nternet Meltdown
The day launched disastrously—internet dead at home. I panicked because lots on my data is stored on my home server and I can’t access stuff like Nextcloud and other applications without the server working.
Thankfully Isabel happened to be at home and I asked her to show me the router via her phone. Restarting did nothing, but I noticed two modem lights stubbornly dark that should have been glowing. The online chat support line proved useless. Evening brought fresh hope, dashed again when I found the service closed for the night. First world problems, but infuriating nonetheless.
The King’s Kingdom
We drove 15 minutes out to Elvis Presley Boulevard, where we paid an extra $10 to park in a vast, almost empty car park. Irony: you can see Graceland Mansion across the road, but everyone must enter through this concrete behemoth that no architect would claim proudly. It’s functional, I suppose.
Security cleared, we boarded a shuttle bus for the 30-second journey across the boulevard. At the mansion door, a briefing on house rules. Then headphones on, iPads in hand, and we were off.
The commentary painted Elvis in exclusively glowing terms—unsurprisingly—but provided solid context as we moved room to room. Every design choice, every piece of dated 1970s decor, credited to the King himself. About an hour touring house and grounds, including the family graves nestled by the swimming pool. Poignant, that.
Back across the road to the main complex. First stop: Elvis’s vehicle collection. Mercedes, Rolls Royces, Cadillacs, plus some genuinely bizarre three-wheeled contraptions. The man had taste and eccentricity in equal measure.
Then the Colonel Tom Parker exhibition. Now there’s a story. A Dutch immigrant who called himself “Colonel” despite only reaching private, adopted the name Parker after staying with a family. Most would call him a con man. Graceland’s presentation dances carefully around that, not wanting shadows falling on their golden boy.
By the end, Maggi and I had seen enough. Time to escape the Elvis industrial complex.
Walking the Mighty Mississippi
Afternoon plan: walk to the great river. We turned right along the walkway and followed wherever it led.
The weather turned sour quickly—spits of rain, dull grey light draining colour from everything. The views along the bank and across to the other side failed to inspire. After an hour and a half, we trudged back to the BnB, slightly damp, decidedly underwhelmed.
The Lobbyist: A Cautionary Tale
Maggi had booked The Lobbyist based on glowing reviews. Expectations: high.
Receptionist directed us to the bar. I squeezed onto a stool, knees jammed, stretching awkwardly toward the counter. Ten seconds of that was enough. “Table or leave,” I suggested. They found us a table.
The menu read oddly. We opted to share corn mash and sprouts to start, pasta to follow.
The sprouts? Genuinely excellent—garlic and sweet sauce singing together. The corn mash with squash tasted good too, though a touch greasy.
Then the pasta arrived. My “rice cake” carbohydrate element had zero flavour and a texture that actively offended. The accompanying sauce? I genuinely hated it. Two mouthfuls confirmed it wasn’t a mistake.
We walked out having paid £70 for a decent starter and a main course I’d rather forget.
Verdict: If we ever return to Memphis, The Lobbyist won’t see us again