From the windows of an Uber, it is hard to look at the outside scenery. Really hard. When did the decay set in or was it always like this?
With a rampant housing crisis across the world, I am unsure why seemingly solid-looking and viable houses are boarded up and neglected. I am not talking about a few houses here and there. I am referring to kilometres of abandoned homes along the arterial road between Graceland and Beale Street. And heaven only knows how many exist beyond the section I can see. Perhaps the governments themselves are broke, and to be fair, there is an air of desolation and neglect permeating through the downtown streets.
We have a lot to do today as it’s our last day in Memphis and there is more history to this town than Elvis. We arrive at the Lorraine Motel and Civil Rights Museum just as it is opening, and after spending a few minutes taking photos of the old 1960s motel, where black people were welcome to stay during the era of segregation, we enter the museum.
We walk through a metal detector and our bags are checked before we can purchase our tickets for today’s visit. I don’t mind the security, but I am saddened that it is necessary. We make our way through the exhibits of this excellent and interactive museum. The story of the Civil Rights Movement in the Southern states of the United States is one of peaceful protest during a very volatile era. As I move through the exhibits, a burning Greyhound bus, Rosa Parks silently defying segregation laws, Martin Luther King Junior’s moving ‘I have a Dream’ speech in Washington, to name but a few of the excellent exhibits, finishing in the very motel rooms occupied by King and his team when he was assassinated on 4 April 1968. It’s not my first visit to this museum, but I am no less moved by its impact.
It is raining when we leave the museum and are running short of time before the ducks arrive in the lobby of the Peabody Hotel for a day of swimming in the fountain. By raining, I mean a torrential downpour and it looks as though it has set in thus making the shortish walk to the Peabody very challenging, for me in particular. Donning plastic ponchos we set out together but before long, I tell my travel mate to go ahead, and I would meet her there shortly. Rivers of water rush down the street quickly overwhelming the stormwater drains. I keep to the far side of the footpath to reduce the chance of being soaked should a car cut through the water, especially on the corners. There is no shelter here, red brick buildings and empty blocks of land expose me to the elements. The only comfort I have is that despite my aloneness in this desolate street, I’m not afraid. Well, there’s nothing to be afraid of because despite being like a scene out of a sci-fi movie, where I am the last person left on earth, there are no cars, no people, nothing but torrential rain. I pass Beale Street, its neon signs brightly coloured against the grey sky. Empty. A little further up the road, is my destination, the cream-brick walls of the Peabody Hotel. At the back entrance, where cars and taxis collect and drop off passengers, a pool of water forms around my feet as rivulets of water glide off the plastic poncho. I remove it in a way that will reduce how much water will transfer to my relatively dry clothes. By that I mean anything that is above my knees, which had been covered by the now revered poncho. Who knew those flimsy things would be so effective? Below the knees my trousers are damp, but it is warm, and my clothes are light, so I suspect I will be dry in no time. Packing the saturated and still dripping coverall into a plastic bag, I enter the lobby of the hotel to find the duck master making his last speech; his charges, the trained and indulged pets are already swimming in the fountain. I have missed the performance. Fortunately my friend has not.
There is a minor disaster with a video, which was discovered whilst we waited for the restaurant to open for lunch. Not my video! I missed all the fun!
We arrive at the Sun Studio in time for a mid-afternoon tour, and within minutes we disappear behind a wooden door, climb some steps, and find ourselves in a tiny space with old fashioned glass cabinets on both sides containing relics of this iconic studio. Included is the original radio studio rescued from the Hotel Chisca when it was being demolished, where Dewey Phillips first played Elvis’ demo record It’s All Right. Downstairs we mingle with the ghosts of Elvis, Johnny Cash, Jerry Lee Lewis, Roy Orbison, and others as we are immersed in the original recording studio and its stories.
Due to the aforementioned minor video disaster, we make our way back to the Peabody Hotel for the 5pm duck parade. After a day of splashing in the water of the fountain, the ducks must return to their palatial home on the roof of the hotel for the night. The duck master, Kenon Walker, is preparing the area for his performance. Towards the back of the lobby, I find a nice comfortable couch and order myself a margarita. My friend disappears. A family sits in the empty seats surrounding me in the now crowded lobby. I had not noticed how quickly it has filled.
And the show begins. Young children are selected to roll out the red carpet that stretches from the fountain to the lift and they are encouraged to sit on the floor at the edge of the carpet to watch the parade. Kenon’s voice booms out as he prepares his ducks and entertains the crowds. His patter is directed at the children, so they feel very much part of the proceedings.
There is no sign of my companion, although I did hear Kenon shout out that ‘Ozzie was back’. The ducks are safely herded into the lift and Kenon is gone with his charges. The show is over.
This time there is no video disaster, minor or otherwise. It’s time to say goodbye to our lobby companions and walk across the road to eat at the iconic Flying Fish.
'Back to Memphis' song title, written by Chuck Berry
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