Woodland Shoppers Paradise

Origami Urbanism Update

2012-01-31T16:43:00.000-08:00

Finally wrapping up my chapter for the Urban Communication Reader! Here's some of the new stuff...

To this post-place we now turn, learning to read the city that unfolds itself to our gaze. This is the modern city too, in a way; it is the perfection of modernity, no longer limited by the plane-truth. In this city, flat power is dispelled with a magic trick, a mediated fantasy of moving parts with no mechanism aside from consumer choice. Such power--strange, illusory, intoxicating--must first be recognized as such; its users must be trained to recognize themselves as its masters, to see themselves as artists, engineers, poets, creators. This is post-industrial power, when reality-television allows even the otherwise disadvantaged among us to become producers of icons, to brand themselves. This power is the child’s plaything, the personal totem, the solitary confidence. Easily crumbled, burst with merely a word, this pleasure transcends vast chasms between ideas and action, between self and other.

Origami urbanism reveals the sensual pleasure of this manipulation, our technological means of ascending to the summit of a God’s-eye view once more. Amid the flat city, origami urbanism recall’s Gatsby’s “constant flicker”: the flick of a finger upon an iPad, swiping the world into digital shape. Such is the power and pleasure of mobile communication devices, the means to produce frames of reference that alter themselves according to our perpetually shifting positions, thickening homogeneity in an internal performance. With these new personal data, navigation, and entertainment devices, we need not be tied to fixed locations but may create new ones instead, building our own multidimensional worlds atop the flat screen. We wander the boulevard, texting rather than speaking, posting rather than engaging, editing rather than experiencing, and our fantasy worlds appear to convulse with every stroke. The pleasures of origami urbanism appear, to the uninitiated at least, like an addiction.

Learning to Decode Scholarly Journal Articles (Part 1)

2012-01-30T13:27:00.000-08:00

[One of my favorite parts of blogging is the opportunity to draft language for specialized projects - and potentially receive feedback from a much broader community of readers. Toward that end I'm sharing a preliminary version of a note I hope to share with students struggling to make sense of scholarly journal articles.]

Learning to read the professional journals of your chosen field of study can sometimes feel like stepping into quicksand. Most likely you began your coursework reading textbooks, workbooks, and other introductory materials designed with you as the primary audience. These resources typically include glossaries to help you master new terms and pictures to illustrate complex concepts, along with other components meant to aid student learning. These tools are rarely exciting, but navigating them should be easy.

Scholarly articles, in contrast, tend to be thick and weighty. Start reading and you may quickly get bogged down in all those endless paragraphs. The vocabulary alone may intimidate you. This feeling can be especially frustrating if you are a student of communication studies. Read a few paragraphs from Quarterly Journal of Speech and you might think, "For supposed experts in communication, these folks are awfully dense." After wading through a few pages, you might even wonder if you chose the wrong field.

The good news is that you're not alone. Professors can feel overwhelmed by scholarly journal articles too. Some authors pile ideas and references into a structure so thick that their articles seem like walls built to obscure understanding rather than windows designed for illumination. Sure, articles should be accessible. In fact, the multiple drafts and revisions necessary for a scholarly article to be published should all but ensure their readability. Unfortunately though, layers of anonymous peer review and editorial feedback can add unnecessary complexity. And some scholarly articles, no matter how complex they might be, suffer a simple problem: they are poorly written and/or carelessly edited.

Still, you should not immediately dismiss a challenging scholarly article as pointlessly overwritten, at least without first considering a basic question: Who is the intended audience for this piece of writing? In most cases, scholarly articles are written for a relatively narrow community of experts for whom simple terminology can actually impede understanding. It's strange but true. Scholarly articles often include exactingly specific concepts that require precise vocabulary. Their authors select terms carefully to signal their identification with particular schools of thought, ways of researching, and even groups of people.

Chances are you've employed a similar strategy. Think about the care you devote to selecting clothes before a job interview or a date. To someone outside of your peer group (present or future), your attire might not merit close scrutiny. Shoes are shoes, right? And who cares about the label on your jeans or the brand of your coat? But you're hoping that your potential employer or romantic partner will read the signs you've chosen to communicate. Your particular choice of shoe, which might be meaningless to a cultural outsider, says much about your identity and much about the community with which you prefer to affiliate. The same applies to the other signs you arrange to communicate your nonverbal message.

What's more, your selection from potential meanings will become more precise as your notion of community becomes more refined. Consider a cover story about romantic relationships appearing in a glossy magazine like Cosmopolitan. The article might be titled,"What does his body language really mean?," which could be an interesting topic for communication research. But scholars of nonverbal communication would require much more specific wording. After all, when we speak of "body language" do we mean "ritualistic facework" or "paralinguistic turn-relinquishing signals"? Do we employ a "positivist" paradigm or an "interpretivist” approach? And what about "mutual or co-active influences"?

These phrases may seem needlessly opaque to the casual reader. But they reflect specific ideas that cannot be easily conveyed by the generic term, "body language." Yes, the choice to use these words and phrases will not appeal to all readers. But a scholarly article isn't intended for all readers; it's meant for professionals who practice a particular approach toward a topic.

Cracking the professional's code requires more than a dictionary; this feat calls for context. Accordingly you should read a scholarly article as an interested and open-minded stranger wandering around a new city. Initially you might be confused or frustrated by seemingly meaningless things said by members of that community. You will likely need a guide at first, a friendly insider who can help you interpret the subtle and nuanced meanings of the messages you see (while directing your attention to messages you can't quite discern). You will certainly require patience and time to endure this initial encounter.

Eventually, though, you will recognize the purpose behind these seemingly strange messages; you'll know why they were selected and to whom they are intended. And then, almost without knowing it, you'll find yourself reading and speaking like a "local" in a place that once felt so foreign. At that point you'll be in a much better position to assess the selection of words and symbols in your community. You might even work to open up your profession to new members by increasing the accessibility of the words valued by your group. It all begins with one step.

Read - not just to understand but also to join.

[In a forthcoming post I'll offer additional tips for deciphering the typical components of a communication studies journal article.]

Yet More Tilt-Shift Fun

2012-01-27T11:25:00.001-08:00

Following up on my earlier post, here are a few more tilt-shift experiments.

San Jose, CA

Pendleton, OR

Battle Mountain, NV

Kennebunk, ME

(Photographs by Andrew Wood)

Wood's Writing Guide: State, Don't Believe

2012-01-26T14:07:00.000-08:00

One of my sabbatical goals this spring is to reflect on how students can write better college essays. One suggestion: Lose phrases like "I think" or "I believe."

If you're a student, especially if you're taking courses in the social sciences and the humanities, you've probably written a similar phrase once or twice. In many of those courses, professors like me allow - and even encourage - folks to write in the first-person.

Moreover, some of those assignments might actually leave room for you to express your beliefs and philosophy. For instance you might be asked to reflect upon how something relates to your personal life. In that case you might write something like this:

"Watching the State of the Union address reminds me of Thanksgiving at my own house. Once a year the family gets together and performs the old rituals. Everyone plays their roles, but conflicts still always seems to seethe below the surface. Of course, I believe that conflict can be useful. Thus I smiled when Justice Alito mouthed 'Not true' during President Obama's 2010 State of the Union speech. All families need a crazy uncle who's not afraid to tell the truth."

As a reader, I may agree or disagree with your analysis. But I'd have no problem with you writing "I believe" in an assignment that seeks that sort of personal reflection.

At the same time, such license generally does not extend to assignments that ask you to advance an argument or express an opinion. In these cases, you are undoubtedly affected by your beliefs. But your audience will rarely find those beliefs to be sufficient as a means of proof.

Consider this hypothetical prompt: "What was the most significant technological innovation of the 20th century?" Sure, you might believe that the atomic bomb was more important than the invention of penicillin. But you are actually being asked to advance an argument that requires different forms of proof.

In this case you are expected to deploy facts, statistics, testimony, illustrations, and other well-reasoned proofs to advance your claim. Your beliefs, though certainly related to your thinking, contribute little to supporting your claim. Indeed, phrases like "I believe" add unnecessary delay, requiring the reader to sort through the phrase before getting to your point. [She believes. Does that mean she doesn't know?"]

Of course you might be inclined to add "I believe" precisely because you don't know with 100% certainty. As a student you might wish to admit that your assertion comes from limited knowledge. You know a little about this topic, but you don't claim to be a subject matter expert. Thus you "believe," or you "think," or you offer this claim "in my opinion."

Even so, don't do it.

When you are asked to state an opinion, you can remind yourself, "I don't know everything about this topic, so everything I say can be questioned." You can even write that phrase in your first draft when you're still sorting out your arguments. But when you submit your final draft, search your document for unnecessary modifiers like "I believe" - and remove them.

When the time has come to express your opinion, state it simply and clearly, with no prevarication. Offer multiple forms of proof, considering the standards of your reader(s), not just your personal preferences, and then keep an open mind for contrary responses. When you're tempted to write, "I believe that the atomic bomb was more important than the invention of penicillin," cut those first three words.

State your claim and make your case.

iWriting with iBooks Author

2012-01-25T15:07:00.000-08:00

Launching a couple potential ebook projects, I've been playing with Apple's new iBooks Author app, and I'm tentatively impressed. I'm also wary. As usual with 1.0 versions of software, I find myself reflecting on the good, the bad, and the ugly.

The Good

The app offers an intuitive workflow: Open a new file from a template of lovely options, add chapters and sections, add content, and you've got an ebook. Copy/paste text and watch it flow across the columns. Drop and drop an image onto a page and iBooks Author places it with WYSIWYG-ease. Change your mind on chapter order? Click and drag. No problemo.

Even better, iBooks Author is easy to use and offers some mighty advanced tools for ebook production. You can integrate widgets for ~~dynamic content (e.g., a live Twitter feed),~~ 3D objects, videos, and interactive graphics. Perhaps most impressively you can integrate Keynote slideshows that provide (with some limitations) remarkably granular control of how you deploy words and images.

The best part? iBooks Author is free.

The Bad

Well, it's sort of free. Actually I had to upgrade my Mac's operating system to the newest version of Lion; that cost me about $30 bucks (a decent price for a fairly substantial improvement over my laptop's older OS). And needless to say, folks who don't drive a Mac are out of luck. There is no Windows version - yet (though there are plenty of open-source alternatives).

Beyond the OS issue, iBooks Author is limited in some important ways. Remember those swell templates? They're undoubtedly professional, featuring integrated fonts, colors, and layouts. But there's only six of them. Surely Apple will add more (and templates are relatively easy to customize in the meantime). Still, the "textbook" focus of iBooks Author's first templates won't appeal to many authors.

The app also includes some weird hangups. Add one of those cool interactive images and you're able to label elements. Great! Want to center the font in one of those labels? You can't. Want to click and drag a video onto one of your pages? Terrific! Want it to work? Better make sure that video is saved in a particular Quicktime format. Other similar goofiness crops up from time to time, some of which will likely be revised in forthcoming versions.

The Ugly

As with most things Apple, iBooks Author does not play well with others. Yes, you can export your project as a PDF document or web-viewable site. But readers must use an iPad to access the most dynamic features of your book. No third party options will work (as of now). And that limitation applies to authors too. You can edit your ebook on a Mac, but you can't see its full functionality unless you hook up an iPad. So there's another half-grand to spend.

More annoyingly, you are stuck using Apple's storefront if you plan to sell your eBook. What's more, while Apple requires you to secure an ISBN code, the company offers little help in that process [I've read elsewhere that you're forced to shell out about $100 bucks for a code through a third-party, even though Apple could purchase them in bulk and sell them much more cheaply]. And most troublingly, even if our friends in Cupertino clear up some vague language about ownership in the end-user license agreement, Apple alone decides whether they'll sell your book.

That's right: You could spend countless hours on your ebook, only to find that Apple won't sell it - and they won't allow you to export it to the more commonly used ePub format. Walled Gardens, indeed!

Wrap-up

Ultimately I'm optimistic about the potential for iBooks Author to help transform the textbook publishing industry. I'm optimistic because I imagine myself sharing ideas in a form that is more dynamic, more cost effective, and more easy to update than anything found in today's textbooks. For a 1.0 version, this app is robust and largely free of bugs. Revisions will only bring more improvement.

At the same time I'm unconvinced that Apple's iPad alone is the ideal device for eBook reading - especially for textbooks. In its current iteration, the iPad is expensive and ill-suited for the rough-and-tumble of the average student's backpack. And the costs of repairing and refreshing the iPad may surprise schools who are cheerfully buying them by the truckload.

Still, Apple has proven its ability to produce meaningful improvements in our lives by its willingness to force innovations onto a wary public. iBooks Author and its tightly tethered iPad aren't perfect, but they are impressive. Potentially they're game-changers.

Just ask anyone who works in the music industry.

More Tilt-Shift Fun

2012-01-24T12:23:00.000-08:00

Here are a few more tilt-shift images from my growing collection.

Disney World, Florida

South Beach - Miami, Florida

Rhyolite ghost town, Nevada

Manzanar historic site, California

(Photographs by Andrew Wood)

Rota Fish Taxi (ca. 1988)

2012-01-23T10:15:00.000-08:00

Back when I was a Navy journalist (1986-1990) in Spain [learn more], I liked to produce music videos - nothing fancy, just a chance to practice my editing. Sometimes these packages would find their ways onto Rota Today or Weekend Hot Pix. I had a great job: a chance to learn my craft in some fascinating environments.

One morning I borrowed the station's video camera and joined Jenny at the Rota docks. We'd seen "taxis" row fishers to their boats and figured it might be fun to get a closer look. Jenny captured still-images while I concentrated on video. Little by little, we both realized that we'd stumbled onto something special.

Actually I remember being a little nervous, lugging a pricey video camera onto a wobbly rowboat. In addition, I spoke almost no Spanish. But the taxi driver was pretty cool; he didn't mind a guest. So we rode from shore to those anchored boats a couple times, and I imagined how nice this scene would be set to Genesis's "Blood on the Rooftops."

Given the years and generation loss (copying from tape to video to archive to digital), the project suffers from age. Nonetheless, this was one of my favorite videos: an early morning with Jenny, joining the Rota fish taxi driver on one of his runs.

Sabbatical Success

2012-01-22T08:45:00.000-08:00

They say that sabbatical is related to the word "sabbath" - as in "abstinence from work"... rest. And I'm not going to kid anyone here: I intend to relax a little. But I also plan to complete projects I'd never had time or bandwidth to attempt during the regular academic year.

Just for fun, I'll keep track of 'em on this page.

Fri, Jan 20: Updated laptop to OSX Lion to start playing with iBooks Author.

Sat, Jan 21: Downloaded Zotero desktop version and finally got my small but growing reference library integrated with Word.

Sun, Jan 22: Got Networked Blogs to post Woodland Shoppers Paradise-posts onto my Facebook account.

Mon, Jan 23: Created my first interactive graphic on iBooks Author.

Tue, Jan 24: Went on my first run in about two years. Only a mile (and a pretty pathetic time at that) but a start to better health. Used Nike's GPS runner's app to track my course, distance, and time.

Wed, Jan 25: Installed a piece of software (EndNote - a potential competitor to Zotero as my primary bibliography management system) and made solid progress on COMM ebook.

Thu, Jan 26: Started building a Picaboo book on roadside relics.

Fri, Jan 27: Finished first draft of Roadside Relics book.

Sat, Jan 28: Jenny and I managed to repair and reinstall our chimney cap - without falling off our roof.

Sun, Jan 29: Uploaded final draft of Roadside Relics.

Mon, Jan 30: Installed new versions of Photoshop and Acrobat. (Seriously, I've had this software for more than half a year and never had time to get the serial numbers to complete the installation process.)

Tue, Feb 1: Finished and mailed “Origami Urbanism Amid the Flat City: An Omnitopian Analysis of Commercials Depicting Mutability in Urban Life.”

Friday Fun Post: Star Wars Uncut

2012-01-20T17:36:00.001-08:00

The force is strong with this one!

iBook-it?

2012-01-19T16:08:00.000-08:00

Have I found a reason to jump onto the iPad bandwagon? Maybe so.

Today Apple announced its iBooks Author app that may provide me the tools necessary to produce the sort of post-traditional press project I've long imagined - maybe my world's fair book, maybe something else entirely - a "book" that is dynamic, malleable, engaging, and much more updatable than the current model.

Reviewing Andy Ihnatko's initial assessment, I see lots to like about iBooks. Integration with iTunes, intuitive design, multimedia content… Nice. Then of course there are the typical caveats as Apple continues to expand creative options while managing distribution its patented brand of granular control. Oh, and let's not forget the hardware costs (never a one-time-only proposition).

Considering the potential and the pitfalls of today's announcement, I don't plan to rush to my nearest Apple store and buy iPad's next iteration (the one supposedly arriving this spring). I've got plenty of work ahead of me for the next year or so, just developing content. You know: words and stuff. We haven't advanced quite so far as to forget those minor items, have we?

At the same time, I've got to admit: I sure would like to play with an iPad right about now.

I-44

2012-01-18T16:34:00.000-08:00

Turning 44 today doesn't lead me to much reflection on the past 12 months. Mostly I'm focused on the road ahead. That's a benefit of having a birthday in January, I guess: I'm inclined to see the day as a chance to plan ahead.

So what's the plan for Year 44?

Certainly I hope to use my spring sabbatical as a chance to start building the structure of a book on world's fairs I've long been threatening to write. I'll start with an essay on the 2010 Shanghai Fair, while also sketching more detail into the framework of the overall book project.

I'm not yet thinking about securing a publisher, though. Heck, I'm not sure that the traditional publishing model works anymore - either in terms of remuneration or in terms of flexibility to deliver content in a compelling way. So I'll spend some time contemplating form as well as content. Without the stresses of tenure and promotion to freeze my imagination, I feel no need to reproduce past accomplishments. I want to try something new.

I'm also fired up about the opportunity to lead student groups to Beijing and Salzburg this summer. I feel so lucky to return to parts of the world that continue to fascinate me. Yet I'm aware of the complexity of the tasks I've chosen to tackle. Some of spring will therefore be dedicated to necessary preparations - even as I work on a potential plan to augment my China travels with an odd but potentially amazing side trip (more news on that topic later).

Year 44 will also include plenty of other travels in the U.S., most notably a cross-country solo road trip that may inspire a video about animated neon signs (You know, the stuff you see at motels, bowling alleys, and diners). Jenny and I will likely return to Yosemite too, hoping to climb Half Dome. And there's always time for a Highway 163 sojourn. Monument Valley never ceases to quiet my soul.

I also look forward to friends coming to California this year as we prepare to celebrate Vienna's nuptials in fall. I have a pretty clear idea of how Jenny will manage that particular transition. For myself, I am less sure. I'm hopeful that my daughter is embarking on a wonderful adventure. Still I can't quite shake a father's anxieties.

In the interstitial moments between big changes, I hope to read some of the books that have been piling up on night stands and lamp tables around our house. While my mind has hardly stagnated in these past busy years, I feel an acute need to rethink old ideas, perhaps to jettison a few altogether. One gift I offer myself today is the assurance that I may continue to change my mind.

Most importantly, though, I spend more time with good friends this year. Indeed I've read recently that failure to nourish genuine friendships constitutes one of the great regrets many folks discover when they near death. I don't foresee a chance to prove that theory any time soon. I merely hope to refresh those relationships that are mutually meaningful.

Here I emphasize my aim to be less concerned about folks for whom friendship is divvied according to utility or convenience. I hope to be kind and helpful to acquaintances, of course. But my fondest hope is to be a better friend to those people who have added so much to my life - both when it's easy and when it's hard.

No doubt my 44th year will include plenty of both.

Yosemite - Winter 2012

2012-01-17T09:39:00.000-08:00

Jenny navigating the rocks near Lower Yosemite Falls

Jenny and I just got back from our second winter trip to Yosemite. Normally we head to the Sierras in spring or summer, but we so enjoyed 2011's snowy sojourn that we had to return to our winter wonderland a year later. So we packed our chains and prepared to brave the elements. Problem was, there was no snow and little ice this time around. We arrived in a period of unseasonably mild weather.

Andy preparing a Lower Falls leap

We still had a lovely time. We rented bikes to cruise around the valley, hiked to the Vernal Falls bridge, trekked through the woods, and climbed the rocks near Bridalveil and the Lower Yosemite Falls. All the while I kept staring up at half dome, imagining the climb I hope to complete in early summer [Jenny's not as thrilled about that plan, but she's game].

Half Dome: our next hiking adventure

We stayed at the Yosemite View Lodge, just outside of the park. Normally we opt for Camp Curry; their tents are comfortable even in wintertime. But Jenny got a good deal on a hotel. Even better, we got a "spa room," which includes an in-room hot tub and fireplace. Best of all, we were joined by three raccoons who scampered from balcony to balcony in search of a meal.

Ice transformed rivers into artwork

Despite the pleasures of the trip, our return home was a bit of a pain. The night before our departure, we blew a tire on 140 remembering that the used car we bought about a year ago didn't come with a lug wrench. Thankfully we pulled over at one of the few spots near Yosemite that get a flicker of cell reception. The next morning we got our tire replaced without too much hassle, even on a holiday. Thus once again we returned to Scotts Valley with happy memories of one of our favorite places.

Yosemite deer awaiting springtime

(Photographs by Andrew and Jenny Wood)

San Jose Motel

2012-01-17T08:00:00.000-08:00

Taking the day off for the holiday. But I had to share one new image - a view of a San Jose motel from a perspective that many see but few can photograph...

(Photograph by Andrew Wood)

Raygun Gothic: Mexico Theatre

2012-01-13T12:41:00.000-08:00

Following up on this week's posting of Raygun Gothic photos, I couldn't wait to check out the current status of San Jose's Mexico Theatre [opened in 1949 as The Mayfair]. I thought it'd been demolished. But it's still there, waiting to come back to life.

(Photographs by Andrew Wood)

Raygun Gothic - Part 3

2012-01-12T09:00:00.000-08:00

"Los Angeles was a bad idea, and I spent two weeks there. It was prime [Raygun] country; too much of the Dream there, and too many fragments of the Dream waiting to snare me. I nearly wrecked the car on a stretch of overpass near Disneyland, when the road fanned out like an origami trick and left me swerving through a dozen minilanes of whizzing chrome teardrops with shark fins. [Hollywood was] even worse."

- William Gibson, "The Gernsback Continuum"

Here's my final (for now!) collection of Raygun Gothic photos [don't forget to check out Part 1 and Part 2]. Naturally we have to conclude our tour in L.A.!

Cole and Santa Monica, West Hollywood

Cole and Santa Monica, West Hollywood (another view)

Crossroads of the World (1936)

Former KFI Radio Station Building (1936)

Griffith Park Observatory Obelisk (1934)

(Photographs by Andrew Wood)

Raygun Gothic - Part 2

2012-01-11T10:23:00.000-08:00

"The designers were populists, you see; they were trying to give the public what it wanted. What the public wanted was the future."

- William Gibson, "The Gernsback Continuum"

Following up on yesterday's post, I'm sharing more images from my Raygun Gothic photo collection. These buildings reflect an early- to mid-twentieth century fascination with the moderne, a stylized version of "the future" where the buildings seem to be copied from Flash Gorden comics and Amazing Stories pulp magazines [Learn more]. Here's part two!

Disney's Celebration, Florida

Carthage, Missouri

South Beach, Miami

Salinas, California

South Beach, Miami

Sacramento, California

(Photographs by Andrew Wood)

Raygun Gothic - Part 1

2012-01-10T10:27:00.000-08:00

"During the high point of the [Streamlined Moderne Age], they put Ming the Merciless in charge of designing California gas stations. Favoring the architecture of his native Mongo, he cruised up and down the coast erecting raygun emplacements in white stucco. Lots of them featured superfluous central towers ringed with those strange radiator flanges that were a signature motif of the style, and made them look as though they might generate potent bursts of raw technological enthusiasm, if you could only find the switch that turned them on. I shot one in San Jose an hour before the bulldozers arrived and drove right through the structural truth of plaster and lathing and cheap concrete."

- William Gibson, "The Gernsback Continuum"

I've always been fascinated by Raygun Gothic, and I've been collecting images of those examples of this gaudy, goofy style for about ten years now. I thought I'd share some of my favorites... [I'll post more tomorrow.]

San Jose, CA theatre
1197 East Santa Clara Street [See more pix]

South Beach, Miami post office

U-Drop Inn, Shamrock, Texas

Tucson, Arizona gas station

Portland, Oregon gas station

(Photographs by Andrew Wood and Jenny Wood)

The Photographs of Your Junk (will be publicized!)

2012-01-09T09:00:00.001-08:00

This does as good a job as anything I've seen lately to convey the current zeitgeist.

Stop the Ad-Madness

2012-01-06T16:13:00.000-08:00

Remember bell-bottoms?

I grew up in the seventies, and I remember how it seemed that everyone wore goofy pants with flared cuffs that appeared tailor-made for showing off those stylish platform shoes that were also popular back then. Just to be clear: I don't mean a little bit of flair, like you might see today. I'm talking about street-sweeping size-flair. Charlie's Angels-cast-off flair! The 70s, at least in terms of fashion, were a dark time for America. Sometime around the 1980s, though, the bell-bottom fad faded away.

Sure, some folks still wore 'em. Some folks still do - and God bless those brave retro-fashion souls. Yet most people have decided that bell-bottoms look kind of silly. And the companies that once produced wildly flared jeans have since learned to adjust their styles or go out of business. It didn't take a grand campaign to rid the world of 1970s-era bell-bottoms. It simply took a choice to look in the mirror and say, "I'm not going to do this anymore."

So if we could collectively opt out of the bell-bottom craze, abandoning it to the land of disco music and pet rocks, why can't we tell the politicians that their annoying, insulting, and manipulative campaign ads, radio spots, and robo-calls are out of step with the times? Why don't we demand a change of political fashion?

Given that we're in the middle of a presidential race now, it's possibly unreasonable to expect such a transformation in this year. But in 2016 I intend to support a presidential candidate who pledges not to run a single campaign ad. Not one ad. No television attacks, no radio pitches, no telephone intrusions.

[NOTE: Such a pledge will also require the candidate to firmly disavow any ads run by third-parties - on a daily basis, if need be. I should add that this proposal applies only to the post-primary presidential race. I haven't a clue about how to clean up the primary process.]

When it comes to the final two or three candidates in the presidential race, I will only support one who promises to limit her or his campaign communications to a handful of messages: perhaps a website, a newspaper editorial, a YouTube video, and maybe a book.

Taking a page from Newt Gingrich, my ideal candidate will also pledge to compete in a series of Lincoln-Douglas-style debates. These unmoderated debates, organized by the campaigns themselves, would allow candidates to state their policies, plans, and goals without interruption - taking turns to explain their cases, refute their opponents, bolster their claims, and summarize their arguments.

The debates, potentially lasting three hours or more, would be held in various locations around the country, thereby inviting candidates to demonstrate their grasp on regional issues. Each debate would surely receive full coverage by even the most stridently partisan news networks. Together, these debates, in addition to the other messages shared by candidates, would help Americans make a reasoned choice about our next president.

Well, that's my plan. It requires no government mandate, no unconstitutional restrictions, no complex rule-changes. It's a personal choice, the decision to say, "If you want my support, you'll stop the ad-madness and communicate clearly about what you intend to do for our country." It's an individual decision to abandon bad political fashion, one vote at a time.

Think about it. We stopped wearing bell-bottoms, we stopped wearing leisure suits, and we stopped wearing mood rings. I know we can stop the ad-madness too.

I'll explore some ideas to implement this proposal in the near future.

Demand-Side Political Reform

2012-01-05T12:39:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I was thinking about the interminable nature of modern political campaigns - focusing especially on the blizzard of inane television advertisements that accompany almost any serious race for national office. Most folks despise these ads. They also hate the mailers, the radio spots, and the robo-calls. Yet we're told that candidates need these weapons to win their campaigns.

One result - beyond the barrage of annoying ads - is a political system that compels politicians to cater to powerful interests who can bundle together insane amounts of money to purchase all those campaign spots. For members of the U.S. House who face two-year terms, that means a perpetual campaign. From their first day in office, each representative must begin raising money for the next election. Senators and presidents may enjoy more breathing room, but they are hardly freed from the demands of fundraising. Someday soon, they'll need to run new spots that cost money. Lots of money.

And while individual donations are limited by law, a plethora of soft money sources ensure that special interests are free to raise the stakes year after year. You can bet that the Supreme Court's recent decision allowing corporations to throw virtually unlimited amounts of money into the system rigs the game even more against us. It's an arms race, with each campaign raising the stakes to unfathomable heights. Thus this year's presidential election alone could cost over two billion dollars - much of that money meant to buy ads that no one wants.

How can we disarm this crazy political system?

A supply-side solution would mandate public financing for all campaigns, requiring candidates to restrict their spending to those limits, kind of like ensuring that each side in a war starts with the same number of weapons. Such an approach may sound "fair," but few serious candidates would consider that option these days, particularly with all that soft money sloshing around. Moreover, a supply-side restriction would run afoul of constitutional free speech provisions (especially in today's judicial climate).

The larger problem, though, is not the financing of ads but rather the ads themselves. Fewer ads, or the same number of ads per candidate, fails to address this issue. Typically built to shove carefully calibrated soundbites into 30- or 60-second increments, most campaign spots trade reasoned discourse for bumper sticker thinking. They work that way because campaign advisors tell their candidates that people will not tolerate more thoughtful forms of discourse.

If those advisors are correct, if we will not sit still long enough to consider all the arguments for one candidate over another, if we're willing to suffer the onslaught of ads that we actually hate, then perhaps we deserve our dysfunctional government: a rigged game where practical, moderate, bipartisanship is abandoned as politicians chase the money to pump ever more shrill, ever more ubiquitous advertisements into our lives.

But what if the political hacks are wrong? What if we chose to expect thoughtful discourse from our candidates, vowing not to tolerate the television spots, the radio blather, and the robo-attacks? What if weinitiated a demand-side solution? The idea I offer may sound naive, it might appear overly simplistic, and it will surely need substantial refinement. But it promises at least some improvement over our current mess.

Tomorrow: I'll share some specifics on a plan to disarm from this pointless war.

Tired of the Endless Campaign?

2012-01-04T11:38:00.000-08:00

Jon Stewart, as usual, conveyed some sense of the absurdity of the GOP primaries, recently comparing the candidates with a Whitman's Sampler. Poking through the dreary selections, Stewart dispensed with Michelle Bachman (too nutty) and Rick Santorum (too gooey), concluding that Republicans will dilly and dally - only to select the boring chocolate square in the center: Mitt Romney ("the little messenger boy" covered in gobs of "Santorum").

Still, I don't think Stewart went quite far enough. You see, much of his argument relied on the supposedly shared assumption that most folks wade through many of Whitman's offerings while enjoying few of them. Maybe I'm alone here, but I like pretty much everything that comes in a Whitman's box. Yeah, even the cherry cordial. [OK, maybe I said too much here.]

Sure, few people will agree on which candy tastes best. That's why the boring choice usually wins a popularity contest. Indeed, as much as I'd like to believe that Michelle Bachman suspended her campaign this morning once Iowans had concluded that she's bat-shit crazy, I know that many voters base their choices on electability rather than sanity. At the same time, plenty of people genuinely like Bachman's brand of battiness. Nuts can be popular too, even if they fail to win the mainstream taste-test.

So I was thinking this morning: what's something that pretty much all people agree that they dislike, even more than those occasionally regrettable Whitman's choices? Let's see. Reflecting on the past month, I'll bet all of us can remember at least one holiday party we attended just because we were expected to be there. Yet most folks still like holiday parties, yes? OK, how about fruitcakes? Who really likes fruitcakes? Maybe a smaller number of people. But some folks like 'em. Not ironically but for real.

Yet there is one thing, no matter the season, that almost everyone hates: television campaign advertisements. Think about it. Even if you believe in the candidate, don't you get tired of seeing his or her face in your living room every five minutes? All those blathering platitudes, all those banal slogans, all those clichéd images. Does the candidate support education? Here comes the footage of fresh-faced school kids raising their hands all at once! Does the candidate have a plan to "get America back to work?" There's a hard-working joe turning a wrench.

And we all know the script for the opposition spot: eerie music, grainy photos, and that earnest, alarmed voice ("haven't we had enough of [whoever, whatever]?" We suffer the same drama season after season, and maybe we even believe that some candidates are "Bad For America." Yet I don't know a single person who actually likes the onslaught of campaign effluvia we must endure every two years. Not one. And yet we feel powerless to stop it.What can we do?

Well, I have one idea that, oddly enough, I borrow from Newt Gingrich. More tomorrow…

Sedona/Bisbee/Disney

2012-01-03T10:17:00.000-08:00

Jenny and I spent much of the week between Christmas and New Year's on the road, sharing hours of conversation, music (and sometimes lovely silence) as the miles flew by. We drove some insane distances too. For starters, we cruised all the way from Scotts Valley to Sedona - a little over 750 miles - on our first day. We chose Arizona as our initial destination to enjoy days of sunshine and blue skies, a welcome respite from the Pacific Coast's gloomy, drizzly winter.

For our first Sedona morning, we hiked to Devil's Bridge, a "moderate" trail known for some occasionally steep climbing. It was such a treat to cross that narrow stone walkway and survey the vivid colors of Sedona's panorama. In the afternoon we opted for a supposedly easy hike from Little Horse Trail to Chicken Point. Only problem: after circling the butte in rapidly fading sunlight, we discovered just how far away from our car we'd wandered. So we faced another two mile trudge - this one along the highway to our trailhead. And believe me, we felt every rise and fall of that danged road.

After all that hiking, I was actually kind of excited the next day just to drive south to Bisbee. First, though, Jenny wanted to experience a Sedona vortex. You've heard of these, right? Those famed convergences of masculine and feminine "energies" that have attracted artists and other mystics for years. Well, even through we didn't have much time to commune with nature, we found a perfect spot for some quick enlightenment: a formation near the local airport that also offers an amazing view of the surrounding region.

After inviting Jenny to join the "Ancient and Mystical Order of the Red Rock" (an informal cult I formed during my first visit to Sedona in 1997) we began the long drive south through Phoenix and Tucson, all the way toward the Mexican border. Our goal was Bisbee's Shady Dell Trailer Park. There, we stayed in a museum-quality midcentury "Tiki Bus," complete with Hawaiian music on the phonograph, 50s-era magazines on the table, and a tiki idol near the bathroom. We drove for hours just to enjoy this evening, and we savored every minute.

The next day found us heading west from Bisbee to Los Angeles - a nine hour slog (presuming no traffic). Depressed at the prospect of retracing so much of our journey, we detoured slightly to I-8, dipping toward San Diego. While we found some amazing pie at Black Cyn City's Rock Springs Cafe, we were also forced to stop at four border patrol check points along the way. Annoyed but determined, Jenny and I finally arrived at our final destination: Disneyland. Sure, we sometimes mock the kitschy excess of the "Happiest Place on Earth." But we just had to see Disney's winter transformation.

For Jenny that meant three visits to the Nightmare Before Christmas-ified Haunted Mansion. And I made sure that we endured a passage through "It's a Small World," which was equally decked out in relentless holiday cheer. With our pricy park-hopper passes, we collected fastpass tickets at both the Disneyland and California Adventure parks, bounding between rides and attractions from 8 a.m. to well past midnight. We celebrated the New Year with thousands of folks who'd gathered for the "World of Color" watershow at DCA before finally collapsing into bed at 2 a.m. The next day was all about the drive home. We were exhausted - but also ready for 2012.

(Photographs by Andrew and Jenny Wood, and a cool dude we met at Sedona)

Animated Neon Sign: Route 66 Supai Motel

2012-01-02T09:00:00.000-08:00

For my first post of the new year, I thought I'd share some homemade video from our recent Arizona-SoCal roadtrip: the Supai Motel in Seligman, Arizona!

Andy Looks Back on 2011

2011-12-31T06:53:00.000-08:00

Preparing to celebrate New Year's Eve with Jenny at Disneyland - and reflecting on 2011. Some highlights:

• Chilling in Yosemite (JAN)

• Thinking about theory (FEB)

• Wandering LaLaLand (MAR)

• Digging around Detroit (APR)

• Thanking Seal Team Six (MAY)

• Returning to China (JUNE)

• Touring in Europe (JULY)

• Geeking with Devo (AUG)

• Finding my Family (SEP)

• Creeping with Jenny (OCT)

• Grooving in NOLA (NOV)

• Finishing a documentary (DEC)

2011 Wood Family Holiday Newsletter

2011-12-23T09:15:00.000-08:00

Jenny, Vienna, and I hope that you enjoy our 2011 Holiday Newsletter.

Here's the link: http://www.sjsu.edu/faculty/wooda/holiday-newsletter-2011.pdf

And to Woodland Shoppers Paradise fans out there, I will return to my regular blogging schedule starting in 2012. Until then... happy holidays!

Tilt-shift Europe

2011-12-13T08:06:00.000-08:00

Following up on yesterday's post (tilt-shift Japan) here are some miniaturized versions of Europe!

Prague, Czech Republic

Salzburg, Austria

Athens, Greece

Budapest, Hungary

Paris, France

Paris, France (2)

Loch Ness, Scotland

(Photographs by Andrew Wood)

Tilt-shift Tokyo

2011-12-12T07:48:00.000-08:00

For no particular reason, here are some tilt-shift photos from my 2006 visit to Tokyo. I'm still working on my technique. I can't seem to get that proper balance of angle, detail, and processing. But I enjoy trying to produce these goofy effects as a sort of homage to my tiny-town fetish [the effect works best, by the way, if you click on the images for fuller view]. I'll post Tilt-Shift Europe tomorrow...

(Photographs by Andrew Wood)

Salzburg Global Seminar video

2011-12-06T08:43:00.000-08:00

After months of stressing about this project, I'm able to share a first draft of the Salzburg Global Seminar video [Click here for high-def link]. This is the "everything-but-the-kitchen-sink" version, an effort to tell the Salzburg story, focusing on history, purpose, culture, opportunities, and practicalities. After some minor script revisions and a little technical clean-up, future versions will be scaled to specific audiences: a short video for student applicants, a separate version for archival purposes, etc. I'll attend to those items in spring. For now, I'm just glad to have this part done!

Let me know what you think!

Europe 2011 - Wood Family Grand Tour

2011-12-05T10:00:00.000-08:00

Jenny and I have finally completed writing up our experiences from the 2011 European Grand Tour. Come with us for three weeks as we journey to Scotland, England, Germany, The Czech Republic, Hungary, Greece, Italy, and France. Visit highland castles, miniature villages, sun-kissed islands, red-light districts, leaning towers, cobblestone cafes, and a park where Communism lives on and on!

[Start Here]

Oh, and if you haven't seen the video yet, take a look!

Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade Drinking Game

2011-11-24T11:21:00.000-08:00

Watching the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade? Sorry about that. Here's one way to pass the time. Do a shot of, I dunno, "eggnog," every time you see the following:

• Broadway performance based on a movie you'd forgotten about years ago

• A floating balloon portraying a pop culture character you've never heard of

• Cheesy segue from weather report to some product, film, or television show

• Kid wearing a generic Christmas present-box costume

• Commercial for anything related to Black Friday

• Apple-faced high school marching band-kid drops an instrument

• Musical performance by someone who hasn't had a hit in over ten years

• Stilted interview with the star of new TV show (that won't last the season)

• Musical performance with obvious lip-synching

• Commercial repeats for tenth damned time [2011 ed.: Justin Bieber spot]

Bonus Ten

• Salute to the troops

• TV host who would rather be anywhere else but here

• Performer whose song stops when the float begins to move off-camera

• Reference to 70s-fashion, culture, or music

• Overhead view of marching band

• Earnest country singer extolling the lyrics of simple living

• Awkward reference to Native American traditions

• High-kicking [bonus if performers are not Rockettes]

• Nameless corporate hack waving from car (or on a float)

• Commercial aired for the twentieth damned time

Bonus Death-Match Play-rules

• Anytime someone says the word "Macy's"

• Anytime you're reminded of just how old you are

NCA 2011

2011-11-21T15:10:00.000-08:00

Funky NOLA

I'm back from the National Communication Association's annual conference in New Orleans - this after barely escaping an avelanch of projects all coming due at the same time. I'd just unveiled my Global Technology Initiative documentary on Wednesday night - and Thursday morning, I was waiting to catch an early flight to Louisiana when I really just wanted to be in bed. The trip turned out to be a tonic, though, a welcome respite from an epically, gloriously, insanely intense semester. I did the stuff I needed to do - responding to a group of swell papers on "regional rhetorics" and presenting my essay about teaching millennial students. I looked at new books, I chatted with far-flung colleagues, and I picked up some ideas for next year's classes and writing projects.

A night at Preservation Hall

I also took some time to catch up with a tight group of good friends from my Berry College days: Chip Hall, Randy Richardson, and Kathy Richardson. Rooming with Chip meant hours of delightful conversation about our families, our current adventures, and our mutual loves of music and movies. One night, we grooved to three sets of Leroy Jones at Preservation Hall; the next, we walked over three miles to catch The Shining at the Prytania (a midnight show that actually began at 12:45). Chip and I also enjoyed several delightful meals with Randy and Kathy, our professors back at Berry who continue to remind me how meaningful those years in northwest Georgia turned out to be. Hanging out with this crew was the best part of New Orleans.

L to R: Andrew Wood, Chip Hall, Randy Richardson, and Kathy Richardson

Along the way I also spent some time wandering Old Easy streets alone. I bought a cheap pipe for some equally cheap cherry tobacco, lounged awhile in the Old Absinthe House, and lingered on the side streets in search of a little stencil art. Listening to a busker belting out "House of the Rising Sun" on a street corner, I found my love for NOLA rekindled [I also made a few interesting friends - especially when folks saw my pipe and presumed I was smoking weed]. I never did grab a Sazerac or any of that decadent pecan pie for which I'd been pining, but I had a wonderful time, all the same.

Bourbon Street Reflection

(Photographs by Andrew Wood)

Global Technology Initiative Video

2011-11-17T07:46:00.000-08:00

Here it is - my documentary project for the SJSU College of Engineering Global Technology Initiative. This project is one reason why I've taken some time away from regular blogging. I hope you find the results to be worth the hiatus.

Halloween 2011 - Corpse Wedding

2011-11-02T13:23:00.001-07:00

This year's Halloween porch theme was a throwback to our first all-out family production: a corpse wedding. And with Vienna joining in, our show was a neighborhood hit!

Vienna was a beautifully eerie bridesmaid.

The "sinister" wasn't up to officiating.

Happy Halloween wishes from Scotts Valley!

The "Fright" and the "Goon" welcome the kids to our creepy wedding.

Previous Years

• 2010: Alien Autopsy II [Pix and Story] [Video]

• 2009: Zombie Apocalypse [Pix and Story] [Video]

• 2008: Dr. Freightmarestein's Haunted Laboratory of Horrors [Pix] [Video]

• 2007: Psycho Circus [Pix] [Video]

• 2006: Alien Autopsy I [Pix]

• 2005: Just Buried [Pix]

• 2004: Pirate Dungeon [Pix]

Brief Hiatus

2011-10-28T10:15:00.000-07:00

You may have noticed that Woodland Shoppers Paradise has not featured a new entry in many days, and that my posts have been relatively spotty this semester. And you, my friend, would be right! With two documentaries, seven new lectures (on topics ranging from Olaudah Equiano to Dream of the Red Chamber), a new grad course prep (a highlight of my year, actually), a student trip to Beijing to coordinate, a couple NCA essays to write, and all sorts of other work to complete, I've had to hold off on blogging these past few weeks.

Comparing the 2011 workload to previous years - and I'm remembering back when I was completing my dissertation - this is the most demanding year I've ever had. Yeah, I'm complaining a bit. But I'm counting my blessings too. I've got a job, some friends, and a family who loves me (or at least tolerates me). And I'm writing some pretty fun stuff [Yeah, I still write every day, just not on the blog!]. Moreover, I look around and I see the same shellshocked look in the faces of others. Folks on the bus, students in the hall, people queuing at the market. Lots of people are stressed and tired. At least I'm not alone! [Plus, I do have that sabbatical to anticipate, so, really, I can't complain.]

I estimate that I'll resurface sometime after ~~Thanksgiving~~ the new year. And I still plan to complete my blog posts for the previous China and Europe trips. Soon!

After Power

2011-10-18T05:33:00.000-07:00

Drudge plucked another doom and gloom article from the Financial Times to highlight the depths of despair that is our due for having the audacity to hope that President Obama was the real deal. Generally I ignore these red flags, especially since the American Right appears to be dead set on taking Obama down. Even so, Gideon Rachman's essay makes the depressingly credible argument that our nation will inevitably be required to seed dominance to China, adding, "Those who refuse to entertain any discussion of decline actually risk accelerating the process." No matter who wins the 2012 elections, we all should prepare to lose our "We're Number One" attitude.

The article offers a reasonable enough parallel between our decline and that of Great Britain after the Second World War, adding, however, that our approaches toward also-ran status couldn't be more distinct. While Britain faced the loss of empire with a certain magnanimity, the U.S. is far too invested in its "American Exceptionalism" identity to recognize the passing of power. Some among us, for instance, respond to the Rising China thesis with a smug reminder of our 1980s near-capitulation to Rising Japan. It's a fair point. Remember when Japan Inc was buying America from under our feet? Doesn't it seem strange to recall? I mean, really, when's the last time you heard someone say that we all must learn Japanese to stay competitive?

Still, as Rachman rightly points out, China's got tough numbers to beat. They're awash in money, they've got an increasingly potent military force, and they've got workers, workers, workers. They face their share of structural and fiscal problems too. We mustn't forget that. And all of us, the U.S., the Europeans, the Chinese - the whole world - we all confront an economic contagion that threatens to make the 2008 crisis seem positively healthy in comparison. The Occupy Wall Street protestors, for all their goofy eclecticism, seem to know this better than most. Something has deflated in the American psyche. A privileged few will ensure the continuation of their personal pleasures. The rest of us will pay the price. China is part of that new future. But they are hardly its author.

Read the piece: America must manage its decline

Memorizing the Preamble

2011-10-17T10:16:00.000-07:00

I'm presenting an Honors Humanities lecture on the U.S. Constitution tomorrow and, for no particular reason, I've committed to memorizing the Preamble. As most of my pals know, memory is one of my weakest public speaking skills. Indeed, I spent a couple hours on a recent evening working through various mnemonic techniques - just to wrap my brain around that danged Fifth Amendment [so many "nors"!]. So far, the classic approach seems to work best for me: storing bits of information in "places" that form a logical narrative. Still, for those folks who are more musically inclined, there is at least one other way to learn that danged Preamble…

Florence Street Art: Part 2 or 2

2011-10-11T08:50:00.000-07:00

Here's some more goofily arresting Florence street art. Missed yesterday's helping? It's only one click away.

Florence Street Art: Part 1 of 2

2011-10-10T08:47:00.000-07:00

It's time once more to share some street art from our recent European travels. Our destination? Florence, Italy - and reminder that economic and social pressures are bringing this place to the boiling point.

Urban Wandering

2011-10-07T11:18:00.000-07:00

If you want to see a picture of the 21st century, stand along the Shanghai Bund and stare across the Huangpu River. A brash panorama of jaunting skyscrapers that somehow resemble children’s toys, Shanghai’s Pudong district is a remarkable vision of things to come. I’d come here before, back in 2010, to attend the Shanghai World’s Fair. Back then, I was traveling with my wife, enjoying the pleasures of spontaneous decisions to ramble and explore wherever our instincts led. The 2011 GTI study tour was much more complex, but no less fulfilling.

The ostensive purpose of my visit this year was to gather footage for a documentary about the Global Technology Initiative. Yet I also served as co-leader, along with Richard Chung, helping ensure that 23 undergraduate students could get to know China personally, safely, and meaningfully. I may have thought I’d be focusing solely on a video project, but there was no way I would focus on my camera viewfinder alone. There was just too much to see and do in Beijing, Shanghai, Hangzhou, Taipei, and other destinations on our itinerary. Averaging about four hours of sleep a night, I sometimes felt like I would age a year from this trip, but I look back on GTI 2011 as well worth the sweat, hassle, and occasional unexpected adventure.

Traveling with so many people, I felt a special understanding for Beijing traffic. I remember vividly the dense and complex roads of China’s capital city. But it’s one thing to read about the effects of automobiles on a strained grid where bicycles once held sway. It’s something else entirely to join the crowd. I can think of few other venues to encounter contemporary China's post-Revolutionary "Get moving – but not too fast" spirit than a Beijing traffic jam.

I also remember walking the streets of Shanghai with GTI students, experiencing anew the bumpy realities of a nation where so many people are charting new courses without maps. One night we were heading for the subway, passing through some of Nanjing Road's funkier side streets. It seemed that we were constantly split across three intersections. Eventually we agreed on a "sticky rice" strategy to stay together. We wanted to catch that last train.

We rushed to beat the closing door and, before long, were exiting somewhere near our hotel. Problem was, the building’s marquee was lost among the clouds. A guy on a motorcycle pointed at a narrow alley nearby offered his advice, and we plunged into a neon-lit corridor of mahjong games, hair salons, and all-night veggie shops, producing our own jagged map of awkward turns and confident strides. Once we arrived at our hotel, I remember the smiles of students who loved our adventure of urban wandering. “Let’s do that again!”

That’s my vision of China too. The nation’s urban planners are building stunning vistas and awesome panoramas. Our students saw some of the blueprints and chatted with those visionary engineers of the 21st century. GTI participants grew from the visit, and so did I. Yet my favorite moments were closer to the ground, grinding through Beijing traffic and wandering Shanghai’s crowded streets at night. Sometimes we got lost, and sometimes we were unsure. But we were always ready for the surprises awaiting us. I can’t wait to go back.

(Photographs by Andrew Wood)

Origami Urbanism Update: OnStar

2011-09-30T09:29:00.000-07:00

I recently received word that my essay manuscript, "Origami Urbanism Amid the Flat City: An Omnitopian Analysis of Commercials Depicting Mutability in Urban Life," has been tentatively accepted for inclusion in the forthcoming Urban Communication Reader III: Communicative Cities and Urban Communication in the 21st Century.

Naturally I'll have some editing to complete before whipping the piece into final shape, but it's nice to pass this part along the journey. I've been working on variations of this essay for a few years now, always keeping an eye on various media for examples of Origami Urbanism. So it was a special treat to spot this OnStar ad earlier this month.

[Oh, and thank goodness for Inception. While my writing on this topic predates that flick, seeing Christopher Nolan's vision of cities that fold into themselves like carpets inspired confidence that this piece is worth pursuing!]

Salzburg and Beijing 2012

2011-09-26T09:16:00.000-07:00

As you may know, I'm leading two student tours overseas this summer. The first one is a return to the Salzburg Seminar's International Study Program (May 30 through June 6). I attended ISP faculty meetings in 2010 and 2011 - the second trip to gather video for a forthcoming documentary about the program - but I've never gone with the students. I know it'll be an amazing experience.

Later that month I'll depart again, this time taking students to Beijing for a three week faculty-led program (June 18 through July 10). This one is a four-unit course that concentrates on the intersection of tourism, modernity, and urban life in China. To help pitch that program, I edited some footage shot by Aaron Correll to create a "commercial" for the class. Check it out!

Castle Dunnottar

2011-09-23T08:41:00.000-07:00

As we're sl-oo-wly finishing our our Europe 2011 blog, I thought I'd share a clip from our visit to Castle Dunnottar. The calls of seagulls, the whipping wind, the pounding surf... a quiet moment among ruins.

The Waffle House Index

2011-09-21T09:50:00.000-07:00

Forgive the slightly old news, but I had to share this Wall Street Journal article about the "Waffle House Index." As you may recall, I made a road trip pilgrimage to the nearest Waffle House I could find - in Phoenix, Arizona - back in 09. So you can imagine my fascination with FEMA's unofficial use of Waffle House as an indicator disaster status.

"Green means the restaurant is serving a full menu, a signal that damage in an area is limited and the lights are on. Yellow means a limited menu, indicating power from a generator, at best, and low food supplies. Red means the restaurant is closed, a sign of severe damage in the area or unsafe conditions."

These folks are among the country's most dependable businesses at restarting after a disaster. Putting it another way, if your local Waffle House is closed, you know the weather is bad.

Read the entire article: How to Measure a Storm's Fury One Breakfast at a Time

Shameless Media Plug: Contra Costa Times

2011-09-19T08:59:00.000-07:00

Recently I was quoted in a Contra Costa Times article about crowdsourcing businesses that are leveraging the slow economy by paying people to take pictures of public places.

This trend reflects a clever use of increasingly ubiquitous digital cameras - adding detail to Bing results, TomTom directions, and other databases.

My quote is brief - edited as usual (and commonly necessary in my case):

"Crowdsourcing apps that can transform free time into currency and connections offer a smart response to today's economic doldrums," Andrew Wood, a professor of communication studies at San Jose State, said in an email."

Read the entire piece, which offers a useful example of the emerging Gig Economy: New apps help people make money with their phones.

Athens Street Art: Part 3 of 3

2011-09-15T08:00:00.000-07:00

One final day of Athens street art - this time focusing on works that depict feminized (or feminist) imagery. [Oh, and don't forget to check out Part 1 and Part 2.]

Quoting from their website:
"T2B is an independent international film festival
that focuses on public art forms"

Athens Street Art: Part 2 of 3

2011-09-14T09:00:00.000-07:00

Presented with a minimum of comment, here are some more images of Athens street art. [Part Three is coming tomorrow. Missed yesterday's? Take a look!]

Define - Demilitarize - Deny

Athens Street Art: Part 1 of 3

2011-09-13T08:30:00.000-07:00

It's time for some more street art from our European Grand Tour. Today we're viewing some of the most memorable pieces Jenny and I saw during our time in Athens. Take a look at these images and you'll see signs of a nation in crisis, yes, but you'll also see people using art to convey their struggles, communicating with passion and pathos.

Becoming a Frazier

2011-09-12T10:44:00.000-07:00

I recently had the opportunity to clear a dense patch of brush hiding my grandfather's grave. He's buried in West Virginia, we live in California, and I've wanted to pay my respects for a long time. Problem is, I heard that his gravesite was covered by a thicket of weeds. One genealogist even reported that the marker was inaccessible. I couldn't believe it. Preston Allen Frazier died less that four decades ago, and his grave had been lost already? I had to see this for myself. So I conducted some research and found him. Along the way, I began learning about a family history that initially stretches back ten generations at first before diving much deeper into the past.

While my last name is Wood, I was raised a Frazier and taught from my earliest years to see Scotland as my ancestral home. I remember my mom telling stories of isolated hamlets on storm-racked coasts, illustrating how members of our family learned self-reliance on those rocky shores. I guess that's one reason why Mom had me read books like My Side of the Mountain and From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler, stories of young people facing grownup dangers on their own. Mom also insisted that I read Emerson and Thoreau, but it would take years for me to follow her advice.

Image borrowed from http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Clan_Fraser

Mom raised me in Dunedin, Florida, a community that defined itself as a sort of Scottish enclave. I remember seasonal Highland games, and I grew to love the sound of local high schoolers practicing bagpipes in the afternoons. Once, when I was assigned an elementary school assignment to talk about my family history, Mom showed me a picture of a belt and buckle surrounding a buck's head. Upon the belt was a motto that she had to translate for me: Je Suis Prest, which means "I am ready." Pretty cool, I thought, but confusing too: a Scottish family with a French motto, and my grandfather hailed from West Virginia? I had some research to do.

Turns out, the Fraziers trace their roots to an older clan called Fraser, which, according to standard histories, first rose to prominence in the French provinces of Anjou and Normandy (hence the French motto). Some historians tell of Frasers crossing over to England in 1066 as allies of William the Conqueror. Others place them in Scotland about a hundred years later. Either way, the family thrived in their new home, first in the south and later in the highlands.

Over the centuries the Frasers played key roles in Scotland's many political and religious dramas, expanding their influence and building castles that stand to this day. By the seventeenth century, through, widespread poverty in Scotland forced some Frasers to head out in search of better lives. Many fled to King James' plantations in Northern Ireland, only to encounter ruinous rents and religious intolerance. A few, including followers of Protestant Reformer John Knox, pushed further west to America. Around this time, some changed their names to Frazier to denote their Scots-Irish roots (though naming conventions were relatively unfixed back then).

My Aunt Linda tells me that our first American family member was a fellow named Joseph Frazier. Born in 1661, Joseph departed Northern Ireland (his birthplace) between 1720 and 1730. A relatively old man by this time, Joseph brought his wife (Elinor Frazier, née Ewing) and children to America in search of religious freedom in Pennsylvania. They arrived in Philadelphia and settled 70 miles away in Lancaster. The first American Fraziers are buried at Chestnut Level Presbyterian Church. One of their sons who crossed the Atlantic with them, John (born in 1717, though some say 1712), would later marry Isabella Moody (sister of Robert Moody) and purchase a homestead in Virginia's Shenandoah Valley. There, the Fraziers and the Moodys helped found the Tinkling Springs Presbyterian church.

At this point, the history gets a bit murky. Did one generation pass, or two? Regardless of the answer, there is no doubt that one of Joseph and Elinor's descendants, Samuel Craig Frazier (b. 1765 - most likely a great-grandson) settled further inland, traveled down the Kanawha River with three of his sons, and took up farming near Point Pleasant, West Virginia, on the Ohio River. Samuel, whose ancestors supposedly fought with William the Conqueror and toiled for King James, is my great-great-great-great-great grandfather, and he's buried in a place called Fraziers Bottom.

My grandfather was born in 1914, not too far from where Samuel is buried. Preston Allen Frazier was raised in a town called Scott Depot, where he was expected to follow family tradition and become a farmer. He tried his hand raising watermelons one summer in his late teens. He rented land from his father and got credit at the local feed store to purchase seeds. He had two mules and a plow, and he worked that land all summer. The result for all those troubles? $20. Preston decided that farming life was not for him and focused his attentions to schoolwork. He graduated at the top of his high school class and began looking forward to college. He knew that the world beyond tiny Scott Depot would make room for someone with ambition and smarts. Yet when he asked his folks to help him pay for college (as they had for his sisters) he was turned down. Preston surveyed his options and chose the one that would take him farthest away from West Virginia: He joined the Navy.

Preston excelled in the service, rising quickly through the ranks to become the youngest petty officer of that era, just as the United States was gearing up for war. Linda describes the day that Preston was at sea on neutrality patrol. He was set to go on vacation when the Japanese struck Pearl Harbor. On the other side of the world, in the middle of the Atlantic ocean, Preston walked to the fantail of his ship and shredded his leave papers. No one would be taking vacations for a while. My grandfather served four years, sending money home to support his mother (though she saved it for her son, refusing to spend it on herself). After completing his hitch, Preston traveled home - and found a telegram on the table. He didn't have to read past the cheerful "Greetings" to know what happened. The army had drafted him. So he kissed his mother goodbye and headed to Norfolk where he waited ("they hid him out," Linda recalls) until his reenlistment paperwork got squared away. If Preston was going to stay in the fight, he was going to serve as a sailer.

My grandfather served throughout World War II and stayed on through Korea. After his Navy years, Preston studied to be an electrical engineer but left school early. Seeking opportunities in New Jersey and Florida, he settled his family in the Sunshine State and found work as an electronics technician at Sperry. Caught up in the postwar housing boom, he and his wife (Charlene Frazier, née Faught) bought a ranch house in Dunedin and began to raise two girls: Sandra, my mother, and Linda, my aunt. Preston Allen Frazier carried a steel lunchpail every weekday until 1976 when he died of a heart attack - just one day before he was set to retire. He was 61. Mom and I were living with my grandparents back then, so his death struck me as a personal blow.

The Fraziers aren't especially prone to sentimentality, but Granddady's death was a family crisis. Linda stayed awhile and helped us cope. But after a while we just drifted apart. Mom and I eventually found a place of our own, and Linda returned to her home in northern Florida. Nana soldiered on for years, and then one day she was gone. With no direct male relatives, the Preston Allen Frazier line ended. I've adopted the name, but my choice is, perhaps, little more than an affectation [Heck, I was born with "Franklin" as my middle name; my mother simply raised me to use "Frazier" after divorcing my dad]. Still, I figured I should at least see my grandfather's last resting place. You can imagine my distress at learning that his gravesite was lost. It was time to plan a road trip and sort some things out.

Coming Soon[ish]: Part II: West Virginia Digging

[NOTE: I am indebted to Linda Frazier for her painstaking genealogical work on behalf of our family. Much of the history presented here comes directly from her emails to me. In sharing this information I hope to further promulgate what I have learned and inspire future conversations about Preston Allen Frazier's family line. Yet I can add little to what she discovered and passed on; none of this material would exist without her work.]

Roy Neary Was an Alien!

2011-09-09T15:35:00.000-07:00

One of the great things about watching a beloved movie on the big screen is the chance to catch tiny details you might have missed. A bit of toss-off dialogue here, a hidden piece of obscure scenery there, a chance to read the story with a tiny bit more precision. It's geeky fun. And that's all I anticipated last night in Santa Cruz when Jenny and I saw Close Encounters of the Third Kind in a movie theater for the first time in two years. I've seen this flick over 200 times, so didn't expect too many surprises. I certainly never thought I'd see an entirely new ending. But that's what happened.

CE3K is my favorite movie of all time. Sure, there are technically better movies - plenty of them. Still, only one movie lit up my nine-year old imagination like Close Encounters. Even Star Wars seems to shrink in comparison (at least now). Steven Spielberg's depiction of ordinary people encountering extraordinary circumstances struck a more profound chord in me than George Lucas's blaster-happy space fantasy. Watching CE3K's slow-zoom moments of grownups looking heavenward, terrified and wondrously awestruck - those moments dug deeper in me than the rumble of a hundred Star Destroyers.

So we're watching the show in Santa Cruz last night, just like we did a couple years back, and I'm focusing on those tiny details that only a large canvas can reveal [Spoiler Alert, blah, blah, Spoiler Alert]. For example, did you ever see a guy rolling around the Project Mayflower landing site in a motorized wheelchair? Or have you noticed the peculiar way Ronnie cocks her head - just a microburst of disdain - when Roy makes his Mashed Potato Pronouncement? [Check out Jenny's version!] Yeah this flick feeds my inner geek.

OK, If you've read this far, you probably dig Close Encounters too. I therefore hope you won't mind a bit more background before I get to the point of this post. As you likely know, Steven Spielberg has fiddled with CE3K regularly since releasing the flick in late '77. Studio pressures to rush production forced him cut corners, and the results disappointed him. Some of film's original effects were sloppy, and the pacing didn't feel right. Version 1.0 contained scenes that Spielberg thought to be extraneous. And it failed to convey the international breadth of the aliens' message. Even so, the movie made buckets of money. So Spielberg pestered Columbia Pictures for some of that cash to buff out his movie's rough edges. And they agreed.

They agreed, that is, with one important proviso. Columbia Pictures promised to finance Version 1.5 - as long as Spielberg would take the audience inside the Mothership. He did, and CE3K fans have debated the decision ever since. In the intervening years, Spielberg has disavowed his "Special Edition" ending, and subsequent versions have relegated the Mothership-as-Las-Vegas finale to the scrapheap of "additional scenes." But as far as I'm concerned, the 1980 version makes it clear that Roy Neary was an alien. He didn't search for aliens. He didn't become an alien. He was an alien all along.

To understand why, let's go back to that infamous Special Edition conclusion. Roy is walking alone into the ship. He's sporting those sexy seventies-sideburns and some gnarly beard scraggle. The spaceship's interior seems weirdly sterile, though, like a corporate disco. It's now 1980 and Steven Spielberg is giving the suits at Columbia Pictures what they want. Anyway, Roy is looking around, taking it all in. Then he stares upward into the fiery neon chandelier of that vast floating city. Above him, tiny aliens twitter and gawk. He's welcome; he's been expected. Suddenly a shower of pixie dust pours upon him. [Yeah, if you've read this far without seeing CE3K, there's no other way to describe it. Roy Neary is covered with pixie dust]. The scene then cuts back to original footage. A third kind of alien exits the ship. It's not one of the childlike rubber-skin moppets we saw a few minutes earlier, and it's not that creepy spindly thing that announced the visitors' greeting. It's something new. As many folks have wondered, maybe the aliens transformed the human Roy Neary into an extraterrestrial. So, in that way, Roy could now be one of "them."

Maybe. But I'd prefer to take this thesis one step further.

I think that the 1980 version of CE3K indicates that Roy Neary was an alien all along. How could that be? Well, first, we know that the visitors have been messing with humans for decades. They've kidnapped some people and implanted visions in others. Their reasons remain inscrutable, but their methods suggest tremendous power. I mean, heck, they can float a huge oil refinery-type vessel low over Devil's Tower, flip the thing over, and not scratch a single lightbulb on the tarmac. As one dude intones, "They can fly rings around the moon" [though we've got 'em beat on the highway]. Regardless, it's clear that they can levitate objects ["Non-ballistic motion" is a technical term used by one character]. I'll bet they can mutate objects. And people? Sure, they can do that too. I mean, come on, they're aliens!

The way I see it, the visitors planted Roy onto Earth - maybe in 1944 [the year he says he was born] or some time afterward. Then, and this is important, they implanted human memories so that he would think he's an earthling. Now, you know they have that kind of technology because these dudes implant visions into people all the time. Remember how they use that process to convince dozens of folks, maybe hundreds, to make the dangerous journey to Devil's Tower? Typical interpretations of CE3K have us believe that aliens are implanting that same vision in Roy when his truck conks out at the railroad crossing. But I believe that the operation serves a different purpose. This encounter is designed to wake Neary up.

You see, Roy was planted on Earth, complete with "human" feelings and fears, to learn about us. He's a sleeper agent. When visitors read his mind, they can learn more about us than any probe could convey. Perhaps the aliens see their actions as part of a "foreign exchange program," a predecessor to when they announce themselves to technologically inferior civilizations. Thus when Roy encounters aliens at the railroad track, his fear is real. He has no idea that he is one of them. At that moment, a message is implanted in his mind. For other contactees, the message is, "Come to Devil's Tower." For Roy, the message is different. It says, "Come home."

Think about it. Roy Neary has always felt lost on Earth, especially when confronting adult responsibilities. He's done his best to follow the rules; he's got a job and a family. He pays his mortgage and has a hobby (model railroading, a signifier of travel and freedom). Still, the "real world" has always felt fake to him. That's one reason why he's drawn to Pinocchio. He wants to become a boy in order to become "real." That's why Roy relates so easily with Barry Guiler (the little boy whom the aliens abduct). While others try to manage and control their encounters with the visitors, Roy and Barry simply want to get close to them.

Compare this response to some other reactions to seeing the aliens at the landing site. Barry's mother looks for a while but then grabs a camera. Snapping picture after picture, she detaches herself from the scene, just like those scientists who barely look at the awesome spectacle unfolding around them. They too reach for technological distance. Meanwhile, standing nearby, Barry just stares and stares. Roy does too. Eventually, the others will come to understand what Barry and Roy know, that this is a moment which transcends science. It is, to quote François Truffaut's Claude Lacombe, "an event sociological," one best experienced as music, as play. Lacombe eventually admits that he envies Neary. A leader of an international group searching for evidence of alien visitation, Lacombe is the scientist who seeks a childhood fantasy - a reflection of Spielberg's next great alien fantasy, E.T. He is stymied by words and resorts to music and hand-signals. Yet he can only grasp so much. For Barry and Roy, such wisdom is child's play.

Oh, and we must consider the aliens themselves, especially those silly looking tiny gray ones that spill out of the ship once the other abductees are released. Not only were those creatures played by children, I believe that they are children. Or, more to the point of Spielberg's vision, they retain a childlike sense of wonder that attract Barry and Roy (and, to a lesser extent, Lacombe). The visitors possess ancient and frightening powers. But (as Barry explains in the novel) "they play nice."

Now we return to the Special Edition's finale, when the pixie dust begins to fall. For years I've wondered what that stuff was meant to represent. Was it some sort of bio-mechanical magic that helps humans survive the stresses of interstellar flight? Were the abductees coated with the same stuff, only to be re-humanized upon their return? Maybe. But the presence of that third alien-type - not quite the ancient-looking "greeter," not quite the childish-looking "grays" - tells me that Roy has been literally transformed. Maybe he's a hybrid. Or maybe he's a unique alien-type who is capable of such inter-species communication. I'll leave that sort of analysis to the truly obsessive CE3K-ophiles. As for me, I think that Neary has been returned to his old alien self. He is now going home.

I hope my hypothesis offers some insight into what Steven Spielberg was up to in 1980. In particular, this explanation responds to critics who couldn't abide the thought of a father abandoning his family to go play with aliens. Spielberg has often said that Close Encounters of the Third Kind dates him as a director, perhaps more than any other movie he's made. It signifies his younger, less mature self. After having children, Spielberg says, he could never again promote such selfishness. The Neary-As-Alien thesis represents a sort of half-step response to his guilt. I mean this guy chose Pinocchio's "When You Wish Upon A Star" to accompany scenes of a father ditching his wife and kids! It's a pretty lousy thing to do, actually. I'm a middle-aged guy, and I understand that now. I'd never flee my family to fly with ET.

But what if Roy was an alien? How guilty would he be then?

MC Frontalot in Santa Cruz

2011-09-08T10:12:00.000-07:00

Jenny and I saw MC Frontalot perform last night at the Crepe Place in Santa Cruz. It's an odd venue, admittedly, but plenty of nerdcore aficionados packed themselves into the restaurant bar for a standing-room only show that featured two opening acts. Gnarboots unleashed a Dead Kennedys-like punk vibe, especially when singer AdamD plunged into the crowd to belt furiously fun tunes. Brandon Patton followed up with a zesty goulash of indie, folk, and Irish yell-alongs. (My favorite: "Mixed-Up Modern Family"; Jenny's least favorite: "Ketchup and Mayo" - say no more). Turns out, Brandon is otherwise known as BL4k Lotus: bass guitarist for the evening's main act.

McFrontalot bounded onto the floor with spastic, geeky abandon. Clip-on reading light, Office Space "I hate my job" white button-down, and spectacles that only a Princess Leia impersonator could love: Front brought the whole package. His performance was crisp, jazzed, and tightly-paced, offering the rowdy crowd a great set of oldies and new stuff from five albums. Before things got kicked off, I asked if he might sing "Tongue-clucking Grammarian" (I've got some papers to grade). Would you believe it? He opened the show with it! I guess every geek gets lucky once in a while.

(Video and Photographs by Andrew Wood - music and performance, of course, belong to MC Frontalot)

Prague Street Art

2011-09-06T08:30:00.000-07:00

How to describe the street art we saw in Prague? Put it this way: Prague's got a Franz Kafka museum that features two men pissing phrases into a fountain; send a text and you can watch the words dissolve in the water. The world's got plenty of pissing statues, I guess, but how many allow you to control the flow via text message? Prague is clearly a place where absurdity rises to the level of art. That's why I love the stencil-work we saw here.

One must-see stop: a wall dedicated to John Lennon where local students (and a few tourists able to find a can of spray paint) regularly cover and recover the surface with phrases, lyrics, and bits of doggerel. Walking along the Charles Bridge to find the wall, you may spot a souvenir stand selling framed photos of especially iconic work. Keep your money. Bring your camera and take your own shots. That's part of the pleasure of this kind of hunt: its ephemerality. Come back tomorrow, and you'll surely see something new.

Stenciling Sturgeon Along the Danube

2011-09-05T09:00:00.000-07:00

While visiting Budapest this past summer, Jenny and I met a small group of folks spray painting sturgeon upon the walkway near the Danube. I wanted to watch from a distance, not being sure how to explain my interests in street art, but Jenny insisted that I introduce myself. We spent so much time photographing graffiti over the past few days that it'd be a shame to pass up an opportunity to talk with an artist of this shadowy genre.

The folks I met were really cool about allowing me to shoot video, explaining their actions as part of a broader campaign called the Danube Study Path. The effort seeks to inspire interest in the river's changing social and natural ecosystem. I guess the idea here is that you see a sturgeon on the sidewalk and wonder why you rarely see them in the water.

I'm not entirely sure whether spray-painting sturgeon will produce any results (or whether this was a "sanctioned" part of the Study Path), but I appreciated the artists' friendly tolerance of a stranger shooting video. Oh, and given the weird lighting conditions and my choice to use a relatively cheap camera, don't be surprised that the footage suffers from excess noise. Social activism isn't always pretty.

Friday Fun Post: "Honey, your coffee just doesn't TASTE any good"

2011-09-02T11:33:00.000-07:00

Thanks to YouTuber shaunclayton for producing this sad-creepy-funny look at 50s and 60s-era depictions of family life ruined by "criminal coffee."

2012 China Tour

2011-09-01T09:12:00.000-07:00

So excited! The SJSU Communication Studies department is moving forward with a summer study tour in China. Here's the pitch...

Visit Beijing and earn four upper division units in communication studies!

This summer (June 18 to July 10), Dr. Andrew Wood is leading an intercultural communication study abroad program to China, with a special emphasis on tourism, modernity, and urban life.

Students will stay at Communication University of China, which provides comfortable dormitory housing, low-cost meals, and easy access to the sights of Beijing. Classes focus on conversation and real-life exploration, and you will have lots of free time. That means opportunities to climb the Great Wall, wander the Forbidden City, experience the Peking Opera, and more.

Pricing (excluding airfare and visa fees) is about $2,500, which covers housing, course fees, food, and several local tours. Cost for airfare and visa fees is an additional $1,500. The course meets COMM 161F requirements, but course substitutions can be made if you've already taken that class. If you're a communication major, you should apply for this terrific opportunity.

Want to learn more?

* Step One: Contact the course instructor: Andrew.Wood@sjsu.edu

* Step Two: Attend an orientation meeting. Choose either Wednesday, September 28th (12 to 1 p.m.) or Thursday, September 29th (12 to 1 p.m.).

Innsbruck, Austria Street Art - Part 3

2011-08-30T16:55:00.000-07:00

I'm gonna wrap up my blog-series of Innsbruck [Here's Part 1 and Part 2], Austria street art with a potpourri of images that, while lacking a common theme, reflect some of my own aesthetic sensibilities (which admittedly verge toward the absurd). Consider this stenciled kitty playing near the cracks of a sidewalk. Who put it here, and why? Is there a message, or does it simply project the pleasure of placing a soft, cuddly animal in a gritty urban setting? As far as I can tell, much of this stuff seeks to inspire opened-ended questions like these (though beer and boredom no doubt play a role).

I'm no tough guy, and I don't purposely plunge into places where I'm not wanted. At the same time, any seasoned street-art hunter knows that you've sometimes got to skulk along some decidedly unfriendly districts to find stuff that matters. There is, after all, a palpable sense of disenfranchisement that motivates a sprayer's choice to seize property in this manner. That's why I found myself walking alongside an elevated train track while visiting Innsbruck one quiet Sunday morning. All that dismal stone stretching underneath: prime territory for tags, stencils, and the occasionally goofy juxtaposition of a sexually charged advertisement amid a dank enclosure.

Stenciling is the art of repetition, of course. Thus I can rarely travel long during one of my street art searches without spying some version of Banksy's Flower Thrower. This guy is everywhere, an ever-present sign of peaceful revolt transformed into a sort of stuttering shorthand of hip fashion - kind of like those Che portraits you see on t-shirts and the walls of college dorms. That's why I had to smile when I spotted a miniature version sprayed underneath an imposing sign of Innsbruck culture [my rusty Google-Fu translates the plaque into a commemoration for a male choir]. Something about the contest of size and the comparative simplicity of the illegal icon speaks to me.

Let me conclude my Innsbruck series with another motif that captures my attention: spray can mockery of video cameras. These devices are, as you'd imagine, increasingly ubiquitous, constant reminders of our post 9/11 surveillance society. They also signify the inescapable feeling that all public property is somehow privatized. That's one message that many of today's stencil-slingers send, that our shared commons have been supplanted by a simulacrum of public life, a fake agora. These spaces, seemingly open, are closed off to folks who cannot consume them properly; they must be protected against those who would contest their faceless authors. The videocamera is the sleepless sentinel who earns rebuke from the masked tagger. As ever, though, the question remains: does defacing a place reveal anything useful? Or does it merely substitute one injustice for another?

We Were Devo

2011-08-29T10:18:00.000-07:00

Jenny and I geeked out this past Saturday, driving over the hill to Saratoga's Mountain Winery to see Devo. Just last year, the guys in yellow plastic dropped their first album in a decade: "Something for Everybody," a time-capsule of tunes that manage to blur retro vibes and contemporary angst. The band endured the talkshow circuit and released a couple videos - eg., Don't Shoot (I'm a Man) and Fresh [warning: semi-crappy quality on that latter clip] - but Devo failed to attract the fleeting attention of today's texting-generation. No matter. Jenny and I were thrilled to see a band that's rocked our roadtrip playlist since we were kids.

The crowd skewed fortyish (and upward): lots of silver ponytails, SUVs crowding the parking lot, and one scraggly looking dude reading a paperback copy of Dune as the seats began to fill. Not everyone was waiting for their AARP invitations to arrive, though. Jenny and I giggled at the sight of a twentysomething quartet sporting plastic uniforms and matching garrison caps. They marched in fascistic consumer dystopian glee, and we just had to giggle. Oh, and the souvenir shack was doing brisk business in $35 "energy dome" hats. [I settled for a $25 t-shirt and a $10 beer]. We yawned through opening act DJ Real (think Adam Sandberg, but less funny), chilling as yellow lights began to twinkle over the surrounding countryside. And then, there they were.

Now let's get ourselves situated. Two of Devo's founding members - Mark Mothersbaugh and Gerald Casale - are 61 and 63 consecutively. 61 and 63 years old! So you gotta give props to these guys. The band tore through the new stuff with twitchy abandon, popping the tunes open like newly unearthed fallout shelters. The lyrics are fresh but the vibe is classic. Then they played through a catalog of hits, changing costumes every twenty minutes or so. In less than two hours the band dialed the crowd backward from the post-ironic oughts to the pre-Reagan seventies. Not every seat was sold, but no one was sitting for this show. We danced the entire time. And while Jenny and I didn't splurge on center-row tickets, we were perfectly positioned for the highlight of our night: Mark Mothersbaugh careening into our section, jerking pom poms like a spastic spudboy. There were no encores but, heck, the entire show was an encore. We loved it.

(Photographs by Andrew Wood)

Chatbots Talk God, Past Each Other

2011-08-29T08:52:00.001-07:00

Please tell me this wasn't staged...

Innsbruck, Austria Street Art - Part 2

2011-08-25T09:00:00.000-07:00

Following up on yesterday's post, here's some more Innsbruck, Austria street art.

"Our Rise is Your Fall"

"Don't You Want Somebody to Love"

A line from Rumpelstiltskin ("No one knows my little game")

Innsbruck, Austria Street Art - Part 1

2011-08-24T15:19:00.000-07:00

During my recent trip to Austria, collecting footage for my forthcoming Salzburg Global Seminar video project, I took a side-visit to Innsbruck. I had no specific agenda for that stop; I just thought it'd be nice to spend a couple days on my own, seeing someplace new. One surprising highlight: the amount of street-art sprayed upon public (and private) spaces. While recent media attention has understandably focused on the upheavals in Greece, it's clear that a sizable contingent of Austrian youth feel disenfranchised and angry; you merely need to read the signs they plaster, stencil, and paint. Of course I found a similar concentration of street art in Vienna during my visit last year, so I guess I shouldn't have been too surprised. Austria is feeling the same pressure that's sweeping through the world. Here's a sample, with more to come:

Anti-fascist Action

"Double-cross the slumlords"

Mordechai Vanunu: a technician who revealed secrets
about Israel's nuclear weapons program

Kafka Museum Peeing Statues

2011-08-23T14:43:00.000-07:00

This video from our 2011 European Grand Tour offers, at least, the virtue of literal truth. They're statues, they're at Prague's Franz Kafka Museum, and they're peeing. Supposedly the streams form phrases from famous local residents. Better yet, I'm told that you can text a message and watch them pee something for you. And to think we learned about the interactive nature of David Cerny's installation after we returned to the States.

One More Down...

2011-08-22T11:43:00.000-07:00

One more dictator teeters on the edge of oblivion. Moammar Gadhafi has always been a strange, unsettling, and lifelong part of my worldview. He took power in Libya in 1969 and later invented a name for his country that would be the odd delight of Model United Nations-geeks for years thereafter: the Great Socialist People's Libyan Arab Jamahiriya. He was known for keeping a bevy of female bodyguards, for sleeping in a tent, even when he traveled on diplomatic business, and for his uncanny ability to outlast his enemies. He was also widely considered to be insane.

For most of my life, Libya provided a general utility villain for action-adventure flicks. I can still hear Doc Brown warning against the threat of nuclear terrorists in Back to the Future ("Who do you think? The Libyans!"). When I was stationed in Rota, Spain back in the 80s, I imagined the ease at which that wily evil dude could target us from across the Mediterranean. And, of course, I remember watching the televised violence of a U.S. airstrike on Tripoli when I was in high school. I was one of those Model UN-geeks, and we were participating in a General Assembly meeting when someone rolled in the TV. We stared awestruck as the bombs fell. There was a moment of silent attention and then a burst of enthusiasm as each of us began banging out resolutions. Libya's dictator struck me as just a little goofy.

Yet Gadhafi shed no small amount of blood. His assassins spread fear around the world, blowing up a disco to kill U.S. soldiers and planting a bomb on Pan Am Flight 103 that killed 270 people over (and at) Lockerbie, Scotland. Yet when he admitted his culpability to that latter mass murder, Gadhafi launched a process that began to transform him into some sort of elder statesperson. His willingness to help stem the flow of immigrants from Africa to Europe and his alleged assistance in the fight against Al-Qaeda clearly contributed to that cause. Even so, the people of Libya have had enough.

News reports now depict Gadhafi as a tattered shell of his former self, hiding somewhere in Tripoli as close aids and trusted henchmen slink out of sight. Rebels driving battered pickup trucks (aided by some NATO bombing for good measure) have him surrounded. No one knows what will happen next, but it's clear that the Arab Spring is becoming a year of revolution whose latest victim is one fellow who stuck around far too long.

Miniature Wonderland, Hamburg, Germany

2011-08-19T10:59:00.000-07:00

As part of our European Grand Tour, Jenny and I queued up to see the world's largest model railroad in Hamburg, Germany: Miniature Wonderland, complete with a launching space shuttle, an airport (with flying planes), and even a neon South Beach! We could have stayed for hours, because every square inch seems to be packed with tiny details (Jenny's favorite part was the tiny hot tub at the bottom of a ski slope). And believe it or not, they're not done building this thing!

Official Site: Minatur Wunderland Hamburg

Animated Neon Signs: Reeperbahn, Hamburg, Germany

2011-08-18T08:27:00.000-07:00

Time for another video from our 2011 European Grand Tour. This one is from the infamous Reeperbahn, a street in Hamburg's St. Pauli district. OK, I admit it; I'd never heard of this place. Jenny and I were simply discussing where we might visit during our 24-hour stay in town, when she spotted a neon sign on a postcard and saw the name "Reeperbahn." We figured this place might be good for some night shooting, so we found a stop on the metro and set our course.

Little by little we realized that the Reeperbahn is actually a red light district. Later on, researching the meaning of the name ("rope-maker's way" in English), I came across a quote from John Lennon who played some of the rowdy clubs along this street before the Beatles made it big: "I might have been born in Liverpool - but I grew up in Hamburg." It's not for nothing that the Reeperbahn intersects with another famed street called Große Freiheit. Translated into English, that means "Great Freedom." Of course, the nature of this freedom is subject to debate.

Jenny, a devout Mormon, wasn't too impressed with the category of entertainment for which Reeperbahn is world-renowned. We were both especially saddened by the sight of prostitutes displaying themselves in back-alley windows like products to be consumed and discarded. Their numbed expressions would be featured on no local postcards. Nonetheless, I had to cruise these Hamburg streets for a little while (the live sex shows were off-limits, though; Jenny was rather clear on this point). The Reeperbahn's collection of animated neon signs is weirdly stunning.

Animated Neon Signs: Boulevard de Clichy, Paris

2011-08-17T11:22:00.000-07:00

Over the next few weeks I'll be posting collections of images and video from our 2011 European Grand Tour (catch the original video here). While we savored our share of famous artwork and cultural sites, I also spent time exploring the seedier stuff along the way - keeping an especially keen eye for spray-art and cheesy neon signs. Here's an example from Boulevard de Clichy in the Pigalle district of Paris.

Andy and Jenny's 2011 European Grand Tour

2011-08-16T08:08:00.000-07:00

Jenny and I are back from our three-week whirlwind tour of Europe, with stops in Scotland, England, Germany, the Czech Republic, Hungary, Greece, Italy, and France. Along the way we took thousands of photos and wrote pages of notes. And now we're back home, sorting through bags of souvenirs from the best trip we ever took. We intend to share a day-by-day account of our adventures in the coming weeks. In the meantime, here's a taste of our Grand Tour. Any difficulty viewing the embedded video? Feel free to link directly to an HD version - here: http://youtu.be/NiE-gdBidvg?hd=1

August 13 - Paris (written by Andy)

2011-08-13T23:59:00.000-07:00

Our last day. We'd been planning this trip for years. Saving for it that long too. Seriously, we've had fights that seemed vicious enough to inspire divorce peter out after one of us would mention the Europe trip. How could we split when we had this trip in our future! We'd spent the last year in serious prep-mode, arranging and rearranging details in the hopes of producing this thing. We envisioned that decades from now we'd recall our European Grand Tour and share memories… climbing the acropolis, sailing among Greek islands, strolling along the Seine. We'd done it, and it was all wonderful. And now it was almost over.

So we launched ourselves into the day, taking the metro to Notre Dame Cathedral and anticipating a nightmare to get in. Actually, though lines began forming early in the morning, we had no problem finding our way inside. As usual, folks ignored the no photography signs and lit the place up with flashes (I had to take a couple shots too; sue me). Strangely enough, a wedding rehearsal was underway, which meant that our tour was augmented by celebratory music and priestly intonations. I hope the bride and groom enjoyed the extra attention.

Walking back across the Seine I searched out pieces of spray art, glad to finally find some of the stuff in Paris. We had no formal plans until our evening's encounter with the Moulin Rouge, allowing us to follow instinct from place to place. Gradually I noticed that the concentrations of graffiti and other street art had begun to thicken. Before long I realized that we were near Centre Pompidou and its world-renowned collection of modern and contemporary art. Ever the kind soul, Jenny consented to adding a stop and we used our Paris Pass to score free tickets. Riding the escalators up the facade of that crazily postmodern edifice that resembled a factory turned inside out by a malfunctioning transporter, we noticed clanking, crunching sounds augmented by droning chants. Later we'd learn that the auditory assault was a piece by Mickey Hart called "Soundwalk."

The displays were predictably mind-bending, conveying a sense that anything can be art -- even the guards who sat forlornly in their street clothes. A tangled mess of metal strewn about a floor: Art? Definitely. A cluster of people staring at a canvas of Yves Klein's IKB: Art? Surely. An empty wall, devoid of installation or explanation: Art? Maybe. Jenny was less thrilled with stuff that seemed defined more by various "artist's statements" and critical responses than recognizable aesthetic pleasure. I was pretty impressed, though. Lots of Kandinsky and a respectable array of Picasso, along with the requisite Andy Warhol. Even one of Duchamp's urinals. We even spotted a photograph of the UK Pavilion from the 2010 World's Fair. Even after seeing this thing personally I only now recognized a human face in the interior design. Amazing.

Jenny was done with museums, though, so I promised that we'd focus the afternoon on anything she wanted to do. She opted for Montmartre, so we caught the nearest metro heading that direction. On the other side of our ride, drop big fat raindrops began to fall, just as I remembered our decision to leave the umbrellas behind. We ducked into a souvenir shop and bought a cheap one. Minutes later, the rain cleared and we knew, we knew that we'd get no more precipitation that day. We climbed the steep hill toward the Basilica of the Sacré Cœur and searched for an ideal view to take in our last panorama of Paris. We toured the church long enough to count the excursion as vaguely "cultural" before diving into the tacky theme park extravagance of Montmartre. Creperies, painters, and busloads of tourists. Oh, and a mime. At last we saw a mime in Paris. We watched; we couldn't not watch him. And when he started texting on his mobile phone during a break, we had to giggle.

We had a couple hours before our planned arrival at the Moulin Rouge that evening, so we oozed along with the crowds for a while and then sat off alone to the (relatively) nearby Sacre-Coeur Cemetery. Once more, we had no specific plans. But we recognized a couple names on the handy map available at the office and searched out their plots. Actually Émile Zola had recently been moved to the Panthéon, where France commemorates its cultural heroes, but François Truffaut was still there, with a flower pot of metro tickets. I loved Truffaut first in Close Encounters of the Third Kind, years before I ever saw The 400 Blows. [I still haven't see The Last Metro.]

We followed a random course among the monuments, playing hide and seek with a black cat that had crossed our path, and then we headed back to the hotel. Just one last item on the itinerary to go. This one was, I suppose, mostly for Jenny. Yet I was the one who insisted that we pay the crazy-expensive price for tickets. The Moulin Rouge is pretty much the most famous cabaret in the world, though it offers almost nothing to remind you of Toulouse-Lautrec or that movie that Jenny loves so much. Instead you get dudes in tuxes offering obsequious welcomes, get-to-know-your-neighbor tight seating, and vigilant checks against anyone who'd dare to use a camera inside.

You also get one hell of a show after dinner. I couldn't begin to tell you what actually happened in the performance. But I remember lots of glimpses. There was a nearly naked babe thrashing about in a water tank filled with snakes. There were topless cancan dancers. There was a talking dog (really). It was obnoxiously entertaining. Relentlessly tacky. Exhaustingly fun. And when a tiny wisp of feather floating down from one of the dancer's outfits, I caught it for Jenny. I knew she'd want it.

We stumbled out of the theater (well, I stumbled, actually, after drinking the full bottle of champagne that came with our meals - and finishing the bottle inexplicably left by one of our neighbors) and entered the metro for one last ride. Three weeks of airplanes, trains, boats, cars, and an ATV had led to this: a final trip to our hotel where we would pack our bags and head home. We had an insanely early airport shuttle scheduled the next morning, yet we insisted on watching the Eiffel Tower from our room at 1 a.m. On schedule, those glittering lights fluttered with kinetic exuberance. I sought some sort of descriptive language but could only think of fireflies in an invisible jar. Five minutes or so clicked by as we celebrated that last moment together, embracing each other and Paris too. The time passed and then, as we knew it would, the Tower blinked off for the night.

Day 21 | Return to Start

August 12 - Paris (written by Jenny)

2011-08-12T23:01:00.000-07:00

Our first full day in Paris and we had a lot of things to see, more than we could accomplish in two days. But, our first task was to make a brief stop at Hard Rock Café. Normally, we would never set foot in a Hard Rock but we had to this morning to pick up our Paris Pass. This is a pass that we purchased before we left, and turned out to be well worth its exorbitant cost. We got free metro rides and free entrance into several museums for two days. It also allows for some free tours and other benefits, but we were really only interested in those two things. The only hassle? A required trip to Hard Rock first thing in the morning.

Coincidentally, when we got there, we found something that Andy had been looking forward to seeing: the Passage des Panoramas. He’d read about it as being one of the original arcade passages in Paris. For folks without Andy’s nerdy passions, I’m literally talking about a passage, an alleyway between buildings that has an arched glass roof and shops along each side. These arcades were built long before malls as ways for people to shop in inclement weather. You still feel like you’re outside but protected. It was really quite lovely and old-fashioned. Since we had a few extra minutes before Hard Rock opened, Andy took the opportunity to snap some pictures of one an original nineteenth century arcade.

With our Paris Passes in hand, it was time for our next adventure, the Louvre. We had both been looking forward to this part of our visit but were not prepared for the greatness of it, both in the art it held and in its size. It’s so easy to get lost in the Louvre, and so luckily we grabbed a map on our way in. We had been warned to get there early in the morning and to go straight to the Mona Lisa before the huge crowds descended. It was a good warning. Our new Paris Passes not only got us in for free but placed us ahead of many of the crowds (like a fast pass at Disney). What a deal!

So when we got to the Mona Lisa, the crowds were manageable and we could take our time after that. I am sure that I have actually seen the Mona Lisa before, a long time ago. It must have been on loan to some museum that I visited in school. So I wasn’t surprised by the size like most people are. It’s actually fairly small, contrary to what you would think. Of course, Andy (ever the contrarian) thought it was a little larger than he expected. Oh well. It was beautiful, no matter the size.

From there we wandered a lot. Andy loves the paintings and I love the sculptures, so we got a well-rounded self-guided tour. I especially loved the Winged Victory statue, the one without a head. I’ve seen this one in history and art books my whole life. I also enjoyed seeing the Venus de Milo and Canova's Psyche Revived by Cupid's Kiss. What they could do with marble is amazing. Andy was excited to see Oath of the Horatii by David and Liberty Leading the People by Delacroix.

Elisabeth Louise Vigée Le Brun is an artist I’d never heard of before, but I was struck by her portraits; they are so bright, with most of the subjects looking right at you with smiles. Her pieces just made me happy. It’s cool how we appreciate these things more as we get older. What I didn’t appreciate, though, was how difficult it is to go through a museum. We walked for hours on end around cities in Europe, but for the slow pace and constant stopping at this place was harder on me. By the time we were done, walking through the city proved to be a welcome change.

We got outside and saw the lovely Champs-Élysées, a long corridor of garden that leads toward the Arc de Triomphe. Yeah, it was a bit farther than we expected (probably at least a mile or so) but that was no problem. We enjoyed the lovely garden area that turned into city street and were excited to be able to see the famed monument. This is another one of those things I learned about as a kid. Andy and I both had Ms. Prince for French in middle school, and the other major French icon we learned about besides La Tour Eiffel was L'Arc de Triomphe. It’s been a major symbol of Paris and France for me ever since, so it was fabulous to see it! It’s actually in the middle island of a traffic circle, which really makes it stand out. And you can’t just cross the street to see it; you have to take underground tunnels. After about 10 minutes of looking for the tunnel, we finally got over to the arch and were standing right under it. Viewing all the reliefs and writing that covered it, I was inspired by the size.

Our Paris Pass came in handy again here. It got us in for free and past the long line of people waiting to climb to the top. In fact, we didn’t know what to expect, but after flashing our pass, we found ourselves headed up the spiral staircase – up and up! It was a strenuous climb, but well worth it. We got a stunning 360 degree view of Paris: the Eiffel Tower, Montmartre, the Louvre, Notre Dame, and lots of things I didn’t even know. But what was more awesome to me was just the fact that we were up on top of the L'Arc de Triomphe! How cool is that!

After the Arch, we had to decide what to do next. Andy suggested the Musee d’Orsay, another famous art museum. This one featured more impressionistic art. So we saw different styles and artists, like Manet and Renoir. The most popular artist there, though was Toulouse-Lautrec. His paintings actually caused a line outside his room. But that’s not surprising, given that his work is known for immortalizing the Moulin Rouge. Andy loved the D’Orsay because he had studied a lot of these works and artists in a class he took a year or so ago at the local community college. I tended to prefer the Louvre, though I did see some pieces I really liked here, too. Still, all that walking through another museum just wore me out, and I found myself longing for benches.

By now it was late in the afternoon. The day really flew by and we hadn’t even recreated Andy’s favorite Paris painting, Paris Street; Rainy Day! If you have known Andy any length of time, you might know that he loves to recreate things that he loves (including scenes from movies like Close Encounters. This time, he wanted to find the exact spot in Paris where this painting was set and recreate it. The web is a great thing, because he was able to find websites dedicated to this painting and its location before we left for our trip, so he had it all mapped out. Sure enough, when we got there, I could tell that this really was the spot, even though there are many in the city that look similar. It was really quite cool to see it. Andy had a printout of the painting and we worked for about an hour to set ourselves up in the right pose and ensure that we had enough ennui on our faces. I’ve got to say, it came out pretty good. We made sure to bring an umbrella!

Once our own work of art was complete, it was time to find a nice quiet but fun area to get some dinner and wander the Paris streets. Andy had heard that the Latin Quarter was just such a place, so we hopped back on the metro. I think we did this area wrong, though. I studied the map of where it was, but when we got there, the streets were dead. Nothing was open and there weren’t a lot of people. We remembered that this was a college area and that it is August; maybe that had something to do with it. Either way, we wandered a bit until we found some life: a few streets of restaurants and shops, and even another passage like the one from the morning to explore. It still wasn’t a stunning area but we found a reasonable place to eat. The restaurants love to offer outdoor dining, which is great, but unfortunately they end up cramming a bunch of tables together. We had fun anyway. After dinner we thought we’d go and see the Seine, which was just a few blocks away. It was lovely at night, and we crossed a couple of bridges and took some great pictures of the full moon. It was a beautiful, romantic night.

Day 20 | Day 22

August 11 - Nice to Paris (written by Andy)

2011-08-11T21:55:00.000-07:00

Though today was primarily scheduled around travel, we had a few hours in Nice before we were supposed to board our train. Since we'd spent so much time yesterday on the beach, and were scheduled to sit on a train for about six hours this afternoon, we decided to focus the morning on walking. We began with a return to the Old Town district, searching for good light to shoot some photos. It's surprisingly difficult, given that the buildings stand so close to each other. The sun has to be in just the right position for its light to reveal the color and detail of those facades.

Along the way we stopped at Berlandises where Jenny picked through macaroons, cookies, and other candies to bring back to her pals at work. We also walked by a French Foreign Legion (Légion étrangère) recruitment office, and I shared with Jenny the remarkable story of a group that allows men from all over the world to adopt new identities, and potentially French citizenship, by their willingness to go places and do things that no sane person would cheerfully contemplate.

We also stopped to watch the unfolding of a traffic jam caused by an abandoned car in the middle of a tight intersection. The woman driving one of two buses thought the ideal response was to lean on her horn. I opted to join some folks trying to move the stuck car. No luck. After a while, we abandoned our efforts and left the snarling mess behind. The heat was rising and we counted down the minutes before we must drag our luggage the final six blocks from our hotel to station.

We were both buzzing with excitement about Paris, a place we've both wanted to visit for years. That's why I packed that silly-but-sweet romcom starring Meg Ryan and Kevin Kline: French Kiss. This movie is a quintessential guilty pleasure. Despite its predictable plot and "Ohmygosh-Aren't-I-Cute?" emoting by Ryan, French Kiss contains so many delightful images of France and so many quotable lines of dialogue (in the Wood household, at least), we had to see it once more before arriving in Paris. Our perfect solution: watching it on my laptop while our train made its way north. Viewing the moment when Kline and Ryan's characters fall in love on the train - on a train - was one of the coolest things we did on the entire trip. Interpret that as you will.

We arrived after dark and - just like our first sight as we emerged from the Athens subway - our first true glimpse of Paris was perfect: the Eiffel Tower. I've studied and lectured about it as an artifact of the 1889 World's Fair, and I've long imagined that seeing it for real could hardly surprise me. But there's something magical about the immensity of this thing, knowing that even far away this tower glows majestically over the city. I've heard that even miles away, many Parisians can see its light at night. And our hotel was only three blocks away.

Even so I was sure we'd get a lousy view. I'd spent a fair amount of time researching "Tower-view" hotels and found, as you'd imagine, that windows facing the darned thing come with a premium price. One place, Les Jardins d'Eiffel, came with good reviews but never could quite seem to guarantee that we could get that fantasy view. We stuck with them though, settling for close proximity and accepting the reality that we’d get our typical vantage point of a parking lot. I didn't even bother asking the night manager when we checked in. We entered the elevator, got off, and turned enough corners for me to know that we were out of luck. I opened the window... and saw the tower glittering. Seriously, the thing wasn't just aglow; it actually sparkled.

I couldn't wait to get out of that room and get closer. Jenny and I dropped of our gear and practically ran back downstairs, thanking the manager as we departed. I'd heard that our travel agent had sent a message to the hotel a week or so back, asking that we’d get a break. Apparently it'd worked. We ignored our map and simply headed in the direction of the glow. Within about 15 minutes we joined the crowds on the Champ de Mars, marveling at the massive lines of folks queuing to ride to the tower's top. Just being there was enough for us. We'd get our ideal Paris view - with the tower, not from it - in the next couple days, maybe from the Sacré-Cœur Basilica in Montmartre. We sat on the grass and ignored the vendors who wandered about trying to sell bottles of cheap champagne. Eventually we learned that the fluttering light show restarted every hour, which gave us plenty of time to set up a shot. As we waited, Jenny and I watched the swirl of searchlights that circled about the tower and grooved on the moment. Paris, at last!

Day 19 | Day 21

August 10 - Genoa to Nice (written by Jenny)

2011-08-10T11:51:00.000-07:00

This morning we left Genoa on a train headed for Nice. We left the best hotel room we’ve stayed in, too. In fact, while Andy really enjoyed Genoa for its street art and lots of narrow alleys, I found the room to be the best part of the city. The bathroom had a large tub with jet sprays (I enjoyed a lovely bubble bath last night), the bed was soft and comfortable, and the room was spacious and clean. Best room of the trip. Luckily, the train didn’t leave until late morning, which meant we could sleep in and enjoy a leisurely breakfast downstairs before packing for our walk to the station, just two minutes away.

The train ride was going to be tricky because we actually had to change trains at one of the stops. We’d never done that before and we only had a 10-minute gap between them. I was a bit nervous. But the first part of the journey was uneventful, if not the most comfortable of rides. The train car was hot and we were sitting in a cabin with four other people, right next to the window with the sun streaming in the whole way. Normally I love the sun, but the lack of cool air made for a sweaty ride. At least we could enjoy the lovely scenery rolling by, first the Italian Riviera and then the French. All those beaches and yachts and gorgeous blue water!

When we got to the station to change trains, I noticed that we were about five or seven minutes late, allowing only two or three to find our train and board. Yeah, that was cutting it a bit close for me. But, we made it – just barely. Our Nice-bound train was just a couple of tracks over and turned out to be more like a metro. We didn’t have assigned seats; many people didn’t find seats at all. At least the cars were less hot, and we didn’t have too far to go.

At last we arrived at the Nice Ville station. Andy couldn’t resist taking a picture. How often do you get to go to Nice ville? I had mapped out our walk to the hotel and it was just about 10 or 15 minutes from the station. Our hotel, the Vendome, was clean and friendly, though not quite as great as our Genoa lodging. The room was much smaller, for one thing; the open door barely cleared the bed. We didn’t mind, though. We weren’t here for the room. Downstairs we asked for directions to the beach. It was such a lovely day and the water was so blue and pretty; we couldn’t resist.

One thing is different about this beach, though. There’s no sand, just rocks. Tons of smooth roundish rocks, like the ones you would buy to put in your garden. This is unusual for us, since we grew up in Florida where soft white sands are the norm. Oh well. We rented a couple of chairs and an umbrella, determined to relax all afternoon. Andy went swimming a bit. I tried, but the cold water and painful rock-walking convinced me to stay in my comfy seat. The chairs on this beach are much closer together than we’re used to on South Beach; it’s a cramped feeling. But once you’re settled in and enjoying the sun, it doesn’t matter much. We also watched people around us and napped: the first real downtime this trip.

Once we got tired of lounging we decided to start exploring. We found Nice’s Old Town area, a maze of narrow, winding roads packed with shops and restaurants. We found lots of interesting things, from clothes to trinkets to French ceramics to candy. These alleys were also much nicer than the ones we found in Genoa. The buildings were painted bright colors like pumpkin and olive green. People who lived there had their laundry hanging out to dry above our heads; I imagined living there among the hustle and bustle of the marketplace.

We wandered around, taking pictures and browsing the stores. I found a few things that I wanted to come back for the next day. We saw street performers and searched for the perfect place to eat (someplace good but inexpensive). After a meal of mussels and crepes, we continued our meandering stroll, wandering through parks near the beach. We enjoyed seeing a great fountain statue, some beautiful arcades of flowers, and even a lit-up carousel. The evening was warm, and we were together in France! Tomorrow we will savor Nice a bit more before boarding our final train - to Paris, the City of Love!

Day 18 | Day 20

August 9 - Florence to Pisa to Genoa (written by Andy)

2011-08-09T10:10:00.000-07:00

Jenny and I have compared our writing assignments, and I'm sure that she got the better deal. She got to write about a lovely day in Florence yesterday. I'm stick with the soul-crushing struggle to navigate our way to a Hertz office in downtown Genoa today. Things started off nicely enough. The guy delivering our car even arrived early. Jenny had devoted lots of time to our maps and navigated us out of Florence like a pro. Even some of the weirdness of Italian driving could be viewed in a happier light. I came to love how pretty much every time you're in a lane that splits from the Autostrada, that very same lane also continues onward (unlike in the States when a lane frequently disappears, requiring that you merge). I also dug how every tunnel -- and there are countless tunnels boring through this mountainous part of Italy -- has a name. Best of all, we were heading for Pisa where surely every road would offer signs pointing to a certain Leaning Tower.

Yet once more we got lost, discovering that Pisa is a fairly large town with much, much more to offer than the typical tourist photos would suggest. Still, we were there to see the Tower, take our snaps, grab our trinkets, and get back on the road. Our rental agreement demanded that we drop off our Fiat by 2 p.m. So with some stress and hassle we rode through town in search of that danged tower. Eventually we managed to find a reasonably cheap lot merely a few blocks away from our destination in Pisa. About an hour later we'd gotten our kicks.

Everyone there seemed to be focused on the same idea: using the power of forced perspective to produce pictures of people appearing to hold the tower up (or push it over). You couldn't walk more than a couple feet without getting into someone's frame, but the crowd was relaxed and patient. We arrived relatively early, just as the vendors were setting up their boxes and racks of paraphernalia. You could buy shirts, hats, pins, buttons, miniatures, and dozens of other pieces of Pisa. We know that the city offers so much more. Yet there we were, barely an hour later, cruising north.

Jenny and I had hoped for a few hours of leisurely driving through Tuscany before arriving in Genoa. The weather was lovely, and the sunflowers were gorgeous. But the local roads demanded slower speed limits than our schedule could allow, and we'd erred in accepting a rental agreement that required us to arrive in the early afternoon. Now normally when arriving somewhere new under a deadline situation we'd simply study maps of the area and plan a surefire route. Italy doesn't work that way, though. Despite having pages of Google Maps print-offs, our adventures in Milan and Florence had convinced us that no planned navigation of Italian streets survives first contact. Jenny was not pleased with my call, but I determined that we had to stick with the Autostrada if we had any chance of arriving on time, especially since our maps provided us no clue of just how complex those local roads could be. Maybe it was our growing exhaustion over European travel, perhaps we just weren't thinking clearly, but we simply couldn't align our plans with the realities of those streets.

Extra cushion timed melted away as we abandoned the niceties of our arrival (along with our positive attitudes). It became a race against the clock to beat traffic and our frustration to pull into the rental lot by 2. Even a last minute fill-up became a dramatic crisis as we couldn't figure out the damned pump or even remember how to properly close the gas cap of rental. Naturally the machine wouldn't take our credit card, and we'd run out of Euros. Really, it was like a bad movie. Worse yet, the happy ending -- turning the car over with five minutes to spare -- offered no respite. Jenny and I barely talked on the cab ride to our hotel. The marble floors and luxury bath in our surprisingly upscale room meant nothing to us. We'd spent more than two weeks together, laughing, adventuring, negotiating, and tolerating, but it was clear that dozens of tiny slights and momentary lapses in courtesy had taken their toll.

We therefore spent a couple hours resting and talking, apologizing to each other for our shared failures in planning and attitude. We also agreed that we'd think long and hard before renting a car in Italy again. Afterward we rummaged around town, climbing hills that reminded us of San Francisco and tucking into meals at a mellow outdoor table. We found a city seemingly filled with fountains and grottos and funky narrow walkways.

Spray-art was nearly ubiquitous, testing Jenny's patience as I had to snap pictures of nearly every example. We walked and chatted and gradually fell back into a happy vibe. I can't say that we got to know Genoa especially well. But Jenny and I were back on the same team. Tomorrow we'll board a train to France, grateful for the simplicity of this form of travel as compared to what we'd endured over the past couple days, and begin the final leg of our European tour.

Day 17 | Day 19

August 8 - Florence (written by Jenny)

2011-08-08T15:17:00.000-07:00

So far the Florence hotel the loveliest one yet on our trip, if not the most functional. The beds were pretty hard and the shower was one of the deals where you must hold the sprayer. Yet the view was amazing. Our windows opened over the street, and there was a ledge big enough for sitting. I know because I sat on it while waiting for Andy to drop off the car. Our window actually had three thick layers: outside shutters that slide into the wall; the glass windows itself, which opened like French doors, and inner shutters. The curtains were yellow with blue, ornate swirly patterns, and the high ceiling featured detailed molding and yellow trim. We reached our room with a glass elevator that is surrounded by a wrapping staircase bounded by black iron decorative railings. So beautiful!

After yesterday’s ordeal of getting to our hotel, we were ready to change our attitude about this town. We started with breakfast on our floor, right next door. Here we met our hostess who helped us with some car rental issues, and we enjoyed a light meal before heading out. Andy said he’d heard that Florence was like an outdoor art gallery, and he was right on. Everywhere we walked, there were Roman gods, famous Italian citizens or religious figures.

In front of the Palazzo Vecchio saw a life-sized copy of David. We had a vague hope of seeing the real one, but the Academia where it is housed wasn’t open during the day we visited. So we enjoyed the copy as much as we could. We also enjoyed the nearby Loggia dei Lanzi, which is full of other large statues, including one of Perseus decapitating Medusa and one depicting The Rape of Polyxena. It was so violent, but it was moving too. It is amazing how a master sculptor can forge such passion from stone.

We saw more of the Basilica di Santa Maria del Fiore right near our hotel. The line to get in stretched about a block, so we didn’t even try to get in. We didn’t mind. Walking around the huge edifice was amazing enough. We also wandered the streets just looking at the architecture, artwork, and shops along the way. We made our way to Church of Santa Croce so that Andy could see Machiavelli’s tomb. I’ve never quite understood Andy’s fascination with that guy; The Prince just seems like a guide to manipulating and gaining power. But Andy appreciates Machiavelli’s daring clarity of purpose.

When we got to the Church of Santa Croce, we found much more inside than just Machiavelli’s resting place. There were several other sepulchers and memorials to famous people, including Galileo and Dante. We also saw many works of art, including sculptures by Donatello. One large sculpture, a lady dressed in robes, looked quite familiar. She holds a laurel wreath in one hand and a broken chain in the other; the inscription explained that she is called the Statue of Liberty. Her face and her robes were similar to our Lady Liberty, but she evoked more of a soft, feminine feeling.

As we walked through the cathedral, we saw more paintings, sculptures, and pieces of stained glass. One set of paintings depicted stories of the Virgin Mary; others related the Virgin to Mary Magdalene. I found it interesting that they would put these two women together into one work. Another gorgeous painting depicted Christ Descending into Limbo, depicting Christ’s compassion for sinners with warm, rich color. If we had more time and money I’d love to spend more time in Florence, seeing all that artwork that I’ve only seen in books.

Walking through the marketplace, we saw lots of leather, jewelry, and trinkets, and lots of miniatures of Italian landmarks. I collect miniatures, but only if I’ve seen what they represent personally. So I bought one of the Duomo near our hotel. I’ve bought so many miniatures during this trip that we’ll have to add another shelf in our living room!

We decided to keep lunch simple, so we grabbed sandwiches at a local café/gelateria. These little places are everywhere, selling gelato, of course, but also glass counters full of sandwiches, salads, and other desserts. They’re fairly cheap and easy. We sat and ate near the fake David, and I fed pigeons bread from my sandwich. Andy was just getting a few pictures when a local polizia scolded me: “Senora, [something in Italian… Italian …Italian]." OK, I know I’m not supposed to feed the birds, but they were so cute. I think Andy got one or two shots in beforehand, though.

We continued to wander around through the afternoon. It’s probably our favorite thing to do in these cities. We reveled through the day about how we didn’t have to drive anywhere. One of our frequent stops was the Ponte Vecchio. It’s just a pedestrian bridge, but with jewelry shops that stretch across the river. From a distance, the bridge resembles a giant house with windows and different sizes and colors. It was Andy’s favorite photographic subject [along with the street art], so we went by several times through the day. Crossing the bridge we found more winding roads and lovely things to see.

Late in the afternoon, I saw that we were near the Piazzale Michelangelo. Our hotel’s hostess had suggested we check it out. It’s best in morning light, but we only had time to see it in evening. The walk would be mostly uphill, but we’d gotten used to the exertion. So we set off through narrow streets toward the hill. As we got near the top, we saw people enjoying the view from a restaurant, waiting for the sunset. The scene was amazing. You could the panorama of Florence, with the river snaking through a town dotted with cathedrals that glowed orange under the sun. Of all the views we’ve seen, I think this was the most lovely. We took several pictures and then sat down on the steps with the other tourists. We probably didn’t intend to stay for the sunset, but it was just too beautiful to leave.

In the light that remained, we began to search for a good place for dinner – nothing too expensive but something with good food and a nice atmosphere. We found what we were looking for in “Il Gatto e La Volpe” (The Cat and the Wolf). It was the neon sign that first caught our eye and the ambiance inside that hooked us. It was a casual bar and grill type atmosphere, with long tables where couples would be formed into larger groups. Andy got his usual Italian dish (pizza) while I ordered gnocci with four cheeses. Yum! It was a delightful meal and the place had a lot of character.

Afterward we wandered just a bit more before heading back to our hotel. Tomorrow we would be driving off early toward Pisa, so we wanted to sleep well to prepare. We enjoyed one last evening in our posh, old hotel room, where I noticed again the high ceiling and the yellow and blue décor. Florence had redeemed itself. We’d fallen in love with another European city.

Day 16 | Day 18

August 7 - Santorini to Florence (written by Andy)

2011-08-07T10:10:00.000-07:00

Our last hours in Santorini, and the launch of another travel day: a reminder that if you like to sit in airports, wait for cabs, and deal with paperwork then you too can tolerate a three-week tour of Europe. As I packed up my bag again, I remembered all the times my friends warned that so many transfers would rob our travels of their fun and spontaneity. It's a fair point. Yet Jenny and I often prefer our trips in sampler-size portions. Just enough to get a taste. And by this point we'd gotten pretty adept and organizing and moving our lives from country to country. If only all the folks with whom we had to interact were as professional.

Starting with a taxi driver who charged us a ruinous rate, we entered the world of Santorini Airport with low expectations. Security was eerily lax as clumps of people piled into the same tiny terminal. The flight departing before ours was delayed for some reason, which meant that seats became fiercely guarded commodities. Then when our plane was ready to board, the previous flight was also opened. Thus we were several hundred sweaty passengers squeezing through three narrow doors, getting our tickets ripped hurriedly by benumbed attendants. Queuing, as you may have heard, is a little-known custom in this part of the world. You put your feet where you can, expecting that friendly but determined folks will edge their ways ahead of you from all sides.

Prior to boarding, I was at least able to steel a few moments of relative peace on a rooftop garden. Typing these notes, I grinned at sight of a black and white kitten sauntering from table to table, enjoying the attention of everyone sitting nearby. Some people were heading for Athens. Less fortunate souls were stuck in a holding pattern before they could depart for Zurich. Our destination marked our final sweep southward from Greece to Italy and on to France. Next stop: Milan.

The flight was our last visit to Easy Jet's jaunty jumble of crazed queuing, cramped seating, and a la cart prices for everything. We arrived in Italy to, Oh, Lord, big fat raindrops. I reminded myself that we'd enjoyed days of perfect sun in Greece. Dreading the realities of Italian driving, I approached the rental agent in a most unnatural state: seeking that rip-off extra insurance that I routinely eschew. You can imagine my surprise when she seemed nearly as adamant that I need not incur the expense. Italian law requires that all rental agreements include some basic insurance, and the company we used had scored an especially sweet deal on deductibles. So we took our tiny Fiat (a "fashionable" model, the agent assured us) and set for the Autostrada south.

Driving in Italy. Where to begin? First, it's important to remember that cops have the power to demand cash from international motorists when they hand out traffic tickets (yep, they'll follow you to the nearest ATM if you can't pay up). So speeding is a bad idea. Then you add the fact that even large cities seem more designed for pedestrian traffic than for cars. OK, that makes sense, given that you're dealing with more than some mighty ancient cities. Still, it's a scary thing to navigate a place like Milan when streets are rarely signed, (supposedly traffic-smoothing) roundabouts come equipped with jarring stoplights, and busy roads magically transform into cobblestone walkways or one-way alleys.

Strangely enough, for all the disorder of Italian city driving, I've never driven a highway with more warning signs: heads-up notices that - news flash! - traffic means excess cars, curves can bring curvy conditions, fire in a tunnel is dangerous (the iconic advice: some poor sap running away from flames). Then, if there isn't anything to warn about, traffic safety engineers post signs of red exclamation points every few kilometers, just in case. It's as if the Italian highway system was designed by your mother.

Best of all, despite all our maps and all our planning, we got lost in every major stop. We got lost in Milan as we searched for the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II, and later when we tried to return to the Autostrada. And we got lost in Florence as we tried to find our hotel (this time aided by a new map we bought for the purpose). We found that we could neither park near our hotel or hope to speak with someone at a reception desk, because the roads had been turned into a pedestrian walkway and the desk was closed for the evening. When I found a nearby hotel that, according to the tiny fine print of our contract, would provide keys to our room, I was then informed that we needed a guy to pick up our car (sure, it's just a few blocks away, but the spaghetti of one-way roads and pedestrian sidewalks would make the trip a nightmare, I was promised). Oh, and the key-man would be around in an hour. At last we negotiated a better plan, and Jenny and I finally turned the key to our door at the Palazzo Ruspoli.

The room was beautiful, with high ceilings and flowing drapes. Across the street was the Duomo di Firenze. As exhausted as we were, Jenny and I simply had to enjoy some of this pedestrian paradise before collapsing into bed. Around the Duomo, kids were lounging on the steps, drinking, laughing, and playing music. Gelaterias were doing brisk business (somewhere in the Italian constitution, there must be a requirement that no one shall be forced to walk more than a hundred meters to a get some gelato). And our moods lightened. I had to admit: While Florence is a nightmare for motorists, it's pretty cool for walkers.

Day 15 | Day 17

August 6 - Santorini (written by Jenny)

2011-08-06T17:34:00.000-07:00

Our last full day in Santorini: We returned the moto in the morning, so had to find some other ways to pass our time. I was all for sitting by the pool, maybe taking a little walk and eating at the restaurant just down the street. Well, we did that for a while but decided that we wanted to take one of the boat tours in the late afternoon. In the middle of the Santorini bay there are a few smaller islands. The largest is the volcano, and between it and the smaller one next to it, we heard there are hot springs in which folks can swim. We had to check that out. Our hotel hostess had a line on the cruise that included dinner and a lovely view of the sunset, so we pulled out the credit card one more time.

Of course we slept in, and then I meandered down to the little dining area, a building just next to the hotel, for breakfast. A typical dessert or breakfast in Greece is yogurt with honey and fruit or nuts. On Santorini they have the best yogurt I have ever had. It’s not sour, and it is very thick and creamy, creamier and smoother than the Greek yogurt we have in the States. It is delicioso! So while most of the breakfast consists of baloney, processed cheese and bread (which I try to avoid for health reasons), I love the yogurt and honey they would give me at the hotel. I had it each morning and for most of the meals in restaurants, too. One place had fresh bananas, nectarines and walnuts. I think I found my new daily breakfast! Now, if I can just find this perfect yogurt in the States.

After breakfast, Andy and I caught up on our internet: email, facebooking, posting pictures, etc. This took us a couple of hours. Andy also had some prep work for his fall class. Since he was committed to his work, I headed down to the pool. I dipped my toe in the water and decided it was too cold. I’m a wimp that way. Then, I just found a lounge chair next to an umbrella. It was a bit of heaven, except for the wind (and a couple of loud folks cavorting nearby). At least I figured that some sun might help me smooth out some weird tan lines I’d gotten yesterday. I spent the morning enjoying that peace. Poor Andy only got maybe 15 minutes by the pool after his work was done before we had to get ready for the cruise.

We knew we’d have to get lunch, so we set off for the trusty café down the street. Afterward, it was time to pack and get ready for our shuttle to the pier – again, our shuttle was our hostess’ father, but this time we took a larger bus with some other folks. Then we stopped at another hotel (the Mathios) where we were assured that another shuttle would pick us up. We presumed it would be a shuttle from the tour; we’ve seen that before, where the tour sends around a bus to different hotels to pick up passengers. Well, we presumed wrong. This shuttle was the hotel owner and his little red car. OK, no problem, as long as we get to the pier. Which we did, eventually.

Remember the zig zag road up from the pier I told you about, the one with all the switchbacks? Well, we had to take that road down, and this time it was packed with cars and buses: rush hour at the pier! I guess a large ferry had just dropped off a load of passengers and cars because there’s no way that many cars and buses would squeezing past each other for any other reason. We were mesmerized as we watched buses maneuver the sharp turns. The switchbacks were so sharp that the buses would have to swing out into the right lane to get the widest radius possible. Cars coming the other way would try to fit around the bus on the inside (and on the outside, near the edge) any way they could. It was a madhouse. Andy, of course, was sure that we’d be late. Luckily our boat had not yet arrived.

The people sharing our ride were an older Italian couple, neither of whom could speak English. We could tell from our tickets, though, that we all were sharing the same cruise. So, we stuck together to ask the police on the pier about our boat, the “Afroditi,” since we didn’t see it. The cop assured us that we were in the right place. Sure enough, our boat arrived just 10 minutes later. It was a lovely ship, with lots of sails; it reminded me of a pirate ship. The Afroditi was certainly much nicer than the ferry that brought us here two days ago.

We found spots on the upper deck where the sun was shining and the wind would keep us cool. We picked more folks up from the next port, Fira, which gave us a chance to see that part of the town we didn’t see the day before, including the cable cars that take people up and down the cliff. We recalled the other option in which tourists walk or ride donkeys up the switchback road – no cars on this one. The port is obviously not for cargo any more, just for tourists. It was nice to see the port from this vantage point.

Our next stop, just 15 minutes later, was the volcano island Nea Kameni. Here we got to pay two Euros a piece to hike up the volcano. Yeah, I know. But it is now a geological park, so we didn’t mind the extra fee. We were happy to pay to trudge up that hill. The hike actually wasn’t as hard as we thought it would be. All the walking we’ve done over the last two weeks must have built up our muscles. On the way up, though, I tripped on a rock and skinned my knee. The injury was minor, but it sure did sting. The day was hot, but the view of all those volcanic rocks and craters was worth the exertion, especially when we reached the summit. We hung around for about a half hour and then began the slow descent, enjoyed the changing view as we walked.

Then we sailed to the hot springs. Since there was no beach, we would be swimming from the ship to the warm orange water. There was a ladder on the side of the boat, but Andy, ever the adventurer, decided to leap off the upper deck. Naturally he was the first one in the water. As I was asking the tour-guide where the ladder was, she said “It’s right on the side there. I think someone is about to use it.” That’s when Andy dove in. She added, “Well, he obviously didn’t need it.” Yeah, that’s my husband. I thought about jumping in, but I really wasn’t in that sort of adventurous mood. The latter would do nicely. The swim out to the springs was a bit rough for me; I’ve never had stamina for swimming. Andy made it there with little effort. At last, once I arrived, I felt that warm water. It made me feel so good. It was like bath water. The only problem: I was sure we’d turn orange from the sulfur. All the rocks were orange; people had even written their names them in orange residue.

We bobbed and swam for a little while and then turned back when our guides sounded the alarm. The whole visit was less than a half hour - probably too short a time for most of us. We swam back against the tide, which was even a bit harder for me. I felt relieved to climb that ladder; one guy was so tired that he had to be helped back to the boat. I was bushed so I went straight upstairs to rest. Andy stayed behind for a couple more dives. My sweet daredevil.

We sailed over to the bay of another island, Palaia Kameni, one that used to be a part of the Santorini ring before the volcano blew it up. Our guides explained that this was a more traditional island. We couldn’t tell much, because they didn’t let us off the boat. We stayed in the harbor to have our dinner, which was... OK. The food on these boats are not really worth mentioning. But we got our fill and relaxed while the boat floated around for a while. Some reviews say that this part lasts too long, that tourists should have more time on the volcano and in the springs. I can see where that could be true. We did kinda move around in circles for a long time before heading out to our last stop.

This stop was dedicated to our opportunity to watch the sunset under the village of Ia. It was probably was the nicest part of the cruise, just admiring the view up the hill to that lovely city and seeing things down by the water that we couldn’t see from way up on the cliff yesterday. There was another switchback road and a small port, which was pretty. We savored the evening, watching the haze on the horizon blur with the colors of the sunset. There was another ship, closer to the horizon, casting a silhouette against the darkening sky. It was all very romantic and peaceful. We enjoyed the calm… before a bit of a storm.

When we arrived back at the dock, we expected to see the man from the Mathios hotel in his little red car. There was no sign of him. For a few minutes we were unsure what to do. Then we saw the couple that had shared our tour talking with a man at another shuttle. When we saw the couple happily get into the shuttle, we walked up to the man and explained where we were going. He assured us, no, this was not our shuttle. But we came in with the other couple, we were tired, and we were adamant (especially since we had no other options). Finally, our Italian friend spoke up for us - in Italian - and then driver relented. He was, after all, heading for Akrotiri. Yes! Akrotiri was the part of the Island our hotel was on. Whew! We didn’t know where we’d end up but we knew we wouldn’t be stranded at the port.

Our plan was to get to whatever hotel the couple went to and then call our hotel for a pickup. Our last bit of fortune for the day came when we got to the couple’s hotel and saw the little restaurant near our own hotel. We were in walking distance from our bed. What a blessing! We thanked the couple and the driver profusely before heading to our home away from home. After a brief explanation to our hostess and an assurance that her dad wasn’t somewhere waiting for us, we headed up to our room for one last night in Santorini.

Day 14 | Day 16

August 5 - Santorini (written by Andy)

2011-08-05T11:02:00.000-07:00

Opening the windows this morning, I almost expected to see dark clouds bulging with rain. There's something unreal about Santorini's piercing sun, whitewashed walls, and blue domes. Yet once more we could not see a cloud in the sky. The rising heat portended another scorching day, but the breezes, sometimes the gusts that roll over the hills, bring cool comfort. So Jenny and I gathered our gear and headed downstairs to our quad. Today was our second laundry day of the trip, though this time we decided drop our stuff off. We merely needed to pack our clothes into the tiny plastic case on back of the ATV. Just one more shove before locking the container and - snap! Yep, we busted the lock.

A combination of guilt and fear of yet another rental hassle inspired us to ride straightaway to where we picked up our quad. The guy, who'd already sized us up as rookies, nodded gravely at the sight of the broken plastic. "Yes, you packed too much…" Jenny was ready to debate the matter, noting that the case was already pretty worn when we rented it [truly it was]. I knew we'd have no luck with that approach, though. It didn't matter. The guy continued, a cigarette dangling limply from his mouth, that it was "no problem" [ah... that lovely phrase]. "You two are so friendly; I will charge you ‘no cents.’"

Our plan thereafter was pure randomness. We plied our way up and down winding highways that led to towns with interesting names. Really, all we had on our three-day Santorini itinerary was "Chill." Gaining confidence on the road-hugging abilities of our quad, we took tight curves that led to hilltop cities like Fira and Oia, each topped by the occasional flutter of a blue and white Greek flag. Now and then we'd park and join the crowds of folks who'd disembarked from cruise ships sitting in the harbor, occasionally sidling up to the wall as donkeys were led past. For lunch we found a table at the Seagull Cafe, run by two guys who seemed happy to have so little business. Enjoying a serene overlook between two blue domes we snacked on locally grown tomatoes and cucumbers, plenty of tzatziki, and some yoghurt, fruit, and honey for Jenny.

Back on the road, I had a hankering for a couple hours at the beach. Almost as I spoke the words, we saw a sign that lead to Kamari. Ever the adventurous soul, Jenny was up for the diversion, and we therefore began following signs that lead to the shore. About a half-hour later, we saw that amazing view. The water was a cool turquoise color, though the rocks and pebbles that line the edge were blisteringly hot. Jenny settled onto a towel while I jumped into the water. Poking my head above the surface, I heard a thunderous splash near a cove to our right, next to a hallowed out semicircular cave. Two guys had climbed the rock, past the no diving sign and were diving from what seemed like 20 feet. I studied them for a few moments, noting how they had no problem with the depth of the water. And, heck, I used to dive with some style back in the day. Screw the warning signs.

Ascending steps, climbing rocks, and then hefting my legs over a natural barrier I joined those deeply tanned dudes and peered over the edge. As usual, the height from this vantage point seemed much more ominous than at the surface. Even though they had previously lept with seeming abandon, I could tell from up here that each dive took a moment of mental preparation. I was waiting for them, but it was clear that they were waiting for me, a middle-edged bearded guy who had maybe climbed higher than he should. One said in an accent I couldn't quite place, "You jump." The only words I could muster in reply was an honest assessment: "This is scary." But there was nothing else to do. I faced the water and tried to imagine my body arching with the grace I once could gather as a teenager. Then I uttered my standard phrase just before I'm about to do something foolish - and jumped high, keeping my legs together and preparing for my terminal turn.

Curving downward and feeling the wind smack my face I realized that I'd spent insufficient time calculating a safe distance away from the white stony hill. Altitude wasn't a problem, of course, but I wondered if I was gonna grind my chest into hamburger on bone-crunching impact with that wall. Then I saw that friendly span of sparkling teal water racing toward me. For half a second, I wondered just how deep it went; then I hit hard. For some silly reason I clenched my fists, which meant that entry was like pounding onto a brick floor. The impact was so jarring that my lungs hurt and my heart seemed jarred out of its cavity. I seriously wondered if I'd hurt myself. Unconsciously I'd turned a tight U-shape, which wrenched me back to the surface and added the pleasure of snorting salt water through my nose. I took breaths in shallow spurts and rolled onto my back, sweeping my arms to move closer to the beach. Little by little the burning in my chest dissipated and I realized that I was OK. Just a moment later I knew I'd have to dive again.

After a while, the tanned dudes had departed and two thirty-something guys were peering over the edge, gesticulating with thoughtful precision how they thought their dives should go. I studied them for a while, watching as they gingerly crossed over a rock ledge to the jumping spot - and then turned around. Both opted for an easier dive about halfway down the hill. I returned to the beach to rest and collect my wits. Jenny rolled her eyes, but she knew I was going up again. Sure enough, I hopped up the rocky stairs and greeted the guys with a curt smile. Hopping over the last border I saw that they'd gathered near to watch the show. I turned and remembered to keep my palms flat and try to arch my body into a shallow curve upon entry. I looked outward toward all that blue water receding into the horizon and then stood up straight. One sharp leap and I felt like a pilot aiming for a perfect landing. Letting gravity draw me into position, I extended my arms and pushed some air out of my nostrils, anticipating the cool splash just one heartbeat away. I rode the plunge down, slicing into the water with some elegance this time, and popped up like a cork, smiling as the water trickled from my hair. By now I'd forgotten about the two guys, but Jenny tells me they shook their heads in unison and chose the lower jump.

Later on, after changing back into driving clothes, Jenny and I cruised around the island some more, stopping where we'd see an especially arresting piece of architecture. We'd walk through villages where the sidewalks also served as roadways for tiny scooters, stopping to pet dogs that lounged in cool shady spaces and grooving on the lazy vibe. We rode up steep hills, testing the tiny motor of our ATV, stopping at hilltops to feel gusty breezes pounding at our bodies. We picked up our laundry and got a recommendation for dinner in Fira. But when we returned to our hotel, the owner told us that we could do much better at a place nearby: Tavern of the Cave of Nikolas. We took her advice and drove to the beach where, as water lapped up against fishing boats, we ordered meals prepared by the people who grew the tomatoes and caught the fish. Jenny made friends with a cat who'd learned to identify friendly tourists, while I snapped off the heads of my fish and picked tiny bones from my teeth.

Following Jenny's bliss, we took one last ride to Fira - this time at night. A half-moon hung over the island while hilltop towns lit up like alien ships landed in the desert. We took pictures and sampled gelato, sometimes surging with the crowds and sometimes sitting alone to chat. I anticipated the steep climb up the hill that leads to our hotel near the southern tip of Santorini, and I wondered if that little quad bike would hold out for one more ride. I knew that we'd make it, though. It'd been that kind of day.

Day 13 | Day 15

August 4 - Santorini (written by Jenny)

2011-08-04T11:41:00.000-07:00

Here’s our advice on the ferry from Athens to Santorini: Don’t. I have the honor of writing about the worst day yet on this trip – hopefully the only bad day. But, it does get better, so hang in there. We were up very early, 5:15, to get onto the 7 a.m. Sea Jet (also called Super Jet) ferry from the Piraeus port in Athens for a five hour ride to Santorini. As soon as I saw how small the boat was, I knew we were not in for a fun trip. Sure enough, we were crammed in like on an airplane. No real freedom of movement and no ability to go outside for fresh air. It was worse than flying - much worse for me, actually. Not long after we got going, the announcement came that bad weather would force us to travel slowly “for our safety and comfort.” I assume it helped our safety, but our comfort wasn’t eased much. The slow speed also added about an hour and a half to our trip. Suffice it to say, we did not enjoy ourselves. Next time, we’ll fly.

We thought our troubles would be over by the time we finally docked at Santorini. Unfortunately, another hurdle presented itself. Our shuttle was nowhere to be found. We looked around, waiting patiently and then not so patiently before digging out the phone number for the hotel. Andy got a pre-paid phone card and tried the number. He couldn’t get the card numbers to work so he asked a local police woman who typed in the numbers with no problem and walked away. That would have been great, except there was no answer at the hotel. Arrggh! After more careful study of the card, Andy tried again and finally got through to our hostess. Unfortunately our lack of Greek and her heavy accent kept him from understanding anything she was saying. So, he came and got me. We called one more time and I was finally able to surmise that I had given her the wrong date for our arrival. After letting her know we really were there and needing a ride, we were promised a shuttle. About 20 minutes later we met her father, who arrived in his tiny car.

Santorini is a beautiful Greek island located southeast of Athens. It’s really part of a volcano. The port side is a series of steep cliffs, while the beach side slopes down more gently. You may wonder how, being on the cliffs side of the island, we managed to climb that steep cliff in a small car. Well, except for Lombard St. in San Francisco, I haven’t seen a windier, more zig-zaggy road anywhere. This little car, along with scooters, trucks, and buses, slowly curved around something like ten switchbacks all the way up that cliff. We were kind of amazed that some locals do this on a regular basis. Finally we were on our way to the hotel, merely ten minutes away.

The hotel, the Caldera Romantica, was quite lovely: small villa-type with traditional décor, a beautiful view of the water, and a great looking bright blue pool in back. It is located in the Akrotiri area of Santorini, which is the less-touristy area. I loved that because it would be quiet, less hectic and more rural. Andy, on the other hand, immediately felt confined, with no transportation to other parts of the island. We planned to be there for three nights and, in fact, intended this time to be a respite from our busy travels. I even reminded Andy of the wonderful few days we spent cooped up on the island in Phuket, Thailand last year, and how he enjoyed just sitting on the beach, taking occasional walks to the little village, and getting to know the folks in the hotel. It was no use. Andy was looking bored already. And then our hostess mentioned the magic word: moto. A moto is basically a scooter or a four-wheel ATV-type vehicle that we could rent for 20 euros a day. I tried to dissuade Andy, but he’d already seen a few motos while we were eating lunch at the little restaurant just up the street, and that was it. We were getting a moto. Really, it turned out to be the best way to see Santorini, so I am glad he pushed us.

Within a half hour, we had our moto. He just needed a bit of practice before I was willing to climb aboard with him. So he strapped on his helmet drove away while I waited with the lady at the rental place. While we waited, I learned that it was her son’s business while she owned the little hotel next door. I learned about the dog that they had tied up: he was a stray that used to hang around the busy road. I learned about how their cats would jump on the tables at the restaurant they owned. I watched her call her daughter and smoke a cigarette. Are you getting the picture? Andy was taking a long time! We kept figuring that he must have stopped to get gas and cash. But this was getting crazy. Part of me knew that he was probably fine, maybe just lost. Part of me was a bit worried, though. And every time I saw a moto driving by, I got a bit more concerned. Finally we saw him coming up the road, safe and sound. Whew!

After a few apologies and final details, we were on the road with our moto. Freedom for Andy and a lot less relaxation for me. But it was worth it. We saw some incredible things that we never would have seen sitting by the pool at our hotel. We basically did what we have been doing in all the other cities, except on a moto. We wandered the streets, seeing what we could see, and trying not to get too lost. Santorini is a small island, at least, so we couldn’t get too lost. There’s just not that many roads. The island is a moon shape – about 2/3rds of a circle. It used to be one big circle with water in the middle, but a giant volcanic eruption blew a chunk of the island away. From one end of the moon-shape to the other is about 25 km. We were surprised at how little time it took to get from one place to another.

We went to a couple of small towns, including Pyrgos. These towns are all built on hills and the buildings are mostly those gorgeous white with blue trim structures you see in the pictures (though there are other colors as well). The style is all the same though: straight walls with arched roofs and staircases outside. You could tell that even the buildings under construction were this same style. Since they are all on a hill, there is a point where you can’t really drive through them any longer, so the roads for cars stop and you have to park and walk further into the city through long, narrow corridors. It’s quite lovely and quaint. It’s hard to tell homes from businesses. Churches are easy to spot, though. They almost all have domes – usually blue – and/or a bell tower. In the right light, these are the most stunning buildings, complimenting the blue sky and water perfectly. You really can’t describe the beauty in words, which is why we took lots of pictures!

We got back on our moto and wound around the roads more. The rushing wind was thrilling, and a little scary (even though we stayed at about 50 mph). We made it to a beach on the other side of the island and saw lots of small towns along the way. We also saw lots of cats, pretty much everywhere we went. Most were wary, but a few allowed us to pet them. We also saw donkeys just milling about on the plains. Everything about Santorini was charming.

As the sun started to get low in the sky we headed back to the quiet part of the island, just to check our bearings. Passing our hotel, we agreed that it was time for dinner. Up the road a bit we found a fish place that promised a lovely sunset view. Though Andy and I aren’t really fish eaters, especially when we don’t know anything about the fish being served, we gave it a try. It turned out not to be the best idea. I’m sure the food was good, but it was too rich for our systems. I’d never had Greek fried cheese before and I doubt I will again. It’s pretty much what you’d expect. We also had tzatziki, which is great, and eggplant salad and sour cheese dips. No pita, though.

And, because it was so windy, they kept the translucent plastic shades drawn, so you couldn’t really see the sunset. Oh, well. We boxed what we couldn’t eat returned to the road. It was dark, which made us a bit nervous, so we took it very slow. Luckily our hotel was just a few minutes away. We got into our room and headed off to sleep, ready for more moto adventures. We plan to get all the way to the other end of the island tomorrow, seeing lots more along the way.

Day 12 | Day 14

August 3 - Athens (written by Andy)

2011-08-03T16:01:00.000-07:00

We began our day getting to know the seemingly always crowded Athens metro system, vectoring a path to a park where, according to some historians, Plato's Academy was founded 387 BCE. As is our custom, we emerged from the station thoroughly disoriented - only to spend about 20 minutes just figuring out our cardinal directions. At first I'd exclaim with confidence, "Look, there's the sun in the east; so we should go in that direction.” I'd be right too. Only, after two or three turns I'd discover, "Damn it! We're walking toward the sun again!" Eventually we found the right path and commenced a trudging march past buildings that seem to be held up by graffiti. Athens had recently suffered bouts of urban unrest, and the signs portended of more violence to come.

The park itself was a disappointment. In the sweltering heat we found a basketball court and some playground equipment. Kids were laughing nearby and old men were keeping cool in small cafes across the street. Behind a rusting fence we spotted some barely unearthed stone and a sign for the "ancient road to Plato's Academy." Somewhere among these blocks, I'd read, more of the original site was being excavated. Yet the pictures didn't look much more impressive. I guess that's what you'd expect when searching for material evidence of a life of the mind.

Feeling a bit guilty about our initially underwhelming destination, I turned the day over to Jenny who was determined to use up each of our tickets that came from yesterday’s Acropolis visit. That's how we found ourselves meandering alongside the quiet columns of the Temple of Olympian Zeus near Hadrian's Arch. Afterward we returned to the Plaka for some lunch, allowing ourselves to be drawn off the road by a fellow promising that his restaurant serves the best food in Athens. Actually it was pretty good, though Jenny and I stuck with our typical diet of pita, moussaka, and kebabs. The wandering accordion player was a nice touch.

Ever keen on using our Acropolis tickets, Jenny pointed us toward the Theater of Dionysus. I savored the opportunity to imagine myself exhorting the Greek masses toward some grand vision of democracy, stretching my arms outward to the invisibly assembled company and wishing I'd committed some of Pericles' funeral oration to memory. At that point we both had enjoyed our fill of walking the dusty streets and planned to nap a while in our hotel. But when our metro passed by a cluster of folks walking among ruins outside our window, I knew we had to check this place out.

Happily, this site turned out to be the Greek agora. Our first stop was the Temple of Hephaistos, patron of metal-working. As with the other temples, we found that location is protected by pleasant but stern women who carry walkie-talkies and keep a careful watch against anyone who would remove so much as a stone from the ground. Jenny and I took turns taking pictures, using hand gestures and smiles to navigate a United Nations of touristic shutterbugs. Then we surveyed the expanse of the agora.

Naturally I found myself remembering stories of Socrates and his interlocutors discussing justice, debating the meaning of "the good," and debating the value of rhetoric. Could it have been here, in this place, that these conversations took place? We may never know. Socrates himself is more of a collection of second-hand reports than an actual person. And the agora has been built up and torn down so many times by so many invading armies and self-aggrandizing politicians that only the most dogged historians could claim to know what layer of patina one sees here. Fortunately a nearby museum offers some context, along with an amazing collection of ordinary stuff: wine vessels, children's toys, cooking utensils, and even a complex device built to select citizens for jury duty.

For dinner we returned to the restaurant we enjoyed last night, sharing handshakes with our waiter and negotiating with his entreaties that we try new things. It's always such a treat when someone at a business seems to express genuine interest in a customer, and that has been our general experience with folks we've met thus far. This country is undergoing dramatic fiscal and social upheaval. The tense conversations of men playing cards and the dazed expressions of people riding the metro express the feeling that things have changed. At the same time, the warmth of smiles encountered during our visit convinced us that things may work out for Greece after all.

Day 11 | Day 13

August 2 - Athens (written by Jenny)

2011-08-02T10:18:00.000-07:00

Today we left Budapest. I have to say that we found lots to love about this city, even though we though it’d have no chance against Prague. Castle Hill, the Parliament and Basilica were all gorgeous, especially at night. I even enjoyed Memento Park with all of those Communist statues. It was quite interesting. But it was time to move on to Athens!

The flight was uneventful, though metro ride into Athens began with a 40 minute wait and then a long slog into town. Happily, we were rewarded for our patience. As we stepped onto Thessio station, we turned to see the Acropolis rising above us! We were stunned. We knew that our hotel was nearby, but we had no idea how close we were to a place that had captured my imagination since elementary school. Andy snapped a quick shot (maybe he thought the Acropolis might disappear while we were checking into our hotel!) and then we headed off to find our room. The Jason Hotel turned out to be lovely – though in a rough neighborhood. It boasts a rooftop restaurant whose view of the Acropolis is simply amazing.

True to form, we had hardly dropped off our bags before Andy insisted that we bound up that hill. It was about 5 p.m., so I was skeptical that we could get in and see much. But Andy couldn’t wait. We walked along a pedestrian walkway lined with vendors selling jewelry and trinkets. Sometimes we saw bored looking fellows selling jelly-like balls. The vendor slaps one down and gazes up in anticipation as the thing flattens like a pancake before reforming into a ball. “Huh? Huh?” his expression would plead. It looked like a miserable job, selling those things.

As we walked up the steep incline, we found ourselves caring less about the Acropolis and more about getting something cold to drink. Right at that moment we spotted a little vendor selling frozen lemonade and other drinks. These folks know a bit about product placement. After a rest and some refreshment we were ready to see thousands of years of history. Standing on that hilltop, we surveyed the city below. It was stunning - especially that view over the Theater of Herodion. It has been renovated and is now used for actual performances (I think Yanni played there).

The Acropolis itself was more impressive than either of us had anticipated, especially the Parthenon. If you’re like me, you have only heard or read about this in history class. I never thought I’d actually be standing next to the structure built over 2,400 years ago. Coming from the U.S., I’m not used to structures that old. Sure we’ve seen Mesa Verde, where a civilization lived thousands of years ago in cities carved upon cliffsides. But these immense Greek are not carved out of rock; they’re built up from the ground. That they have lasted this long is truly impressive. Andy was off taking lots of pictures while I meandered through more slowly, taking it all in.

I also really loved the Erechtheion where statues of ladies (the Caryatids) stand in graceful repose as pillars. They are the only statues still on the Acropolis and are quite beautiful. The view from all around the Acropolis is amazing, and we loved the fact that we could actually walk around and through it (though we couldn’t get close enough to touch the Parthenon or many of the other structures). But we were both awestruck.

The best part was the light. Since we arrived in late afternoon, we saw a wonderful warm light that set the hilltop aglow in reddish orange. Finally, when it was time to leave, we noticed another hilltop just off to the side. Andy exclaimed, “That must be Mars Hill!” I was perplexed, having never heard of this place. So we went to explore. One of Andy’s colleagues, David Terry, spent six months here, much of it on Mars Hill. He eventually published an article about the performances of tourists and locals who hang around this historic site.

Following David’s example, we chatted with people on the hill and thus learned something new. It turns out that this is the place where Paul preached! I had no idea, but I learned about this dimension of Mars Hill while talking with a group of protestant missionaries. Mars hill was beautiful but slippery. The marble was so smooth that we had to walk carefully. It is so easy to slip and fall! It is also a great place to get a picture of Acropolis.

We made our way down the hill another way, toward the Ancient Agora, and later we spent some time bumming around the Plaka. There were lots of stores for shopping and restaurants: a loud and busy part of town. As we wandered around, looking for a good but less expensive place to eat, restaurant owners would greet us, promising that they sold the best food in Athens. One even kissed me on both cheeks, assuring me (and Andy, smiling awkwardly nearby) that I was beautiful - and would be especially charmed by his restaurant. Unfortunately I was less charmed by the high prices on the menu, so we kept walking.

We settled on a place called Centrale. It was time for some Greek food! Andy got the kebabs and I got the moussaka. The food was great and the prices were reasonable. We sat outside and watched as tourists promenaded into the evening. Later, we found some tasty gelato for dessert and then returned to our room. Another great day.

Day 10 | Day 12

August 1 - Budapest (written by Andy)

2011-08-01T19:52:00.000-07:00

We worked hard for a vacation day, hiking all over Budapest and traveling some distance away from town to further quench my thirst for retro-communism. At Jenny's recommendation we started by climbing the steps to a hill that overlooks the Danube on the Buda side of the river. There we walked at a slow pace, savoring the views and grooving on the quiet of a medieval village that hasn't been turned entirely into a Disney-fied version of itself. For lunch, Jenny sampled some goulash soup while I downed a regrettable slice of pizza. Oh, well. At least there was dessert, a Kürtőskalács pastry horn that tasted like a crunchy doughnut.

They say the steps downhill are than the uphill climb - harder on the knees at least - but I cheered each clomp toward the river and across Chain Bridge, because blue skies had finally begun to peek through the clouds. For a while we checked out St. Stephen's Basilica, which is perhaps most notable for showcasing the hand of Saint Stephen I who lived more than 1,000 years ago and is viewed by most Hungarians as the father of their country. Jenny found the display a little weird, wondering often afterward just how sure they were that this particular hand belonged to this particular guy. After ten centuries, how could they know for sure?

We'd hardly been on the Pest side an hour before I decided that we had to grab a metro back across the river to photograph Budapest's neo-gothic parliament building in glorious afternoon light. Jenny, ever flexible, agreed and we returned to one of Budapest's impressively ancient subway cars for the ride. Topside, looking out over the Danube, I remember another photographer grinning at me as we both studied the departing clouds, waiting for them to slowly spin apart enough to let the sun shine fully upon the building's facade. Once more I recalled William Gibson's words on the subject: "Architectural photography can involve a lot of waiting; the building becomes a kind of sundial, while you wait for a shadow to crawl away from a detail you want, or for the mass and balance of the structure to reveal itself in a certain way."

Throughout the day I'd made my peace with the fact that we'd probably not see one place that had attracted me to this town, Memento Park. I'd read that the Park boasts a collection of Soviet-era statues that had been torn down elsewhere and, rather than face demolition, were collected into this place. Our day's organization had precluded use of the tram that occasionally runs well out of town directly to the Park, and I've never been too excited about figuring out local bus systems.

Purse-snatching sign on Budapest bus

Metros, I can handle. Jenny, however, was feeling adventuresome (and she has the patience to sort through the picayune details), so she spread out the maps and charted a course. We found a tram and, after a few stops in the wrong direction, and alighted at a bus stop heading out of town. Then, after dropping off and picking up passengers every couple minutes, we arrived at Memento Park - two hours after we left the hotel.

Was it worth it? Well, anything that demands such time had better be worth the hassle. Actually, though the place was smaller than I expected, I was enchanted and saddened with the array of Communist-era art. At Memento Park, a vanguard of the revolution races toward the Worker's Paradise, carrying a flag that streams behind him. Elsewhere, stern but heroic women in bronze stand quiet and forthright, ready to bear any burden to help unleash the utopia that would never come. The sun was setting, casting long shadows, and we walked slowly. Maybe five or six other tourists were were snapping pictures in the orange light. Just before the office, with its supposedly original memorabilia and goofy souvenirs, I spotted a new acquisition: a relief of soldiers sharing a fraternal handshake. They were lying on the ground, like cheerful corpses, next to an upright statue wrapped in plastic. When it was time to go, Jenny and I sat a while at a lonely bus stop while the sky turned pink. I imagined us waiting for a ride that might never come, far away from the city. But the bus eventually lumbered along and we drove another hour back to the city.

Back in Budapest, Jenny and I walked along the Danube once more, holding hands. Lamp posts cast yellow streaks over the water and we felt like we were inhabiting the kind of romantic movie that our grandparents might have watched. The evening was winding down when I spotted a guy hunched over on the sidewalk, using a spray can to paint a stencil onto the concrete. I'd been searching for spray art in every town we'd visited, but I never thought we'd see someone producing the stuff. I was flummoxed. Should I try to get picture, or should I avoid looking any more like a tourist than I already do? I'd decided to keep moving when Jenny insisted I turn around ("30 seconds later it would have started eating at your craw and you would have insisted we go back anyway!"). She was right, naturally, and I met him and his crew of pals who'd committed to painting fish around town to protest the Danube's declining water life. They were friendly, earnest folks who enjoyed talking about their project and offered me a map for their other spraying locations. I felt silly about my initial anxiety. How scary can anyone be who would spray paint fish onto the pavement?

We wandered a bit some more, searching for a place to grab dinner. Dodging taxis we crossed streets and quiet roads before spotting the glow of the basilica we'd visited earlier that day. Once more Jenny requested a bowl of goulash soup, and once again I opted for a regrettable piece of pizza. Nearby, a drunken group of revelers began belting out four part harmony that attained nearly operatic quality. A comfy bed waited just a few metro stops away.

Day 9 | Day 11

July 31 - Prague (written by Jenny)

2011-07-31T20:55:00.000-07:00

Our second day in Prague and as soon as we get out of the hotel we know it will be a better day than yesterday. With the sky still grey but with less rain, we can walk without the use of umbrellas. I can appreciate this gorgeous city a whole lot more when I can look up and see things! And did I mention I love the night trains? Go to sleep and then wake up in a new place! And what a time saver! We have two full days in Prague with just one night because we didn’t have to use our days for travel. I love it!

We did so much today I don’t know where to begin. I guess I should start with the mundane; we got a new camera. It had to be done because there’s no way we could go the rest of this trip without it. But it seems like every two years we have to buy a new camera on a trip. I know we’ve done it at least three times. But it’s worth it so we can save our memories. Plus, it wasn’t that arduous. We researched a bit last night and then got a Canon PowerShot (the European version, at least). It seems to work just fine for what we need.

The fun stuff began with climbing the tower at the Old Town Hall in the square. This is the tower with the astronomical clock, and it has an amazing view of the city. You can see all the way to the castle and the Petrin Tower, with all those lovely red roofs speckled with towers and cathedrals along the way. While we were up there, the hour passed, and not only did the clocks go off below but a trumpeter came out and played the traditional tune that is played every hour. I grew to love that sound. I came to dread it too, as it meant another hour past. But it’s always a lot of fun to hear the trumpeter and see his red and yellow flag-like sleeve wave in the air when he’s done. There are lots of neat traditions that they carry on these days. Another one is the uniformed guards at the Charles Bridge towers and at the castle. It’s like going back in time.

We made our way to the Charles Bridge, always stopping along the way to look at shops or take pictures of whatever caught our fancy. We finally began to know our way through the streets that wind around closely packed buildings. But every street is charming, with cobblestones and beautiful old architecture, so even when we get lost, it’s OK because we enjoyed everything we saw around us. We found a spot just south of the bridge that juts out into the river, which allowed us a great shot of the bridge and castle: a great view for self-portraits.

On the other side of the bridge we found the John Lennon memorial wall. We’re not sure why there is a John Lennon memorial wall in Prague, but I suppose it’s because he did some cool things here or lived here at some point. Anyway, it is a living monument where people come along and paint or write whatever they want in remembrance of the beloved Beatle. Unfortunately, the message has degenerated over the years as other kinds of graffiti often obscure the original message. Who knows? Maybe that was the original intention and John Lennon wouldn’t have minded. It was a pretty neat thing to see, anyway.

A block or two away was another interesting cultural piece: an iron fence covered with locks. Again, we couldn’t figure out the purpose of this site, but we loved the idea of people adding to the artwork by donating locks. Throughout our trip we saw other similar collections. I think I overheard someone say that lovers lock their promises at these places. How romantic!

Our next wanderings led us through the “Lesser Town," up the steep hills toward the castle. The walk was a bit arduous, but we knew it would be worth it. We headed to the Strahov Monastery. I had seen some pictures of the chapel here, and it is gorgeous, so we thought we’d give it a try. It was a bit disappointing, though, because we paid about $3 for each of our tickets but didn’t find out until the end that we weren’t allowed to even go into the chapel. We saw several other beautiful rooms, some with paintings on the ceilings and ornate pulpits, even a funeral casket. Sorry, we often couldn’t read the descriptions, since they were in Czech. We did get to peer into the chapel from an outside door with windows, but we couldn’t really see much.

Afterward, on our way to the castle, we stopped for a quick lunch and encountered another stern waiter. This one just outright said that he had no tap water. Yeah, right. No matter, the castle was stunning! We started by seeing some gorgeous views of the whole city from the hilltop. The castle gate had two motionless guards in light-blue uniforms, one on each side. Once you walked through the gate, you were standing at the foot of a huge cathedral with ornate details. We could go into the cathedral, but we didn’t feel like paying for pricey tickets. Pictures from the back were fine with us. It was stunning enough from there. Stained-glass windows in mosaic styles showed the twelve apostles. Vaulted ceilings drew our eyes upward, and the pulpit was magnificent, even from a distance. We took our photos, but they wouldn’t allow Andy to use his tripod, which is typical for these places.

Outside we walked around the cathedral. We couldn’t learn much about the details, but it was lovely all the same. From one point, on our way out of the complex, we looked down again at the city. Not far from the castle, but at the bottom of the big hill, we saw a place that was all black and looked burned out. We decided that when we got down we’d look for that spot, and we’re glad we did.

We walked down the old castle stairs. There are also the newer castle stairs, but these seemed a better idea. We found our way to the building that was surrounded by a wall. Before too long we spotted a doorway. To our surprise, there was no entrance fee, so we just walked in to discover a beautiful garden. There was a lovely pool of water and hedges that formed pathways toward that burned-out area. On our walk through, we spotted a white peacock with her two chicks: a gorgeous bird with a crown of feathers on her head and the two chicks sticking close to her all the time. We got a bit sidetracked from our objective. We loved watching those peacocks.

Getting back on track, we meandered through the hedges to a back garden area in front of a large building marked “Senate.” Oh, so this was where the Senate meets, which kind of explains why the gardens were free. And just beyond the Senate building, we found the spot we’d been looking for. Only it wasn’t a burned-out building. It was actually part of the garden, and the black stuff we thought was charred remains was actually an artificial rock wall. It looked like it had been melted and dripped on. It had stalactites of dripping rock mingled with greenery and flowers. The placard said that it was meant to convey a blurring of artificial and natural elements. And that there were faces of monsters mixed into the rock to add a sense of mystery. We had to look hard, but we finally saw those creepy faces in the wall. What a creative addition to the garden! Nearby, owls kept a close eye on us from a large cage. And not far away, an alcove leading up to a building contained gorgeous paintings that hung form the ceiling. We were glad that we were led to this beautiful garden.

On our way back to the Charles Bridge, we found a spot by the river where we could photograph that romantic walkway from another angle. Not far from there was a real treat: a Franz Kafka museum. Though we didn’t go in, we were able to see the interesting sculpture in the courtyard of two naked men peeing. Yeah, it’s pretty much exactly what you expect, except the men were green with stripes, like they were created with layers. Andy, of course, was enthralled and made a video of it from several angles.

On the other end of the Bridge, just as we were about to come off of it, we heard music and saw people lined up looking over the edge. Well, of course we had to investigate! Though it was hard to see over the people, we caught a glimpse of two ballet dancers on a travelling boat stage who were practicing their art before a group of enthralled tourists. Andy found a good spot from which to see, so we stayed and watched for a few minutes. I love finding musical performances spontaneously, especially such beautiful ones. It’s these kinds of things that add the magic to each city.

We made our way back to the old town square to pick up our camera and get some dinner. We wanted to try the little stands selling ham on spits and sausage over the open fire. It just looked good and we thought it must be a bit cheaper than other places. Well it was tasty but not cheaper. Still, we got our fill of great food and then got some chocolate from a nearby shop. Really we were just waiting for the town hall clock to chime again. I wanted to get some good footage of the twelve apostles that circle two by two from tiny little doors every hour. This time was much better than yesterday because there wasn’t a bunch of umbrellas in the way. Andy got some great footage and, once more, we saw that wonderful trumpeter.

The last thing I wanted to do in Prague before getting on our night train was to get a good picture of the Charles Bridge and the castle at night, all lit up. So we took one more walk. While we waited for the darkness to come, we heard more music coming from the stage on the river. There was a lovely soprano opera singer performing a beautiful piece. Right afterward we saw another ballet couple performing something a bit more edgy (I could tell from the style of the woman’s red dress). I know these weren’t spontaneous shows, but I loved them anyway. We did capture some beautiful shots and then it was time to go. We knew we would miss this lovely city, and we wanted to preserve our memories.

From here, we took our first underground back to our hotel, grabbed our bags, and got right back on the metro. Our goal was the train station at the other side of town. Of course we were there a bit early so spent some time writing and editing photos. The train came right on time and we grabbed our sleeper cabin and got ready for bed. But the next thing we noticed was that we were stopping in the train station near our hotel. Shoot! That meant that we could have spent about another hour out in the city instead of going all over town and waiting at the first station. Well, there was nothing we could do about it, so we settled in for a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow we hit Budapest, Hungary. Another new city, another new undiscovered country!

Day 8 | Day 10