Heartbreak Hotel, Bathroom Edition

Chapter 20: From Fried Chicken to the King

After a slightly underwhelming stop at Gus’ “world famous” fried chicken (dry bird, slow service—fantasy officially crushed), we camped at T.O. Fuller State Park, where even using the bathroom turned into a saga. Nelson insisted on searching for a non-existent camp host before finally asking a group of beer-soaked fishing bros, who happily handed over the world’s longest pin code to the facilities. At least the bathrooms turned out to be five-star fancy for a state park.

Highlight of Memphis was to pay our dues to the King. Graceland turned out to be so much more than “Elvis’ house.” Going in, I only knew him as “the Cat King” (what we called him in Taiwan when I was little), but walking through felt like stepping into a 1970s time capsule of extravagance. The media room boasted three TVs side by side — apparently Elvis needed to keep up with everything at once, before the era of iPads and smart phones. The pool room had its walls and ceiling wrapped in the same busy fabric, like living inside a giant kaleidoscope. And then came the infamous jungle room… honestly, it reminded me of certain Taiwanese living rooms in the 80s, and not in a good way. Let’s just say shag carpets and indoor waterfalls do not age gracefully.

But beyond the kitsch, the tour felt heavy. Elvis clearly lived large, but also lived under enormous pressure — endless touring, the fear of losing his fans, and a circle of people who seemed more invested in his brand than his health. The tragic ending is well known, but standing there I couldn’t help but think how awful it was: all those pills, the chronic constipation, and finally collapsing in his bathroom. The King of Rock and Roll, gone in such an unglamorous way. It was both absurd and heartbreaking.

The Meditation Garden brought it all home. A half-circle of gravestones: Elvis, his parents, his grandmother, his daughter Lisa Marie, and even his grandson Benjamin, who died so young. It felt like both a monument and a warning. You can have all the fame, all the money, and still not protect the people you love — or yourself.

I left feeling strangely grateful for my own unremarkable, ordinary life. Fame might buy you private jets and jungle rooms, but “normal” buys you peace of mind — and the simple joy of turning on the van’s AC before bed. For me, that’s plenty.