Night falls and we are lost in the Smokies. Where's our cabin? Precipitous falls to the left and the right. Our host, the driver, is edgy. We get out and walk – the road's too steep for the car. What are we going to do?
Then we see it: the cabin. It's almost too late for our host. He's raving. What's he doing here? How did he end up here? He can't drive anymore, he, a non-driver! Not another mile! Later, he collapses on the balcony, still wet from the hot tub: the dying swan, half wrapped in a towel.
What's this country doing to him? How did he end up here? We talk softly to him over our Plymouth Gins cut with water. When he recovers, he speaks movingly of the early blues players. They led such short lives! But life is short! There's so little time! And here they are, our hosts, in America! What's going to become of them, Canadians in America?
We'd listened to early gospel and country blues while we drove. The Golden Gate Singers. Barbecue Bob. Memphis Minnie. It kept us sane. Route 441 took us through the 'Redneck Riviera', Pigeon Forge. With every mini-golf course or water ride we passed, our host sank lower. With every giant golden cross on a hilltop, every novelty motel and advert for apocalyptically-themed shows for all the family (aerial battles of angels; re-enactments of the crucifixion), his cries grew louder. Kroger's, The Old Time Country Shop, more huge crosses looming over nowhere … There's no room for satire, he wailed. It satirises itself! It satirises us! We're helpless!
Only turnip greens can save us, he decided. We put on a great pan of them in our cabin, to have with our Plymouth Gin. Turnip Greens! Barbecue Bob! Memphis Minnie! The Golden Gate Singers! These are the talismans that might allow him to survive the USA.
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