[A Glimpse into the Lives of the American Rich and Famous]

Whilst James’ and my trip across the States has devoted much time to achieving (and even more time to relaying) a sense of what the kind might call the intrepid (the less kind the down’n’dirty), we have also tried to make room in our travels to witness that fulcrum of the American dream: the super super rich. This is a nation that has established its own definition of wealth (Beckingham Palace won’t cut it here) – what’s needed is something sufficiently vast, sufficently magical in scale and potency, to drive the engine of American morality. Any man [woman or child] can make it good here. Any inequalities in access to….well, basic healthcare or access to any type of schooling not primarily based on gun control, just serve to winnow out the weak. After all, weren’t we all immigrants once?

Thus far we’ve borne witness to two epic bastions of the American dream: the Vanderbilt family with their legendary legacy of shipping and railroad wealth. And Elvis. Uh huh huh.

Both disappointed just a little. We were hoping for sensational tackiness. Gold bidets. Diamond encrusted serving staff. Hot and cold running Cristal.

We got luxury for sure. Biltmore, the Vanderbilt’s “little summer place” could sleep about 50 guests, with entertainments ranging from the usual country pursuits to an indoor swimming pool (including underwater electric lighting at a time that most people in the US had not yet witnessed the miracle of electricity) and bowling alley (pins set up by the servants between each round). I’m presuming the women were slightly less enthusiastic participants in these pursuits given each one required its own costume, with associated 30-60 minutes changing time. And Vanderbilt certainly pushed the envelope in a few places (takes a brave man to combine gold leaf AND embossed leather on the wall of his own bedroom … ROOOAAAARRRR … I sense had he seen the robes from our DC hotel he’d have been right on ’em). All in though, the place was rather (depressingly) lovely and, given that these guys were the Michael Jackson cum Madonna cum Posh Spice of their age, sufficiently remote to categorically ensure the privacy of the family (even the most determined paparazzi would find it tricky to sneak past the estate’s 1,800 employees).

Not quite next stop (but hey who’s going to grudge me that?) was Graceland, famed home of Elvis Presley. Now I’d love to say that this too, was absolutely comme il faut, but the poor guy had a certain handicap here (beyond the obvious addiction to prescription drugs and squirrel meat, that is). He last redecorated the place at the height of the decade that fashion forgot. Yep, the seventies. Now, even my beloved ma and pa, creatures of style and taste that they otherwise are, installed acreages of purple shagpile in that decade. So I think we all need to put on our retro disco glasses and look with a little love on the green shagpile coverings (floor, wall AND ceiling) of the Jungle Room and the exuberant African wrappings (floor, wall and ceiling all kind of combine here) of their basement pool room. After all, a King lived here and who would deny him a little nylon-based splendour?

So y’all, I guess the moral of the story is that with true American wealth comes taste, brilliance and the true friends with whom to enjoy your richly earned rewards.

The true American dream.

Uh huh huh.