Good Luck Keeping "Walking in Memphis" Out of Your Head

It was a long first day in Memphis, seeing as it started at 4am. Most of us slept on the trip from Nashville to Memphis this morning, but even those few hours of sleep couldn't prepare us for the day ahead.

Peabody Hotel offered us the famous Duck March, which was...admittedly...anti-climactic. After years of hearing about the ducks in Memphis, I was expecting some song and dance. Maybe a little choreography. I just wasn't prepared for the ducks to sprint across the lobby through a flurry of camera flashes, hop in a fountain, and have that be it. I wanted spectacle. A little dazzle. But the ducks had no dazzle. They just wanted to go to the pool.

Thankfully, Beale Street offered plenty of "dazzle". We had some great barbecue for lunch (as well as sweet tea that fully encompassed the rule that "Tea should be so sweet, if you run out of syrup, you can pour it over your pancakes.") A brief walking tour of Beale Street proved helpful, but overwhelming, as we saw tourists of every size, shape, and color roam the street in search of something with just the right blend of kitsch, southern pride, blues heritage, and total absurdity with Cajun influences. I almost bought a belly button duster, but thought better of it.

But for all of Beale Street's special blend of tourist and attraction contributing to my over stimulation, nothing could prepare me for Graceland. The mirrors and colors and costumes and memorabilia available to be purchased at any of their THREE gift shops. It made my heart race as we were herded like sheep onto the shuttle and guided through the house. My fists clenched at my sides as I tried to block out the images bombarding me constantly. Elvis is not only a god to some people at Graceland, he is an omnipresent one.

I think I hit a wall with Memphis by the time we left Graceland. Proud as I was for facing my fear of all things Elvis related, I felt disconnected here. Standing in the Peabody watching the ducks with 300 tourists, I felt like one of the few to realize how ridiculous the whole exercise was. Watching Beale street, I was struck by how familiar this place felt to my hometown in Illinois, and yet so foreign. It was like coming home from college and feeling like a stranger in your own home. And Graceland was just...Graceland.

But this evening I found my connection again, sitting in the living room of Rashina's home, where her parents were entertaining us before dinner. This family invited us into their home, provided us a meal, laughed with us, shared their history with us, and hugged us all good bye, sincerely offering an open invitation for any of us to swing by if we were in the area again.

I realized a lesson that is going to be hard to remember as we move on to Little Rock and beyond: A city may be influenced by its architecture, signage, local celebrities, personal histories, and dry rub barbecue, but it's the people who tell the real story. The Bhula's Memphis may not be the city I saw on Beale Street. But it's theirs. And I like their Memphis.