The Great American Road Trip. This fabled American institution is perhaps as old as America herself. Pick a destination or just drive Ð it's often said that the journey is better than the destination.
I embarked on the Great American Road Trip this summer and I got the best of both worlds: the destination was the American pop culture mecca of Graceland; the journey a myriad of small towns, farms, and mile upon mile of flat, 95 degree, 95 MPH, unÐairconditioned terrain.
We drove 1400 miles in all - some would say exactly 1400 miles too many to see 15 foot long couches, the jungle room and other cheezy Graceland staples. But those 1400 miles encompassed seven different states each with seven equally different cultures - from the Mississippi River barge influenced New Madrid, Missouri, to the Niagra Falls-esque atmosphere of Cave City, Kentucky. We passed through three separate cities named "Bowling Green," one of which had a lawn tractor pull (from stock to wildly modified) to celebrate the city's annual "Settlers' Festival." A resident informed me that it was her cousin's husband who was driving one of the tractors, and it was this cousin's son who won the pedal tractor pull.
Why does it always seem that people outside your community are always friendlier than those inside the community? When we were only a few hours outside of Graceland, a family in a Lincoln pulled beside us and noticed we were going to Graceland (a fact that seemed pretty hard to miss considering the 3 foot long "Goin' to Graceland" sign I taped to the rear window). They asked us if we knew where we were going, and the next thing I knew we were following these strangers into Memphis.
Heading back to Michigan, I observed a minivan struggling to keep up with us in light traffic - the minivan pulled up beside us and motioned for me to roll down my window. When I finally deciphered what the lady yelling at me was saying, I discovered that she had seen my "Polish and Proud" sticker (and prototypical Polish eagle) that I display on my driver side quarter window. She asked me if I were Polish - sort of an odd question to ask when driving 70 MPH in light traffic - and I nodded and gave her the "thumbs-up" sign. She waved back and I smiled about the incident all the way back to Michigan.
After tracing the Mississippi River to Memphis we took the obligatory Graceland walking tour, complete with personalized headphones through which we learned important Elvis facts like the time Elvis went on a meatloaf binge and ate meatloaf for something like 6 months straight or when Elvis used to practice martial arts at the bottom of the grand staircase near the front door of Graceland.
Of course, Graceland is preserved in its full late 50s early 60s grandeur, chockÐ full of goodies like the billiards room with pleated paisleyÐlike fabric on the walls and ceiling or the infamous bar with blue and yellow vinyl and three televisions. You see, Elvis liked to watch all three networks at once, just like President Johnson.
The tour concludes with Elvis' grave. I still get the chills when I see even the toughest Harley Davidson men in leather tear up when they come to the King's grave. You can't help but feel bad for Elvis, or even more so for the people to whom he meant so much. I watched a documentary about Graceland on PBS once, and one lady perhaps put it best: "There are three Kings in heaven now - my husband, Elvis, and Jesus Christ."
But what I find most shocking about the whole Graceland experience is the simple fact that Elvis' name is spelled wrong on his gravestone. Elvis was born Elvis Aron Presley, but his gravestone contains an error in his middle name, spelling it "Aaron" instead. This might be the understatement of the century, but to misspell Elvis Presley's name is a pretty big mistake, to say the least. Elvis' father and mother are buried next to him, and a marker pays tribute to Elvis' little known twin brother who died while very, very young.
After the obligatory Graceland walking tour came the obligatory visit to the unofficial Graceland souvenir shops. I heard people complain about "sprawl" before, and I've seen communities go up in arms about strip malls, but I can assure them that their situation is relatively trivial compared to what I saw in Memphis - not only a strip mall with one Elvis souvenir store, but an entire strip mall of Elvis souvenir stores, four in all. And they all had the same stuff, save the one that sold "Love Me Tender" shampoo/conditioner. The same key chains, place mats, spoons, shot glasses, airbrushed T-shirts, buttons and socks - you name it, these four shops had it. The only thing I didn't see was an Elvis air freshener. If they had one, however, I would have bought it in a second.
I wish I could've been alive to see Elvis in his prime "Hunka Hunka Burnin' Love" days. It's nearly impossible to understand Elvis' widespread worldwide popularity. Michael Jackson in his Thriller days was pretty popular, and I hear that Baywatch is the most watched television show in the world, but this pales in comparison to what I have heard about Elvis in his prime. Whatever he touched turned to gold - or platinum, in the case of his numerous platinum records. Elvis mounted a full frontal attack on all forms of media in his generation: there were Elvis movies, Elvis records, Elvis on Ed Sullivan, Elvis on tour, Elvis in magazines. Elvis had country hits, Elvis had rock and roll hits - Elvis could dance.
Elvis also gave people hope. He was the small town boy from Tupelo, Mississippi who made it big. He gave dreamers hope and substantiated people's faith in the American Dream. This points to the irony in Elvis' nickname - the King. To many he was the second coming of the Messiah. To me, however, he's just one cool rock and roll cat.
The best thing about this road trip is that it is so uniquely American. In fact, it's American to the cheeziest, utmost degree. Not to say that things un-American are not good; it's just that once and a while I think it's theraputic to delve into Americana; to become part of Americana. It's the American notion of "getting away from it all"; it's the American notion of hitting the open road; it was a pilgrimage to the great metaphor of the American Dream - Graceland. So go to Graceland, and pick me up a bottle of "Love Me Tender Shampoo" - mine's almost empty. MR