Memphis has the strangest looking bugs I've ever seen. As I was sipping my god awful coffee in front of the Super 8 I was lodging in, a bug that looked something like an anorexic bee, flapping its wings so fast you couldn't quite tell if it had any at all, hovered in front of me like it was dangling from the end of a spiders web. If it didn't move, just slightly to its left, I would have believed it really was attached to one. I was completely fascinated. I offered the little guy some of my coffee but even he turned the other cheek and flew off towards the direction of Mississippi River. I called my Uncle Tony while watching the sunrise over the green hill in front of me, to see what he was up to. He was probably still asleep in his big rig somewhere in America. I thought of him because he loves the south so much and gets a lot of loads for his truck in this area, so I was hoping he might be around. The call went to voice mail, but I left him a message, letting him know he was being thought of. I made my first waffle this morning. It was either that or stale toast, bagels or cereal otherwise. I figured I would attempt operation of the strange contraption. I was completely baffled by the thing at first, but after a few minutes of logical thinking I was able to pour the batter from the dispenser onto the iron grill, close the top while it beeped at me for a minute, then I turned the stupid thing over and viola! It stopped beeping and the timer started its countdown. Three minutes later, I had the perfect Belgium waffle before me.
While I was waiting for the shuttle to take me to Graceland, I sat down by a woman sitting in an armchair in the lobby. She smiled and introduced herself as Diane. She seemed sweet and we struck up a conversation. The fifty two year old, African American woman from California was traveling by herself for the first time since her husband died, just four months ago. She had been here for eight days to experience Elvis Week, then heading over to Houston, Texas to stay with family. She was smiling at me, but there was something sad in her eyes. I thought she was brave to venture out on her own after all these years. Before this experience, she spent a lifetime being static, living quietly with her husband in the south of California, never having seen more than it's surrounding states in all her years. We talked about our experiences as single women traveling on our own and had a good laugh over the same awkward vibes I got while I was eating my dinner alone last night. Being from California she was friendly and approachable like the other Californians I got to know when I lived there a few years ago. The people here were laid back and lighthearted but we found that they didn't show much emotion other than an aloof look on their faces, making them seem unapproachable, until you get to know them. She told me this in a whisper as she ducked her head to hide from the woman sitting over my shoulder. The woman behind me, apparently, gave her a bit of a brush-off when she smiled at her earlier. We exchanged information, vowing to keep in touch throughout our travels and give each other tips as we continued our separate adventures.
While I was riding the shuttle bound for Graceland, about ten minutes from the hotel, my anticipation level was in the red. I don't even think I felt this way when I finally got to see the Great Wall of China years ago. My heart skipped at least two beats when I saw, in big chrome letters, 'Elvis Presley Boulevard' at its entrance and the official city sign posted above the sidewalk next to it. My parents once gave me a small tin replica of this street sign when they got back from a trip to Vegas. I still have it perched above an archway in my apartment. This was something else entirely. It was the real deal. Before this Boulevard got its name it was once the playground to Elvis's toy cars, motorcycles and carts, when he knew it first to be called Bellevue Boulevard. Just down the road I could see Graceland with my nose pressed up against the window, wanting to see it as soon as humanly possible. The shuttle at long last, plopped me down across the street from Graceland where the ticketing office and additional attractions were located. As soon as the door slid open Elvis's voice came echoing from every crevice of the area. Apparently, the tunes were coming from Sirius satellite radio where anyone with a subscription can listen to Elvis twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. What! How did I not know this before? I wondered if the locals that work at Graceland could live the rest of the lives as happy as can be to never hear another Elvis song again. If I wasn't as big a fan as I am and had to work seven to eight hours a day, listening to him sing all day long, I'd probably wish I were deaf. I wasn't in line for very long, having just missed the massive crowds that were here a week ago to celebrate the thirty-fifth anniversary of Elvis's death during Elvis week. I stood in line for about five minutes, only to compare the different passes, the simple Mansion Tour, Graceland Platinum Tour or the Graceland Elvis Entourage VIP Tour. My decision was a quick one. I slapped my bankcard down and slid it across the counter to the ticket agent without hesitation and told her, "the all access Elvis Entourage VIP Tour please," with a massive grin on my face. Her face said Oh boy, we've got another crazy on our hands here guys. This pass allowed me to an audio-guided tour of Graceland Mansion and the grounds, a self-guided tour of Elvis' two custom airplanes, his automobile museum, ICON: The Influence of Elvis Presley Exhibit, Elvis Lives: The King and Pop Culture Exhibit, Elvis on Tour Exhibit, '68 Special Exhibit, and front of the line mansion access, which wasn't an issue or of any use on this fine Monday afternoon.
Ready for the tour, I placed my nifty VIP badge around my neck, my headphones over my ears to hear the audio guide, who's voice sounded a lot like James Earl Jones, hit play and boarded the shuttle that took me to Graceland across the street. When I stepped foot on that driveway I was beside myself. I didn't know whether to scream for joy, kiss the ground or sob like a little baby. Instead I just stood there, not listening to James Earl Jones murmuring softly in my ear, because I was deaf to everything but the supreme joy I felt and the beat of my heart throbbing in my ear. Graceland, beautiful Graceland with its tan limestone walls, four Temple of the Winds columns and two large lions perched on both sides of the portico at the front entrance. I let the others who rode the shuttle along with me go ahead so that I didn't hold anyone up. I wanted time to take it all in, the benefit of going to something like this on your own. It was bigger than I had expected. Friends who had been on this tour before, told me that it was smaller than they had imagined, so I wasn't expecting much. To my great surprise it was quite the mansion, all 17,552 square feet and 23 rooms of it. Pressing replay on my audio guide, Mr. Jones restarted in my ear and I began my walk inside. I opened the door that closed behind the group that came with me and stepped through its frame and onto plush white carpets in the foyer. Most people would consider the white sofas, stained glass windows picturing bright blue peacocks framed around the doorway, with walls overlaid with mirrors and large royal blue and gold-fringed drapes, a little tacky. But, in the seventies this was the crème de la crème of interior design. I can imagine my own parents, with this kind of money, displaying the same kind of flourish to our own first home. However, when I stepped into the famed Jungle Room, I decided I might have to retract my statement above. This room was tacky to the T, but I absolutely loved it. Elvis had this large space decorated in an eccentric Polynesian influence, surely with Hawaii in mind. He loved going to those little islands on the Pacific so much that he tried to capture it in one of his living rooms. If I had a pina colada in my hand and the okay to sit on one of the fur covered armchairs, poised by the large, red fieldstone meditation fountain trickling water down the full length of its northern wall, I could truly imagine myself on an island in Hawaii in that room. I think it was the green shag carpet that sold me on the mirage though. How badly I wish I could've flicked off my flip-flops and walked over that bearded green floor. It looked as though it would have felt good on the feet. Oh, but Elvis didn't stop there with his shaggy green carpet. He loved the stuff so much he went as far as to cover the walls of the basement stairway, leading to and from the room, with it as well. This room was where Elvis supposedly had his final two studio recording sessions for the albums, The Jungle Room Sessions (previously called From Elvis Presley Boulevard) and Moody Blues in 1976. These albums were recorded just before he went on his last tour. I liked imagining the idea of him sitting by the fountain strumming his Martin guitar, bare toes digging in the shag carpet while he sang with his band. If only I could have been a fly on that wall then.
My all time favorite spot in the mansion, however, was the basement. To the left side of the stairwell, was a television room harboring Elvis' version of todays picture in picture technology. With three television sets nestled snuggly into the facing wall, Elvis could watch three channels at the same time. Brilliant man! Brilliant! In front of the televisions and Elvis' record collection, was a large, plush, deep blue sofa arranged in a half circle with matching ottomans beside a white marble fireplace. On the right corner of the room and at arm's reach of the sofa, was a nice little wet bar that stood beside a wall featuring his legendary trademark lightning bolt splitting dark clouds against a golden yellow sky. This represented his "takin' care of business (in a flash)" motto, which he adopted and used often in the late 70's.
Just across the way of the television room was the billiards room on the right. You haven't seen someone like a piece of fabric more than Elvis did with the looks of this room. He not only covered his walls with an intricate pattern of blues, reds and yellows, but he also kept right on going to swallow the ceiling and the two couches in the room. It felt like I was dropped inside Mary Poppins' carpetbag. It just got better and better with every room. No wonder he had his own furniture sent in to his hotel suites when he was on his tours, arranging the room to look as much like Graceland as possible. How much fun was it to live in a place like this? A theme for every room! I've always said I would do that to my own house some day, although, I might pass on the green shag carpet and psychedelic billiard room, but something in that vicinity anyway.
Walking out and into the back yard, was not only blindingly bright, compared to the dimness inside the mansion, but I haven't walked through that much luscious green grass since my last stroll through Central Park. Behind the mansion, I continued towards Vernon's office. Vernon was Elvis' father and manager. The building looked like a large shed behind the massive mansion but inside it was a very spacious office. The area was dressed in the typical 70's style, wood paneled walls surrounding two desks, a brown leather couch and a few filing cabinets. It was everything you might see in an old episode of Columbo. Attached to the building was a two room smoke house built of red brick that was probably once used to house servants before Elvis bought Graceland. In one of the rooms was a miniature model of Elvis' first home in Tupelo, Mississippi, where he lived with his mother, Gladys and his father. The actual two-room house was not much bigger than Vernon's office next door. It's amazing to think that someone who came from such humble beginnings could now be, even after his death, the second richest entertainer in the world. Only falling behind Michael Jackson after his death in 2009. Sure makes you put things in perspective. If a 17-year-old boy from Memphis, Tennessee, born in a house the size of a shack and so poor that he didn't even own a record player until he was discovered, could do that, makes you wonder what you could do if you really put your heart into something.
Walking back outside and into the structure, now called The Trophy Building, a new wing on the south side of the mansion, initially housing a slot car track but was later remodeled to house Elvis' legion of awards, trophies, and other honors, as well as memorabilia, guitars, jewelry, and stage costumes, was a spectacular sight. I had never seen anything like it. Hundreds of awards lined and 80-foot hall called the Hall of Gold, because it was just covered, completely, with all of his gold and platinum albums and singles, including his three Grammy Awards and a Lifetime Achievement Award from the National Academy for the Recording Arts and Sciences. All you could see for 80-feet was gold shining in every direction. The Federal Reserve Banks might be the only other buildings that could contend with this collection, if they were really made of gold or platinum. It was overwhelming to the eye but such a beauty to see. I wanted to snap a picture of every one of them, but I would have either lost space on my memory chip or lost battery power before I reached the last award. A few people who had joined me in the hall attempted the feat, but gave up after just one third of the length of the hall, then just took pictures framing chunks at a time. However, when I saw the golden shine of my favorite single, 'Now or Never,' a song that became a theme for me since I was ten years-old, I snapped a few pictures of record. When I say a few, I mean ten. Of all of these awards, and there are hundreds, the one and only ceremony Elvis ever attended was not for one of the three Grammys he won, but for the U.S. Jaycees award as 'One of the Ten Outstanding Young Men of the Nation' for 1970. He was so proud of that 'touching hands' award it had become so worn out from carrying it with him whenever he went on tour. How humble is that? They don't make celebrities like that anymore. Maybe Johnny Depp, but that seems to be the exception.
In the building located behind the gold reserve, was the Racquetball Building. Elvis had this building built in '75, when it became one of his favorite past times, then later served to, yet again, exhibit more of Elvis' awards and a few of his stage costumes, encased along the base of the two story high walls of the old racquetball court. It's a good thing we were all prepared in the Hall of Gold, our eyes adjusted to the light gleaming from all the shiny awards, because walking into this building could have blinded us. The entire north and east walls were covered in gold and platinum records presented to the Estate in '92 by RCA executives and the Recording Industry Association of America (RIAA), the largest single presentation of gold and platinum awards ever made. It was breathtaking. This is the building that began to take its emotional toll on me. I knew I was nearing the end of the Graceland Mansion tour and just outside I would find his grave, but in this building, Elvis spent some of the last remaining hours of his life playing a few tunes on his piano in the lounge area just outside of the court, surrounded by girlfriend, Ginger, cousin Billy Smith and his wife. I could almost hear him play the soft notes of 'Unchained Melody' and 'Blue Eyes Crying In The Rain.' Listening to the commentaries of his ex-wife, Pricilla and daughter, Lisa Marie on the television in the court room, sharing their memories of Elvis didn't help my emotional state. I had to keep a knot stuck in my throat from releasing itself from my eyes in front of a room full of people, who seemed in the same predicament as myself. When Mr. Jones finished his commentary in my ear. I proceeded to walk out of the court and towards the meditation garden.
Nestled peacefully beside a meditation garden with a running fountain and burning eternal flame, was Elvis' grave, along side his mother, father, grandmother and infant twin brother. This is when I ran out of battery power on my camera. After a round of photographs capturing every angle, every word written on Elvis' grave, along with the others, including the posters, flowers and pictures from family, friends and fans all over the world surrounding the graves, my camera gave up. It was more than my AA Duracells could handle. There they were. Once the residents of the mansion looking down on them, they now rested beside it. And yet again, I was on the verge of tears, ready to spring from my eyes with just one more person whispering how sad this was. I couldn't sit there like some of the others, staring hopelessly at the plaques covering the graves. Some of these people were old enough to have Iived through Elvis' entire career and therefore suffered his passing. I might have been the youngest person on this tour all day, but if I was alive when Elvis died, I would still be in mourning in a way far worse than I am after the fact. To have to live in a world without Elvis, when he was what surrounded the music world for over two decades for these people, seems unimaginable. I decided to walk through the grounds, instead of torturing myself at the graves. On the journey to the front of the mansion, shaded by massive oak trees you couldn't help but feel small next to such large surroundings. Looking up at the third floor, safely tucked away from the prying eyes of tourists, is where the family members sometimes still keep their residence. It makes me happy to know that they're still attached to the place and can still have their private things and family moments without the pretense of strangers. Let them have their king, the way only they know him and we'll live what we already have.
Back across the street, the time had come to finally see that pink Cadillac I've been drooling over when ever I think of the famed car Elvis' lovingly bought his mother, with the first chunk of money he made. Be still my heart. A man who is good to his mother gets me every time—and side burns, of course. I've wanted to see this car since I was a little girl with pigtails. I think it was the pink that drew me. It looked like the Barbie car I used to run Ken over with, only much better.
After purchasing new batteries at the gift shop and more CD's than I have bought in the past five years, all of Elvis, I took my fully loaded camera and went to town taking pictures of all the classic beauties Elvis owned. Including his motorcycles and refurbished golf carts. However, when I turned the bend of the studio, made to look like a 50's suburb, including a drive in theater and gas station/gift shop, I nearly wet my pants. There it was, the 1955 'Elvis Rose' Fleetwood Series 60 Cadillac, and it was as big as one of my first apartments in the city. If it had a sink with running water in the trunk, I would have preferred to live in that instead. It was very surreal to be standing in front of the car, in fact, the whole experience of Graceland, had that feeling, but it hit me here when I saw the car with my very own eyes—not on a poster, in a book, CD cover or Christmas card, but two feet away from me. My Barbie would have been very jealous, Ken would have run for his life. Next to the pink Cadillac, I'd say that his Convair 880 jet, with gold plated belt buckles and green upholstery, christened after his daughter, Lisa Marie or "Flying Graceland," as Elvis liked to refer to it as, was the toy of all toys. Be nice to have one of those parked in my driveway, if I had a driveway.
By two in the afternoon, I was hunka hungry for some nourishment. At the 50's style Rockabilly's Diner, playing continuous Elvis on a Wurlitzer Jukebox I've longed for since the beginning of time, I spotted a peanut butter banana sandwich on the menu above the register. I hate bananas. However, I had to have this sandwich. Not only was this a grilled peanut butter and banana sandwich but also, it was the same sandwich Elvis would eat as his snack of choice, made exactly like he enjoyed eating them. After I received my order and found a small table by a window, right next to the five-foot Wurlitzer spinning an Elvis tune. I contemplated my sandwich for a few minutes, hesitant at first but famished, then took a bite. Wow, this sandwich was actually amazing. The salty butter crusted outside of the bread in combination with the melted peanut butter and perfectly ripe bananas, was an explosion of deliciousness in my mouth. The peanut butter masked the texture of the bananas, which I think is the main reason I don't like them, so I only got a hint of its sweet flavor against the peanut butter. Elvis did it. He got me to eat a banana and actually enjoy it. It's a miracle. My mother made me one of these sandwiches once when I was really young. The only reason I agreed to let her make me one of these was because she told me it was what Elvis used to eat. Well if Elvis ate it then I will too, I thought. Later I assumed it was a lie she made up just to trick me into eating a banana under false pretenses. I hated it. I believe the secret, and where my mother failed, was that the perfectly ripened bananas had to be lightly mashed and mixed with the peanut butter and grilled with lots and lots and lots of butter. My fingers were covered with the greasy goodness.
After I finished my lunch I called my mother. She picked up on the second ring, surely worried about me being out in the world alone and curious about Graceland. When I told her what I was eating at the time, her response was, "Oh no. Your passing through hunger aren't you?" spoken in her broken Portuguese. Confused by her question I responded, "No, why would you think that? I just told you I bought a peanut butter and banana sandwich. I'm eating."
"Because you're eating bananas! The only reason I can imagine why you would be eating something with bananas was because you were starving and had no money for anything else." I burst out in laughter in the middle of the peaceful diner. An elderly couple in mid bite of their burgers, quietly listening to Elvis croon on the jukebox, turned in my direction. "Sorry." Continue with your listening and chewing pleasure. When I reminded her that it was the sandwich Elvis used to eat, it registered. When I told her I actually loved it, her response..."It's a miracle."
One of the last attractions I saw at Graceland, located next to the diner, was the Elvis on Tour Exhibit. It's a good thing I chose to do this one last. I didn't realize it was going to effect me the way that it did. What I was expecting was to just look at a few of his costumes and maybe a few pictures from his tours or what not and that was that. What I saw when I entered the exhibit was, yes, some of his fabulous costumes from his last tours, and a few pictures, but inside a narrow room surrounded by these items were about four or five flat screen televisions. On the televisions, Elvis' last living documentary showcasing his '72 tour series was playing with added commentaries from his closest friends, family members and co-workers discussing their personal experiences with Elvis and how it affected them after his death. When I entered the room just a handful of, mostly elderly people, sat along benches that lined both sides of the glass cases against the walls and a row running along the center. I found myself a spot among the seats where I could get a good view of one of the televisions. As I sat there, watching the amazing documentation and rarely ever seen footage, the room began to fill with more people, squeezing into the spaces along the benches and some choosing to stand for a better view. After twenty minutes of watching and listening to such sad recollections, I began to feel that knot start to tighten in my throat again. Sitting across from me was a man with his wife, who looked as though he could have been the same age Elvis, had he still been alive today, maybe slightly older. When I looked over at him I noticed tears beginning to stream down his face. He tried to wipe them away at first, but more just followed. And that was it. I lost it. The control I had on that lump in my throat gave way and came exploding from my eyes, matching the tears of the man sitting across from me. It was bad enough listening to the video commentary but seeing an elderly man cry was more than I could handle. It was Niagara Falls on all our faces before long. It felt like I was at a funeral. The entire space filled entirely of elderly people, who had lived through Elvis' full lifetime and had to experience the world without him after, sat or stood there, in complete silence for thirty minutes, listening, crying, and mourning. I was a hot mess and I was only born three years after Elvis died. I never really knew him. Imagine what my mental state would have been like if I had been as old as these folks? It was as though Elvis had just died last week at the looks of us in that room. Our hearts were broken. The last time I reacted to something similar, was years ago when I paid a visit to the Holocaust museum in Houston, Texas. I was fine through most of the museum, but when the group of us got to a section that housed small suit cases, children's toy dolls and clothes left behind from the children who were killed, I exploded in sobs like I had just witnessed their demise before my eyes. I had to leave the museum because I couldn't get a hold on myself. This experience was pretty close.
Wiping the remaining tears from my eyes as I walked out into the brightness of the sun after the last exhibit. I realized I forgot to look at the wall by the front gates surrounding Graceland. I couldn't get a good look at it from the ride on the shuttle, so I made a mental note to go back on foot. Crossing the wide boulevard through the crosswalk, I noticed for the first time, a painted picture of Elvis in profile, right on the street at the center of the crosswalk. Stopping in the middle of a flashing orange hand, warning me to hurry the heck up, I pulled out my camera, snapped a quick picture of it, then booked it across. I probably looked like a complete fool to the locals, but I'm sure they're used to this fanfare. Yeah, if this was the 60's and Elvis was still alive, I'd be one of THOSE fans.
Taking a close look at the wall, I saw that every square inch of it, in its entire length, was covered with hand written messages from fans, in every language under the sun, longing that he was still here, wishing him a peaceful rest, sending their love, marking their visit and place in the world of Graceland's front gate. It was an amazing sight. I wanted to do the same thing, but I 'm sure that these messages were not written in broad daylight, out in the open, with no one blocking my vandalizing well wishes and deep regrets with a guard in his booth less than ten feet away. Also, I didn't have a pen on me. So it never happened. However, I took enough pictures to cover my own walls and whispered my message to the wind, hoping it would find the right ears to listen.
While waiting for the shuttle to take me to my next destination, I contemplated whether I should risk taking a look inside Heartbreak Hotel and possibly missing the last shuttle out to Sun Studios, or just wait patiently and cut my losses. With fifteen minutes on the clock, I decided to make a dash for it. Who knows what could happen in the next few months or the next few years? I may never get to see this place again. I can't pass up a chance to see Heartbreak Hotel when it was just yards away, even if it was just for a five-minute sneak peak. That would have torn at me for months, or every time I heard the famed song if was named after, from that day forward. I'd be wracked with regret at the lost opportunity. So, I booked it behind the exhibits, through the parking lot and burst through the front doors. Composing myself in the entrance, I pretended, as best I could, to make myself look as though I belonged there. Upon entering the unexpectedly small lobby, decorated in deep blues, reds, yellows and purples, furnished in a retro 50's style, I noticed a gift shop to the left of the front desk and a little nook on the right that gave me a little chuckle. The nook housed two computers stations and a large laser printer/fax machine, with a plaque above naming it the 'TCB Center.' I discretely snapped a picture of the sign, of course. In front of plush purple and red chairs was my favorite item in the lobby. A small black and white television in the style of the early 50's models, playing one of Elvis' first movies. I didn't get to see much more than those three spaces but I was told that the shuttle also picked passengers up outside the hotel's front entrance, so I had a few extra minutes to linger in the lobby. In that time, I sat watching Elvis on a 15' inch screen, while he sang over the lobby's speakers above me, inside the Heartbreak Hotel. Amazing. Oh, snap. There's my shuttle...wait!...I'm coming!
To be continued...
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