Wanderlost in Memphis
Memphis wasn’t my first solo trip, but it was the one that changed everything. Somewhere
between the airport gate and Beale Street, I finally understood why I felt so drawn to traveling alone. I wasn’t running away — I was running toward something. What I’d been searching for all along was not escape, but permission. Permission to exist without anyone else’s story defining me.
For too long, I cared so deeply about how others saw me that I forgot how to see myself. I
started viewing my life through the eyes of everyone else — through what I imagined their
opinions, judgments, and whispers might be. I didn’t realize how exhausting that was until I
found myself completely alone. No one to perform for. No one to interpret me. Just me. And in that quiet, I realized I couldn’t remember who I was anymore.
I had spent years living a life shaped by other people’s rules — always being watched, always careful not to step too far outside the line. Solo travel was the first time I experienced what it meant to step completely out of view.
It was a disorienting kind of freedom. Without the noise of expectation, I saw the empty space where I should have been — and understood that maybe solo travel wasn’t about running away from life at all. Maybe it was a way back to myself.
You always hear those solo travel stories — the ones that feel like movies, where someone flies across the world to heal a broken heart or face an existential crisis and somehow meets the love of their life along the way. Well, my story is a little like that. Except I didn’t fly across the world — just two hours from Houston to Memphis, and I didn’t find myself — just the desire to. But somewhere along the way, I did fall in love.
With travel.
It had been there all along, like a best friend you don’t notice until one day you do — and
suddenly you can’t imagine life without them.
Travel and I, well, we’ve finally made it official.
I slipped on my blue suede shoes (quite literally), boarded the plane, and touched down in the Delta Blue. On the way, I even got a whole row to myself on the plane — surely a sign that this trip was going to be something special. In the weeks before, I had been preparing in my own obsessive way — watching Elvis, Great Balls of Fire, The Gospel According to Al Green — anything steeped in Memphis soul. I built a playlist too, filled with rhythm and blues. By the time I arrived, I was already half in love with the city I hadn’t yet met.
My Uber driver from the airport, Mohamed, was the first to welcome me. He was warm and talkative, proud to share his story. He told me about his family — his daughter was about to get married in Italy — and about his Muslim faith. He spoke with such peace and pride, completely comfortable in his identity. I admired that. It was such a stark contrast to the way I grew up — always trying to hide or soften my family’s beliefs so I wouldn’t stand out. Listening to him made me happy — not just for him, but for what that moment revealed to me: how beautiful it is to live without apology.
After checking my luggage at the hotel, I decided to wander for a bit and get my bearings. It was just after ten on a Saturday morning, and I was surprised by how quiet everything felt. I had imagined downtown Memphis buzzing with life — music spilling from every doorway, the pulse of a city that never really sleeps. Instead, the streets were still, their silence stretching out like a deep breath. It felt almost poetic, as if the city were mirroring my own state of mind — calm, uncertain, waiting for something to begin.
Once I felt I’d mapped out the few blocks around my hotel, I set out for my first destination: the legendary Sun Studio. So many of the movies and songs I’d devoured in the weeks before my trip seemed to lead back here — to this modest brick building that had somehow changed the sound of the world. I was eager to step through the same doors that once welcomed people like Elvis Presley and Johnny Cash — dreamers who carried nothing but a dream in their hearts and rhythm in their souls.
Sun Studio did not disappoint. The space itself is almost shockingly small — but the feeling inside is enormous. A sense of greatness lingers in the air, though it’s hard to pinpoint exactly what gives it life. Maybe it’s the awe in the faces of visitors, or the quiet reverence of the people who work there. Or maybe it’s something deeper — the soul of every song that was born within those walls, still vibrating faintly under the surface. At one point, I found myself completely alone in the recording room. I had lingered after the tour, unable to leave just yet, trying to make sense of what I was feeling. The silence there wasn’t empty — it was electric, alive with memory. I closed my eyes for a moment, and I swear I could almost hear it: the hum of an amp, the scratch of a guitar string, the heartbeat of something eternal.
After leaving Sun Studio, I wandered through the city a bit longer until I stumbled upon Beale Street. I walked up and down, letting the street reveal itself to me: neon signs blinking in the daylight, shop doors propped open, snippets of blues riffs drifting out into the air. Every so often, I’d slip into a souvenir shop, running my fingers over shot glasses, T-shirts, and guitar picks I didn’t really need but somehow wanted anyway.
Eventually, the heat caught up with me — that heavy Southern kind of heat — and my stomach began to remind me that coffee and adrenaline don’t count as breakfast. I’d read that B.B. King’s Blues Club had some of the best live music and solid food, so I made my way there. I was a little miffed when the doorman told me there was a $5 cover charge — this early in the day? But the air conditioner was spilling through the doorway, and it felt like a personal invitation. I handed over the five dollars and stepped inside.
I slid onto a barstool, ordered a drink and a cup of gumbo, and turned around just as three men stepped onto the stage — an older man with a bass, a mid-thirties guy with blond hair and a nerdy little mustache at the mic, and a middle-aged man with long dreads on guitar. They couldn’t have looked more different, but when they started to play, they became one sound — rich, soulful harmony that filled the room.
There were only a handful of people there — a few quiet patrons nursing drinks and a trio of older women laughing together near the stage. I couldn’t help but smile watching them. Their laughter had that easy rhythm that only comes from long friendship. When the band began, the room shifted. Conversations faded. All eyes turned to the stage. I was stunned. The music was great — the kind that hits something deep inside you before your brain has time to catch up. The singer, that unassuming blond guy with the mustache, lifted a harmonica and played like he’d been born with it in his hands. It was effortless, soulful, and full of emotion. My jaw quite literally dropped, I hadn’t expected this sound to come from this man. I guess that’ll teach me to judge a book by it’s cover!
I abandoned my gumbo entirely; the music was too good to look away. Then, something beautiful happened. One of the older women — she must have been at least eighty-five — stood up, walked straight to the front of the stage, and started to dance. Not politely, not self-consciously — she just danced. Eyes closed, body swaying, hands moving with the rhythm. She wasn’t performing; she was feeling. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. How wise she was, I thought, to move so freely, so unapologetically. She didn’t check to see who was watching or what anyone might think. She just let the music carry her. I wondered if she’d always been that way, or if she’d had to fight her way to that kind of freedom — the same way I’m still trying to.
May we all be so bold.
May we all, someday, dance like no one’s watching — and mean it.
After leaving B.B. King’s, I walked back to the hotel, pleasantly tired from the early flight — and maybe from that afternoon cocktail. I don’t usually nap, but as soon as I stretched out on the bed, sleep found me. Looking back, I think it was more than exhaustion. It was peace. For the first time in a long while, my soul felt calm enough to rest.
When I woke, the light in the room had softened, and I decided to head up to the rooftop bar to catch the view. Just my luck — I arrived right as the sun was beginning to set. From the terrace, the Mississippi River stretched out like a ribbon of gold. The bridges, the skyline — it all felt strangely familiar, like I’d walked into a scene from one of the movies I’d been watching before the trip.
I sat there, drink in hand, watching the sun slide toward the horizon. The air was warm, the light honey-colored. I was completely alone with my thoughts — no phone, no TV, no one to fill the silence but me. And it was surprisingly… nice. Somewhere between the orange and pink of the sky, I caught myself smiling. I’d forgotten how much I liked this version of me. She’s soft and kind. She’s funny and curious. She feels things deeply. How strange that I’ve spent so much time running from her.
I began chatting with a few of the other sunset watchers — small talk at first, about the view, the heat, what brings us to town. But as we spoke, I caught myself doing something I’ve done my whole life: searching their faces for a reflection of myself. Trying to interpret who I might be through their expressions, their tone, their responses. And then, somewhere in the middle of that silent search, something shifted. I realized that it didn’t matter what they saw — not really. What mattered was what I saw. For so long, I’ve lived as if other people held the pen to my story, waiting for their approval or their judgment to tell me who I was allowed to be. But in that moment, watching the sun melt into the Mississippi, I understood something simple and freeing: the narrative is mine to write. Traveling alone has given me a blank canvas — one untouched by the expectations or my past. Each new place becomes a chance to start fresh, to write my story without worrying about how it will be received. It’s a quiet kind of liberation, realizing I can be the narrator of my own story.
The sky deepened, and the last streaks of sunlight disappeared behind the river. My fellow sunset watchers drifted away one by one, leaving me with the quiet certainty of my new realization. I didn’t know exactly what kind of story I wanted to write for myself yet, but I finally understood that I could — and that was enough.
I decided to keep the night going. I wasn’t ready to hide away in my hotel room; there was too much life waiting just beyond the lobby doors. So I grabbed my bag and stepped out into the warm Memphis night. For the first time in a long while, I wasn’t worried about how I looked or what anyone might think. I didn’t need to perform or shrink or edit myself to fit someone else’s frame. I was just there — moving through the city on my own terms, following curiosity instead of fear. As I walked, I caught my reflection in a shop window and didn’t immediately look away. I smiled at her — that woman in the glass — realizing she looked lighter somehow. Maybe it was the heat, or maybe it was simply that I was finally beginning to recognize her again.
I went back to Beale Street that night, intending to keep exploring, when I passed a club called the Rum Boogie Cafe. At least, I meant to pass it. A voice stopped me in my tracks — the kind of voice that feels less heard and more felt. To me, it sounded like Aretha, Tina, and Whitney had somehow collided into one powerful harmony. I was so spellbound that as the sound pulled me closer, I nearly walked straight past the large doorman collecting cover fees. I smiled sheepishly and apologized, nodding toward the stage. “Wow,” I said, almost in disbelief. “What a voice.” He smiled back, clearly understanding, glanced around quickly, then motioned for me to slip inside — no charge.
The club was crowded and buzzing with happy, dancing, well-libated people, their energy instantly infectious. I found one of the few open seats at the bar, ordered a drink, then turned my stool to face the stage and finally see the woman behind the voice. She was likely in her early fifties, her skin warm and luminous under the stage lights, and there was something in the way she sang that told me her voice had been earned. Not polished for perfection, but shaped by living. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Not only was her voice powerful and compelling — she was. The music didn’t move her; it seemed to move with her. I could see her feeling every word she sang, her connection so deep it felt almost intimate, like I’d stumbled into a moment not meant to be shared.
The spell finally broke when she stepped off the stage. I realized I’d been there far longer than I intended and still had some wandering left to do. I made my way back onto Beale Street in search of my next adventure, walking slowly and taking in everything around me — imagining what these streets must have looked like through the years.
Eventually, I found my way back to B.B. King’s and decided to go in for one last hoorah. The energy was completely different from what it had been that afternoon. Packed to capacity, every corner seemed to explode with sound and motion. Finding a seat wasn’t easy, but it’s always easier to find one for just yourself — a small solo-travel win. I ended up with a great spot just off to the side of the stage. I ordered a drink and quickly made friends with the fun couple beside me. We chatted a little, but mostly we cheered, swayed, and let the music move us together.
Eventually, the night began to wear on, and knowing I had another day of exploring ahead, I reluctantly said my goodbyes and walked back to my hotel. That night, despite my notorious, unrelenting insomnia, I slept deeply — the kind of sleep that comes when your soul feels full.
The next morning, I woke feeling rested and ready. My first stop was breakfast at one of Elvis’s favorite places, The Arcade Restaurant. It was incredibly small, but cozy and nostalgic. I couldn’t bring myself to get the Elvis special — a fried peanut butter and banana sandwich— I played it safe and ordered a regular ol’ BLT. The food was fine, but the reason to go is the history of it all, which is what excited me. The 50’s vibe, the dedicated booth where Elvis once sat, it is all very touristy, but still fun.
After caffeine and food, I was ready to get wandering.
My next stop was the National Civil Rights Museum. If you’ve never been, go — without hesitation, without delay.
Built around the Lorraine Motel, where Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. was tragically assassinated, the museum stands as both a memorial and a reckoning. Room by room, it walks you through the history of the Civil Rights Movement — not as distant past, but as lived experience — grounding national tragedy in deeply human stories. For me, it was the most powerful and impactful museum I’ve ever stepped into, not because it overwhelmed me with facts, but because it invited me to sit with the weight of truth, discomfort, courage, and sacrifice. It is not an easy place to move through, but it is a necessary one.
One of my few regrets from this trip was not giving the museum more time. I’d planned a couple of hours, but it quickly became clear I could have spent an entire day there. I lingered longer than intended, moving slowly, reluctant to leave, until a timed ticket waiting elsewhere finally pulled me away.
Next stop — Graceland.
Graceland is a bit of a drive from the city, but the conversation with my Uber driver was friendly and engaging enough that the time passed quickly. He was a retired marine, an older gentleman with a straight-laced demeanor. He reminded me of my Father (an army man and Vietnam veteran) in some way, though I couldn’t put my finger on it. He seemed amazed at my solo travels and asked many questions. When we arrived and he turned around to look me in the eyes for the first time, he told me how cool — and brave — he thought I was for traveling alone. I was a little taken aback at first. Then it settled in. The words stayed with me in a way I hadn’t expected, touching something inside me. It felt like being seen — not for who I’ve been, or who I’m supposed to be, but for who I’m actively becoming. And that mattered more than I realized.
When I imagined visiting Graceland — a lifelong dream — I pictured something small and personal: pulling up to the famous gates, waiting in line, and stepping into Elvis’s home as it once was. Instead, the experience begins across the street, at a welcome center so large it feels almost disorienting. It’s filled with exhibits, shops, and restaurants, all pointing to the enormity of the life Elvis lived and the legacy he left behind. There’s a deliberate pause before you ever reach the house, a sense of buildup toward it rather than arriving all at once. By the time I boarded the bus to cross the street, I realized this wasn’t meant to feel intimate at first. It was meant to remind you just how big his world had become.
Pulling up the long, steep driveway to Graceland was so exciting. The house I’d seen for years in movies, on television, and in books about Elvis was suddenly real — and I was finally there. I hadn’t mentioned it earlier, but I’d booked the very last tour of the day, which turned out to be an unintended stroke of travel brilliance. There were only a handful of people in my group, and they moved through the house much faster than I did.
At some point, I realized I was completely alone. Suddenly, I was in the kitchen at Graceland, all by myself. It felt almost eerie — especially in the Jungle Room, where the light is low and the air feels heavy with another time. I treated the solitude like a gift, slowing down and letting each room sink in. I even backtracked a bit, just to experience it alone again.
As I moved through the house, I found myself imagining what life might have felt like for Elvis there — how those walls may have offered him a sense of safety, a refuge from the chaos that was his life. Standing there alone, it struck me how deeply I understood that need. Solo travel, for me, has become its own kind of sanctuary — a way to step away from noise and expectation and simply exist, unobserved, within my own thoughts. In that quiet, Graceland felt less like a monument and more like a reminder of why I keep choosing these moments of solitude in the first place.
I made my way through the rest of the tour mostly on my own, having the best time simply being with myself. When I reached the Meditation Garden — where Elvis, Lisa Marie, and members of their family are laid to rest — I was still alone. I felt grateful for the chance to pay my respects without being rushed, watched, or interrupted, letting the moment belong entirely to me.
Graceland was closing by the time I made my way back toward the exit. Taking the last tour meant I’d spent so much time on the property that I didn’t get to see the airplanes or much of the surrounding museums. I felt a flicker of disappointment, but it passed quickly, softened by the certainty that I’d already decided to come back. Memphis still had more to show me.
Before leaving the area, I wandered over to The Guest House at Graceland, curious to see the newer hotel. It was stunning — thoughtfully done, immersive without being kitschy, full of quiet reverence for Elvis without feeling stuck in the past. I promised myself I’d return someday with my partner for a full Elvis weekend. I wandered the property, soaking up the Elvis of it all, before settling into the lobby bar with a Blue Hawaiian in hand, arriving just as two musicians began setting up. I lingered there for a while, listening to their acoustic takes on Elvis classics, until hunger finally pulled me away.
The restaurant was only steps away. When the host asked if I was staying at the hotel, I smiled and said, “No — I’m just wandering,” which I’ve decided is my new solo travel catchphrase. He paused, slightly confused, but recovered quickly. “Well,” he said, smiling, “you’ve wandered into the right place.” He asked if I’d like to sit at the bar, and while it was tempting, I knew I was there to challenge myself. So instead, I asked for a table. He looked surprised again, but led me to one right in the center of the room. For a moment, I wished I’d chosen the bar — the table felt very much in the spotlight — and I could feel the familiar urge to shrink, to hide behind the menu. But I didn’t. I stayed. I met the curious glances around me with what I hoped was an easy smile. And to my surprise, it worked. The tension softened. The moment passed. What felt big and uncomfortable became… normal. It may seem like a small thing, but for me, it was anything but. Sitting there, alone and unapologetic, I realized I wasn’t just learning how to travel solo — I was learning how to sit comfortably with myself.
That night, I took an Uber back to the hotel and began the familiar routine of packing for an early flight. There was nothing hurried about it — just the calm feeling of knowing when a chapter has come to a close. I slept well again, unguarded rest that had followed me through this trip, and woke before dawn with that familiar mix of gratitude and reluctance that comes with leaving a place that gave me more than I expected.
Saying goodbye to Memphis felt bittersweet. I hadn’t seen everything I wanted to — but somehow, that felt like an invitation to return rather than a regret. As the plane lifted off, I contemplated the purpose of my travels and what I would take from them. After all, WanderLost isn’t about chasing destinations or collecting moments. It’s about arriving as you are, and paying attention when a place quietly gives you what you didn’t know you needed.
Memphis didn’t give me answers. It gave me space. It gave me space to move slowly, yes — but more than that, it gave me space to practice being seen without retreating. To let curious glances pass without assigning them meaning. To stay present instead of shrinking. And with that realization, I understood something clearly: My solo travels aren’t about solitude for solitude’s sake. It’s about learning how to show up — alone — and still feel whole.