As we made our way west, we stopped off in the Great Smoky Mountains. After a short walk up to Clingmans Dome, we rewarded ourselves by cooking up some smoked cheddar cheese sausages over a camp fire and we proceeded to consume ten times more calories than we expended. Smores are considered to be in the vegetable food group, right?

You can't drive through Nashville and not visit the Grand Ole Opry. Everyone has sung there from Hank Williams to Patsy Cline to Norah Jones. We both love music but can't sing a lick, so we were quickly ushered off the stage. Perhaps we should have lip-synched. After picking up the mandatory six pack of "Goo-Goo Bars", we hit the road towards Memphis.

After walking along the river walk in Memphis, we made our way to Beale Street, which comes alive at night. When the sun goes down, this street is thriving with great live music, lively people and tasty food. We curbed our appetites at the Rum Boogie Cafe. We were feeling adventurous and ordered some Alligator Gumbo. We savored each morsel, cleansing our palates after every bite with hopes of better appreciating the flavor. The waitress returned and asked Matt how it tasted. He looked at her intently in the eye and said, "It tastes like chicken." She did not crack a smile but cautiously looked to her right then her left, and leaned forward towards Matt's ear. She said, in a whisper, "Well Honey, that's because it is chicken."

That night we found one of the least likely campgrounds imaginable. It was essentially a small parking lot filled with gravel on the edge of the lively interstate. There was no grass to be seen anywhere. In fact, the only green we saw was coming from the obnoxiously bright billboard beaming its neon lights 80 feet above the 1000 square foot campground. We were fairly certain we took a wrong turn somewhere, which was further validated when a person cloaked in a blood red outfit came charging towards us. Mind you, it was around 11:00pm (definitely after bedtime for campers) and our eyes were not focusing very well. Just as our hands fumbled around in the dark trying to raise the windows as quickly as possible, we heard inaudible noises coming in the direction of the rapidly approaching person who was walking with a sense of purpose. The purpose, we learned, was to collect the camping fee. After a brief interrogation as to why we did not stop to register and pay for a camp site, she began showing us to our home for the night. Before we had a chance to politely decline the offer of camping in this lovely gravel parking lot, she explained in her thick French accent that there was a nice patch of grass behind the bathroom (we thought we heard her say, "Le poisson, le poisson, hee hee hee, ha ha ha"). How can you refuse an offer like that, especially when it comes delivered in a thick French accent? The following morning we were invited into her home to have a much needed cup of coffee. She had also opened up her home to her granddaughter and great grand daughter and her childhood friend and her daughter, all of whom were from Mississippi and had been displaced by the hurricane. We eagerly listened to their stories of hardship for hours. As we thanked them for sharing their stories with us and made our way toward our car, they thanked us, repeatedly, for listening to their stories. They felt as if Mississippi had been forgotten about while New Orleans became the primary focus.

The next morning we found our way over to Graceland. We thought it was a bit expensive ($22/person) just to walk through Elvis's mansion, but definitely interesting and we got some great ideas as to how we would like to decorate our future home--carpeted walls and mirrors on the ceiling. We are glad we went but would not be inclined to pay for a second visit any time soon.