Our hosts are lost in America, in the heart of America. How can they survive there, two Canadians, two innocent and open-souled Canadians, in the middle of Nashville? Wasn't one of them mugged almost as soon as he arrived? Wasn't he bounced violently against a chainlink fence by the punches?
Lying on the ground, he vowed never to go out again. Better to stay inside, with your Bourbon. Better to venture only out to your porch, with your Bourbon. And that's where he sits in the evening, watching the joggers in what he calls 'yuppie hour'.
Bourbon makes a great deal of sense in America. W. calls it 'sipping Bourbon'. Let's go and get some sipping Bourbon, he says. We bring home a bottle of Knob Creek or Woodford Reserve and drink it over ice on the porch.
Our hosts play us old blues songs, and sing for us. All Canadians can sing, in our imagination. They have compulsory singing lessons just as they have compulsory swimming lessons. We tell them they should never venture further than their porch. They should sit there on the porch, and that's as far as they should go, sipping Bourbon and singing duets in the American night.
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