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Travel Writers: By the Gates of Graceland by Sarah Rodrigues

Location: Memphis, Tennessee, USA

The reappearance of Elvis himself could scarcely be more impressive than the storm that has broken over Graceland on the eve of the 25th anniversary of his death. The heat has crackled oppressively all day, doing absolutely nothing to dim the enthusiasm of the 80,000 people - mostly devotees, some merely curious - who have converged upon Memphis to celebrate the life, and mourn the death, of the undisputed King of Rock'n'Roll.

Outside Graceland, lines started to form on Elvis Presley Boulevard at 6am this morning, in preparation for the opening of the grounds at 9pm. Slowly, slowly, single-file, candle-bearing fans shuffle up the drive and past Elvis' grave. The gates stay open until everyone who wants to participate has done so - this year, until 8.30 the following morning.

God Save the King: Recognise this Elvis Clone?

Two ladies with bad perms sit in the gutter, flanking their self-made shrine and chain smoking, unfazed by the crowds or by the rainwater flowing over their feet. "We come every year. I saw him 7 times in concert and she saw him 4 times. We just sit and wait until all the tourists have been through and then we go pay our respects in the morning, when they've gone."

Impersonators, some of whom seem to think that donning a white flared, rhinestone-encrusted jumpsuit is enough to conceal the fact that they are 5 foot tall, bald and Indian wander through the crowds, obligingly sneering, gyrating and lip-curling every time a camera is pointed in their direction. A young Australian guy, hair carefully quiffed, enthuses about his own radio show back in Sydney - 2 hours of pure Elvis every Monday night. Park, a lawyer from Mississippi, is enchanted. "I ain't a fan or nothin' but this is the first year that I've lived here and I just had to come down and check it out."

The line stretches endlessly down the Boulevard, turns on itself, turns again and again and again. The rain pours, eases off, pours. Elvis songs play over the loudspeakers and rapt faces, illuminated by candlelight, sing along. Everyone, everyone knows all of the words.

By daylight, a mass of colour, a chest-high pile of flowers, teddy bears and love notes all but conceals the name "Elvis Aaron Presley". Those who have just completed a tour of the mansion emerge blinking into the sunlight to stand by the grave, which, in its finality, is all the more difficult to comprehend when you have just spent the last two hours immersing yourself in Elvis' life. To have toured his famously decorated rooms, to have seen his books with his own notes written in the margins, to have inspected his costumes and personal items, to have seen footage from his home movies - and then this. There is snuffling, and sunglasses are hurriedly replaced.

Across the Boulevard, a non-stop outdoor concert is taking place. Elvis songs are belted out and middle-aged ladies shimmy their shoulders. A girl too young to have even been a twinkle in her dad's eye when Elvis died sits screaming and covering her face on the side of the stage. Precluded by gender from the ultimate tribute - being an Elvis impersonator - she contents herself with impersonating the hysterical girls at the concerts of the 50s - although, given the calibre of the some of the male look-alikes, there is really no reason why she shouldn't give being Elvis a go.

The crowd is dancing and singing far into the night. You really don't need to be an Elvis fan to think that this is one of the coolest things you've ever seen. I didn't, anyway.