The Longest Day
Nashville, TN
June 21, 2018
Life moves in cycles. Some times in long, slow Kilauean streams…at others in sudden Vesuvian bursts.
Among the ebbs and flows, familiar patterns form.
Seven lean years follow seven fat years. Stocks take the stairs up, and the elevator down. Leaves bud, bloom, and blush. Nations are born Stoic…and die epicurean.
To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven.
Disruption of these reliable rhythms, these soothing cycles, these tenacious traditions, should be hazarded with caution, if at all.
That said, like tanners to the perfumes of their trade, we can become anesthetized to the routine of our ruts.
My pattern the last several years has been to spend weary weeks between the banks of the Mississippi and the shore of the Missouri, punctuated by welcome weekends along the northern edge of the Chattahoochee.
Today, I abide along la rive gauche of the Cumberland, brushing off the moribund monotony of Missouri like a spark from a sweater…trying to keep it from burning the entire garment.
Meanwhile, the cycles continue to churn…today being the culmination of one wave and commencement of another. The solar pendulum has reached its apogee, and in the Northern Hemisphere Apollo’s steeds endure their most trying day.
When they return to earth, they can do worse for their recuperation than a night at the refurbished Union Station Hotel.
At the turn of the twentieth century eight rail lines carried passengers to or thru Nashville.
I am currently settled under the vaults and chandeliers adorning the lobby of this castellated Victorian Romanesque edifice, erected in 1900 to accommodate train traffic that once flowed from Chicago, Cincinnati, or St Louis to Atlanta, New Orleans, or St Petersburg.
World War II was the high-water mark of Nashville rail service. Afterward, with a flood of auto and air transport, the tide began to recede.
By the 1960s, only one line continued to serve the city. A decade later, it too was gone…leaving only pigeons and junk bonds as this terminal’s tenuous tenants.
Fires, neglect, and demolition finally eradicated the engineering marvel that served as the adjacent passenger platform and train shed.
Fortunately, the main terminal was restored, being resurrected in 2012 as part of the Autograph Collection of Marriott Hotels.
Among the appeal of these gorgeous central depots, to be found in St Louis and Denver as here in Nashville, is their easy proximity to the resurgent regions of their respective towns.
Several blocks away, basking in the light of this longest day, is a remarkable replica of the great Athenian shrine to Apollo’s sister, goddess of wisdom and warfare.
We have unfortunately inherited from her a dearth of the one and an abundance of the other, but this monument does ample homage to those wise and warlike Athenians who crowned their Acropolis with her temple.
The other direction, and of more modern vintage and image, are the bars, clubs, and restaurants of and off lower Broadway.
Among them is Oak Steakhouse, where last night I used a Bordeaux blend to somehow wash down charcuterie samplings, half a crab cake, six asparagi, and twenty ounces of medium rare ribeye grilled to a fine medium rare.
Oh…and a salad.
I honestly don’t know how I then inflicted a New York cheesecake on whatever blood managed, like rush hour traffic thru the Caldecott Tunnel, to meander the encrusted casing of my constricted arteries…but manners compelled acquiescence to the fine proprietors who bore the burden of brandishing that banquet.
Having survived to see a beautiful sun rise on this Summer solstice, I savored my morning coffee…and expected never to need to eat again.
Now, preparing to depart for the airport in an attempt to fly home, I peer out the window and anticipate other familiar patterns ominously asserting themselves: those of the sudden southern summer thunderstorm and its ne’er do-well offspring…the tarmac “ground hold”.
This day may yet be even longer than I thought.
JD
