’ comments on Facebook of late, so I was wondering… I also read it to the end and it’s enjoyable as usual.
Thank you, thank you.
I’ve also been fretting about a book shipped to the hotel that didn’t arrive there after I’d left and finally got to my house a couple of weeks later than I’d ordered it. I’m behind in my classwork for that reason, which has had me a little freaked out.
About the oatmeal, I’m still eating it every morning. Seventy-Six insists on sharing my oatmeal out of my bowl, but I make him use his own spoon. Having breakfast with my two-and-a-half year-old little boy has taken the place of commenting about oatmeal on Facebook, although as I was writing the word “place,” the oatmeal water came to a boil and the kettle began to whistle.
What is the rule that makes “Memphian” correct and the more euphonious “Memphesian” incorrect?
I guess I was mistaken about the number of people who would read a longish post to the end. My thanks.
I did read to the end, a feat in this day and age. But you wrote well and I got curious.
Because I figure no-one reads to the end, I deliberately keep mine SHORT with lots of white space and pix. Helping edit hubby’s the same way.
I normally use a lot of pictures, too. You’d think that as someone with a journalism degree who has written for the press I would remember to put the important stuff up at the top. On the other hand, I seem to default to writing from the beginning through the middle and to the end. I will try to do better.
Maybe journalists start with the good stuff, but novelists lead to it.
Oh, do you like my new avatar picture? Figured dear daughter deserved better than putting her silly face (from 3 years ago) up there all the time. Can’t hurt the dog’s feelings, though.
I always liked your daughter’s pirate-girl photo.
Is the dogvatar a recent snapshot of the dog? Ha ha. I’m so funny. Hey, but is it intentionally humorous continuity with the “Why am I a nag?” (iirc) post you published some months back?
No, this is not the nagging bitch, but the dog that I should have named “Prozac” for her ability to bring me joy simply by playing. And she does alot of tricks too.
Whenever I hear of Memphis, I think of ‘home of Elvis and the ancient Greeks’ (it’s a quote from a Talking Heads song), so you haven’t been to Graceland, but did you meet some ancient Greeks?
I think it’s funny that you call yourself a Philistine. I just recently did some research, and I found out that Philistines, like Calvinists have a name of being dogmatic and stubborn in contemporary lingo, while originally they were both rather liberal and open to debate and to every mans own interpretation of the law and tradition.
I wrote a complicated and amusing reply to your comment this morning, but the Small One was in need of attention and this stupid computer restarted after downloading an update, so it was lost.
In words I learned from you: Egad… Bummer!!!
I think “bummer” is of Dutch derivation! Egad is probably an Old English misuse of the word “God” that I should probably quit using. Other “mild” expressions of surprised dissatisfaction I’ve used to avoid profanity include Gadzooks (again I think Old English for “God’s Wounds”) and Great Scot! the origins of which I can only guess at.