Chattanooga nights

The excitement grips me most when we approach Chattanooga from the southeast. Cluttered among rows of trucks, the descent from Missionary Ridge opens into a view of central Chattanooga, the winding Tennessee River and its imposing, flat-topped mountains. The mid-rise office buildings, ridgetop apartment towers, the trapezoidal Tennessee Aquarium buildings and the fortress of the TVA's regional offices break up the sprawl undulating toward the river.

Whether hotel or short-term rental, we’ve yet to stay in the same place twice. There’s always a new neighborhood or block with an intersection with bars and restaurants. Our latest temporary abode sat on Tremont Street, another face of the North Shore and its neighborhoods that run down ravine-like streets. The sidewalks were somewhat crowded on Tremont, although nothing like the denser mobs circulating downtown.

Nancy’s birthday landed on Thanksgiving Day, pushing any celebration to the long weekend. As Chattanooga has evolved into our surrogate home in Tennessee, we decided on another round of exploration, our fourth in the Gig City this year.

For her birthday dinner, she picked a downtown staple, Thai Smile. We ducked in for early dinner, Nancy going with the Ginger Perfect with shrimp and I picking chicken pad cashew. Nobody left hungry or disappointed. Thai Smile delivered a delicious and necessary break from Thanksgiving staples.

As we walked across the Walnut Street Bridge, the sun’s brilliance faded and a chill wormed into the air. The biggest sun dog either of us had seen broke through a cloud bank west of Lookout Mountain. The mirage of a second sun caused by ice particles in the clouds brightened the drifting clouds.

Although the Christmas festivities draw a large, multicultural crowd to the bridge, I must always acknowledge that two black men were lynched on that bridge more than a century ago, Alfred Blount (1893) and Ed Johnson (1906).

Even with its history, the bridge is an inescapable link between two thriving chunks of Chattanooga. Anyone can cross that bridge now and hear more than a half-dozen different languages. With more cultures represented, 21st century Chattanooga aspires to be a different place. Of course, that does include the shirtless dancing homeless guy, who most people just ignored.

From our rental, the North Shore and downtown were an easy walk, less than a mile each way on quirky residential streets. Thirty minutes and a change of clothes later, we stood on the bridge again, reading to observe the river parade we stumbled upon two years earlier. A majestic twilight spread its soft colors across the mountains.

Lighted boats queued around downtown docks, then slowly processed to line far upstream. Then Tennessee’s quirkiest Christmas celebration began, the flotilla cruised toward downtown. In the two years since we last watched the parade, the light displays grew more elaborate, the array of watercraft broader, with everything from skiffs to houseboats. Christmas music blared from the lighted decks while inflatable Santas and snowmen waved along. We left after the initial pass and could not be sure, but one of the city’s resident paddleboats might have fired up its calliope to serenade those watching from the bridges and banks.

Downtown burned with festive energy. Yet our trips to Chattanooga don’t include enough downtime. With the night growing chilly and good wine decanting at the apartment, we decided to lounge for a few hours. If we emerged again that night, great. If we didn’t, we could blame a series of long days and travel on congested roads.

As we poured a Xavier Chateauneuf-du-Pape to celebrate Nancy’s birthday, fireworks sprouted in the sky above the river. Although neighborhoods feel distant from the riverfront, bends of the river mean we’re never far away.

When hunger struck around 10:20, we didn’t have to resort to Thanksgiving leftovers, not with Aretha Frankenstein open till midnight. The tiny breakfast destination turns into a neighborhood bar in the late hours, a welcoming place on a chilly evening. This was not a tourist crowd. A few beer drinkers milled on the porch. Old cereal box covers in frames decorate the ceiling. Vintage concert posters cover the rest.

By 8 a.m., a fresh breakfast crowd would be assembled, waiting for the handful of tables clustered around the bar. Late Friday we sat at the bar with two regulars, enjoying a single beer and some late-night eats before crossing the street and retiring. There are much worse things in this world than quesadillas and a BLT and a nightcap. After all, we had the shortest walk home in Chattanooga.

Stars on the Walnut Street Bridge