Here’s a quick lesson:
If you mention Louisville ever, ever, make sure you don’t pronounce it “Louie-ville.”
It’s like when people from Nevada hear other people pronounce the state’s name as “Nevahhhdahhhh.”
As someone who lived in Nevada, hearing that is like nails scratching down a blackboard. Knee tingling awful.
Back to Kentucky. The name is pronounced “Lool-ville.” Only, it’s not that easy. You’ve got to do that “ool” in the back of your throat, all guttural.
Aside from having a name that bothers my throat, setting up shop in this quaint semi-Southern town was the perfect ending to our road trip across America.
The drive from Chicago to Kentucky (I don’t even like writing the name of the city because even thinking about it gives my throat sympathy vibrations), is entirely uneventful. Indiana is … Indiana. We shoot across the state fairly quickly, crossing the Ohio River into Kentucky just as the sun begin to sink, turning the city into a pretty picture of pinks and blues.
With a few hours until my friend we are staying with, Karen, gets out of work, Erica and I have some BBQ and enjoy the golden hour over the charming restaurant-lined main street.
Erica and I have a few goals for the Louisville leg of our journey:
1. Don our best dresses and fascinators and head to the horse races.
2. Tour the disco ball factory (the town is home to the largest maker in the world).
3. Drink bourbon. Which for some reason, my whisky-loving mind cannot do.
We, as a duo, accomplished only one of those things. Half-way.
On our first full day in Louisville, we wake up and head to Churchill Downs.
It’s a hot day. The sun is out as we park our car in someone’s parking lot/yard and head into the grand building, and later, the grand stand.
The guy running the lot offers us tickets in the stands for a whopping $5. General admission is $3, so we decide being in the shade and in the stands is worth the $2.
Then, we cross the street and head into the complex.
It’s not nearly what I imagine. In my mind, I expect to see women dressed to the nines, extravagant hats perched on their well-coiffed heads, sipping Mint Juleps with ice that clinks gently as it settles to the bottom of the glass.
Yeah. That doesn’t exist. Except for maybe during the Derby.
Today, the people are normal. Shorts. T-shirts. The only hats people have on are baseball hats (and the fedora I threw on my head in an effort to look cooler than I am).
It’s not crowded, either. Even though the parking lot looks packed, walking into the track results in a crowd where the horses hang out before the race, and by the betting area.
The stands … they’re pretty much empty.
Erica and I have no clue how to place bets. I’ve only bet on horses once before when I was living in Las Vegas. My friend, an odds-maker, walked me through it. Today, he does the same, sending me text messages on how to bet and what to bet.
Then, after betting $2 on the winner of the race, we head up to our seats to watch.
Giddy, we clutch the little pieces of paper in our hands as the horses are brought out and strut around the starting line.
Then, they’re off. Galloping. Thunking their hooves onto the peachy dirt.
Fortunately, we stick around for two more races …
… and win.
As we leave Churchill Downs, we’re still happy. Still excited. And, our day is young. There’s a murder mystery party to attend.
Editorâ€™s Note: This post is a part of theÂ #winosontheroadÂ series.Â Over YonderlustÂ and d travels â€™round went road tripping andÂ exploring AmericaÂ from Colorado to Maryland in June 2012. Be sure to check out all of the posts of lifeÂ on the open road.