suntoad

As my friend said, “it’s not that big a house.” And it’s not. Graceland, as a home, does not seem that big – it’s not a castle, it’s not a mansion, it’s not really even a manor.

But it never had to be. Because the man who owned it, who made the name of the house part of the American lexicon made it huge. The tour director tells you that Elvis had things added, changed, re-built, torn down, and resurrected, and always, always, in ther service of his family and friends rather than himself.

Which is not to say that the King did not indulge himself, he did. The areas for keeping peacocks and other animals, as well as using an old storage room as a shooting range, these tell of a man well used to getting his way and to doing anything he wanted. But the greater fact is that he build rooms for his parents, his cousins, his daughter, his friends.

He provided areas for offices and bedrooms and play space. There was music everywhere, along with the semi-famous t.v.s and odd shag carpeting.

And it seems obvious, after wandering through the grounds, that there was never any need for anything bigger, for anything grander because nothing, nothing at all, would have been able to contain the King any better because it was not the physical limitations of the farm that kept him in, rather it was the bounds of family and friendship that constrained him to Memphis and thus to Graceland.

My phone rang. I jumped up to answer, more excited than I should have been, probably, but I had just moved to Seattle and getting phone calls was still a rare thing.

Especially on a Friday evening.

“What are you doing?” The voice on the other end belonged to my best friend and one of only two people I knew in town.

“Watching t.v.”

“Get dressed. We’re going to the pub?”

“Where?” I asked but he had already hung up.

Half an hour later we were met at the door by a young woman with a pleasant Irish lilt to her voice, and whether it was fake or genuine I could not say.

She led us through a dark corridor and seated us at a small table near a stage. Menus came and were ordered from; beers with exotic names came and were drunk. We were joined by others, men and women my friend knew from work, and our table turned into a party rather quickly.

Soon, the house band took the stage, performing a set list of standard Irish songs. We sang along with Danny Boy and Whisky in the Jar and anything else we knew. We made friends. Phone numbers were exchanged.

And then, suddenly, I was living in Seattle with a crew of friends, a hangout, and a phone that never stopped ringing.

We arrived on a hot, sweaty, summer day in August. We had taken the water bus from Venice, crowded and suffocating inside, breezy and close on the decks, and were ready for something to eat and something to drink from the second we disembarked.

The colors of the island grew out of the green water in a rush, rising between the swells and bounces of the bus. The string of brightly painted buildings wrapped itself around the islands in an intricate pattern of canals and bridges, mirroring, in a way, the lace the island is famous for.

Legend has it that the colors helped fishermen to see their houses from the decks of their boats, giving them a sense of comfort and security as they went about their tasks. Walking amidst the houses and shops, this one green, this one pink, that one pale blue, a visitor can imagine the tranquility available in such a place. The island is quiet and relaxed and completely over-run by tourism.

All the shops sell lace, most of which is no longer made on the island, and far too much of which is designed as souveniers rather than material for pillows or trim or curtains. And far too many of the shops contain no public restrooms, nor decently priced, decently edible food.

However, the atmosphere, the photogenic nature of the island more than makes up for these deficiencies; the park that fronts the landing docks makes a pleasant place to relax and to take an afternoon out from a busy tour schedule or rush to sightsee.

(As a side note, one of the more interesting sights is the nearly flat island across the canal from Burano proper, on which stands the ruins of an old church, the spire of which can be seen from the bus stop.)

We arrived, we walked around, shutters clicking and euros jingling in pockets. We ate and laughed and bought postcards to be sent to friends across the globe. We wondered and read in our tourbooks, we wandered and guessed at meanings. We relaxed and wished we could stay.