Our guide, Mike, menitons he wishes to write a book one day. “It would feature all the tourist types I’ve met over the years,” he says. “You know, The Talker, The Comedian, The Silent Guy…”
“So which type am I?” I ask.
“Loudmouth American,” Clyde suggests.
Mike considers this, but shakes his head. “You want the truth?”
I say I do.
“John Doe,” Mike says. “Nice enough, of course, but average. Dime a dozen. I’ve seen you come and go a hundred times over a hundred days.”
* * * * *
AMaria, a petite older woman from Portugal, is overwhelmed to hear that Clyde is from Memphis. “That is near Elvis Presley’s birthplace!” she exclaims. “That is the place of Graceland!”
Clyde nods.
“I love Elvis Presley!” Maria’s eyes go moist. “I have travel to Graceland. How do you say it? I make a pilgrimage, yes, that’s it. I make a pilgrimage to pay my respects to Mr. Elvis Presley.”
She takes a moment to compose herself. “Elvis Presley. Some people say only ‘Elvis,’ but I always say ‘Elvis Presley,’ out of respect. He has the voice of an angel. I hear him singing, and I think it is angels!”
Later, as we visit a cathedral, Maria approaches us again. “This church, it is to the glory of Jesus, and Elvis Presley, you know, he sings many, many songs about Jesus, our Lord. Elvis Presley tells the people Jesus died for our sins so we could see heaven. When I hear him sing ‘Amazing Grace,’ I think this must be like the music in heaven.”
Later, as we leave, Maria approaches Clyde with something like reverence. “Tell me, did you know personally Elvis Presely?”
Clyde looks sheepish. “No, I’m sorry.”
She seems disappointed, but remains determined. “But you saw him, I think.”
Clyde shakes his head.
“You are then a member of his fan club, yes?”
Clyde denies The King a third time.
Maria sighs. “To have been so close … and yet … not know him. I am thinking this is a terrible shame.”
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