Apologies to the many, many avid readers of this blog for the lack of posts in the last week - we seem to have been either on greyhounds, trains, or in hotels which don't have wifi (when do they think this is, the 20th century?). Anyway, you wait a week, and then two come along at once.
I'm writing this entry somewhere in amongst the rural flatness of the Great Plains, on our second overnight train journey, this time between Memphis and Chicago. We're gonna be crossing through states like they're going out of fashion - Tennessee, Arkansas, Kentucky, Illinois. The crucial difference between this rail trip and the last is that we're now in a 'roomette', admittedly with a heavy emphasis on the 'ette'; it's a lot like a room, but it's so small that they don't really call it a room...they call it a roomette. It's exceptionally cool though, and not as claustrophobic as it could be. I've always wanted to take a trip on a sleeper train, and it looks like that wish is being fulfilled. I wouldn't hesitate to say that this is one of the coolest things I've ever done, and in fact I've repeatedly let an increasingly impatient Scarlett know that.
Before we climbed aboard this train, we had an extremely busy final day in Memphis - after going to
the hotel gym (!) we went bouncing into Graceland, Graceland, Memphis Tennessee. First things first, I have to confess that I've never really been all that into Elvis. Shocking, I know, but there you have it. Nonetheless, while I wasn't on the same wavelength as a lot of the other occasionally curious people there (one lady, Scarlett noticed, had a fairly sizable tattoo of the King on her ankle), I was, in a way, making a pilgrimage of my own, to the site of the pilgrimage made by Paul Simon in his brilliant song called, that's right, Graceland. The Mississippi Delta was, undoubtedly, shining like a national guitar as we followed the river down the highway through the cradle of the Civil War. Of course, Simon used Graceland as a metaphor (and also because it was a convenient two-syllable location in Memphis - he'd written the rest of the lyrics before settling on the eponymous word), but still, it's nice to know what he's singing about.
Having said I'm not that into Elvis, I must admit he'd grown on me a lot by the end of our extremely interesting tour. The house is surprisingly small, and feels unexpectedly homey, despite all the velvet rope. He was a bit of an enigma, old Elvis, but clearly he was someone who couldn't believe how much money he had suddenly acquired, so he bought everything he could think of; there's carpet on the ceiling, an indoor waterfall, disarmingly garish wallpaper in every room, his own racquetball facility (though sadly I made no progress in determining exactly what racquetball is), and a large private jet, the interior of which was clearly the inspiration for that bit in Austin Powers where he has a private jet. Evidently Presley couldn't spend the cash fast enough. Seeing Graceland also went some way for me to humanising this man who was and is an extraordinary myth - his basement pool table had a tear in it that apparently he made when an ambitious attempted trick shot went abruptly awry.
The Presleys' graveyard, in the garden of the mansion, is pretty sobering, and the substantial number of floral wreaths still being sent by grieving yet tireless fans are testament to the King's legacy, but in my head the mood was slightly punctured by the fact that I couldn't help but think of Spinal Tap while standing there. I guess it really puts a bit of perspective on things...
At the very real risk of repeating myself, American people, particularly Southerners, are so darn
affable. When we arrived at Graceland, we were debating whether to buy the basic ticket that granted us access only to the house, or the 'platinum' ticket that allowed us to also see the aeroplane and a few other things. It was only $5 more but still...that's how they get you. Sensing our distress, a couple in front of us in the queue (sorry, the 'line') turned around and offered us two spare coupons they had for the platinum tickets, since they would only go to waste otherwise. People do this in Disney as well; they go out of their way to give unwanted FastPasses to people at the back of the line. I dunno, I just don't think it happens to the same degree in Britain. We thanked them profusely, the man told me I had hair like Paul McCartney, said his father used to
say 'damn those Beatles and damn their haircuts!' (which made me feel rather self-conscious), and we all had a good laugh.
Happily, we've now made sufficient progress out of Memphis for me to believe that we're not going to plummet into the Mississippi - during our Huck Finn-esque voyage yesterday, our guide (who had one of the most mellifluous voices I think I've ever heard) chuckled that, when construction of the rail bridge out of the city was completed around 100 years ago, the engineers themselves thought it wouldn't be long before it collapsed. So yeah, pretty glad to have avoided that one!
Anyway, I'll sign off for now, as I'm going to stretch out on my bed (that's right) and go to sleep, slash, watch Ferris Bueller's Day Off to get me in the mood for Chicago (sorry Benj, I mean...Chi...cego...doesn't really work when you spell it out, does it?).
- Adam
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