Road Wurds

Destination: Memphis

I finished up my day in Kansas City at Lidia's. It's an Italian place down by Jack Stack in the Freight Center. The Sunday Special was braised lamb shank, meatballs, and Italian sausage with penne, and a marinara sauce. The portion was large and with some determination I almost finished it all. The portion was deceiving. The lamb shank was tender, the meatballs firm and fresh, and the sausage was delightfully seasoned in with what tasted like rosemary and oregano. But I'm not a chef, so what tastes like one thing could be something else. The one thing that I could not mistake was the crisp, clear taste, and clean finish of the Peroni Lager.

I roll out of KC at 615. As a tourist/traveller I am sympathetic to the needs of the local rush hour. I'm a problem in rush hour since I usually have no idea where I'm going, so I try to leave early. Just forget about the problem in Seattle, that was a serious error on my part.

I have a chocolate croissant and an Awake tea from the Coffee Express in the hotel lobby to guide me through the morning.

It's clear and a bit chilly as I head south on US-71. Today I will be changing highway numbers about every hour as I head to Memphis. Across three states, a mountain range, and some (very) flat land.

At a Burger King in Bolivar Missouri I stop for a nature call. I also buy some hash browns. I don't like just using a business' facilities without buying something. So I usually buy something about a dollar or so. At a gas station it's usually a drink, unless I bought gas. The land as I get further south in Missouri is flat, and golden. I am sure that in the spring it's green(ish).

I slip into the Ozarks in Southern Missouri. They sneak up on you. One minute you're in the flatlands, then the next you are into some real tight corners, and the speed limit changes frequently. Every so often you come out from the increasingly dense trees, and you see you have climbed up, and are now looking across at other tree covered hilltops.

Cultivated land is filled with crops, cattle and goats. The soil has gone from brown to red. The whole of the Ozarks seems “fresh” looking to me, as if it has just been washed, coiffed, and put on display.

I am enjoying the views, the trees, the road, and the driving. It's the first time since I crossed the border last Wednesday that I have had to go so long without using the cruise control. It's really the first time I've actually had to drive, rather than just point it in a direction.

This road is not an Interstate. For the longest time it's only two lanes, with alternating passing lanes, frequent school bus warnings, and driveways, along with some traffic lights, and small town speed zone changes. I am so busy driving I can't take pictures.

In Thayer, Missouri I fuel up. The pump won't give me a receipt so I have to go inside. On my way in I see a sign that they sell Land Shark lager. Now for those of you who were with me on last year's Hawaii trip, you might remember that Land Shark lager was a huge part of my days and nights. I am so happy!! I buy a six pack, and place it in the trunk. I am pleased that an old friend will make part of the journey with me. I'm drinking one now as I type this out. Pure Ambrosia. Sigh.

I cross the Arkansas State line somewhere around Hardy. At least I think so since I didn't see a sign.

I break out of the Ozarks quite suddenly. It takes me a few minutes to realize I'm back on flat ground. I even see a small cotton field. Now I know I'm in the south.

I cross the Tennessee State line at 315 while crossing a very large bridge into Memphis. After negotiating, cajoling, and a little forcing on the freeway system, I make it to the hotel at 330. For the next two nights I am staying at the Fairfields Inns and Suites, part of the Marriott group. And it's then I realize I made small error in picking this hotel. It's twenty freeway minutes from downtown.

The hotel is newish, in a cluster of budget hotels right next to the Southwest Tennessee Community College. I actually like the hotel, but it limit's my plans. I also, somehow, booked a room with a two person whirlpool tub, as well as a shower.

I unload the car and have a brilliant idea revolving around laundry. I have some laundry to do so I wash my stuff in the sink and then give it a rinse in the whirlpool. Works out great. All my clothes for this trip are either Tilley, CloudVeil, or MEC. All wash in the sink and dry in less than eight hours.

At odds for dinner since I am so far out of town, and Burger King is so far off the list of choices, I once again turn to the desk clerk for inspiration. She gives me the approved list of places and addresses on a sheet of paper. I guess they get asked that a lot. Then she pulls out a small card file box and gives me printed directions to Graceland, The National Civil Rights Museum, and place called Corky's BBQ.

I plug the address into the GPS and go on a ride through suburban Memphis.

These are commuter routes, shortcuts, and residential areas. I finally make it to the N. Germantown Parkway and there it is.

I get myself turned around a bit because I refuse to make a U-turn on a six lane road, so I turn into a side street and promptly get a touch lost in the back street, but as always, I find a way back.

Corky's is a family place, three locations, very reasonable prices, and OH MY GOD portions.

I make yet another mistake and order the full slab, "set up" for two. It's slightly cheaper than the full slab and separate sides. I'm a big guy, I have been known to eat my fair share (though lately I'm really cutting back on portioning), and can usually polish off what's put in front of me. I do not make a mistake in ordering Corky's Ale. It's a nice compliment to the meal, not heavy.

I admit defeat after about two thirds through the ribs. I ordered them half wet and half dry. Or half with BBQ sauce and half with seasoning rub. There was no bad choice here. Both were exceptional. The meat pulled nicely from the bone, it was quite moist, and the slow cooking came through without a fault. I loved every bite. The beans were just right, not too sweet, nor too thick. The coleslaw was crunchy fresh, dark green, and not too watery. Www.corkysmemphis.com

I head back to the hotel, full to the point of feeling bloated, but having loved the experience.

I let myself sleep late, and I'm not up and functioning and eating a Jimmy Dean breakfast "sandwich" in the lobby until just after 9. I watch some of CNN's 9/11 Memorial coverage while chasing down the “sandwich” with orange juice.

I pull into the Graceland parking lot around 10. I pay my $10, and put the car in a slot towards the front of the lot so I can easily find it later. I buy a Platinum Ticket for $36. That gives me the audio tour of Graceland, the automobiles, the planes, something called Elvis 68 Tribute, and the Elvis on Tour exhibit.

Truth be told, I'm was really on the fence about even coming here. Like a lot of people I like Elvis's music. I even like his movies, since most of them had him running around the country on one adventure or another, involving music, and girls, and whatnot. They were fun. They were not Scorsese or Fellini, but they weren't supposed to be.

But back to my point. I liked Elvis. I liked to sing along to his music as a kid, and still do when there's no one in earshot. My vocal stylings are best left unheard by anyone. What I don't like about the whole thing is that there is a great disservice done to the man, the husband, the father, the son. Like so many before him, everyone wanted a piece of him, but how much room was there for just him? I find myself in a quandary as I buy my ticket, and wonder just how much am I contributing to the circus that shines over his worth as a human, and an artist?

As you get on the shuttle they take a picture of you in front of a stylized backdrop that says Graceland, and then hand you a card with a number on it. You can pick it up after the tour. And then the shuttle leaves to take you across the street to the mansion.

Probably because of it's size in folklore and popular culture, I am surprised at how modest the mansion really looks. It's really a large house, but far from the size of some “mansions” I've seen, and been in. The living room is tastefully decorated (for the '70s) and as an entertaining space is quite small.

I like the dining room. It gives me a sense that a real family ate meals here. Far from being a formal dining room in the traditional sense, it's more of a gathering place. Kind of like the dining room at my house as a kid where Christmas, Thanksgiving, Easter, and birthday's would bring us all together, both blood and connected family.

Same thing for the kitchen. It has a family feel to it, right down to the TV in the corner. It looks used, and loved at the same time.

The downstairs brings us the TV room, and the pool room, and are definite throwbacks. But they are not much different in purpose and size, including low ceilings, than thousands of other rec rooms of the time. TV's, stereos, records, couches, pool tables were all in use at the time. Granted that other houses used second hand TV’s, and cheap pool tables and couches from Sears, the intent was the same. A place to watch TV, and play games, a space to spend time with friends and family. I apologize for the shaky pictures.

The so called “Jungle Room” looks out over the back yard, and is hardly a place that conjures up weird encounters. It's more like a den that has a theme, and it looks like a comfortable place to sit and chat.

The feeling that I get going through the house is one of a family place, not a place of a music legend and superstar. In fact I feel a bit voyeurish. A family lived here, granted it was a special family, but it was still a family. I feel like I'm burglarizing their space just by looking at it and being in the house, like a trespasser.

The grounds of the estate are just over 13 acres. With horses and pasture taking up most of it.

The Trophy room holds gold records, performance costumes, and even wedding clothes.

The Meditation garden is where Elvis, his parents, and grandmother are buried. There is also a small memorial plaque for Elvis's stillborn twin brother, who remains buried in Tupelo. I had some troublesome personal moments as I think of, and remember, my late friend Bob who was a huge Elvis fan. He even had an e-mail address that ended in @elvis.com. At his funeral there was a very good Elvis tribute artist who sang his favourite songs. Bob never made it to Graceland, and that's why I had to fight tears away as I looked at the graves.

Rest In Peace Bob!

After returning to the “complex” across the street, the shuttle bus drops us off at Elvis Presley's Automobile Museum. It's here where they show you the picture they took of you getting on the shuttle. They want $25 for it. I bite my tongue instead of aksing the guy if he's actually making any money at this. And this is exactly my point about the "circus".

Except for the Stutz Blackhawks, and Roll's Royce's, I find the collection limited. Exiting through the gift shop, I walk up the street to the Elvis On Tour, and the '68 Special Exhibit. Both are accessed through their own respective gift shops where they also take your tickets. They are modestly interesting.

I walk back along Elvis Presley Blvd to Elvis’s Planes. After passing through yet another gift shop where they take my ticket, I find my way to the Convair 880, and the Jetstream that were Elvis's private jets.

The interior of the Convair 880 is substantially customized, right down to the bathroom, and gold plated seat belt buckles.

It's now pushing one o'clock. And time to move on. I have two housekeeping chores to do. Oil life on the car is down to 6% so that has to be looked after, and the other is a car wash that will get the caked on bugs off the grill.

After getting directions to a Jiffy Lube where they change the oil,

I get directions to the $10 car wash. It's a hand wash place a couple of blocks away on Shelby, and they do a great job cleaning all the bugs out of the grill. The next few days will take me through major bug country, and I don't want the air and radiator intakes clogged so I get overheating.

I consult with the GPS and head in the direction of the National Civil Rights Museum. I found out about it from the gift shop clerk at the Negro Leagues Baseball Museum back in Kansas City. When I found out about I changed my mind about only staying Memphis for half a day.

I arrive at the Museum only to find out it's closed on Tuesday's. I need to do better research, a common theme on this trip. I am however somewhat surprised to see that the Museum is built on the site of the death of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. The museum is built right next to the Lorraine Motel where Doctor King was assassinated. The motel is preserved as it was on the day he died.

I am deeply disappointed the Museum is closed. I was very much looking forward to learning more than I already do (a pitiful amount as I have come to realize after spending some time at the NLBM) about this struggle.

I make my way to Beale Street and park the car. It's closed. Not the parking lot, the street. Every where I look it's either empty, or for lease. Even the places that are still in business are mostly closed.

Seems that where Memphis is concerned I'm the wrong guy, at the wrong time. Tuesday’s can be like that in my life.

I walk up Beale Street taking pictures of neon signs that won't actually mean anything artful until it get's dark. I stop at the A. Schwab Dry Goods store. It's been wonderfully preserved. They have a MOJO counter upstairs, just in case you lost yours. I buy a t-shirt and move on. The MOJO counter is unstaffed, no MOJO revitalisation for me.

It's getting very warm in the afternoon sun. I stop at BB Kings Blue's Club for lunch and a couple of beers.

I order a Hickory burger, and a Ghost River Golden Ale. The place itself is deserted. But it's Tuesday at 3 in the afternoon. The Blues don't happen until later, I guess, I know.

The burger is just the right size and the BBQ sauce is just sweet enough to compliment the smoothness of the beer.

I walk out into the warm afternoon. At the WC Handy Park a group is playing live blues, so I hang around for 15 minutes to listen. Live Blues is so much better than recorded Blues. Kind of like real heartbreaks hurting more than imagined ones. If you don't know what an imagined heartbreak is, you haven't lived. And if you've never had your heart ripped out, stomped on, and handed back to you with hot sauce on it, you'll never "get" the blues.