Paris to Versailles

My favorite thing about Paris, Tennessee is how Rachel, the young curator of the Heritage Center who gave us the abbreviated history, tells the story of how it got its name. Like many folks in this region, the town’s founding fathers were pretty enthralled with the Frenchman, Lafayette, who’d provided lots of support during the Revolutionary War against those pesky British. When it became clear that this town would be a town and that this town would need a name, they all agreed they’d like to name it Lafayette. “So,” says Rachel, imitating a founding father with a pen in his hand poised to sign the official document, “does anyone know how to spell ‘Lafayette’?”

Then she pauses for dramatic effect before asking, “How about Paris?”

Paris, Tennessee has an Eiffel Tower next to the municipal pool and playground. It is strung with Christmas tree lights that get plugged in at what must surely be a striking ceremony in December. Alas, it was another Eiffel we weren’t allowed to climb, but we posed for the shots, got our breakfast at a café called Knotts Landing just off the hopeful town square, and headed north and east aiming for Paris, Kentucky.

We got sidetracked. First we got tangled up in Clarksville and again in Bowling Green, confused by road signs that implied one had to drive west to go east. Then we got hungry in Glasgow and while walking around its square got directions to A Little Taste of Texas (which was right around the corner). We had gigantic salads (the only Texan taste about that was their massive size) and tall glasses of unsweet tea, which gave us just enough sustenance to press on to a campground called Green River Lake State Park before dark.

An uneventful night and a deep sleep were all that mattered, and we were up and showered and headed for Paris when we got sidetracked. (Again.) First it was by breakfast at the Marathon Gas Station, where a woman with no teeth had a t-shirt that said “I’m not bad I’m just misunderstood.” (Perhaps our new motto?) Then it was by the opportunity to drive through Versailles on the way to Paris. (And yes, it breaks my heart that in Kentucky it’s pronounced “Vursales.”)

Then it was the unbelievable, breathtaking, awe-inspiring, movie-worthy scenery of backcountry Kentucky. Green. Rolling. Splendor. Black barns. Tidy old farmhouses. Tobacco fields. Old stone fences that ran immaculately for miles. Sycamore trees arching over the road to form a canopy, a gazebo, a tunnel of green you drive through gasping and saying “Oh My God, look at this. Look at that!” Then Winnie saw a newborn calf being licked clean by its mother, the farmer looking on, encouragingly. “What do you think ‘Shakers’ are?” she asked a few minutes later, after seeing a sign about a nearby Shaker village. “Are they kinda like Quakers, do you think?”

The ultimate distraction came halfway between Versailles and Paris, Kentucky, where we spied the Equus Run Vineyard. Six days in dry counties and we were feeling a bit parched, so we peeled into the parking lot of the oldest winery in Kentucky (est. 1998). Six bottles of wine lined the counter, $2 to taste and you got to keep the commemorative glass, and Nick, the sommelier was generous with the pours.

We got to talking with Nick and with the two other patrons, Shanna and Dan who were college students in Lexington. From them we learned that the stone walls were Irish, that the barns were painted black cuz black was cheap, and that Shakers were “these religious people who were celibate, so they kinda died out. And they were called Shakers because they were kind of like those crazy Pentecostals, instead of talking in tongues they shook all over …”

“You shouldn’t call them crazy,” Shanna chided Dan.

“Oh. Yeah. Sorry about that.”

Don’t worry, Dan, I wanted to say. That vivid description was just what we were looking for.

And if you’re wondering about Kentucky wine (which is booming, it turns out, on account of people needing something to grow instead of tobacco, and the climate being similarly favorable to grapes), it’s oh-so-fine, divine and sublime. We bought a bottle of the Zinfandel for later.