After the living room, one passes through the hall and all eyes go to the staircase. It is explained that Elvis' own bedroom and bath-where he died-is off limits out of respect, and one accepts this. Still, the symbolism of that staircase, going upward to the most holy of holies, is powerful indeed; and one is a little too overwhelmed to take in much of the dining room, which is all smoked mirrors and hutches filled with knick-knacks. It is only when you enter the kitchen that you get your bearings back.

And speaking of kitchens, the most important thing you're going to need on your pilgrimage is a suitcase full of Rolaids, as Memphis is one of the few places left in the country that has its own indigenous cuisine. No, I'm not talking about barbecue, although that is everywhere, too. I refer to Country Cooking, or Home Cooking, as it is sometimes called. It is what Elvis ate and one of the things that killed him. Be sure and eat at a country buffet. The sight of all that Southern food laid out is startling. First of all, it is extraordinarily ugly. Everything is limp and fried and has had all the color cooked out of it. Specialties include catfish, country ham, and candied sweet potatoes. Though the food was lethal and I was in pain the whole time, I must say it was delicious. By the way, Elvis had carpeting in his kitchen, which I've always found to be the mark of a true hillbilly.

Toward the back of the house are several rooms devoted to leisure and amusement. The most famous of these is the Jungle Room with its Trader Vic's decor, green shag carpeting (on the floor and ceiling) and an indoor fountain that gurgles slightly as it drips down a stone wall. It is here that Elvis' spirit is the strongest. People tend to linger and stare, causing bottlenecks, until they are finally pushed forward by the tide of humanity into the carport, which has been converted to a reliquary. On display are various sofas and TVs, a round bed covered with white faux fur, and Elvis' old desk, which is covered with several of his favorite books, including "The Prophet," "Siddhartha," and many volumes about the life of Jesus, with whom Elvis identified.

The tour then goes outdoors and visits several outbuildings, also filled with memorabilia, before leading to the Meditation Garden where Elvis is buried. This was a shock. It's very nice and everything, but it's right next to the pool. I thought it would be off at a respectful distance -after all, they have 13 acres-but it's right there, just feet from a kidney-shaped pool. This means you pay your respects while gazing not only at the tombstone but also a Creepy Crawler chugging around making sucking sounds. I couldn't decide if this was the one discordant note or the perfect touch.

My pilgrimage didn't resolve my life, at least as far as I can tell. It did not excite, me, it did not delight me, it did not teach me anything I didn't already know. But it did move me, again in ways I-like Paul Simon-can't explain. The best way to sum it up is to say that something special happens there. In all the detritus of a hillbilly from Tupelo, one actually does see humanity, in all its glories and in all its tragedies. Everyone gets something different out of it. But everyone, as Simon tells us, will be received at Graceland. Everyone with $16, anyway.