During the summers of 1990 and 1991, I worked as a tour guide for Grand Ole Opry Tours.
I would stand at the front of a 45-seat bus squawking into a cheap
microphone and pointing out the various sights of our fair burg.
It was a three-hour tour (you are welcome to insert a Gilligan's Island joke here; just keep it to yourself) and the first hour consisted of introducing myself, exchanging mindless banter with everyone ("You're from Palermo, North Dakota? Isn't that interesting?!"), and telling a little about the history of our first stop, the Ryman Auditorium.
The patter was the usual: originally built for religious purposes by Tom
Ryman in 1892, Mother Church of Country Music, became known as the Opry