The Stars and Stripes fly at half mast. The flag languishes in a plaza clogged with the stagnant humidity of a staling summer. We languish alongside it. Eventually a shuttle saves us and takes us to Graceland. Its instant appeal is almost impossible to put into words. The walls of the billiard room are covered in multicoloured fabric, there’s an indoor waterfall in the living room and everything screams of success, humour and the seventies. We eat Elvis Sandwiches for lunch in memoriam.
A brief downpour drowns the cracked and broken streets with a clinging dampness. The Lorraine Motel faces the National Civil Rights Museum and, within firing distance, a boarding house. Martin Luther King was staying in room no. 63 on 4th April 1968. We’re five minutes too late for admission to the museum: bitter disappointment.
From Elvis to Martin Luther King to a Hanson gig. There’s just about time to feast on stir fried vegetables (never has broccoli tasted so good) before we’re absorbed into the wild, screaming twenty-something female crowd. They finish an incredible set with a rendition of The Star Spangled Banner, just when we’d almost forgotten the date.
To The Table 