CLARKSVILLE, Tenn. — Greetings from a strange new world, Cuffers.
Some of The Reveille’s staffers and I are at a conference and we had one helluva time getting here.
I’ve heard that a mouse lost in a maze will curl into a fetal position in a corner and die.
Let’s just say last night some of us found corners and assumed the position, and you’re lucky to read this today.
We left the University around 11 a.m. Wednesday, Memphis bound.
I-55 through Mississippi is the most boring drive on earth.
The whole drive looked the same — pine trees, trailer park, cow field, pine trees, trailer park, cow field, etc.
We did see a few large-scale attractions including: “Dick Moore Housing,” Fred’s of Mississippi (next to Family Dollar) and Tiger Stadium (a 500-seater in Hernando, Miss.).
We arrived in Memphis, Tenn., passed up Graceland and began looking for our exit.
Some genius in the lead got off the interstate and, rather than following the GIANT, CLEARLY MARKED signs toward our destination, chose to guide us on a tour of the Memphis ghetto in an Astro van.
Once we find our way out of the ‘hood, our caravan proceeds to drive around in 1-block circles for about 5 minutes with the building in plain view.
Thankfully, a fresh-from-jail panhandler directed us to the building.
After our stop, dinner and a walk down Beale Street, we gathered the troops to head North on I-40 toward Nashville. I was leading.
Beside the restaurant where we ate stood a big “TO I-40” sign, so I followed it. The rest of the caravan did not.
My fellow drivers thought it would be a good idea to arbitrarily turn down some street after I accidentally stranded them at a light.
Someone from the Astro van calls and asks where we are in relation to them — as if we know anything about the streets of Memphis.
We meet back at the original sign and I lead again. BUT, there are no I-40 signs after the initial sign. The Astros call and ask , “Is there a plan here or are we just gonna go straight?” I make the international hand signal for “Shut the hell up.”
I pull over and ask for directions.
“Right at the third light and left under the interstate,” the Citgo clerk said.
I take another ghetto tour and ask a cop for directions. “Easiest way is to take a right at the light and make a left under the interstate. You’ll see it.”
Moral: when seeking the interstate in Memphis, just make a right at the third light and turn left under the interstate.
Two and a half hours after actually getting on the interstate, we exit onto what I like to call the “Professional driver on closed-course” road — you may have seen it on television.
At this juncture, your friendly Managing Editor takes the lead and flies through hairpin turns at near 100-mile-per-hour speeds.
We catch Kristen “Andretti” Meyer and crew in the small town of Dickson, Tenn. The Astro is nowhere in sight.
They call and bitch. We tell them to go straight until they see us parked and waiting. Too bad they can’t see me repeat the hand signal.
We made it to our hotel a half hour and three near-wrong turns later.
God, I love traveling in a group. Please save my sanity and e-mail me at [email protected].
Rebekah Monson