Ice-Water

Knoxville is a likeable city, we agree. The wide streets. The sense of air and elevation. Yee-Haw Industries, selling letterpressed posters … We feel our souls expand after the first leg of our long journey.

Of course, for Americans, our journey wouldn't have been long at all. They're great travellers. They drive from one side of their continent to the other. And then from the top of their continent all the way down.

But our hosts are exhausted. The Canadian contemplates the expanse rather than drive forth into it, they tell us. The Canadian looks to settle his soul, not to unsettle it.

As we lunch, the waiter refills our glasses with ice-water (that's what they call it over here: ice-water, not iced water, we note). He's so attentive. So unbegrudging. This is the legendary American service about which we've heard so much.

Sal tells him we have nothing like it at home. Waiting staff would put your eyes our as soon as look at you. Unless they're Polish, of course. We like the Poles of Plymouth. A gentle people, full of grace. They always travel upstairs on the bus. They like the views, the Poles.

Cormac McCarthy wrote a book about Knoxville, our waiter tells us. He's from round here. We should read The Road, our waiter says. It's great. Really depressing. The waiter tells us he wants to be a writer, that's why he's studying here. What does he want to write about? Oh, you know, everything, he says. 

I should show him my American notebooks, W. says. They're full of wisdom, aren't they? Oh you're a writer as well, says our waiter. No, he's not a writer, he's an idiot, says W.