We spent three days in Memphis. Punctuated by visits to the River to stare out wistfully and imagine canoe-shaped dots on the opposite shore, we were a bit sad.
But Memphis claims to be the heart of the Blues. ‘The blues ain’t nothin’ but the truth set to music’ she sang at the only band we saw -for free in a dilapidated park.
From Memphis, we got nervous in a down-and-out neighbourhood on the outskirts of the city. Then a woman wordlessly bought us lunch at Subway. We got a ride with Mike, the former meth dealer with a shotgun and a kind heart, to Grenada, Mississippi (at least 60 miles out of his way). In Grenada, Dan, a middle aged man, in a pickup truck picked us up and drove us to a truck stop in Winona as night fell. We held our sign up near the pumps in the fluorescent glow of the gas station, but with no luck. We camped behind rows and rows of sleeping truckers.