Memphis Tennessee

I was warned several times from people who care about me that I should stay away from Memphis Tennessee.

They said it had the worst crime rate in America. They said it was dangerous and ugly. They made a big deal out of it—so much so that their dire exclamatives had the opposite effect on me. If Memphis was that terrible and horrible and filled with scary, vicious, murderous people who are hell bound train-bent towards preying upon me unto my own tragic, painful death, well, I had to see that one for myself.

After spending five days and nights carousing about the place, all I can say is, and to my loved ones I mean to say this in a kind, gentle, and loving way:

I beg to differ!

—

Rolling into Memphis from the north via U.S. Highway 51, one does not get the feeling that the old and once venerable city is putting its best foot forward. As the downtown skyway comes into view the streets take on a desolate, run down character with lots of vacant, graffiti-covered storefronts, and houses that are either abandoned or in desperate need of repair. It was a rather disheartening sight, and I wondered aloud over the now slow-going rumbling of my Harley if the warnings were true—that Memphis was a town that I would have been better off bypassing.

An hour or two before arriving at the northern outskirts of Memphis, I had already witnessed firsthand the depressing results of a city gone totally bad. Cairo Illinois is the worst example that I’ve ever seen of urban death. It must be a leading poster child of what a failed municipality looks and feels like, and it was disturbing. An ill-fated and self-destructive place if there ever was one, Cairo is the victim of virtually everything that can go wrong in a place that was once as prosperous as any town in America.

It had boomed for a while, but then catastrophic floods, lynchings, extreme and violent civil rights unrest, railroads rerouting, technological advancements rendering once-profitable industries such as large-scale ferry crossing and riverboat traffic obsolete—and who knows what all else—killed it.

Cairo once boasted a population that numbered nearly 16,000, but the most recent census states that the current population is a little over 100 residents. I think the Census Bureau is being either hopeful or exceedingly generous, as I never saw a single person—not even a stray dog or rat—during my entire drive through the whole area. You could tell that Cairo was once a beautiful place with lots of late 19^th Century architecture and decaying wealth on display, but in 2026 every building that I saw was boarded up and graffiti-ed. It is hard to imagine that a town that straddles the confluence of the great Mississippi and the Ohio Rivers couldn’t find some way to adjust to the times. But it didn’t and for that I was sad.

I didn’t know much of anything about Cairo before this trip other than the fact that Huck and Jim missed the turnoff to the Ohio River and Jim’s freedom during their Mississippi River raft adventure, and I thought it would be a fun place to explore. That Cairo was not, and yet despite the disappointment I still have hope. Maybe someday China, the UAE, or an American billionaire or two will recognize the inherent value and endless array of possibilities that the extraordinary bare bones remains of Cairo Illinois has to offer….

The real estate must be danged near free, and most of the historical buildings are brick and, thus, preservable. I see faux riverboat gambling and glamorous hotel casinos, a Greenfield Village/Williamsburg Virginia-style historical village featuring life on the river circa-1830, riverfront luxury condos with yacht marinas, and a throw-caution-to-the-wind, trend-exploding foodie scene, where Southern Cuisine/international fusion restaurants compete with each other to see just how crazy cuisine-without-boundaries can really be!

Meanwhile, back in Memphis.

—

As I rode into Memphis visions of Cairo came to mind, but they only lasted a few minutes. Crossing a large bridge over some railroad tracks the first thing that came into view was a giant, and I do mean giant, glass pyramid (more on that later). Then, just a few blocks in, Memphis transforms. Much like entering Oz but instead of going from black/white to technicolor, the downtown transforms from an urban wasteland into a vibrant, clean, beckoning metropolis that at first and second glance is delightful!

I pulled over into a nice (shaded) park and looked for lodging. Usually, when motorcycling around more or less randomly, I reserve a place to stay at least the day before, but an earlier search showed me that there was plenty available in Downton Memphis. So, I figured I could grab something last minute. This was my first mistake, which turned out to be one of the best of many amazing breaks soon to come…. 

A prominent hotel on the Booking.com list was a place called the Peabody Hotel, and it looked beautiful—and first rate. Therefore, I was surprised to read that it would only cost a bit over $175 if I stayed there for two nights. I texted my globetrotting life-partner to solicit her opinion, and she gave the Peabody an enthusiastic thumbs-up at that price, sharing that she had stayed there many times and loved it. She marveled at my thrifty discovery, and mentioned offhand, something about a “parade of ducks.” I was so excited about the chance to stay in a high end, luxury hotel at such a bargain price that I let the duck thing slip by without any inquiry.

I called from my shady spot in the park, the desk lady was a gem, reservations were a snap, and the phone map worked like a charm. By the time I pulled into the private circle in front of the Peabody Hotel I was so full of confidence that I just plowed into the valet parking stand right in front of the glorious front doors and parked my bike right in the middle of it all. I didn’t even bother to back it in. I just lurched up to the curb front wheel first and cut the motor. Rich people were taken aback but the formally uniformed valets just smiled and gave me the one-armed, open palm flourish and waved me a hearty welcome.

I got off my bug- and road grime-covered motorcycle and tossed my 6XL leather jacket on the gas tank, where it immediately slid off onto the ground. I didn’t even pick it up, letting it lay in a disheveled heap next to the Harley like a medium-sized, slumbering bear, and went through the sliding valet side door and entered the establishment—where I was stunned—and struck speechless at the sight of the hotel lobby.

Somebody had a truly amazing level of interior design vision, as well as early 20^th Century millions, because the Peabody is majestic. Awe-inspiring. As hotels go, I can’t remember seeing anything in the world that can top it, and only a few that can compare. It really is a one-of-a-kind beautiful example of the best of human architecture that, as it turns out, comes with a per-night price to match.

I strode up to the front desk grinning like a fool in my blue flannel shirt, with my two-ton road-weary backpack not-so-subtly contrasting with all the others’ luggage—and stated my name. I have a reservation for two nights and would like to check in, I stated with authority, and the front desk lady could not have been more gracious. She responded to my request with equal but uber-helpful authority, thanking me profusely for choosing the Peabody Hotel, handing me my room key card, and printing out and providing me with the detailed receipt.

I was still grinning like a fool as I slid toward me the receipt across the giant, chest-high reception desk. But my facial expression quickly swapped out into a distinct frown when I saw the price that was printed at the bottom of the receipt. It was just shy of $500.

“Um, I’m only staying two nights, so I think we have a slight mistake here,” I whispered, hopefully.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry Mr. Elliott, the desk lady answered cheerfully. “Let me see your receipt please, and I will correct it right now!”

She looked carefully at my printed receipt, then she typed on her computer, scanned the screen, typed some more, looked the screen up and down even more carefully, and typed again while moving her face closer to the computer screen.

Then she squinted intently and nodded her head in a way that implied that she was reading the whole page from top to bottom.

“No Mr. Elliott, everything looks fine,” she announced, finally. “Which mistake are you referring to?”

As the words “I’m only staying two nights” left my mouth, my shit for a brain simultaneously cleared the whole thing up for me. I was the one who was mistaken. No longer a grinning fool, I was instead just a fool—who didn’t read the fine print on the booking.com Peabody Hotel offering where it said in tiny, but clear as day letters, “$175 per night.

Not wishing to leave any doubts unanswered, my wonderful desk person stated, soothingly, “Oh yes, Mr. Elliott, now I see what you are referring to. The extra charges! Well, there is a Memphis and Tennessee state room tax that is in addition to our room price, we have processing fees, and a self-parking fee.”

There were a few more charges that she continued to tick off but by then my mind was in a state of blur.

“Does that make sense?” she asked.

Of course, I replied simply, not wanting to make any clearer the idiot that I am. I smiled and thanked the desk lady for spending extra time with me while so many others were now waiting so patiently, then I turned around, and walked toward a huge, ornate, spouting, and gurgling indoor fountain.

I looked down into the gathered pondlet that circled the oversized lobby-anchoring water feature, still taken aback by my back account-draining blunder, and came face to beak with a bunch of live mallards. Ducks. Ducks that were seemingly living in the fountain of one of the most beautiful and exclusive hotels that I had ever seen.

Ah yes, Rachel’s marching ducks, I thought to myself. I’m not really seeing the marching thing, I thought further, as the ducks quacked loudly and flapped their wings. They aren’t even trying to climb out of the fountain.

Thinking it was time for a drink, I forgot all about my motorcycle waiting so obtrusively in the valet parking area and made my way to a stately and inviting bar that was a secondary yet nonetheless equally impressive anchor of the Peabody lobby. As I ordered an extra dirty Grey Goose martini, I noticed that the huge and exquisitely furnished lobby was filling up rather quickly, for no discernable reason. The ducks weren’t doing anything special.

As I sipped (gulped) at my martini, I was blessed to meet the couple sitting next to me. Teagan and Matt, of Rochester New York, were delightful and it turned out that they were the “Stevie and Mick” of a touring Fleetwood Mac tribute band called The Seven Wonders.

They were enthusiastic rock n roll lovers who maintained an encyclopedic level of music appreciation besides the entire Fleetwood Mac catalogue. I was especially thrilled to enjoy a few cocktails with them when  they were able to regale in accurate detail all the crazy underappreciated Detroit music from the 1960’s and early 1970’s that I so loved.

It was they who explained to me that the reason the hotel lobby was so packed was because in a few minutes a ceremony would commence.

At precisely 6:30 PM the ducks, they shared, would hop out of the fountain and leave their daytime home, march across a red carpet in unison and into one of the ancient elevators, load up, and ascend to the penthouse suite, where they would share the best room in the house for the night. Teagan explained to me that the same thing happens in reverse at 11 AM each day.

Now, I am a duck lover from way back when my first childhood pet was a domestic quacker named Jinxy, so I am heavily biased towards waterfowl. I’m here to say that the whole thing was cool. Really cool.

The ceremony was emceed by a red coated, ultra-formally attired entertainer who described the history of the Peabody Hotel March of the Ducks, and it was he who ushered the ducks into their awaiting elevator.

I was thrilled! I sat on the edge of my barstool grinning from ear to ear, and clapped enthusiastically, like a seal who is just about to be presented with a whole bucketful of herrings! Teagan, Matt and I toasted enthusiastically to our collectively great fortune.

The afternoon went downhill from there.

—

OK. All right. Let’s just stop right there.

I was going to go on and on with a sort of dumb ass me/fish out of water thing, but this is a blog post, not a chapter from a narcissistic self-help book.

1. I already wrote that book [See the bottom of the homepage]

2. I’m bored with myself; therefore, I can only imagine how you, the reader must feel—so fuck that. I’ll cut it short. Be succinct. Which is about as far of a fish out of water thing as I’ll ever do.

—

Anyway, back to Memphis.

After the duck parade, I remembered that my motorcycle was still out front some four hours later and now I was hungry. I dropped my stuff off at my room, took a small amount of frowning but good-natured guff from the valets, and rode over to Central Barbecue—where I discovered that I had lost my wallet—which contained all my credit cards. Which left me with exactly enough cash to buy one half-rack of ribs. No sides. No drinks. No tip.

In rapid succession I: searched my bike, my hotel room, and the Peabody Bar area to no avail; got pasted at said bar on eight more Grey Goose dirty martinis with beer backs that I irresponsibly charged to my room, passed out without a good night call to my sweetie, and woke up at 2 AM with a splitting headache and the Sahara Desert having moved its shifting sands into my mouth and throat.

I waited till later in the morning and rode over to the Bumbus Harley Davidson shop (I forgot to mention that my bike was mysteriously misting itself with oil as I rode intoMemphis), where I found out that after repairs, I would now owe $1,335. Which would need to come from a credit card that was apparently floating around rudderless on some street in Memphis.

I learned that my Sweetie was pissed about the no-call when I finally did check in, but she got over it, paid the Harley tab over the phone, flew down with fresh credit cards and cash, and for the next four days we had an absolute blast in Memphis Tennessee.

[A huge shout out to the guys from Bumpus Harley Davidson! Even though they were overrun with service requests they bumped me to number one and fixed me up on the spot. They also found a way to repair my spewing motor while saving me at least some money—it could have been much worse. So, thanks, Bumpus Harley Davidson! You’re the best!]

Anyway, back to being succinct.

Memphis truly is mega-cool. There are several extraordinary museums, including The Civil Rights Museum, housed in the Lorraine Motel, where Martin Luther King was murdered, the AMAZING Cotton Museum, and Sun Records, where Elvis, Johnny Cash, Jerry Lee Lewis, and Carl Perkins, among others, originally recorded.

Right in the middle of downtown Memphis is a giant pyramid that once housed the Memphis NBA basketball team—but now is the headquarters for Bass Pros Shops. The pyramid is Mall of America/almost Grand Canyon big and, in addition to every kind of hunting, fishing, boating/recreating thing one could ever dream of, in massive quantities—there are also several live alligators, gar and sturgeons swimming around in real life-sized ponds.  

Beale Street is the place to enjoy killer live music and party.

The architecture of many of the old buildings is stunning, and there are dozens of streets filled with old school mansions.

The culinary scene is rocking, with a special note being The Beauty Shop, which is a restaurant that is converted from the beauty shop where Priscilla Presley used to get her beehive, or bouffant, or whatever it was, tossed and teased out to perfection. It still looks exactly like a 1960’s beauty shop, except it also had a bunch of dining tables and a bar where the reception area used to be. Also, as if just being Priscilla's converted hair salon isn’t exceptional enough, the food at The Beauty Shop is killer.

But forget about all that.

When we finally had to move on after four days, my Sweetie and me promised each other that we would be back. Soon.

Because of the barbecue.

—

I was hoping to find some really exceptional barbecue on this trip, but I could never have imagined how extraordinary and unique the barbecue is in Memphis. Rachel and I, other than a lunch visit to the Beauty Shop, ate nothing else for our entire stay.

We went to Payne’s BBQ, Central Barbecue (twice- three times if you include my moneyless solo visit), Cozy Corner, and The Interstate BBQ. Which is a way of saying, we only scratched the surface. All four that we tried were CRAZY good, and each was completely unique from the others. The subtle differences were amazing: the briskets were all different from one another; each had its own one-of-a-kind rib rub; each had a differing level of wood fire smoking; each came with a variety of sauces that were themselves unique, each had a special menu item that only each place had….

And each had a kickass barbecue bologna sandwich.

My sweetheart and I sampled the ribs, the brisket, a specialty, and an array of sides at each lunch and dinner. I should be ashamed to say it, but I also had a barbecued bologna sandwich at each barbecue joint. Loyally sticking to my succinct ways, I will NOT rave about the bologna sandwich experience. BUT THEY ARE FUCKING AMAZING.

Every person that I’ve mentioned this newly discovered food-addiction to, responds by making a face akin to a college freshman after their virgin multiple shots of cheap tequila extravaganza. But I love ‘em, and apparently many Tennesseans and Mississippians love ‘em too, because the thing is on every menu. And I don’t care what all these northerner, narrow-minded, culinary snobs think of a giant hunk of barbecued bologna on a grilled bun, topped with homemade coleslaw. I found them to be the surprise food revelation of my motorcycle jaunt.

Still, the barbecue ribs of Memphis Tennessee, in all their iterations, are the best in the world as far as I’m concerned.

Meanwhile, back to barbecued bologna sandwiches.

While idly gnawing on a rib bone at The Cozy Corner (a joint that, if I wasn’t being so succinct, I could go on for hours about regarding its massive coolness), my sweety and I speculated and compared notes on which BB sandwich we thought was the best. At the time she and I agreed that it was a tie, that each was excellent in its own way.

But after some way further in my journey, I have concluded that the best barbecue sandwich in the whole world, ever, can be found at…. (drum roll please), Tommy’s Roadside BBQ in Vicksburg Mississippi. Not a knock on all the killer sandwiches in Memphis, but Tommy must be crazy, because his bologna sandwich is totally nuts. It’s twice as big as anything found in Memphis, and the homemade bologna is smoked and sauced just right. It’s giant, tasty, and hard to eat. The dang thing isn’t even on Tommy’s menu—it’s so badass.

But I got it done even after I’d already had a smoked sausage/brisket combo sandwich, at which time after sharing my Memphis barbecue bologna sandwich experience with the proprietor, Tommy personally insisted that his BB sandwich was better’n anything in Memphis. He insisted to the point of daring me. I succumbed.

Right this minute, any astute reader who knows me, is thinking to themselves that this is the kind of activity/decision-making that led me from being a lithe, multi-sport world class athlete to a 400 lb. michelin blimp/doughboy.

—

Meanwhile, back to Memphis and being succinct.

I love Memphis and I can’t wait to come back. I’m not so naïve that I don’t see the downsides to this historic old town. The city has suffered some costly setbacks and struggles in many ways. Clearly there are large swaths of poverty and the decline is palpable.

I’ve even read that certain NBA superstars have stated their extreme level of dislike of playing the Memphis Grizzlies, because there’s nothing to do in town and they hate the city. They are actually trying to talk the NBA into forcing the Grizzlies to move somewhere else.

Anywhere but Memphis.

I’ll not respond as my heart wishes I would, as even some of my own loved ones tried their hardest to convince me to not even ride through.

“Go around,” they said.

In my world, everyone gets to have their opinion without me piping up when I disagree.

Still and yet, the way I see it, Memphis retains a beating heart that is real and I love that. The music on Beale Street is real. The barbecue is the most real deal food I’ve ever found outside of Paris and Florence Italy. The people I met in Memphis are real, and they are southern hospitality nice in ways seldom found in the U.S. these days.

Oh yeah, and Memphis has Graceland. If I wasn’t so committed to being succinct, I would explain why I didn’t visit.

—

Gotta go.

Going down to Clarksdale. I’ve been dreaming about this for most of my life.