Photomoon.

Barcelona, Spain:
Before our departure on our Mediterranean cruise, we spent an afternoon and morning in Barcelona. Our first destination was the famous La Rambla, a chaotic street stretching from the Placa Catalunya to the statue of Christopher Columbus at the edge of Port Vell. The street itself is a magnet for vendors, street performers, tourists, and pickpockets, but the narrow side streets hide classic Spanish architecture, an endless of sea of shops and restaurants in tunnel after shaded tunnel.

The next morning we made our way to Club Nou, home of the 2008-2009 European League champion FC Barcelona, which also boasts an ice skating rink, stadiums for Barca basketball and baseball teams, and an immense construction project to modernize the transit access. A 17 Euro ticket gets you access to a self-guided stadium tour, the soccer club's museum and storied history, and a saturation in rich tradition of tenacious play, dogged fight, and Catalan pride.
Europe's largest stadium, a day after the couple's largest day.

In Catalan, the seats say "More than a club." They were resurfacing the pitch on the day of our visit.

Our ship, Royal Caribbean's Brilliance of the Sea, left Barcelona promptly at 6:30 pm that day. We watched the port drift by through the window of the main dining room at dinner.

1.) Port of Call: Villafranche, France; Destinations: Nice and Eze.
There's no port in Villafranche. We dropped anchor in a small bay and took a tender boat to the dock where we boarded a bus for Nice.

The view of the French Riveria and the topless section of the beach.

In every city, every tourist, including me, stopped to take pictures of the narrow streets.

Herding through Eze, a pedestrian-only town on top of a hill with too many glass shops and a gorgeous church.


2.) Port of Call: Livorno, Italy; Destinations: Florence and Pisa.
We walked the streets of Florence, stopping here at Piazza del Duomo, where the Cathedral, Bell Tower and Baptistery share the same square.

Amid the throng at Piazza della Signoria and the copy of Michelangelo's David. Stephanie and I are ashamed to admit that this is the location where learned that the sculpture's subject is the youth before he slew Goliath. Oh! That David!

Ponte Vecchio, a bridge famous for its covered design and shopping opportunities (about which we had zero interest).

Pisa is all about peer pressure. You can't help but pose with everyone else.


3.) Port of Call: Civitavecchia, Italy; Destinations: Vatican City (the Sistine Chapel, St. Peter's Basilica, St. Peter's Square) and the Colosseum.
Amid the holy cows, slowly shuffling through the Pope's hallways. Then we stepped into the Sistine Chapel and it shut us up. No pictures, of course, and someone hushing us like unruly children, but a truly unique experience.

Inside the largest Catholic church on the planet, standing next to Michaelangelo's Pietà, I decided to give in to a higher power. I stopped taking photos and surrendered to Wikipedia.

When in Rome...

This is where I started chanting, "Max-y-mus, Max-y-mus!" But seriously, it was a massive structure and a stunning experience.


4.) Port of Call: Mykonos, Greece; Destination: Mykonos, the island of Delos.
Situated at the center of a ring of islands called the Cyclades, Delos is "one of the most important mythological, historical and archaeological sites in Greece." The excavations are some of the most extensive in the Mediterranean.

The island served as the cultural center of Greece, a duty-free zone of its time, popular for slave trading. The Greeks made it the birthplace of Artemis and her brother Apollo, and also built a palace for Dionysus.

The suburbs.


5.) Port of Call: Kusadasi, Turkey; Destination: Ephesus, the House of the Virgin Mary, and grave of St. John the Baptist.
"Ephesus was one of the seven churches of Asia that are cited in the Book of Revelation. The Gospel of John may have been written here."

What does every visitor need on a 98 degree, 95% humidity Turkish afternoon? A frozen towel hat, that's what.

On stage in the amphitheater, likely making a scene.

At the Turkish Ministry of Education's Loom Center, they harvested the silk and sold handwoven rugs no one could afford.


6.) Port of Call: Santorini, Greece; Destination: Oia, Santo Wines, and Thira.
In Oia, looking across the caldera.

We had a cappuccino on the edge of a cliff just before reenacting scenes from The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants.

Who knew "wine country" could sit on a cliff over the ocean?

7.) Port of Call: Piraeus, Greece; Destination: Athens, the Acropolis.
Hey, anyone know how to get to the Parthenon from here?

Nevermind. I found it.

A wife overlooking Odeon of Herodes Atticus, the amphitheater built and recently refinished along the south slope of the Athenian Acropolis. Athens beyond.


8.) Port of Call: Naples, Italy; Destination: Pompei.
We played miniature golf and ping pong instead of arming ourselves in the streets of Naples. Then we went to Pompei and looked up at Vesuvius.

The streets were a bit quieter in Pompei.

Steph eying a fresco to avoid the dead guy encased in ash and protective glass to her right.

Near a central meeting ground in Pompei.

I define preservation as the ability to distinguish this phallic street sign directing Romans to the whorehouses.

Chariot ruts between a raised crosswalk.


Barcelona, Spain:
Back in Barcelona, the cruise ship preparing for another voyage full eager travelers, we continued our honeymoon deep in vacation-mode. We purchased tickets for Barcelona Bus Turistica, a bus system with on-off privileges and stops throughout the city. We visited the Museu Picasso, fortunate to arrive on the first Sunday of the month, and enjoyed free admission!

Barcelona (and Italy, really) led to my current plan to buy a scooter.

Barcelona is all about Gaudi.

Sagrada Familia.

Park Guell.

Park Guell.

Barcelona from Mount Juic.

We stopped here near the Olympic grounds to pour one out for the Dream Team. We were rewarded with a highlight reel in the Museu Olimpic i de l'Esport de Barcelona.


An absolutely amazing honeymoon. The soundtrack to all the images was an ongoing dialogue about all the ways our friends and family contributed to an amazing wedding.

Selective Memory

Thank you, Michael Jackson, for reminding me of the popular human condition commonly called "selective memory." It's the act--nay, a skill--where collective understanding is decided through a summation of a particular aspect or aspects attributed to a person or event. Somebody can literally decide what minute details warrant consideration on a grand scale. Selective memory permits the ignoring of ugly details; it winnows the breadth of a body of work into tiny soundbites that scintillate and satisfy and send us ambling on our way, content in what we know. Selective memory permits us to turn the page and keep writing a clean, collective history.

I'll remember two distinct moments from last Thursday, the day I found out Michael Jackson died. I was rushing around the kitchen trying to make three appetizers and an entree before guests arrived to watch the NBA Draft. One of the guests, my buddy Scott, called to explain why he would probably arrive late. During the conversation, he told me about MJ's death, and before I knew whether or not the news was legit, I had to wade through a child molestation joke and David Carradine-connected homosexuality reference. This is no fault of Scott's. His voice didn't crack. I didn't feel I'd been sucker punched. I didn't collapse on the floor. In fact, I laughed a bit, repeating, "Really though? Is he really dead?" Awhile later, when my soon-to-be brother in-law arrived, I broke the ice with a general So did you hear about Michael Jackson? lead, to which he wryly replied, "That dude died a loooooong time ago."

I didn't lament the loss of the man behind Thriller. No one around me did either. We didn't launch into any introspective monologues about where we were the first time we saw him moon walk, or who we danced with to "Man in the Mirror," or how "Smooth Criminal" inspired one of us to pick up a bass guitar. We weren't quick to wash away all the ugliness with the shiny pieces of our memories of the man. One look at a television or the internet, though, and all I could decipher was that someone supremely important had left us tragically. According to all I saw and read, I wasn't sad enough about the fact that I'd get no more joy from the supreme genius of Michael Jackson.

Don't get me wrong here. This is a tragic event, and the man did amazing things in a short lifespan that offered little in the way of any normalcy to ground him. But I refuse to shave all the insanity away and praise a nice little discography, idyllic ambition, and collection of dance moves. How can I forget all the oddities, the court cases, the awkwardly televised public addresses, the Never Land Ranch tales?

This habit of selective memorization is the bedrock of recorded history, just ask Christopher Columbus or Albert Einstein. My favorite parallels exist in the world of sports. Just last month, global audiences tuned in to hear ABC's coverage of the NBA Finals. People listened as some of my favorite commentators in the biz called Kobe Bryant an incredible team competitor, a champion, and an MVP. They labeled him an unstoppable force, comparing him to the likes of Michael Jordan and LeBron James. No one referred to him in the less popular, Colorado-based term, "alleged rapist." No one mentioned his alienation of teammates or his propensity for postseason elbows. It's too unbecoming to bring up such atrocious allegations at a time like this. One guy did, actually, but he isn't an on-air personality working to broadcast an NBA Finals telecast.

It was the same for his predecessor, the man to which Kobe is so oft compared. Jordan retired from the league in 1993 at the peak of his career, and although many cite personal testimony and the recent death of his father, sources also point out the coincidental timing the retirement shared with the NBA's investigation of Jordan's gambling debt. Additionally, the Barons, a Chicago White Sox affiliate for whom Jordan roamed the countryside, was also owned by Bulls' owner Jerry Reinsdorf, allowing the owner close proximity to his top performer and his performer's contract. Does Joe Fan remember Jordan's first retirement or the circumstances that surrounded it? Of course not, because gambling allegations don't work well in professional sports (read: Tim Donaghy, Pete Rose). The term "allegation evasion" looks about as good next to "Greatest of All-Time" as that asterisk after Barry Bonds's name.

I can't blame telecasters or owners or fans for employing selective memories because, really, business is business. But business shapes the minds of those out there so willing to follow and forgive. Ray Lewis earned the NFL's Defensive Player of the Year Award in 2000 and 2003, along with a Superbowl XXXV MVP Award in 2001, despite his involvement in an altercation that led to two deaths and an out-of-court settlement. Legally, I can't say Ray Lewis and Kobe Bryant and Michael Jordan did anything, just like I can't accuse Michael Jackson of anything criminal (unless it's preceded by the word "smooth"). But legal claims are addressed by legal people who know about legal loopholes and the way money works as a broom to sweep things underneath rugs. Ray Lewis and Kobe Bryant are almost comeback stories, and fans love comeback tales. Look at what Jordan did after his retirement. Look at Denver's Chris Anderson. (Inversely, though, something tells me that fans aren't ready for Michael Vick to start writing his. Perhaps he should receive some counsel from Tonya Harding on this subject.)

Manny Ramirez is slated to return to the Dodgers this week. The shamed ballplayer, very recently convicted of using performance enhancing drugs, served his mandatory 50-game suspension and will rejoin his team this week. One popular radio host is already wondering whether or not he'll get a standing ovation. Really!? For cheating?

Let's be clear on two things. First, I am not insisting that dirty deeds must follow a public figure throughout his or her life. Nothing should haunt a person and obliterate any attempt at recompense. No one should be doomed to a Nixonian existence, fading away in quiet shame. I honor athletes who strive to better not only their lives, but the ones of those around them. But even when they do so, the public at large tends to ignore it as part of the process of the aforementioned selective memory. For example, do you know how much work has Ron Artest done for the SPCA since authorities seized his malnourished dog? Of course not, because it went widely unpublicized so as to maintain his role as the fan-bludgeoning nemesis, the wrong-doer who could do no right. Second, I'm not suggesting that society ignore the notion of forgiveness. Third and fourth chances do afford people opportunities to change minds, to display true and real change, and my words here do not seek to diminish the attempts for individuals to face the music, confront a fault, and ascend.

When situations call for public unity and commonality through the remembrance of an occasion, a tragic loss, or a recounting of the obstacles surmounted on the road to redemption, all I ask is that amid the sweeping nostalgia we manage to paint a complete picture. The self-proclaimed King of Pop hadn't put a dent in popular culture since 1991's Dangerous. So why start the 2009's remembrances in the tone of Ignorance is bliss?

Dry Spells, Meet Dry Vermouth.

Summer and writing typically go hand in hand for me, and if you're reading this, you know this to be true. Something's taken me a particularly long time to get the ball rolling this year. The wedding? Maybe. Lethargy? Perhaps. A DVR malfunction separating me from Anthony Bourdain's television program? It's possible. Yes, the absence of time, ambition, or inspiration don't result in outlines for subject or skeletons of worthwhile projects, though it might result in a kick-ass wedding and some fine tomatoes from the garden. With the help of a good friend and a black spear through two olives in a vodka martini, I've found some insight.

First of all, I'm really great at mental initiation. I can take a momentary idea, begin fleshing it out, dissecting it and adding perspective, then finally settle on an angle and a valuable conclusion. I'm just terrible at picking it up again the next day and developing it in a way that's worthy of sharing. It's almost as though I'm satisfied by my own internal pontification, and as a result I'm less compelled to make it known outside of myself.

Second, I do so much dabbling in novels, short stories, songs, essays, newspapers, blogs, talk radio, podcasts, television, and poetry that I haven't found my genre. Plot ideas with plausible engines, possible symbols and allegories to develop and characters to drag through the process of learning, exploration-worthy themes demanding navigation and ambiguous justification, and no decided spot to send them with any consistency. I am, at least in my mind, a Renaissance man of the ideas that may or may not lead to the written word. Focusing on a genre might bring about real material, right?

This second conclusion gets more complicated when I consider what I do day in and day out for nine months out of the year. Exploring all of these genres with classrooms of teenagers doesn't simplify the wrangling process I'd have to endure if I found a home for my own work. I'm afraid of what might happen if I lose touch with all those lovely genres and the possibilities they offer. What if I mail it in during a poetry lesson because I no longer write poems? Might the next poet laureate, unassumingly sitting my class awaiting inspiration, remain dormant, silent, and listless in their own confused and muddled potential?

Here in the blogosphere, at the end of this essay, I don't have a simple answer except to say that if I really want to write, I'll find a way. It will happen not by season, nor network programming. It will happen when it needs to and as I see fit. Furthermore, I don't believe any potential poet laureate will decide to pursue poem writing solely based on my teaching skills or knowledge of his or her genre. I can go right on teaching just the same. What is clear, however, is that I need to spend more time with my good friend, and keep ordering those vodka martinis, with extra olives please.

When Everyone Showers Together.

It wasn't born in our progressive ideals or a result of a mutual inseparability. It was an idea floated by the bridesmaid and her mother, and though we'd never heard of such an arrangement, we found some literature to support its increasing popularity. So we did it. We had a couples shower.

No, naughty brain, not that kind, but the evolution of the bridal shower, a gathering that includes the groom to be, couples with whom the bride and groom to be are close, and certain family (emphasis on your mother's generation) looking to celebrate the union. Saturday, June 13, with help from our gracious hosts and in the presence of close friends and family, Dr. Z and I took--and later relinquished--center stage at our co-wedding shower. Thanks to Carrie's handiwork, I present some images:

Unscramble these jumbled wedding words--winner gets a prize! Despite their hard work, the Sandoval's couldn't beat Brittany. Perhaps too much posing for pictures?

These ladies didn't shy away from the sunshine. Low-80 degree temperatures solidified the beautiful morning.

The spread.

Happy, and in agreement that we can't believe so many people want to celebrate with us.

Brittany, elbow deep in one of our presents. At our party, the guests opened the gifts.

Bill put the camera down long enough to relish in passing the yard work torch. I can mow the lawn from here on out.

It's June and not sweltering, everybody smile!

Everyone sitting with the florist got plenty of water and sunlight.

Cheers!

Special thanks to the Ewbanks and everyone for showing love and support! Feel free to steal the party idea. Call it progressive, call it informal, but a couples shower is definitely a great way to gather, nosh, and celebrate.