Going to Graceland
Some might call this a 5 over 4 and a door – in 1960 this was a mansion.
For reasons I can’t quite explain, I’ve always wanted to visit Graceland. This is strange because I’m not an Elvis fan. I didn’t grow up with his music, and my parents didn’t either, or I don’t remember my grandparent ever listening to music other than in church. As a kid, I loved old movies and spent hours glued to TCM, but not once did I stumble upon Elvis gyrating his way through “Blue Hawaii.” So why the fascination with his house? I blame Paul Simon. That song Graceland lodged itself in my brain like a piece of chewed gum under a bar, and the idea of Memphis and its cultural oddities took root.
This past New Year’s Eve, Cam, Chad, and Annie were in the kitchen making homemade pasta. My job was to “stay out of the way,” which I interpreted as “sit near the Bluetooth speaker and open wine.” Somewhere between the second bottle and my growing concern about having no plans for the rest of winter break, I began asking Chad where could we fly. You see, Chad’s a pilot. We co-own a Pilatus—technically, half of one—but our general policy is that using it is too expensive, and it’s in the shop about as often as it’s in the air. “American Airlines it is!” I declared, after Annie suggested Memphis, which happens to fall within the Pilatus’s range but also within the range of a decent credit card.
Two days later, we landed in Memphis. It was cold and gray, the sort of weather that makes you appreciate hot coffee, even when it’s weak, as it often is at breakfast spots that serve biscuits and gravy. With Ultimate VIP (aka UVs) tickets to Graceland in hand, we piled into a tiny rental car and made our way toward The King’s residence. I don’t know what I expected—white-columned grandeur, maybe—but the approach to Graceland felt less like approaching an icon’s home and more like pulling into a strip mall that had seen better days.
Inside the ticket office-slash-gift shop (the first of many), we were given red-lanyarded credentials that made us feel important. For context, I should explain that “UVs” means you can go everywhere, including a tour of Elvis’s planes, which sit on the property like relics of an empire in decline. The Lisa Marie, a name both grand and tragic now, was particularly amusing because everything inside was covered in plastic. Crushed velvet couches and a bed with FAA-compliant seatbelts, all preserved like a mid-century time capsule in your grandmother’s living room.
Our guide, Elizabeth, greeted us with the news that she had quit smoking 24 hours earlier. “I think I’m over the worst of it,” she said with the optimism of someone who clearly wasn’t. She ushered our group—a mix of wide-eyed, lanyard-wearing seniors (and two weary young adults, who were humoring their mother) —onto a bus and across the street to the Graceland gates. The house, which looks modest from the outside, is smaller than you’d expect, especially when you consider the myth surrounding it. Inside, it’s pure 1970s opulence: shag carpets, mirrored walls, and a kitchen that could double as a time machine to your great-aunt’s house.
We weren’t allowed upstairs, where Elvis spent his private time (and, incidentally, where he died), but we did get to see the jungle room. It’s the kind of place you’d imagine Austin Powers and Tarzan hosting a joint dinner party, complete with faux animal skin and a non-functional fountain that now relies on piped-in water sounds for ambiance.
I’m not sure Annie and Cam had never seen a tube TV before. There were plenty of them; they would stare at them as if it were an ancient artifact. In the basement there were three giant-for-the-time TVs in a row because Elvis saw that Nixon had that set up. After all the channels signed off at midnight (remember how they played the national anthem and then went fuzzy?), Elvis being the insomniac that he was would play movies and records. Kind of sad frankly.
The last highlight they took us to on property was the racquetball court. Elvis built it shortly before his death, and as I stood there, I couldn’t help but picture my dad playing racquetball in the 1980s – I heard him saying, “Goddammit Mike – think about it.” Racquetball, I realized, was the pickleball of its time—just more cardio and less dignity.
Back outside we went to the pool which was very same and steps away from the “meditation garden.” This was where the graves of Elvis, his mom, his daughter, his grandson, etc are located. Again, the size of the house didn’t surprise me, but the size of the pool and the graves and the fence and people’s backyards looking onto all of this did surprise me. I imagine the neighbors outside grilling and looking over and saying, yeah there’s dead Elvis.The whole place, really, gave the impression of a life lived too large for too small a space. The jumpsuits on display in the museum were undeniably magnificent, but the story behind them—the entourage, the constant need for noise and company—hinted at a loneliness that no amount of rhinestones could mask.
In the end, I bought a pair of knockoff Elvis sunglasses, which I proudly wore until my children staged an intervention later that evening. The kids weren’t impressed with Graceland, and they’re not alone—his fans are dwindling, and I wonder how long the mansion can sustain its status as a tourist attraction. Still, for a day, I got to step into a world that felt part fever dream, part relic. And while I still can’t call myself an Elvis fan, I’ll say this: the man knew how to live loud, and I respect that.
Crosswind Note:
After visiting Graceland, we planned to see the National Civil Rights Museum, located at the Lorraine Motel in Memphis—the site of Martin Luther King Jr.’s assassination. It is one of the best museums I have ever visited, and I was amazed at how they transformed such a tragic place into a center for knowledge and discussion.
If you’re in Memphis, this is a must-visit. Set aside at least two hours to take it all in.
