When I arrived in Memphis, the birthplace of B.B. King and the King of Rock ‘n Roll, I knew it was my chance to break free from the confines of my truck and embark on an adventure in Grind City, USA. Surprisingly, I stumbled upon a truck stop right in the heart of the city. For a mere buck and three-quarters, I hopped on the MATA (Memphis Area Transit Authority) bus to downtown. Within moments, I found myself aboard a vintage trolley, gliding along the Madison line, weaving through the historic downtown streets. These trolleys, nearly a century old, had made their way from Australia and were recently revived after surviving engine fires in 2013 and 2014. Fortunately, no passengers or operators were seriously harmed, although the trolleys themselves were left charred and irreparable.

Excitement coursed through my veins as I soaked in the vibrant atmosphere of Memphis. It had been years since my last visit, and while the music still echoed with the same soulful vigor, much of the city had undergone a transformation. Gone were the days when Graceland was the sole attraction for those flocking to Memphis. Today, the city offered a myriad of choices. Just a short stroll from downtown, I discovered an awe-inspiring museum dedicated to the Civil Rights Movement. The museum painstakingly recreated the haunting ambiance of the Lorraine Hotel, where Martin Luther King’s life was tragically cut short.

Inside, the room was frozen in time, preserving its exact state on that fateful day. The bed was meticulously made, and dirty dishes from Dr. King’s last meal lay untouched. Outside, a massive wreath adorned the railing, while two vintage vehicles stood sentinel. The entire scene was a powerful and humbling experience. If time is of the essence, I implore you to forgo Graceland and instead immerse yourself in the profound history and enduring struggle for freedom at the Civil Rights Museum—a testament to our nation’s true story.

No trip to Memphis would be complete without a pilgrimage to Beale Street. As I walked half a mile, the carnival-like atmosphere enveloped me, whetting my appetite. Fortunately, I stumbled upon Dyer’s, where I indulged in a slider unlike any other. This was no ordinary grass-fed gourmet burger adorned with an abundance of fixings. Instead, it was a thin Southern patty, fried to perfection in 100-year-old grease.

Despite its unassuming appearance, this precious grease was escorted by an armored truck when Dyer’s relocated to Beale Street. It was meticulously strained each day to ensure purity, a tradition maintained since 1912. A half-pound of raw ground beef lay on the cutting board, flattened into a semi-compressed patty by a heavy hammer-wielding spatula. Plunged into a bubbling-hot skillet of blackened goodness, it cooked to perfection, developing a delectably juicy interior and a tantalizingly crusty exterior. But the accolades didn’t end there—the fries, too, bathed in the magic of old grease, boasted a flavor that elevated them to new heights.

When I arrived in Memphis, the birthplace of B.B. King and the King of Rock ‘n Roll, I knew it was my chance to break free from the confines of my truck and embark on an adventure in Grind City, USA. Surprisingly, I stumbled upon a truck stop right in the heart of the city. For a mere buck and three quarters, I hopped on the MATA (Memphis Area Transit Authority) bus to downtown. Within moments, I found myself aboard a vintage trolley, gliding along the Madison line, weaving through the historic downtown streets. These trolleys, nearly a century old, had made their way from Australia and were recently revived after surviving engine fires in 2013 and 2014. Fortunately, no passengers or operators were seriously harmed, although the trolleys themselves were left charred and irreparable. Excitement coursed through my veins as I soaked in the vibrant atmosphere of Memphis. It had been years since my last visit, and while the music still echoed with the same soulful vigor, much of the city had undergone a transformation. Gone were the days when Graceland was the sole attraction for those flocking to Memphis. Today, the city offered a myriad of choices. Just a short stroll from downtown, I discovered an awe-inspiring museum dedicated to the Civil Rights Movement. The museum painstakingly recreated the haunting ambiance of the Lorraine Hotel, where Martin Luther King’s life was tragically cut short. Inside, the room was frozen in time, preserving the exact state it was in on that fateful day. The bed was meticulously made, and dirty dishes from Dr. King’s last meal lay untouched. Outside, a massive wreath adorned the railing, while two vintage vehicles stood sentinel. The entire scene was a powerful and humbling experience. If time is of the essence, I implore you to forgo Graceland and instead immerse yourself in the profound history and enduring struggle for freedom at the Civil Rights Museum—a testament to our nation’s true story. No trip to Memphis would be complete without a pilgrimage to Beale Street. As I walked half a mile, the carnival-like atmosphere enveloped me, whetting my appetite. Fortunately, I stumbled upon Dyer’s, where I indulged in a slider unlike any other. This was no ordinary grass-fed gourmet burger adorned with an abundance of fixings. Instead, it was a thin Southern patty, fried to perfection in 100-year-old grease. Despite its unassuming appearance, this precious grease was escorted by an armored truck when Dyer’s relocated to Beale Street. Each day, it was meticulously strained to ensure purity, a tradition maintained since 1912. A half-pound of raw ground beef lay on the cutting board, flattened into a semi-compressed patty by a heavy hammer-wielding spatula. Plunged into a bubbling-hot skillet of blackened goodness, it cooked to perfection, developing a delectably juicy interior and a tantalizingly crusty exterior. But the accolades didn’t end there—the fries, too, bathed in the magic of old grease, boasted a flavor that elevated them to new heights. With my hunger sated and pickle-smeared lips, I was ready to embrace Memphis’s vibrant nightlife. I discovered a bar bearing the name of the 2000 musical comedy, “Coyote Ugly.” Within its walls, bartenders danced provocatively, clad in scanty outfits and cowboy boots. Seating oneself at the bar provided the best vantage point, offering up-close views of these alluring Coyotes. Engaging with them meant risking a wicked smack or having an audacious barmaid pour 80-proof Jack Daniels down your throat. For the more daring souls, climbing onto the bar to join the revelry was an option. A nearby patron treated his lucky friend to a body shot—an intoxicating spectacle where salt and tequila were poured onto the dancer’s belly, the customer lapping it up from her navel before devouring a lime from the mouth of the Coyote. The rowdy crowd erupted in cheers as the Coyote effortlessly wiped her belly clean, primed for the next daring participant. This entire escapade might seem like an elaborate tourist trap, but by Memphis standards, it barely scratches the surface of the madness found on Bourbon Street. At this infamous saloon, women reigned supreme. They entered for free and were encouraged to join the Coyotes, goading their partners into becoming the next willing victims of the night’s revelry. As the night wore on, I found myself shelling out around 60 bucks for two shots, three cocktails, and two beers. In hindsight, I should have opted for the body shot—a surely more enjoyable experience. Nonetheless, I had a fantastic time, and the people roaming the streets were approachable and friendly. Much like the French Quarter, striking up conversations with anyone was effortless. I even forged new friendships, knowing well that tomorrow would usher in a world far removed from the one we shared that night. When the clock struck twelve, fatigue tugged at my eyelids, signaling the end of my Memphis escapades. It was time to retire and dream of coyotes and that century-old grease. A mere $12 Uber ride and fifteen minutes later, I was cozily nestled beneath my cab-side comforter. Experiencing Memphis on a budget had been a revelation, sparing me the need to shell out a couple of hundred bucks for a hotel room.

With my hunger sated and pickle-smeared lips, I was ready to embrace Memphis’s vibrant nightlife. I discovered a bar bearing the name of the 2000 musical comedy, “Coyote Ugly.” Within its walls, bartenders danced provocatively, clad in scanty outfits and cowboy boots. Seating oneself at the bar provided the best vantage point, offering up-close views of these alluring Coyotes. Engaging with them meant risking a wicked smack or having an audacious barmaid pour 80-proof Jack Daniels down your throat.

For the more daring souls, climbing onto the bar to join the revelry was an option. A nearby patron treated his lucky friend to a body shot—an intoxicating spectacle where salt and tequila were poured onto the dancer’s belly, the customer lapping it up from her navel before devouring a lime from the mouth of the Coyote. The rowdy crowd erupted in cheers as the Coyote effortlessly wiped her belly clean, primed for the next daring participant.

This entire escapade might seem like an elaborate tourist trap, but by Memphis standards, it barely scratches the surface of the madness found on Bourbon Street. At this infamous saloon, women reigned supreme. They entered for free and were encouraged to join the Coyotes, goading their partners into becoming the next willing victims of the night’s revelry.

As the night wore on, I found myself shelling out around 60 bucks for two shots, three cocktails, and two beers. In hindsight, I should have opted for the body shot—a surely more enjoyable experience. Nonetheless, I had a fantastic time, and the people roaming the streets were approachable and friendly. Much like the French Quarter, striking up conversations with anyone was effortless. I even forged new friendships, knowing well that tomorrow would usher in a world far removed from the one we shared that night.

When the clock struck twelve, fatigue tugged at my eyelids, signaling the end of my Memphis escapades. It was time to retire and dream of coyotes and that century-old grease. A mere $12 Uber ride and fifteen minutes later, I was cozily nestled beneath my cab-side comforter. Experiencing Memphis on a budget had been a revelation, sparing me the need to shell out a couple of hundred bucks for a hotel room.