Jules turn to drive. There were some tight lipped moments from both of us. Being a passenger is probably more scary as you have no control. We were a good team though. “Where are the windscreen wipers?” came the cry. So one stood behind the driver’s chair and twiddled with all knobs that one could reach. “Can’t see out of the mirrors” followed soon after. It had turned round so far that it was acting like a vanity mirror. So again, in tandem formation, the window was opened and the offending glass was turned to a reasonable position. The mirrors were a pain as they flapped in the breeze like African elephant ears. Nothing that a hex key couldn’t fix.
Here’s an interesting fact that you don’t see in the guidebooks. At one stage, we passed 10 to 12 Bingo Halls in a 5 mile stretch. Either the Mississippians are inveterate gamblers or there excitement threshold has been set very low.
Gassing up was interesting. Why do people use ‘interesting” as a euphemism? Gassing took the equivalent time as we had just spent traveling from Jasper. First we queued up for diesel then, having realized before the engine was polluted, we queued up for the real deal. Unless one has waited 20 minutes in an oversized tank in the midday sun in the company of smaller, more maneuverable vehicles, one has no idea of the definition of hell. Add to the mix that the fuel cap is at the end of the 34’ coach and so the front 33 feet stick out into the driving lanes and you then can see why we were probably not the most popular people there.
Memphis RV Park was the complete opposite of the previous site. Thousands of vehicles were crammed into what was no bigger than our yard in Charlotte. We were living cheek by jowel with our neighbours, in fact we could have reached across and use their ketchup had we wanted to.
Beale Street was our evening destination. We were whisked there by a Kenyan ex-pat who claimed 2 different passengers had tried to kill him that day and were sped back by a taxi driver who believed that speed signs indicated the minimum speed to be traveled. In between these two pulsating journeys was Beale Stret It throbbed with life. Those that came to be seen competed with those who came to see. As many of you may know, it is sealed off and this night, tumblers tumbled amongst the Harleys that were lined up inviting someone to try out the domino effect. You know how it is sometimes, that you itch to do something stupid – scratching this particular itch would have been terminal.
The street was awash with neon and chrome and live music was the norm. At the entrance to each restaurant stood a 280 pound tattooed, shaven headed monolith who tried to entice families in to eat. A word to the wise, the presence of these men was neither reassuring or encouraging. We ate in the Hard Rock Café. Altogether a safer bet and neither of the younger team members had been in one before. My favourite memory was the façade of Silky O’Sullivans and the goat on the spiral staircase, eating grasses from the neighbouring building. All too soon, it was time to be rocketed home. The meter span like the 78s that were once so much a part of Beale Street.
Here’s an interesting fact that you don’t see in the guidebooks. At one stage, we passed 10 to 12 Bingo Halls in a 5 mile stretch. Either the Mississippians are inveterate gamblers or there excitement threshold has been set very low.
Gassing up was interesting. Why do people use ‘interesting” as a euphemism? Gassing took the equivalent time as we had just spent traveling from Jasper. First we queued up for diesel then, having realized before the engine was polluted, we queued up for the real deal. Unless one has waited 20 minutes in an oversized tank in the midday sun in the company of smaller, more maneuverable vehicles, one has no idea of the definition of hell. Add to the mix that the fuel cap is at the end of the 34’ coach and so the front 33 feet stick out into the driving lanes and you then can see why we were probably not the most popular people there.
Memphis RV Park was the complete opposite of the previous site. Thousands of vehicles were crammed into what was no bigger than our yard in Charlotte. We were living cheek by jowel with our neighbours, in fact we could have reached across and use their ketchup had we wanted to.
Beale Street was our evening destination. We were whisked there by a Kenyan ex-pat who claimed 2 different passengers had tried to kill him that day and were sped back by a taxi driver who believed that speed signs indicated the minimum speed to be traveled. In between these two pulsating journeys was Beale Stret It throbbed with life. Those that came to be seen competed with those who came to see. As many of you may know, it is sealed off and this night, tumblers tumbled amongst the Harleys that were lined up inviting someone to try out the domino effect. You know how it is sometimes, that you itch to do something stupid – scratching this particular itch would have been terminal.
The street was awash with neon and chrome and live music was the norm. At the entrance to each restaurant stood a 280 pound tattooed, shaven headed monolith who tried to entice families in to eat. A word to the wise, the presence of these men was neither reassuring or encouraging. We ate in the Hard Rock Café. Altogether a safer bet and neither of the younger team members had been in one before. My favourite memory was the façade of Silky O’Sullivans and the goat on the spiral staircase, eating grasses from the neighbouring building. All too soon, it was time to be rocketed home. The meter span like the 78s that were once so much a part of Beale Street.
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