Nashville: The Spirited Women’s Guide to Music City.
Gonna Feel This in the Morning.
Any other Nashville virgins out there? It’s been on my bucket list, but never seemed to happen. And when I learned it’s the bachelorette party capital of the world… I was reluctant. With stag parties in the rearview, and kids still home, it never made my travel itinerary. Sadly, without realizing it, I had surrendered fun in favor of practicality.
But all that changed thanks to a shitty week at work and spontaneous friends at a brunch. It’s cold, it’s Minnesota winter, and I just landed in Nashville with a gaggle of spirited women for the weekend to prove that Stacy’s mom ain’t the only one who’s got it going on.
Pinterest vs. Pockets
Pinterest advised a moto jacket but I’m glad I brought the puffy coat. Plus, the thing has pockets. When you realize your clutch only carries a phone, pockets are a hot commodity. And don’t be fooled. Those jeans you ran out and bought at The Buckle don’t have pockets, at least not in the practical sense. Torn for the sake of fashion, they leave your credit card as unsupported as a full-figured girl in a tube top.
We gab a little, drop our bags at the hotel and make our way to lower Broadway. It’s nearly 11am on Day One and I’m contemplating another coffee when we round the corner and hear it. Live music. The voice sounds like a Blake Shelton bear hug, and something clicks. We’re midwestern gals with survival skills who anticipate warmth and suddenly crave beer. We mosey in and it’s not long before we’re on our first plate of tacos and second bucket of beers.
Ditch The Itinerary
There are six of us. A mix of first timers and seasoned Nashville pros which means no itinerary. I remember the days when planning was part of the fun, but when you’ve got a 72-hour pardon from the things that make you responsible, ditching an itinerary can be very liberating. The band asks where we’re from, gives a courtesy laugh to our Minnesota accents and dutifully plays Purple Rain. Southern hospitality at its finest.
You’re on Broadway. Not the Runway.
We make solid and steady progress but somewhere between the fourth and fifth bar, we realize we’ve been up since 6am and smell like TSA. We convalesce to the hotel to clean up, but we know that time is precious and are instinctively determined to work fast. In under 30 minutes, having done whatever necessary to appease the vanity gods, we emerge from our rooms through an enchanting haze of dry shampoo and great expectations. It’s time for round two.
I can’t stress this enough: spanks and stilettos have no place on a night like this. Wear what you can walk, move and dance in! Think about it: have any of your top ten nights ever included suffocating shapewear? And how many times have you kicked off fussy shoes to cut loose barefoot on the dance floor? Yep. You’re welcome.
Yeah, We Fancy Like…
Back on Broadway, we’ve slipped into the giggle side of tipsy which means it’s time to eat. This is when the Nashville pros take over. Here’s what I learned:
If you’re spending a weekend in Nashville and scrambling for dinner reservations, you’re doing it wrong. No disrespect to chic restauranteurs and Michelin chefs, but this is the time to allow for spontaneity without boxing yourself into overly scheduled culinary obligations. Let your impulse-driven decisions take the wheel. Equally important? Don’t forget to eat. Sounds hard to do but it’s not. You’re in a town that churns out mass quantities of amazing music and an endless selection of microbrews. All that cutting loose can make nourishment somehow feel second fiddle. Don’t let a lack of sustenance take your night from fearless dancing at Whisky Row to dry heaving in the hotel lobby.
No worries. Nashville provides. Think back to the last time you were buzzed and famished after a long night out. With most kitchens shut down after 10, you might have been lucky enough to score a frozen pizza at the bar. But when it comes to the lively town of honky-tonk, the buzzed and famished haul ass to the Nashville Assembly Food Hall. This ain’t no Applebee’s on a date night. Just steps off Broadway, the Assembly is an oasis of uniquely celebrated cuisine. Whether you crave Dim Sum, French Crepes or Chicken & Waffles, this three-level food haven has you covered. Who says the inebriated can’t eat with culinary dignity? Open from 9am - 1am Fridays and Saturdays, this is the place to pregame, refill and rally. And with several great bars to choose from, it’s not a bad place to find yourself a little hair of the dog.
But First, Brunch.
It’s Day Two and the blackout shades do battle with my inner clock. I eventually check the phone, take the Advil, and call the husband. My friend and roomie wakes so we work through the fog together, examining the devastating effects of beer bloat and making bullshit vows to take it easy today. After some coffee and a shower, the group at large meets in the lobby with one goal in mind: Brunch. It's still cold but the sun is shining so we hit the sidewalk and head west on Broadway to a neighborhood called The Gulch.
If Broadway is a bucket of suds, The Gulch is a smooth bourbon mix of stylish restaurants and retail. On the trendier side of honkytonk, The Gulch is considered Nashville’s premier urban neighborhood. Whether you’re looking for retail therapy, a slick atmosphere with fresh fusion menus, or you just need yourself a solid brunch experience, this is the place to jet.
If breakfast is a meal, Nashville reminds us that brunch is a culture, and for my groggy group this morning, it wasn’t even discussed: the Nashville pros conducted our hangover train straight to Biscuit Love. I saw a line outside wrapping around the building and instantly understood we weren’t having a meal, but rather a religious experience of southern fare. With menu items such as the Southern Benny, the Easy Nasty and of course, Biscuits and Gravy, I like to think that Biscuit Love is Nashville’s olive branch after pushing you too hard the night before.
Keep’er Movin’
Vows of sobriety fade as we make our way back to lower Broadway. We hear music and understand that the spirit of Nashville isn’t an intense need to party, but a strong desire to unwind. Looking for a solid rally, we follow the music.
Now is a good time to point out that nearly all musicians working on Broadway exist on tips. There aren’t cover charges to get into the bars and up near the action, so hear this: If you so much as tap your toes, you best haul your Yankee ass to the stage and tip the band. If you don’t, they’ll make their way to you with the old-fashioned tip jar. Good luck refusing the hungry bright eyes of a starving artist who just played the fiddle as if trained by Charlie Daniels himself.
Also, they actively seek out requests. I was initially thrown by this. I guess I wanted a vacation from everything, including decision making and Garth Brooks on repeat. But that’s when my friend – we’ll call her the cowboy magnet – decided to color outside the lines and make it a little weird. I can’t be certain, but I think she asked up to nine different bands to play Pitbull.
Just Dance.
Imagine if you will: There’s a handful of beautiful women sitting at the bar watching a great singer perform at Jason Aldean’s nightclub. They are the reason Instagram exists, with chic honky-tonk style (moto jackets), fabulous boots, polished nails, and perfect hair. They are young, and they are stunning.
Now look about four feet to their left. You’ll see a slightly older and wonderfully familiar gaggle of spirited women dancing their asses off because every song is oh-my-gawd their song. They jump and wiggle, clap and laugh. Equally stunning in their own right, they radiate fun, forsake self-consciousness and create memories.
As the set continues, the beauties at the bar can been seen tapping their fabulous footwear to the beat, lighting up as they lean into the music. But something’s wrong: they’re anchored to their barstools. The rugged cowboys at their sides (dates? husbands?) are dreadfully unaware of what’s happening, but the dancing queens see it. So, like a bunch of goodtime fairy godmothers, they swoop into action. Armed with spontaneity and a sympathetic desire to prevent this night from becoming a dull tragedy camouflaged by great selfies, the spirited godmothers take the young beauties by their hands, welcoming them onto the dancefloor to Bibbidy Bobbity, Dance!
I like to think these young women lived happily ever after.
Closing Time
While New York might be the city that never sleeps, Nashville’s the city that never stops. It’s an engine fueled by happy tourists, friendly locals, and an endless buffet of live music—and probably whisky. In a single Nashville weekend, I came away with more stories than I can count. Did we see the Grand Ole Opry? No. Did we nearly get run down by a pedal-pub of bridesmaids singing Jolene on Church Street? Absolutely. That’s the beauty of Nashville – it doesn’t mock you for skipping the tour. It rewards you for embracing the culture. As my beautiful gaggle of spirited friends say: Let Nashville Come to You. Whether you know the person next to you or not, you act like buddies. And whether you know the words or not, you sing the song.
