Elvis is Alive

Elvis is alive, well and living in Paris.

Was it the "Dream Lover," or was it a dream?

'Perhaps,' I told myself, 'your nostalgia for the good ol' red, white and blue (after two weeks of the blue, white and red) is making you hallucinate the dozens of pot-bellied, middle-aged men behind you--all of whom bear a striking resemblance to the King.'

'Get a hold of yourself,' I thought. Surely the strain of rushing frantically through a city where I consistently fail to understand the announcements made over loudspeakers and the questions of taxi drivers had driven me to a state of schizoPresley psychosis.

But I'm not that creative. I might envision one Elvis, on a good day, but I recognize the limits of my own imagination: I knew that the several dozen Elvises before my eyes out-stepped its bounds. This was empirical reality, take it or leave it. All of the passengers behind me were indeed Presley imitators.

'How embarrassing,' I cringed. How terribly humiliating for Americans everywhere that the Elvis Club of Hoboken, or some such place, should go gallivanting through Paris dressed in leather jackets, sporting pompadours and blue suede shoes. I hoped they would not notice that I too was American. I prayed that they would not approach me with tales of their nights on the town in Pair-eee or the presents they were bringing home for the 'missus.'

Just as I was beginning to put on my best air of French aloofness in preparation for this hypothetical encounter, the King approached.

Leaning toward me, leering at me, he intoned, "T'as une cigarette?"

French Elvises? These were no Graceland imitators born of cheap beer and the American dream. Here was a transcontinental composite--a blend of the uniquely American and the quintessentially French into something entirely new: the Franco-Elvis.

As the Elvises (or should I say 'Elvi'?) boarded the plane--bound, it would turn out, for Graceland, in honor of the sixtieth anniversary of the King's birth--it became clear that we passengers were unprepared for our multicultural journey.

Now, most well-behaved Americans have more or less accepted the Surgeon General's warning. As a nation, we are generally willing to conceded that cigarette smoking, although a personal right, is not necessarily permissible in public places. Such regulations have, however, been slower to affects our European neighbors. And who could question the King's right to smoke a Pall Mall whenever he so chooses?

That's right. Not just flying Elvises, but flying, chain smoking Elvises. While the herd of Presley sycophants rushed to the smoking section every twenty minutes, the oh-so-American flight attendants were working up a sweat to keep them in their seats with their "seat belts safely fastened."

Alas, the language barrier. Stewardesses ineffectually shouted "No smoking" at various volumes. Helpful passengers translated, "Ne fumez pas," but were unwilling to translate the Kings' frank responses. Just as we all seemed in peril of perishing of carbon monoxide poisoning, the flight crew wisely decided to show the in-flight movie, Forrest Gump.

An excellent choice. As we jaded Americans settled back into our seats to sleep or watch the film, the Elvises gathered eagerly before the screen. Although few American viewers paid attention to the cultural-historical "plot" of this year's feel-good favorite, the film touched an inner chord with the flying Elvises.

As the movie showed footage of the young Presley teaching Forrest to bump and grind, the Franco-Elvises leapt to their feet in a heartwarming, toe-tapping display of idolatry.

The frazzled stewardesses rushed to calm the masses. With Elvis (plural) finally reseated, they gladly prepared the plane for landing in Boston. From here, the Elvises apparently continued on to Memphis for a further display of this cross-cultural convergence.

As I struggled gladly down the aisle with my bags, the Kings waited patiently to disembark.

"Bye bye," said the relieved flight attendants.

"Thank you very much, thank you," said the Kings.