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DAY 23
Monday April 23rd
Pearl Ms. to Tupelo Ms.
Starting driving each morning is the time which requires the greatest concentration, as I have to convince my brain afresh that driving on the right is a sensible thing to do. So I always make a point of getting the journey underway, and getting clear of any nasty traffic, before I turn on the radio.
Having gone through this routine this very morning, I hit the radio button, leaving it tuned to whatever station it was on previously. Within seconds, literally, I heard the voice of my baseball companion from the previous day, and then my own. So the interview I did was transmitted. What a weird coincidence!
Before long I was off the interstate, and onto regular highways, giving me something to look at. I was treated to my first sight, this trip at least, of wild turkey.
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I was heading for Clarksdale, home of the Delta Blues Museum. The town was surprisingly run down; my attempt to find somewhere to eat before visiting the museum drawing a blank, as everywhere appears to be closed, permanently. The atmosphere is not improved by road crews consisting, again, of convicts, each of whom sports a white T-shirt stating the fact that he is a convict, and a pair of green and white hoped trousers, which I had previously believed only existed in cartoons.
The museum is quite small, and doesn't take too long to tour. There are tributes to Buddy Guy, BB King and John Lee Hooker, and a recreation of the cabin where Muddy Waters was born. There were also interesting items about Robert Johnson, the influential blues musician who died, possibly murdered, aged 26. Johnson's grave is claimed by three separate local cemeteries, which adds to the mystique of the man who, according to legend, produced his best work after selling his soul to the devil at "the crossroads".
These crossroads are supposedly the intersection of highways 49 and 61 in Clarksdale, which is marked by a road sign topped with crossed guitars, visible in all the tourist material. What the pictures don't show is that the area is now a grubby area of fast food restaurants, car repair places and pawn shops. Whether Johnson dined at the Chick King before doing the deal is not clear.
I move on to Tupelo, birthplace of a certain Elvis Presley. After finding the motel, I decide to take a look downtown. As the motels are often on the outskirts, I find I am not seeing much of the towns themselves. It seems to me that American towns don't have what we would call a town centre. Downtown Tupelo consists mainly of civic buildings, banks, attorneys and the like, with the odd shop. The two restaurants which I pass are closed on Mondays. So it's back to the main road along which I entered the town, which is the long parade of restaurants, gas stations and the like to which I have become accustomed. Again, good food, pasta this time, for less than $10.
Finally, before returning to the motel, I break one of my cardinal rules, but for a purpose. I visit McDonalds, simply because this particular branch is a shrine to Elvis – pictures, quotes, memorabilia, the works. Sadly, it appears that I'm the only one interested. I suppose all the locals are used to it, if not fed up of it, by now. |
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