Recently, my father and I took a trip to Nashville, Tennessee. Overall, it was a very pleasant trip, but throughout something was nagging me — something subtle and insidious, something that prodded my amygdala with its icy finger. I guess there is no other way to describe it than to list the three things that disquieted me the most.

1. The People

Sure, they were friendly enough, always offering a "Howdy" or a "Mornin'," and holding doors open and just "shootin' the breeze" without prompting. But there was something...unnatural about it all. Surely, their bright, easy smiles were facades, intended to cover up their festering hatreds.

Though my father and I tried to remain incognito, everyone seemed to recognize me by my "Jersey accent." Foist off, that's impossible, for I have no accent. Second, it seemed that every southerner we encountered was planning a trip "up north" someday and gosh-almighty why don't you boys set awhile and tell us how to navigate? The free stuff they gave us in exchange was to silence any doubts we may have had. What were they really planning?

Something tells me that my father and I barely escaped with our lives. There's no way the rolling, trash-free hills and fields could be so green and vibrant unless they're using Yankee fertilizer.

2. The Cuisine

Nashville isn't only host to great traditional barbecue, they are constantly tweaking recipes and making them fresh, such as making fried catfish chipotle tacos, and there are many other ethnic foods with southern twists. All very tasty, not too heavy and reasonably priced...too reasonably. Since when has $15 been able to feed two grown men? Nay, not merely feed, but stuff. And not with greasy garbage, but with savory edibles that don't give you diarrhea. By my eighth grade level math, those restaurants should be barely breaking even, and yet they're lively, clean and packed with friendly, attentive staff and excellent entertainment. That is simply not feasible with today's rise in living expenses.

That is, if they're not using Yankee beef.

3. The Music

Driving around, we heard a lot of country music. Not my favorite genre, but it was easy to listen to. The newer songs were infused with pop music, giving them all a wonderfully homogeneous sound free of style or originality. But if we turned the dial, we got an earful of some rather violent crooners. There was Johnny Paycheck who sang about being the "only hell [his] mama ever raised," and how the "neon signs were callin' [him]" and he had to get downtown and how when he reached for the glove box "another liquor store went down."

Then there was the Man in Black wailing about being in Folsom Prison and how he shot a man in Reno "just to watch him die." Sure, he "hang[s] [his] head and [cries]," but, my god, what a monster. And they have a beautiful, well-designed museum dedicated to him! I mean, yeah, I was bobbing my head in tune to the music and enjoying the simple acoustic riffs, but I felt ashamed for encouraging this man's villainy. But at least these fellers were upfront with their violent ways. What are the modern singers hiding when they sing about "ice cold beers" and "sassy lil girls" and pickup trucks and other "country" activities?

Hmm, it just occurred to me...All the honky-tonks were constantly bouncing with raucous music. What could the music be covering up? Were they slicing up that Yankee beef?

Though I thoroughly enjoyed myself, I can't help but weep over all the Yankees who didn't make it out. This is a tribute to them.