I have always been lucky about women. But in here, it is something else. I can’t find enough words to tell you about the attention Fikret and I get. I think what we do is considered as something pretty sexy in here. You know, we didn’t just come all the way from Turkey, but we are going all the way to Chicago. Yeah, that must be the reason. We enter a bar casually, order “two Jacks on the rocks”, a “Haw ya doin” comes before our second sip. And before we find time to even think “My God, how come this angel bothers to talk to me”, there comes a second one. Of course, in the name of representing our country well (and in the name of avoiding the interrogations back home!), we keep our cool. On the other hand, I keep looking for a t-shirt saying “I’m not gay”, as seeing me going in and out of juke joints with Fikret all the time understandably confuses some people.

Since these are small towns, it doesn’t take long before everyone gets to know us. The most regular sentence we hear is, “Are you the two journalists from Turkey?”
Anyway, this is the end of self-publicity for today. We should tell more about Greenville.
On our first night, we got to the “juke joint area” after just a 30 seconds of walk from our hotel.

I took out the camera with excitement and started shooting Fiko. And I kept on talking. After all, we were in Greenville, the cradle of the blues, finally getting to drink in a juke joint, etc… Then we opened the door, and heard the delicious blues music coming out. But what is it? We are the only customers. And we couldn’t get out. Never mind. We drank two drinks each and passed on to the next bar. Then, to the next… There were totally forty people or so, drinking in the whole area. After meeting some people and chatting, we went back to our room, slightly disappointed.

The next morning we went on a pilgrimage in Greenwood. The idea is to visit the man who was the reason for this venture right from the beginning. The man they look for the twentieth recorded song of, in the movie “Crossroads.” He died in 1938, before he was even thirty. As you can read on his tombstone, he died very young… He used to be a skirt chaser, like many of our blues heroes, and I don’t remember exactly but I think he was stabbed or poisoned by his lover’s boyfriend or husband. You know the song “Sweet Home Chicago”, which is played in every bar in Turkey. It was in the movie “The Blues Brothers”, too… Johnson is the one who made that song famous, although he didn’t write it. Or, “Come in My Kitchen.” Every single one of his songs is worth listening, and there aren’t that many of them.

There wasn’t anyone around Robert Johnson’s grave, so we took out our drinks. After finishing our ritual by pouring some rakı on the tombstone, we left the bottle there for the next visitors to drink some – or in case Johnson wanted some…

Let us add this: There is said to be two more tombstones of Robert Johnson. But most probably, the one we drank by is the right one.
After spending quite a time in Greenwood, we headed to Rolling Fort as we promised yesterday, to meet Robert Morganfield, brother of another legend, Muddy Waters.
Robert is an old, superb man, living in his lovely house which is slightly bigger than a caravan. However, he’s not that into blues like we hoped. He listens to gospel music which comes from the same roots with blues, but stands for something entirely opposite. Blues is secular. Gospel is completely religious.

He talked and talked… He told us about the years he worked as a sharecropper, about the years of racism, about Muddy and he not caring much about each other even before Muddy got rich in Chicago. He said they loved each other but were never close, and they had different mothers, anyway. I will give write down the exclusive interview for a magazine if I find the energy. In fact I will have to – because I promised to send him a copy

Before we left, we presented a Yeni Rakı hat to Robert, and he put it on right away. I swear we didn’t tell him to, nor did we ask him to pose for us.
Then we went back home, to Greenville. I am not exaggerating. We were met with greetings in every place in there.
Then we went to a juke point to drink rakı, just like we had promised Sharon (the owner) the day before. These Americans fry everything in oil. We said “Nooo, we are going to drink rakı, so the food must be grilled. And it had better be good.” And we got right into a rakı and fish event. I am sure Mississippi had never witnessed something like this. Two guys from Turkey, drinking rakı in a juke point. Then came the curious questions and we became buddies with these people before we even knew it. We traded some of our rakı with some corn from the next table. No, the fact is, one of the guys on the next table took a sip from rakı, and loved it.
Then we met this trio, consisting of the editor of a local newspaper, and the anchorwoman and the reporter of a local TV. No, this cannot be called meeting. This is blending.
Dominick, the editor, invited us to his home. He said we could spend some time there before going to the party at night. We said okay. We opened another bottle of rakı and they loved it. Really loved it… I am sure rakı will get into a head to head competition with bourbon if it is promoted in here. However, we drank a little bit too much. As if that was not enough, after rakı and Dominick’s magnificent records, a tequila bottle appeared out of nowhere… And as expected, four of us left the house swaying. (Four, because Woodrow, the TV reporter, had left earlier.) Dominick is strictly anti-Bush. The show he put on for our camera, with rakı in his hand, testifies for this.
This time, juke joint was packed. We got carried out a bit in this place filled with every type, size and colour of people. And as we may have tipped, our friendship with Dominick and Mary probably will be continuing in the future.
The waking up part was painful – especially for me. In fact I intended to get up, but the bed didn’t let me to. It got stuck to me so badly that I had to beg the lady on the phone to let us check out a little bit late and I slept for half an hour more.
I reached the car with an effort I would call crawling rather than walking and started it. It wasn’t easy at all. We feel like the Blues Brothers: We’re on a mission from God.
The first thing we did was to go the Highway 61 Museum in Leland. It was a nice one. We made a tour, took some photos. And we put on an awesome display of public relations as usual. We did not only chat with the lady who was in charge of the museum but met his son as well. The ones who may be curious about the museum can visit this site: http://www.highway61blues.com/

Then we hurried to Indianola, to visit the B.B. King Museum. And this one was fabulous. Everything was soooo beautiful. There was even live music. It was built in the jean factory B.B. King ‘once’ worked in. Dominick had made us change our route for this museum and it was worth it. You should definitely see it if you ever come down here. Ones who are interested can take a look: http://www.bbkingmuseum.org/
After spending something close to a fortune in the museum, we hit the road for Clarksdale. We stopped shortly in Cleveland and arrived in Clarksdale.
Clarksdale is a magnificent delta town/city. Juke points are everywhere. They are genuine bon vivants. No one seems to be working. In fact, no one does. We haven’t seen anyone working or even pretending to be working yet in the South. But in other places we had been, at least the shops seemed to be working. Here they look deserted. It seems like no one even bothers to get up to burn a calorie or two. Are they saving the calories for something else?
We checked in to the Riverside Hotel, where nearly every delta blues musician stayed once upon a time. It’s used to be the hospital, where Bessie Smith died in 1937. The rumours, which possibly reflect the truth, say she had an accident. She went to a hospital but wasn’t let in because of her colour. Then she was brought in to this hospital for ‘blacks’ and she died in here. It was converted into a hotel in 1944. The first owner was ‘our’ Rat’s mother. Rat is a guy, around his 60s, who never stops talking unless he is sleeping. We didn’t understand why his name was Rat, and he didn’t understand why we found his name strange.
Don’t get the wrong idea when I call it a hotel. How can I put it? – It’s a little bit sloppy. For example, I think the last time the windows were cleaned, Bessie Smith was here
After repeating for two thousand times that this place was “Home, away from home”, Rat showed us some stuff left by people who stayed here – underwear, etc… The thing is, the people who stay here leave their things behind, and find them when they come back again. Every drawer is filled with personal stuff, and some of them are very personal.
After leaving our worn-out hotel for an evening walk, we heard that a terrific blues musician T-Model Ford, was celebrating his birthday at Red’s Juke Joint. (http://www.myspace.com/tmodelford) We happily went in to the place.
It was pretty funny inside. In fact it was pretty funny outside, too. The joint looked more like a deserted body shop in an industrial zone. And once we got in, we saw people of every size and colour, and again, having fun. And oh my God, T-Model Ford… I never thought anyone would be this sympathetic, playing this cheerfully, this energetic despite his age, smiling to us and sending kisses this much… And I never thought I would ever have the chance to watch him from this close. I sat a meter away from him for hours. And Fiko toured around in the joint.
People under the age of 21 were not allowed to enter this place, but the drummer was Stud, Ford’s 11 year-old step son. And he played pretty good, considering his age.
Once again, we blended in, jumped around, and went back to our worn-out hotel.
By the way, we were without phones and internet for days. It is possible to live like that 
Take care!