Downtown Nashville consists largely of car parks. Odd bits of metal stick out of the ground at shin height. This is not a town for pedestrians, says W.
The honky tonks distress us with their noise and clamour. A fully outfitted cowboy walks down the street. – 'Must be German', says W.
We visit the full size concrete replica of the Parthenon. It sits vast and unapologetic in the sun. Why is it here? Why here, rather than anywhere else? These questions bewilder us.
Why?, cries W. Why? He needs shaking, he says. I should grab him by the lapels and slap him. Why?, I ask a passerby. Nashville's known as the Athens of the South, I'm told. It's because of all the universities. The educational institutions. We're in the Athens of the South, I tell W. Did he know that?
At Katie K.'s Western Outfitters, W. decides to be my dresser. He knows I've always wanted a Nudie Suit, or at the very least a Western-style shirt. I want Rhinestone embroidery! I want fringes!
W.'s sympathetic. He fetches me Western-style shirts, bootlace ties and cowboy boots, while I stand in the dressing room in my pants. But nothing will do. I still don't look like a Rhinestone Cowboy.
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