Adventures In Busing.

Source: Google Maps

When friend and fellow blogger Ann Koplow was here in Nashville one of the things she noticed about downtown was the lack of houses with windows. It was an interesting observation, and while I’d never thought about the lack of windows one thing that’s always bothered me about Nashville is that it’s a city that for a long time kept business and residential areas widely separated. At the heart of downtown there are a lot of things to see and do but not a lot of places to live. This even created problems for tourists sometimes. For several years I went to the Southern Festival of Books, always held downtown on a weekend in late September, and while there was a lot going on at the festival it could be hard to get a good lunch because most of the restaurants and other businesses in the area simply shut down for the weekend. Their regular customers were the business people who were only around on weekdays.

Just a few blocks from the Festival was the Nashville Arcade, and while it’s now a bustling part of the Arts District, for several years it was deserted, even on a Friday afternoon.

Source: Old Town Trolley Tours

In the mid ‘80’s and early ‘90’s there was an attempt to revitalize downtown with a summer weekend festival called Summer Lights that combined booths for businesses and free concerts, but all it ever really did was highlight how much of downtown was empty. Once the festival was over everybody left and there was no reason to come back.

As you head outward there are more houses, although there are some weird exceptions too. A stretch of 17^th Avenue South, for instance, pictured above, looks like it’s a street of nice little houses, but look closely at the yard signs and you’ll see they’re all recording studios. Homes have been turned into businesses.

That’s slowly changing, especially downtown where some former businesses are being turned into homes—or at least apartments, but it was interesting to hear an outsider’s perspective, to see the city through the window of Ann’s eyes.

A pizzeria owner in Detroit painted a nice big blue line on the street after customers were fined $150 each for parking in unmarked handicapped spaces, and I’m all for giving up spaces to the handicapped, but if the spaces aren’t marked I don’t know how the handicapped or for that matter anyone else would know they’re reserved. It seems like entrapment and the city agreed and will be putting up clearer signage, so it turned out fine for everyone except the people who paid the $150 fine which is anything but fine.

This reminded me of two things. First of all parking in downtown Nashville is generally terrible, which is something I should have mentioned to the amazing Ann Koplow when I learned she was planning a trip to Nashville. The good news is downtown is well covered by the local buses, although they’ve gotten rid of the free buses that used to crisscross downtown, maybe because the owners of all the parking lots who charge exorbitant rates complained. Downtown is also fairly compact and if you like walking it’s a nice place to just stroll and see the sights and watch the people.

Outside of downtown however Nashville is a sprawling city and buses don’t cover all outlying areas. Several years ago when the place where I work started paying employee bus fares I asked a coworker if she’d consider riding the bus.

“Well, I would,” she said, “if I didn’t have to walk three miles across two interstates to get to the nearest stop.”

Fortunately most places understand that Nashville is a very car-centric city and provide plenty of parking, and if you like walking you can park your car pretty far away from a place and have a nice stroll and leave the closer spots to the handicapped.

The other thing I was reminded of was the last time I went to the Belcourt Theater, Nashville’s art cinema, which has an unusually small parking lot and has, or at least had, parking for patrons only with a validation system. I parked and got the slip for my spot from the parking lot machine and went in to get validated before buying my movie ticket, and when I went back out the overly aggressive lot checker had already flagged my car as illegally parked and that I owed a fine.

I went back in and asked the guy who’d sold me my movie ticket if I’d done something wrong, because I thought maybe I had—the system is, or at least was, a little confusing. He apologized profusely and even called over a manager who also apologized and they took the notice left on my car and said they’d take care of it, and I apologized for the trouble, and I think we all ended up feeling both validated and fine.

Several years ago I answered phones at a company that provided money to truck drivers on the road. Whenever they had trouble they’d call a 1-800 number and I was one of two dozen or so people who’d help them out, or try to anyway. After about a month I got to know a few of the drivers and even if we had to keep it brief we’d chat a bit, usually about the weather, although I did learn that two different drivers, working for different companies, were anthropology professors. Were they doing research? No. They both told me the pay for driving a truck was just better.

I never thought to ask if any of them had pets. It’s not something I thought about at all until I just read an article about truck drivers and their pets—mostly dogs, it seems, but some have cats, even birds, and at least one hedgehog. And it makes sense. Most of the drivers I talked to were solo operators and having a pet come along for companionship could make the ride at least a little easier. When my wife and I have been on long road trips our dogs, who always come with us, help keep us awake and remind us to stop regularly because for them when nature calls it really calls. How they feel about travel varies, of course—they’re individuals too, although for some the destination is more important than the journey. Some are content to sleep, some really don’t like to get in the car. My wife took her first Dalmatian with her everywhere and he loved to ride along. She described him as a dog “who’d rather go to Hell than nowhere.”

For more than a year now our dogs have been work companions, reminding me to take regular breaks and just providing general support. I know that’s going to change sometime soon and I’m going to be back at work with people. I kind of envy the truck drivers who travel with their pets but I’ve also talked to enough truck drivers that I’m okay with spending a few hours away so I can come home to be greeted by our dogs.

I was sitting by myself on the school bus and feeling pretty good about it. Most of the time I hated riding the school bus because it was always packed and I might end up sharing a seat with two other kids I didn’t know or, worse, didn’t like. So I was happy until Annabeth walked down the aisle and plopped down next to me. Annabeth and I moved in very different circles. People who grew up in Nashville will understand what I mean when I say she was from Antioch, but for outsiders the best way to put it is that she was a little bit country and I was a little bit rock and roll. To fine tune the illustration even more she was wearing a Lynyrd Skynyrd t-shirt with the sleeves cut off and I had at least one Weird Al cassette in my backpack. In spite of these divisions we had a bit of a history. She had a boyfriend who was a year older and who shoved me around sometimes. Annabeth and I were also in gym together and she’d briefly played this game of pretending she liked me and trying to get me to go under the bleachers with her. I ignored it and after about a week she gave up. I still felt my hackles go up when she sat down next to me on the bus.

“You’re a smart guy,” she said, “maybe you can help me with a problem I’ve got.”

I’m a sucker for flattery but I still thought she might be setting me up for a joke so I kept my guard up. And then slowly let it down as she explained that her mom and her mom’s boyfriend had gone out Saturday night. Sometimes when she was left alone, which happened a lot—sometimes they’d stay out all night—Annabeth would take her mom’s car out and just drive around the back roads. She’d grazed a hydrant and scratched up the right front corner of the car.

“I don’t know what I’m gonna do,” she said. “My mom will probably understand but her boyfriend’s gonna kick my ass. Can you think of anything?”

I couldn’t. And I know this is the point where most responsible adults, and even some responsible teenagers, would say she shouldn’t have been driving her mother’s car in the first place. She was fourteen—too young even for a learner’s permit. I wasn’t smart enough to come up with any advice but I was smart enough to know saying that wouldn’t help, though. I could even understand why she did it. Stuck out in the sticks, bored and alone and feeling just on the edge of adulthood taking the car out must have provided a sense of freedom, of control over her life she couldn’t get any other way. And we all do stupid things as teenagers. Most of us also learn, even if we don’t get caught, from our mistakes. T fine tune the point I’m making she needed a sympathetic ear, not a judgmental asshole. So I was sympathetic. It’s ironic that for once Annabeth wasn’t trying to make me feel bad but she succeeded at doing just that. I felt bad about the situation she was in and I felt like a schmuck that I couldn’t offer anything useful.

I don’t know what got me thinking about Annabeth’s problem lately. It’s just one of those things that bubbles up from the depths of my mind once in a while. Decades later I still don’t know what advice I’d give her, although I have an idea that she should have told her mom what happened, quietly, without the boyfriend around. If the boyfriend was a serious threat—and it sounded like he might be—she needed her mom to, well, be responsible.

Maybe that’s what ultimately happened. Annabeth and I never talked again but she didn’t miss any school and she seemed to be all right. Or maybe things worked themselves out some other way. But after that her boyfriend left me alone, and if she and I passed each other in the hall she’d smile at me. In the end I’m pretty sure she liked me.

I haven’t got any immediate plans to fly anywhere but the other day something popped up that reminded me that whenever I do fly I’d take British Airways if I could. It wouldn’t matter where I was going. Even if it were some ridiculously short flight, like from Nashville to Dickson, Tennessee, which I’m not sure is even possible since it would take less time to drive there than it would just go through security, but that’s another story.

I’m not trying to promote them or do a commercial—I’m certainly not being paid, and, well, for me flying is like getting my teeth cleaned. I don’t hate it but there are other things I’d rather do. Thirty years ago I went to Britain for the first time I flew British Airways.  What stayed with me most, aside from the fact that drinks were free, was the in-flight radio. This was before airlines put video monitors on the backs of seats but they did have a headphone jack in the armrest and a dial with a selection of channels. Most other airlines only offered this, like free drinks, in first class but British Airways made it available to everyone. I had my Walkman with me so when I got tired of listening to my cassettes of Kate Bush and David Bowie I could plug my headphones into the armrest and listen to, well, Kate Bush and David Bowie. But they also had a comedy channel. Since it was a transatlantic flight it was like getting my teeth cleaned for eight hours, so I guess they figured I needed a laugh. The channel only had about an hour of material it would cycle through, but, oh, what great material it was. There was Bob Newhart and Allan Sherman, and I was also introduced to Jasper Carrott and Tony Hancock’s “Blood Donor”, and I’m pretty sure I listened to it at least five times, finally falling asleep to Steve Martin’s “Grandmother’s Song”.

Anyway here’s what popped up on some feed or another of mine that reminded me of that. Why it popped up now is a mystery. I guess someone figured I needed a laugh.   

Source: Nashville Public Art

It won’t be long now before I start going back to my office which is kind of a strange thing to contemplate, especially since the only thing that’s really changed over the last thirteen months and counting, aside from now knowing I can work from home if I have to, is that my wife will be working from home permanently and after thirteen months and counting she’ll be really glad to get me out of the house, but that’s another story. For most of our respective careers we’ve worked in buildings that were close enough together that we’ve been able to share a morning commute. We’d park in the parking garage next to where she worked and I’d have a nice morning walk. I’d take the bus home while she’d work a ten-hour day and then on Fridays I’d drive in by myself and she’d have one day with the house to herself.

Now that she’s permanently working from home we’re looking at cheaper parking options, probably in one of the lots near where I work, which is fine with me because I have a love-hate relationship with parking garages. Or rather I love to hate parking garages and would be fine with an open-air lot. Even if it’s cold or raining, or cold and raining, at least I won’t have as far to walk. And on nice days, well, there’s nothing preventing me from taking a nice morning walk before I start the workday, and the best part is that, unlike the current arrangement which has me stuck walking only one direction, I can ramble wherever I want. I’ve even thought about where I’d go—a walk I’ve taken many times on lunch breaks because when it’s a nice day I like to just get out and walk, and many times I’ve found my way down Division Street, which takes me past The Red Door Saloon and the local Gilda’s Club, a place for anyone who’s been affected by cancer, and sometimes I even walk up to the famous, or infamous, Musica statue.

Designed by local sculptor Alan LeQuire, who also made the Athena sculpture in the Parthenon, it’s nine naked figures dancing. It’s very tasteful, done in a classical style, but it’s a little bit controversial. I guess the city has a love-hate relationship with it: some people love it, some people hate it, and some people have put clothes on the statues, which I love because it’s hilarious and I hate to have missed it.

The only problem with walking that way is the Musica sculpture is in the middle of a roundabout and I have a love-hate relationship with roundabouts. As a driver I like roundabouts—they make everyone slow down and be conscious of where they’re going and if everyone behaves no one has to stop. They’re actually safer than four-way stops and the Freakonomics podcast just did an episode called Should Traffic Lights Be Abolished? that looks at just how much safer roundabouts are and tries to answer the question, why aren’t they more popular in the U.S.? Spoiler alert: no one knows.

Except as a pedestrian I hate roundabouts because, well, no one has to stop. The roundabout that surrounds the Musica sculpture is called The Buddy Killen Circle and I think it could just as easily be called The Pedestrian Killen Circle. Or maybe I should just skip the walk and drive there.

Source: Wikipedia. I didn’t have my phone with me so I didn’t take a picture of the turtle but this is what he looked like.

So I was walking to the mailbox after approximately forty days and forty nights of rain which is supposedly the amount of time it rained when Noah took all the animals into the ark, but if you’ve ever read Julian Barnes’s A History Of The World In 10 and ½ Chapters you know that much rain is “an average English summer”, but that’s another story. And it reminded me that one of the things I won’t miss when I finally go back to the office, which I’m pretty sure is going to happen in a matter of weeks since I’m getting my second shot soon, is a giant puddle that forms around a corner next to my building and which I have to navigate around if I want to get to the other side of the street. That giant puddle forms every time it rains, even if it’s just forty seconds of rain, and it’s right around a fire hydrant which makes me think that when it rains the hydrant is sitting there saying, “I’ll just let out a little to release some of the pressure, no one’s going to notice” and it ends up flooding the area.

All this is completely irrelevant to what happened next: I found a box turtle in the middle of the street. Turtles traditionally are seen as wise creatures, and, admittedly, it took some brains to write “Happy Together”, a song that I’m pretty sure has made a mint because it’s been used in so many commercials. Seeing a turtle out in the middle of the street, though, is enough to make me question their intelligence, especially since this one had gotten to the middle of the street and appeared to have decided to take a nap. It might have been in the sweet spot to avoid cars going either way but I didn’t want to take a chance and picked it up and carried it to our yard. I took it all the way to the wooded area beyond our yard so it would be safe from our dogs and hopefully other predators. And while I was doing this the turtle apparently woke up and came out of its shell, waving its legs and hissing at me, maybe saying, “Okay, this is fine, this is past where I was headed, buddy!” but I kept going anyway.

When I got back my wife asked what I was doing at the back of the yard. I told her I was relocating a box turtle I’d found in the middle of the street.

“Oh no,” she said, “now you’ve taken him out of his range and he’ll be confused.”

At least I carried him in the direction he’d been heading—when I found him he was facing our house, and I felt guilty for a minute but then I started thinking, hey, how much of a sense of a direction or place do turtles even have? Why would he even care? Wouldn’t he be happier in the woods anyway? Maybe he’ll find some other turtles—I know they’re back there because I’ve seen them—and they can have a reunion tour.

All this is completely irrelevant to the fact that this happened about halfway through last week and I’ve just realized I forgot to pick up the mail.

So I’m a fast walker, at least when I’m going somewhere. Back before the lockdown, before everyone started working from home, we’d regularly have work meetings in a building other than the one where we normally worked because I work for a library and we have departments spread out all over the place, not only because there are multiple library branches but also because some departments were moved out of the library long ago to, well, make room for more books. We were working remotely before it was cool, but that’s another story. Anyway when we have those meetings in other buildings sometimes the people I work with will tell me, “You go on ahead, I’m not going to try and keep up with you!” And what they don’t realize is there’s coffee and pastries at those meetings so I walk fast because I want to get there before all the cheese Danish are gone.

To be clear I’m not a speed-walker and I’m not going to win any Olympic race walking competitions—which really is a thing. I’ve got fairly short legs and I’m not that athletic. It’s just that when I get walking I set a pretty good pace. Once when I was taking a bus somewhere I got off at the wrong stop, and rather than sit and wait for the next bus I decided to walk back to the bus station. I wasn’t in any great hurry and enjoyed what I thought was a leisurely stroll through some nice neighborhoods. Later, just out of curiosity, I used Google Maps to figure out how far I’d walked, and, having checked how long I spent walking, I calculated that I’d kept up a pace of about four miles an hour. That’s no four-minute mile but it’s not too shabby either. At that rate I could walk from New York to Los Angeles in less than two years which, yeah, may not be the best illustration.

Anyway I do have a point here even if I’ve taken the scenic route getting to it, and it’s this from Science Daily:

Slow walkers are almost four times more likely to die from COVID-19, and have over twice the risk of contracting a severe version of the virus, according to a team of researchers from the National Institute for Health Research (NIHR) Leicester Biomedical Research Centre led by Professor Tom Yates at the University of Leicester.

That’s really good news, or at least it would be if I hadn’t already gotten my first vaccine shot and I’m scheduled to get the next one before the end of the month. I’m glad to know that for the past year while I’ve been avoiding people and not going out so much I was at least doing something that reduced my risk even if I didn’t know I was doing it. And while I don’t want to jump the line I will be walking briskly to get my second shot, although mostly because the place where they’re giving out the shots they also have free coffee and if I get there early maybe I can get a cheese Danish.