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.

“I’m going to Graceland, Memphis, Tennessee. I’m going to Graceland.” – Paul Simon, ‘Graceland’

My uncle is, unquestionably, one of the world’s biggest Elvis fans. He has all the albums (on CD of course), the DVDs of Elvis’ movies, action figures. He even has a velvet Elvis hanging on his wall.

My uncle is also Down Syndrome.

As a child, I just accepted that he was different and moved on, the way kids do. As an adult, I find myself increasingly interested in what makes my uncle tic. What makes him so completely fascinated by Elvis (and comic books, but this is about Graceland)?

Another Aunt and Uncle, ones much closer, both geographically and emotionally, took my uncle to see Graceland a few years ago. When I met up with my uncle afterward and asked him about it, he did not say much beyond “It was good. It was fun.” But my Aunt and Uncle told me that he was beyond ecstatic. He was energetic and talkative and showed a curiosity far beyond his usual remove.

And that makes me want to go. I’m not sure what I’m really looking for: an insight into my uncle? A bond with him? Or just to satisfy my own curiosity. The fact remains, I want to see Graceland.

There are very few places in the world where you can find a peanut farm in the middle of citrus groves, with a camel ranch, and an ostrich farm just down the road.

Once outside of the city itself, on the county roads, the most interesting and unexpected locales reveal themselves. There are rodeo grounds, stables, and ranches for the horse lovers. There are numerous spots along the recently restored Colorado for sports and picnics. There are casinos the roads out of town in two directions.

In short, there are few places in the U.S. that so aptly represent the diversity, independence, and willingness to go it alone, in a new direction of the cowboy spirit that built the town in the first place.

My wife and I traveled to Barcelona in August, 2007 as part of our honeymoon. We did all the tourist things – La Sagrada Familia, Las Ramblas, Parc Guell, etc. And they were all beautiful, interesting, and well worth the time and effort involved.

But the best part of our trip? The sangria.

Now, my wife and I are not heavy drinkers. I like the occasional beer, and every once in a while we have wine at dinner, but we just don’t drink very often.

However, we found that in Barcelona, during the hot afternoons, there was little that we enjoyed more than finding a quiet restaurant and a pitcher of sangria to wait out the heat.

Sangria is, essentially, a wine based punch. It is red wine, fruit, something to sweeten it, and maybe a bit of liquor, depending on the restaurant. More importantly, it is a refreshment, in the truest sense of the word. It is served in small or large pitchers, and served cold. It lets one relax and recover from whatever excesses or exertions one has been up to.

We found that sitting in the shade, drinking the sangria, and watching the people go by was one of the best parts of our trip. Being able to relax and just observe taught us more about the locale than any three guidebooks put together.

So. If you go to Spain, in particular Barcelona, find a cafe, find a seat, find a pitcher. Let the world go by for a bit until you have figured out where you are and where you want to be. And , in the meantime, have a nice, cool drink, to keep you out from under the summer sun.

Tokyo Disney really out-does itself where holidays are concerned.

My wife and I went for Halloween a couple of years ago and were very impressed with Disney not only allowing, but encouraging people to come to the park in costume; it was a great opportunity for dedicated people watchers like us.

Since then, we have heard nothing but similarly good things from others who visited on different holidays.

So, given the chance to go on, or near, a holiday rather than just a regular Saturday, I would recommend the holiday for some great picture taking chances, as well as a great chance to meet people and perhaps make friends.

The first time I went to Venice I was 18 and angry.

I had gotten to Italy on an exchange program and, while it was fun in a lot of ways, I was not getting to travel as much as I had wanted. I was inexperienced at international travel and was having a hard time figuring out how everything (trains, taxis, etc.) worked.

I wanted to see Venice, but was told I did not have enough time, and, not having planned ahead, probably would not be able to book a room anyway.

However, in addition to being young and angry, I was also very stubborn. I took my last bit of lira from my stash and got on a train going north from my Assisi. Once on the train, I found a nice conductor who spoke a bit of English and was willing to listen to my broken Italian, to tell me how to get to Venice.

Getting off the train and into the shuttle to the city proper was one of the more exiting experiences of that summer. I spent a day wandering around, poking my head into shops and cafes and trying to talk to people. I caged a free espresso and sandwich from a very nice lady, who made me sit with her while I ate.

Venice was everything I had ever read about; everything I could have wanted. Except I was alone, and had only a single day.

When I got married, I told my wife that we were delaying our honeymoon until we could go to Venice. I told her about my trip and how I had wanted someone to share that trip with; I told her that since I had found the one person to share my life with, I really wanted us to go to Venice, so I could do it right. So I could really see this beautiful city as it was meant to be seen.

That was a year and a half ago. But, now, just now, I have made the reservations and we are going to go see this city together, as a couple, as it was meant to be seen.

Several years ago my family and I, along with my then girlfriend’s family took a joint SCUBA vacation to Cozumel. It was an absolutely fantastic experience.

We stayed in a slightly decrepit old hotel right on the ocean. The pool’s splash guard was the only thing between the hotel grounds and the bright blue of the Carribbean Sea. The hotel (the name of which I’ve unfortunately forgotten) had a walk-off dive point and hammocks strung over the water.

The people were fantastic, sharing their history and culture with anyone who asked, as well as giving impromptu Spanish lessons on the boats and in the restaurants.

The food was equally fantastic. Chicken and fish tacos, tostadas, tamales, everything.

My favorite memories, however, are of diving. I remember doing an 70 foot dive off a reef wall and stepping away from the face of the wall and turning around to experience the purest blue I’ve ever seen. At seventy feet down, with my back to the reef and my dive buddy behind me, this incredible blue filled my entire field of vision.

At other reefs we saw the usual assortment of tropical marine life and spent time feeding the groupers and getting easy thrills from seeing reef sharks up close.

The recent hurricane seems to have done a terrible amount of damage to the island; I hope that the locals are able to repair the damage and their lives soon.

I was an 18 year old student when I went to Italy. I’m now 30 and married and would love to take my wife to some of the places I saw back then.