Nashville, Tennessee, is many things.
Tennessee is unhurried. It remains unphased by the quickening of the world, all notions of hustle suffocated in the wake of the humidity with its corresponding bustle drowned in sweat beneath a pitiless sun. Oppressive even in the early morning hours, this heat beats down on Nashville’s streets, leaving little room for flights of fancy.
Nashville is the land of guitars; guitars picked and tuned or dusty and forgotten. It’s the land of cowboy boots stylishly complementing their ensemble or standing horribly cliched against a backdrop of stereotypes. It’s the land of flaming hot chicken commercialized and spread within its borders to be enjoyed with peanuts swimming in chilled Coca-Cola.
Nashville is also the land of fairy tales; everyone is one hook away from realizing their dreams. Dubbed Music City through its rich history of “picking and grinning,” Nashville enjoys throngs of these starry-eyed musicians and songwriters that fill her streets to bursting. Many found within her neon streets begging the blessing of famed ghosts from years past leave her concrete edifices with nothing but those dreams to catch dust along with their guitars once the city is done with them.
Good old Nashville—breaking hearts and records since the days of silver screens.
Yet, none of these were reasons I’d had for visiting. Nashville, Tennesee, has been a long-awaited destination of my own for other reasons; there, in the unlikeliest of places, sits a full-scale replica of the original Parthenon of Athens in Centennial Park.
