Wednesday night on Beale Street is Biker Night. (The Harley kind, not the Critical Mass kind). Evidently this is the night of the week where they let bikes onto this no-cars thoroughfare, so hogs of all stripes and sorts were lining both sides of the streets, and their owners were out in full force.
I don’t know if this is a Wednesday-night-only occurrence, a just-during-the-summer thing or if it happens every dang night, but Beale Street had blues coming from every nook, cranny, and alley–not just in the bars and clubs, as I expected, but set up outside, all up and down the street, like a street fair par excellence. And it wasn’t just “blues.” It was serious, dirty blues that means business. At twilight. In a park. Where a person like me could get her boogie on. For this Chicago native, it was ecstasy.
Did you know that people eat alligator? In Memphis, it is fried in strips like french fries. It was enough for me with all the pulled pork and fried catfish. This just put me over the edge of the treyf-o-meter.
OK, now off to Graceland.