The Arrival

Welcome friends! Below you'll find the first post in my "culture shock journal."



We said our final goodbyes to our lovely, wicked city in a shocking summer downpour which my brother stood in and let drench him. The streets of the Verrazanno Bridge were black and slick on our way out of town.

Our drive down to Nashville was unremarkable except for the godawful stench that filled the cab of the U-Haul every time my brother opened his bag of beef jerky and the two boys went at it. I stuck to my vegetarian diet of ShockTarts and Gatorade, thank you very much. We arrived in the middle of the night and unpacked (with much grumbling from yours truly).

Our first Nashville activities: celebrating the Fourth of July by attending the First Annual Hot Chicken Festival; and buying a car (Exhibit 1). Both were carried off gallantly! We withstood the heat magnificently! We bought an ’86 Toyota Camry for $1200 thriftily! For those not in the know: “hot chicken” is Nashville’s specialty regional food and describes a chicken that has been fried in a batter consisting largely of cayenne pepper. “Hot” is an understatement: it is barely edible. Extreme caution and volumes of iced tea are urged.

We found the car after scouring the scummiest used car lots imaginable, think toothless hill folk smoking Marlboros in stifling trailers marked “Almost Perfect Used Cars” and you’ve got the idea. (Yes, I know that’s your idea of the entire city, New Yorkers!) But we found our little honey and off we went. She does a serene 55 on the highway – what’s the rush?

Our house is just as cute and perfect as when we left her, though there is more petty thievery in Nashville than Brooklyn! (Or at least it seems like it.) Most of you know that our AC was stolen while we were still in NYC. Also stolen: custom storm window and gate to the backyard fence. Why? I haven’t the least clue, and neither does anyone else.

Our neighbors are friendly! The woman from next door, Hattie Henderson, divested herself of the hugest cabbage Omid and I had ever seen in a show of neighborly generosity (Exhibit 2). Thankfully Omid has a passion for cole slaw, but wow. Neighbors of note: Hattie's grown son, Spanky, who sits in the backyard all day drinking 40s and smoking reefer. He gave Omid a confused leer through the window the other day, and when Omid went outside to see what was up he asked to “borrow a dollar for a few hours.” (Omid declined.) Also: the woman across the street is known to all to be crazy and obsessed with kids. She follows kids to the bus-stop, trespasses at the day care and keeps her medication in her mailbox (or so we’ve been told by other neighbors). We met when I was doing a little yard work and within minutes she asked if I had kids. Gulp.

One of the things I’ve found most pleasing about moving to Nashville is the streamlining of possibilities. In New York, everything is going on all the time; it’s a virtual glut of activity that sometimes feels unmanageable. Nashville, being a much smaller city, has fewer things to offer at any given moment, but a greater sense of intimacy. Case in point: Omid and I were invited to Nashville’s monthly “gallery crawl” by our friends Don and Marissa. The 5 or 6 galleries involved were easily within walking distance, and the atmosphere was one of a progressive party: snacks, people-watching, art-chat. It was fun! (And a lot of the artwork was affordable – and did NOT involve corn cobs.)

Omid and I are looking forward to exploring Nashville, from the metal club The Muse to the shops and yoga studios and restaurants. Everyone keeps telling us we arrived at the “right time” to be part of Nashville’s culture explosion! Yes!

Bad news:
According to my mother, who tramped around to survey, poison ivy grows everywhere in our back yard. Being allergic in the extreme, I had only to hear that and see the evil vine and I was immediately plagued with the grossest, most miserable affliction of poison ivy from shoulders to knees. Sigh. Our moving in and settling down has been slowed for the moment, as I pause for an extended Benadryl daze, and a vain little prayer that it doesn’t spread to my face.

Culture shock items:
Of these there have been oddly few, and I expect I’ll start feeling it more when I return to work and mingle a bit more extensively with the natives. But so far I’ve noted: women and girls wear tons of make-up and walk around in the summer practically naked. Overheard from a security guard at the Nashville Board of Ed: “I’ll tell yuh, some a these little girls look lahk they just stepped out of the Klassic Kat club down town!” I assume I don’t have to tell you what kind of establishment the Klassic Kat is.

Note: Names have been changed to protect the innocent.