In early June of 2007, I finally realize a long-standing wish: to go see Graceland. Although I am certainly a late-blooming Elvis fan, not "discovering" him until 10 years AFTER he died, I knew that I wanted to see his house. Unfortunately, being geographically stupid, I always figured it was too far to travel to Tennessee, and I really, really, REALLY hate to fly. Once I sat down and studied a map, however, I realized that traveling to Memphis would not be such a big deal after all, so Jay and I began to plan for this trip in earnest.

We stayed the first night of our trip in Rolla, Missouri -- a town we picked for no other reason than it marked a place to stay after a long day of driving. We stayed in the deceptively-named Quality Inn, which was as far from "quality" as one might desire. (We actually went to a Wal-mart and bought our own Lysol wipes to clean the bathroom with, if that tells you anything. Oh, and we had to request a new comforter for the bed because the one we had sported an odd looking bloodstain on it.)

From Rolla we drove into Memphis, checking into a cheesy Days Inn that was all Elvis themed. The only reason for staying there was because it was pretty much across the street from Graceland. In my fanatasy, I imagined being able to gaze out my hotel window and see Graceland. Little did I realize that Graceland has turned into a theme park of sorts, and the area immediately across the street is solely used for the purpose of the house tours and multiple museums. All of this has purpose, however, because this section of Elvis Presley Boulevard has begun to show the "old downtown" decay, and visitors to Graceland would not want to take a leisurely stroll down the boulevard unless they were carrying a concealed weapon, in my opinion. The tour building and museums provide a safe haven for visitors who don't want to be bothered by the crazy drunks who congregate outside of the gas stations, drinking their 40 oz. beers that they just purchased. We found that the businesses on the boulevard are at a disadvantage, because the area obviously gets rather scary at night, but the freakin' gas stations sell the 40 ouncers ON ICE in buckets for drunken convenience. We stared on more than one occasion at the cartoon-like image of someone walking down the street drinking booze or beer out of a paper sack. Perhaps this is a product of living a somewhat sheltered life in the Midwest, but both Jason and I were grateful that we didn't have to deal with that on a daily basis.

It is somewhat sad, however, to see Elvis' awesome house sitting in the middle of all of this. While Beale Street, with all of its touristy cheesiness, seems well patrolled by the police, the area around Graceland seems to be a no-man's land for law enforcement. (Perhaps since Elvis fancied himself an undercover cop wannabe, the real police force has gotten used to not patrolling that area ... ha ha!) We even experienced one of Memphis' finest high-tailing it down the scarier sections of Elvis Presley Boulevard -- no lights on, no emergency, just a desire to get the hell out of Dodge. Can't say I blame him.

All this effort, all this desire to see Elvis' Graceland, and I found a way to ruin it for myself. As I was walking around the tour buildings and gazing across the street at Gracleland, it hit me: Elvis has been dead for 30 years, and millions of people still line up each year to tromp through his house. What I had hoped would be an authentic glimpse into Elvis' life began to have tints of cheap tourist trappage. And I was one of the suckers.

I had to give Jason credit for being patient during the two days we spent in Memphis. I suppose I should be grateful for the characters we saw, for it gave him something to look at. He has no interest in Elvis, but he didn't complain when I continuously watched one of the 3 Elvis channels that the hotel broadcast 24/7. I tried to make the stay easier for him by avoiding the Elvis movies, because even I think they're terrible. The concerts, however, are always entertaining so we watched those, but that also meant that Jason was unable to watch baseball on TV. He never said a word.

We got into Memphis on a Thursday, too late to take a tour of the house. We trudged through the humidity to go buy advance tickets for the next day's tour -- the first one of the day. I wasn't surprised by the number of foreigners and characters that I saw in the Elvis complex, but it was entertaining to watch, nonetheless. So many Elvis wannabes! One such soul stayed in our hotel -- a New Zealand Elvis impersonator -- and while Jason and I were eating breakfast on the morning of our tour, we were "treated" to an impromptu performance that the man gave for the benefit of a tourist's video camera. Needless to say, we were not impressed. The hardest part was trying not to crack up laughing, since it seemed that our position behind the Elvis wannabe would ensure our appearance on the tourist's video. I'd hate to ruin it for her, although I think New Zealand Elvis did that all by himself.

Our tour was at 9 a.m. on Friday. The weather wasn't going to cut us a break yet; rain was forecast, but hadn't arrived yet, so the heat and humidity persisted. I was hoping that the early tour start would mean less of a crowd, but I obviously underestimated the power of Elvis. By the time we had redeemed our tickets and were waiting for the tour buses to begin their constant runs across the street, there was a good-sized crowd waiting with us. Lots of foreigners, lots of retired folks. (The latter was another reminder that I am an unusually young Elvis fan!)

The tours to Graceland run like a well-oiled multi-million dollar machine, as was to be expected. We lined up, they handed us earphones for the audio-guided tour, (of course, they force you to walk in a line through a photographer's lair to be trapped into buying an overpriced cheesy picture with a painted Graceland backdrop), then we boarded the mini-buses. I honestly don't know how these bus drivers cope with their undeniably boring job, for the shuttles to Graceland are constant, all day long. Making the trip across Elvis Presley Boulevard more interesting is the fact that the light to cross takes forever to appear and it's lightning fast. Those shuttle drivers have to gun it to make it across in time. I suppose for the "homefolk" who commute down EPB every day the short light is a blessing, for I can't imagine having to drive by that tourist trap every day, having to deal with the traffic hassles that the Elvis worshippers provide.

I don't know what I was expecting from Graceland, but I was pleasantly surprised to see that the tour was audio-guided so that we weren't forced to move along at a certain pace. Aside from a brief introduction from a jittery youth on the front steps of Graceland, we were free to explore. I was amused that although the brochures and employees warned multiple times that flash photography was NOT allowed (to avoid excessive light exposure to artifacts, which would ruin them), about 1/3 of the clueless mob either didn't pay attention to the warnings or didn't know how to shut off the freakin' flash on their stupid cameras. The poor staff there were patient in saying, "Sir, would you please shut off your flash?" and several of them had to help the idiots figure out how to shut it off. I was grateful that my digital camera was able to photograph the house well enough, and I felt a little bit smug that I was one of the mindful few who a) had listened to the warnings and b) knew how to shut off my flash.

My anti-flash capabilities only had one minor slip-up. This is what I call my "weird Elvis moment" -- just because I want to have a "weird Elvis moment" to remember on this trip. After photographing almost the whole house sans-flash, Jason and I managed to wind up in the racquetball court without a mob around us. The actual court area is now used to house concert jumpsuits and other artifacts, and while I took a picture of one of the jumpsuits that I remember him wearing in a concert, my flash went off. I was horrified and mystified, because I had not changed the settings. I looked up the stairs to see a dour-looking employee leaning down, having seen the flash. I looked up apologetically and explained that I didn't know what had happened -- that I had the flash OFF. She didn't stay a word, probably figuring that I was one of the countless idiots that she encounters daily. In any event, the racquetball court was a cool place to be for me, for that was one of the last places Elvis was before he died. He played racquetball, went to his room (and the bathroom) and, well, you know.

Anyone who has been to Graceland will probably tell you that the house is smaller than they thought it would be. The same was true for me. The house was built in the 30s and would undoubtedly be glamorous for that era. Now, in our supersized culture, the house appears small, almost ordinary. Interestingly enough, the house itself went under major redecorating during the mid-70's, when Elvis went through his "red" phase. The carpet (formerly white, and currently restored to white) was all replaced with red, and the furnishings in his room (which visitors can't see, but I've read about) are also heavily red-themed. All that red undoubtedly made the house look way gaudier than it was already, so Priscilla made a good call when deciding to dump the red and go back to the white carpet when the house opened for visitors.

The tour of Graceland could take a couple hours or a whole day, depending on how long you linger in each area. In addition to the house tour, those who purchase upgraded tour packages can tour the several museums as well. The Elvis After Dark museum was by far my favorite, for this is where we saw glimpses of some of the off-the-wall activities Elvis took part in during the night/early morning hours, some of them undoubtedly fueled by the excess drugs in his system. We get to see an interview with one of Elvis' entourage -- a guy who accompanied him on his meeting with President Nixon. In addition, you can see the outfits that Nixon and Elvis wore for this encounter, and the WWII commemorative gun that Nixon gave Elvis.

The highlight of my Elvis adventure came Friday night as Jason and I were again walking through the Elvis plaza across the street. Rain had relieved the awful humidity and was still hanging around a bit, so it was not a great idea to be hanging around outside. However, as I walked by the Sirius All-Elvis channel that broadcasts from Graceland Plaza, I stopped dead in my tracks as I looked at who the DJ was. In all the Elvis documentaries I've watched and all the Elvis books I've read, I have come across the name and image of the Memphis DJ who was sitting before me: George Klein. Now a casino host in Mississippi, George Klein does the Elvis hour on Sirius Radio on Friday nights. Here was one of Elvis' friends, doing the Elvis hour in a DJ booth in front of my very eyes! Jason thought I was a little loony for getting excited over a radio DJ, but I KNEW who this guy was ... I wanted his autograph.

Keep in mind that I am NOT a celebrity freak. I don't drool over autographs or wish to wait in long lines for them. But George Klein -- I had seen his picture so many times and watched interviews with him that it seemed natural to want to talk to him. Plus, I was at Graceland after a long 20-year wait ... I had to have something to take back to Iowa with me.

Waiting for Klein's show to end, Jason and I laughed as we watched the clueless mob and their reactions to a live show being broadcast. The DJ booth is all glass, so one can watch the show go on. Both of us stayed quite a distance away, not wanting to bother the DJs as they were doing their show. However, several people thought nothing of going up nose-to-nose to the glass and watching George Klein as he talked. A few times he would look up, a mildly annoyed look on his face, but they wouldn't move. One kid looked exactly like the dorks in the Far Side cartoons -- pudgy, big square glasses, clueless look on his face -- and he stood there for about 15 minutes, drinking his soda through a straw, his bulging eyes boring through the glass. I doubt this kid knew who George Klein was, but it was almost as if the kid was amazed that radio was done by real live people.

The crew waiting for Klein was amusing. I think I can safely say that George was relieved when his show was over and he saw that at least one normal person was waiting for him. Aside from me, there was the New Zealand Elvis (who had tried hard to dress Elvis-esque with a type of white hat that Elvis wore in the 60's) and a lady who seemed to have some mental issues. He was very nice and accommodating, though. Although I was a little shy about approaching him, he came right up to me and shook my hand and asked where I was from. He noted that Jason was taking pictures of us and he prompted me to look up and smile so that we would have a good picture. Obviously, he's an old pro at all of this. He signed one of his casino business cards -- the back of which has a picture of him and Elvis during the "Memphis Mafia" days.

By Saturday morning, Jason and I were more than ready to depart Memphis. I had experienced Graceland, which was the reason we came, and now there was nothing left to do. The scary nature of Elvis Presley Boulevard outside of the Graceland Plaza was something both of us were tired of, and now we wanted to get back to civilization.

Civilization would be long in coming, however, as our drive to Branson (our last stop) proved to be ultra-entertaining. Who knew that southern stereotypes (run-down shacks with Pa sitting on the porch) were actually not so far-fetched? We saw oodles of houses that I wouldn't think were habitable, but actually did have a family living there. Some of the towns had a Deliverance flavor that made us hope that our car wouldn't suddenly break down or get a flat tire.

Branson was chosen as our last stop for the sole reason that it would give us a place to stay after our adventures through Missouri and Arkansas. I have not had a great desire to see Branson, and after seeing it, cannot say that I ever wish to go back. If I thought Graceland was cheesy, Branson outshines it by miles in that regard, and the traffic is HORRIBLE. Think Cruise Night in Canton, with its barely-moving cars, and that's what the entire strip of Branson is like. All day long.

We did see a couple of neat things in Branson. Neither Jason and I are "show" people, so we didn't bother trying to find tickets to go see some washed-up songstress, but we did want to check out some exhibits. We saw the Ripley's Believe It or Not museum, the Titanic exhibit (which was VERY cool) and the Predator Zoo, which was disheartening because of the run-down condition of the animals' surroundings. We found a steakhouse close to our hotel to avoid the traffic, and then we crashed at the hotel. End of Branson adventure, and none too soon.

From Branson we drove all the way up to my parents' house, where Austin and Dallas were staying. It was a long drive, but it was also a relief to get back on familiar territory, so to speak. Although the landscape of South Dakota pales in comparison to the beautiful prairie of Missouri (with its millions of trees, wildflowers, and rolling hills), much of the towns and houses we saw were nothing short of depressing. So much of our trip consisted of viewing flat-out poverty, and that was something I was glad not to be completely surrounded with on a daily basis. I was glad to be back in the upper Midwest, where people's main source of income isn't selling their junk at a flea market in their front lawn. No joke. We saw that too many times to count.

Our trip was a bit of a whirlwind, but it was both educational and entertaining. I'm not sure if we ever want to take another driving trip that goes further South, but for now, we can say we've seen part of it.

Check out the pictures for the visual accompaniment to this narrative.