Among 1352 guitar pickers

Nashville, Tennessee — 2876.7 miles

Says Tamara K.: "I check my email once a week, whether I need to or not."

Late yesterday, she did, and after a bit of voice chatter, we met for breakfast at a Cracker Barrel. Like many Southern women I know — she describes herself as an Atlanta girl — she carries the wisdom of the years, but it's not visible as lines on the face: you read it in her eyes, and you discover that someone who is probably smarter than you and who can probably kick your butt nine ways to Sunday is someone you ought to cherish. Besides, she seemed amused that I had a small grasp of the importance of Kingston Pike, a few blocks away, and I think I didn't bore her too much:

I suggested that she could write rings around me: consider that an arc.

The run to Nashville was largely inconsequential; I dropped off I-40 at Lebanon and entered Music City by way of US 70, and inasmuch as I'd gained an hour by crossing back into Central time, I decided to see if I could get myself into a Nashville frame of mind. When I was a pup, WSM used to pump out the Opry on weekends and good C&W the rest of the time; on the other hand, WLAC, the other big radio blowtorch in town, had the legendary John R., rock and roll, and R&B. But WLAC is talk these days — I dialed over and found Rush Limbaugh — so WSM it was, and they obliged me with Hank, and I mean Hank Sr. I drove around for about an hour and a half, and I suspect I'm no closer than before to understanding that which is Music City, though I did wander over to the fortress of Gaylord Entertainment just for, um, laughs.

Winston Rand of nobody asked offered me the Grand Tour, about which more after it happens.