A city is the commingling of the mundane and the magnificent. The stewing of decades. Nashville, in particular, is flavored by river transients, gospel preachers, southern charmers, Shawnee tribesmen, insurance sellers, lap steel players, biscuit ladies, sorority girls, Jubilee singers, Fugitive poets, and millions more souls who've left their prints behind. It is peppered with moments, like Johnny Cash and Bob Dylan's impromptu studio session in February 1969, or when Andrew Jackson wrote his moonshine letter to Congress, or when the last bison found the salt lick downtown. As the “Music City," I suppose the metaphor of harmony is apropos for this crisscrossed chronology. But when you listen closely, Nashville isn't a place that always makes sense. Cities don't. There are Trails of Tears, Civil Rights protests, rising floods, and those episodes leave indelible markings. But as Steinbeck wrote, “The world is peopled with wonders."