I think Paul Simon said it best. "I'm going to Graceland for reasons I can't quite explain." Yes, the trek to Elvis' home in Memphis has become somewhat of a pilgrimage for us Baby Boomers, and the reason why has never been adequately explained. Some say it's for the kitsch factor. Some say it's for rock 'n' roll. Some say, alas, it's for the gambling casinos down the river in Tunica, Mississippi.

Take me, for example. I appreciate Elvis, certainly, but I am not what you would call a fan. I don't own an Elvis record. I've never seen an Elvis movie-or at least, not all the way through. Yet all my life I knew I would go to Graceland. One part of me was going to giggle at the fat tourists and revel in the tackiness of it all. But another part knew there was a genuine mystery there and it had something to do with the dreams one dreams while in junior high. Could it be that Graceland is one of those places where you go to resolve your life?

Well, I finally went. And Graceland really does deliver the goods, pilgrimage-wise. It is the second-most-visited home in the United States, after the White House, and with good reason. Not only does it function as a shrine to Elvis and his astonishing life, but it has a spiritual quality that invites the visitor to reflect on the Big Themes. Genius. Love. Prescription drugs.

Let's start with the actual Graceland visiting experience. You first must get yourself to Memphis, Tennessee, a rather sad and shabby city that could use a little tree-trimming. There is very little of the New South here; Memphis is stuck all by itself in the middle of nowhere (i.e., the Mississippi- Tennessee border; there's no other big city within 200 miles) and it is, as they say-although not in Memphis-a schlepp. To make matters worse, the countryside is quite ugly and the schlepp is not much fun. But in a strange kind of way that adds to the experience. A pilgrimage should be a little difficult.

I had been told not to stay near Graceland, as it is in a bad neighborhood where tourists are robbed and killed, so I got a motel room out by the airport, where I soon discovered that Memphis, in its one New South claim to fame, is also the home of Federal Express. A Fed Ex plane takes off every 40 seconds and flies right over the motel so low that if you are out in the parking lot, you instinctively duck. The local paper was full of gruesome murders and political corruption. I was beginning to wonder if perhaps this pilgrimage was a little too difficult.

I arrived at Graceland early the next morning in order to beat the crowds. It is located on Elvis Presley Boulevard, which apparently was way out in the country when Elvis moved there in 1958 but is now very urban, rather like Beirut. There are potholes the size of bomb craters; I lost a hubcap and would have gotten out of the car to look for it but I was much too scared.

Fortunately, Graceland has a well-secured parking lot bordered with crepe myrtle and something called the Heartbreak Hotel, set behind a chain link fence. You pay your $16 and board a little tram, which takes you across the street to the mansion itself. The tour itself is conducted via audio phones rather than tour guides, although there's plenty of staff standing around to make sure you keep things moving.

Graceland itself is a very pretty house. It was built in 1938 for a wealthy local family (Grace was their beloved aunt) and is in the Georgian colonial style. The façade is partly covered with stone and the shutters are painted a Lambert green. One disconcerting note-the windows are covered with decorative grilles, like they have in Miami to keep the burglars out.

Inside, Graceland is smaller in scale that you would expect. It feels like a large suburban house, not a mansion. The first room on view is the living room, done in white and blue. It was last decorated in the 1970s and shows it. There is a stained glass room divider with peacocks at one end, leading to a sun porch/ TV room. The key relic in the living room is the 15-foot couch, which has been in Graceland since Elvis moved.

Elvis, it turns out, was quite the decorator. He loved lamps; while touring he would shop for flamboyant, '50s-style lamps and bring them home to Mom. (She once told him that if this rock 'n' roll thing didn't work out he could always open a lamp store.) He had quite definite ideas of what he wanted in his home, and what he wanted was good-quality furniture that made a statement. He believed in strong colors, lots of mirrors, and carpeting everywhere. It is not really a hillbilly's house; it is more a hillbilly's idea of a movie star's house. This is to be expected, for it has been documented that Elvis was using as his model Red Skelton's home in Beverly Hills (the first thing Elvis did in Los Angeles was drive around with his folks and look at the stars' homes). Skelton's home was also a Georgian colonial but he added many questionable touches which Elvis embraced, including blue lights set along the driveway, which give the impression of an airport runway, and lots of whimsy-Skelton had a giant gorilla out by the pool.