Anatomy of a Tennessee Valley weekend

Anatomy of a Tennessee Valley Weekend There’s something about a short weekend trip that connects disparate points on a map. From Nashville, the journey south by southeast to our favorite big Tennessee city runs into several cherished places, one moreso in late April.

From Monteagle, we caught the traces of a twilight rich in pinks and reds. After several hot days in Nashville, the cool mountain air brought relief. Our hotel of choice in Monteagle, the little town atop the Cumberland Plateau. To the west lies Sewanee and Sewanee: The University of the South (aka the school I wish I knew about when I was looking for colleges).

Many area restaurants closed early, but one we visited before stayed open late enough to serve us. After a big dinner at Pearl’s Foggy Mountain Café – salmon for Nancy, asparagus risotto for me – we settled for a quiet night atop the plateau everyone mistakes for a mountain.

Nancy with Cornbread Alley goodness

 Beyond the sunshine, Saturday morning was almost chilly in Monteagle. We would not stay long - our fifth South Pittsburg pilgrimage awaited. The 20th annual National Cornbread Festival has evolved into one of our favorite Tennessee weekends – a night on Monteagle, a morning 5K and cornbread breakfast. We leave the hotel at 7:15 a.m., arrive at the 5K registration by 7:40.

Some tweaks to the course threw me off on this year’s Cornbread 5K. The course started on a grittier street and took a few new turns. The 200-person field looped through South Pittsburg’s historic neighborhoods, the final mile steadily climbs before abruptly rising to a triangular park. Then the route rewards its runners with a steep descent to the finish line. Despite walking several spans, I finished strongly, better than I have in years. We stepped from the finish line to Cornbread Alley.

After the first few festivals, we don’t dawdle anymore, we just jump to the important part – Cornbread Alley. Every year, its vendors offer new spins on cornbread for a mere $4 (5K participants get free entry to the festival and Cornbread Alley – combined with the technical running shirt, that makes this 5K the single-best in road races).

This year’s entries from local political, church and scouting groups was the best overall lineup we tasted. Not a dud soiled the bunch – flavors included cheesy chicken, sweet potato, blueberry, green chiles, jalapeno and chili. The last piece of cornbread is always bittersweet, since we’ll wait a year to load up another plate in Cornbread Alley.

By running the 5K, we arrive early and depart early. A temperate, sunny Saturday guaranteed thousands would swarm to South Pittsburg. As they sat in traffic back to the interstate, we cruised back to the Monteagle hotel and packed for Chattanooga. By 11 a.m., as we drove past again, Cornbread Festival traffic congested the westbound interstate for five or six miles. Never doubt that cornbread can snarl traffic.

After Nickajack Lake and the Tennessee River gorge, Chattanooga and its guardian peaks – Signal, Raccoon and Lookout mountains – were upon us. No matter how many times we visit, we busy ourselves with the new and familiar. It isn’t hard to take a different spin on Chattanooga. Downtown might be the nexus of activity but its neighborhoods, even those close to the tourism on the Tennessee, are tightly kept secrets.

Blocks away our usual haunts, the streets around UTC carried a different feel. High-school band members swarmed around the Soldiers & Sailors Memorial Auditorium, their buses queued outside. . We had never visited the MLK/University neighborhood, which abuts the University of Tennessee – Chattanooga. At 11,000 students, it is much larger than a branch campus (most famous students– Leave it to Beaver’s Hugh Beaumont and NFL star Terrell Owens).

View from the apartment

Nancy found an Airbnb rental in a 100-year-old apartment building. The narrow, brick tower rose among a block of similar buildings with nothing more than fire escapes separating them. Up three flights of stairs, the narrow building’s design would never be consider today.

As we unlocked the apartment door, a glass tank immediately announced we were not alone. On a perch of wood sat Hank, a central bearded dragon. His eyes rotated toward us while his body remained motionless. If the tank had housed a snake or tarantula, we might have reconsidered the accommodations. But the efficiency was perfect for a night or two, comfortable and quiet.

Hank

Much of our time in the apartment centered on Hank, waiting for his barely perceptible moves. Natives of central Australian, bearded dragons move deliberately. One of his drinking sessions lasted close to an hour, his tongue slowly extending into the water dish.

The cornbread wore off, so we ventured into downtown. In just three blocks we walked on familiar pavement. Prom-goers crowded the prime views from the Walnut Street Bridge. As usual, the bridge was the soul of Chattanooga, a multi-cultural gathering place for visitors and locals alike. From Coolidge Park below the bridge, smells of barbecues rose to the bridge, making us hungrier with every step.

Walnut Street Bridge

For dinner, Terra Nostra awaited. Owned by Ecuadorians, the North Shore restaurant serves Spanish-style tapas and has become our go-to eatery in Chattanooga. We eased through five tapas plates paired with rose and chenin blanc – shrimp and avocado salad, bison sausage, tapas staple patatas bravas (potatoes with a spicy-hot tomato sauce), veggie paella and blue puffs (bleu cheese in puff pastries with mango chutney). The balmy evening and garden patio gave dinner a European flair.

Nancy’s coworker and her boyfriend joined us as we finished our wines. From the North Shore, we crossed back, the bridge less populated but an overbearing police presence swept downtown. A yellowish purple dusk settled above the ridges east of downtown. We took in the evening over cocktails at Local 191, which has an enviable patio looking onto the Tennessee River, the last traces of daylight whisked westward.

When their food arrived, Nancy and I departed Walking across downtown, crowds thinned as families bunked for the evening. Crowd noise emanated from AT&T Field, home of the Chattanooga Lookouts baseball team, AA affiliate of the Minnesota Twins.

The courthouse streets were empty. Near our rental, floodlights cast a spooky glow on the steeple visible from the front window. Divorced from the church, the steeple stood guard over a quiet corner.

Spire without a church

Down the street from the apartment, The Bitter Alibi filled out an old, wide-porched house. After passing the doorman, we entered an empty dining room. A spiral staircase brought us to the basement bar for some local beers and a delicious poblano cheese dip. They had dozens of canned craft beer and some strong local taps from the three-state region.

We weren’t done with the Alibi, not when they serve brunch. Back in the basement again, the previous night’s bartender became our waiter. Over steaming drinks (espresso chai for Nancy, drip coffee for me) we enjoyed an eye-popping brunch (breakfast burrito with potatoes for Nancy, egg, cheddar biscuit, and a side of potatoes chorizo gravy for me) that I’m still cannot stop thinking about.

Walking to and from the Alibi, random people on the sidewalk said “Good morning.” While it felt like an aberration, maybe it said something more about Chattanooga outside the entertainment district. Maybe we passed for locals. Maybe people are just friendlier when you get away from the blocks of hotels and restaurants. But can anyone name the last time someone standing on a street corner looked away from their phone to wish you a good morning? It happened in Chattanooga. I’ll let that unexpected friendliness stick with me.

 Back in the apartment, Hank the Bearded Dragon’s subtle movements mesmerized us again. Reality had to drag us away from the tank. With a switch’s flick, the light went out on Hank’s lamp as well as our weekend dash to Chattanooga and favorite spots along 24.

Hank in his favorite place