A Turn in the South

Via SHNV

Off to a wedding in Oxford, Miss. Thought I would fly there. But you can’t — you have to go to Memphis, then drive for an hour.

The only other time I was in Oxford, I flew in — to Oxford itself, I mean. The occasion was a Firing Line debate. I was part of the Buckley entourage, you might say. We had flown privately.

But if you’re flyin’ commercial — it’s Memphis for you, buddy.

Surely one of the best things about the Memphis airport is the smell of barbecue. I’m later told that the joints in the airport are lousy. That they are pale imitations of their counterparts in town. I’ll test one of those airport joints on my return.

Across from the rental-car agency is the Catfish Cabin. “From 11 to 4, you can’t get a place in the parking lot,” someone says. “It’s completely full.”

In the rental-car agency, I hear one of my favorite terms: “ink pen,” with the second word pronounced “pin.”

Nearing Oxford, I speak on the phone with a nice young woman at the hotel. “Just look for the tower on your left,” she tells me. “Can’t miss it.” Ten minutes later, I blow past the place. When I circle back, I count the floors in the tower: eight.

The establishment’s slogan is “The only five-smile hotel in the South.” Nice. But I bet you can get plenty of smiles in hotels across this region.

Everywhere I go, people wave at me. It’s as though they were happy to see me. Cars with green lights stop to let me cross. I’m on foot. I’m waiting at the red light, as one should. But the drivers think it’s more important that I cross than that they proceed.

Remarkable.

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A Turn in the South