A weekly ode to the joys of moaning about your holiday, by Tim Roxborogh.
Sometimes you're certain you're in trouble, even if you can't quite figure out why. In this case, however, the signs weren't altogether subtle. Just minutes from the music, lights and all-round good times of Beale St, we were suddenly the only people. In the middle of the afternoon, downtown Memphis, and not a soul to be seen.
That is, all except for two ladies at what looked like a bonafide dive bar of cliched proportions. They were sitting outside smoking as we passed and they gave us a smile that I accepted as being approximately one part "welcome to Memphis" and four parts "what are you doing walking around here, you naive tourists?"
Well, walking is what I do when I travel and I didn't want Memphis to be any different.
Besides, our destination - the Lorraine Motel where Dr Martin Luther King jnr was assassinated, now the site of the National Civil Rights Museum - was only 10 minutes by foot from Beale St.
Clutching my fiancee's hand a little tighter, the radar that we were in a dicey situation was up. Around us was broken glass, abandoned lots, crumbling fences and nothing indicating much in the way of legal commerce. With camera slung around neck and wallet bulging in pocket with vacation dollars, we were sitting targets in a city where getting from A to nearby B evidently tends to involve wheels.