Last night our oldest came home from work to unwind and recount stories about their shift and the people he encountered. A common theme is a person will walk in and wanting either the bathroom code or a cup of water. He would love to give both out freely and corporate says in both of these instances they must be customers and he is duty bound to ask.

In most instances the folks acquiesce, others speak of physical ailments in protest and yet others direct their ire at an employee who would like to keep their job. I have to admit that when he told me about the water, I remember hearing that it was in fact some law saying that establishments that serve food had to give out water without requiring payment. We decided to ask the LLM about what the requirement was for establishments like the one our oldest works for. It came back with the affirmation that yes businesses such as these were required to give cups of water out to anyone who asked regardless of customer status and it cited a California Health and Safety Code as well! Looked very official, HSC 114259.1. It was late and I was ready to call this a win for my memory and a side eye at the corporation that was clearly skirting the law. He thought it odd that a big entity would do this though, and asked if that made any sense to me.

It didn’t. So I opened the computer back up, and copied the California Health and Safety Code cited by the LLM.

California Code, Health and Safety Code - HSC § 114259.1

The premises of each food facility shall be kept free of vermin.

If you’ve ever seen a more clear case of hallucination I can’t think of it. Given that reddit had some hand in a lot of training, this particular hallucination may be traceable back to some troll.

We both laughed and I did more “research” by scouring the internet for any actual reference to a code that would require water to be given out. In fact, California has emergency regulations on the books enacted during drought users restricting restaurants, bars and cafeterias from serving water unless a customer requests it (California Water Code 1058.5). This also does not mean that these establishments are forbidden from giving out water as a matter of course, but an emergency regulation that is enacted during drought years. It promotes responsible water use in a state that is always on the brink.

How can the LLM have gotten it so wrong? In fact, the prompt was likely too vague and assumed research that by default it wasn’t going to bother to do, just blindly go along generating plausible-sounding responses based on patterns in its training data and confidently proclaiming numbers that made no sense. We of course admonished the poor AGI wannabe and asked it to think about it again and research the web to find any codes given the first one was so wrong. It apologized profusely (of course), and said that no, in fact, no state in the country has a code requiring an establishment to offer water to individuals who are not customers. It’s a matter of policy in most instances. This is likely different depending on country.

What can we learn about this? When using an LLM and asking it research related queries that you would have gone to a search engine before, ask specifically for it to look this up on the web and provide references. Before taking an LLM at it’s probability-induced word, click the links and ensure you trust what was written.

Stay safe out there friends.

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When you visit a new city, one of the oft mentioned locations to visit mentioned by friends, churches. Many are beautiful, some are grand, others are just old and evoke an emotion because they've withstood the test of time. Most travelers use them to "check the box" next to "seen it" on their ever growing list of what you must see when visiting a new locale.

La Sagrada Familia is an adventure.

Upon exiting the metro, a quick look around shows an amusing picture of hundreds of people looking, up. And as you follow their gaze one cannot help but angle your neck and stare in complete awe. The basilica is unique and gives off a first impression unlike any other church I've seen in the world. St. Peter's, in the Vatican, was the only other church I have visited where upon viewing it was taken aback in awe and wonderment. And yet, this church was something more, it wasn't mega or well-known to me, it was not architecture you expect from a catholic church.

I spent the better part of an hour outside. Upon the advice of a friend who had visited Gaudi's church and she spoke of the story and history behind the church as immensely interesting, I decided to buy an audio guide. I never do that. The guide though, was entertaining, and had me pouring over little details, the facade, the magic square that adds up to 33 (Jesus's age of death). As I hit 4 on my audio guide, it instructed me to walk inside.

It was breathtaking.

From the colored glass, to the tree-like columns, the flower adorning the ceilings, the spiral staircase that evoked a snail. My first reaction to this church was so strong, I was a bit emotional, and stood a few steps inside the church in the same place for a long time. Walking through the church with the audio guide droning in my ear, I marveled at the littlest details. As I walked it was clear that nature played a huge role in Gaudi's architecture which was only further solidified by the exhibition they have on the far end of the church detailing all of the numerous ways he used nature in his design. The rear exit of the church brings you yet another facade, completely different style, and equally marvelous.

I took many pictures of the church, inside, outside, but I've only looked at a few as I don't quite know how anyone could capture or evoke the emotion that comes from seeing this place. One of the most fascinating things about this masterpiece is, it isn't finished. And Antoni Gaudi has been dead for nearly a century. When he was still alive, he knew he couldn't finish it and left instructions as to how he wished the remainder would be constructed and designed. And there have been additions to the church toward that end goal ever since.

As things to see go, I am overjoyed that I decided to see this while in Barcelona. It isn't to be missed.

A scant few cars on the road, the search for a taxi stand consumed both bleary eyed travelers. Both departing after a successful 48 hour experiment in spontaneity. Rain from the previous night saw the streets glisten in the moonlit darkness of early morning. He opened the taxi door for his companion, having brief flashes of the same event over their brief time together. They sat side-by-side and a million miles away. She reached for his hand and lazily caressed it as they glided through town. Each stole glances at one another during the drive. In less than an hour they would part ways, with no future plans. Every beginning must soon end.

The air in the taxi was filled with tension. A few kisses were stolen between awkward pauses- no words. A month before they had just met, casual flirting in a group, dancing and romantic touches. The venue was professional and the music was loud enough to necessitate a more intimate dialog, cheek to cheek, the whispers tickling the ears. A physical attraction and connection formed that night, laughing and dancing with drinks flowing and not a care in the world.

They would send random emails to each other over the ensuing weeks. Just a month later, chance would bring them back together. An unknown city for both, and a brief love that would last only a moment.

The taxi arrived at the train station, driver paid, bags prominently sitting on the curb at attention waiting for their next assignment. Her train had arrived moments before they entered, the car ride momentarily forgotten to allay the confusion surrounding what track to board. The wheels on the pull-cart luggage made a knocking sound for every break in the concrete as they walked. He held her ticket in his hand, fidgeting and playing with it as they got closer to the door. The briefest of pauses, both still delirious from the early morning hour, a glance deep into each others eyes. Searching... And then an unconscious smile from each, a momentary embrace and kiss. He stepped down from the platform, the train closed its doors and pushed away.

Joy. And a bit of longing.

This morning I read an article at Yahoo about a handful of states -- California, Georgia, and Massachusetts are adding cursive as a requirement in the curriculum. And while these select states are ensuring children will learn this skill, other states are leaving it optional (read: don't bother) like Indiana, Illinois, and Hawai'i.

The article hinges on an argument that in the age of technology, where typing, and texting, and computer usage has flourished, who needs this archaic method of capturing thoughts on paper? And for that matter, who uses paper anymore? Or being able to add / subtract / multiply / divide in your head? Just use a calculator, duh! They call out "experts" who proudly proclaim that in the age of computers, typing is more important.

Deplorable. Typing is definitely a skill that most kids should have, and probably already do have without help from a school (and no, I'm not talking about thumb wars on your mobile phone typing LOL, that doesn't count). Does typing benefit your brain in any positive way equivalent to cursive? No. It's a simple skill that only utilizes one hemisphere of the brain, while cursive crosses the corpus collosum and fosters both hemisphere brain development.

Cursive is a vital skill to help build the cognitive ability of a child. Fine motor skills are enhanced greatly through cursive writing. Forming letters by tracing and later your own spatial abilities, using differing shapes, sizes, and angles all while focused intently on the task at hand. It is essentially linking together our motions and movements of the body, with the mind in a way that typing and block letter writing don't achieve.

If we're looking to raise children as only minds without bodies, by all means, no more cursive, and don't bother learning your times tables. I see a different future for our kids. Whole brain learning tied together with sensory motor activities involved with writing cursive, should be mandatory in every state. And we should rethink calling anyone an expert who espouses the dumbing down of our children by removing a skill that does so much, so early in their life.

Teach the whole child.

And if you'd like to utilize technology and marry it with the skills of cursive writing, Cursive Touch and Write is an iOS app which can teach your kids how to write cursive in a fun way, that sticks (I'm not affiliated in any way with the app developer). This isn't an either/or world, technology can be used to enhance teaching methods that already exist today.

The smiles I saw tonight were of pure elation and joy. I felt it important for me to highlight our experience as I remember it.

The game was set to start at 6:30pm, and we had a 45 minute drive to get there. You slept for more than half of the ride, and woke when we finally got close enough to the parking for an attendant to speak into the car directing us where to go. We donned our new Lakers jerseys before walking into the STAPLES center. You had the look of wonder and amazement, and no idea what any of it all meant. You were hanging out with your dad, and that was enough.

I explained the rules, in broad strokes, and we sat and watched the introduction of the players, the tip-off, and the game. Everyone that night who met you, said you were the coolest kid. I watched with pride as you handled yourself in this social situation, and gave you a nudge when I felt you needed one. We watched as the score was 111 to 98, Lakers were up, and you predicted they would get 119 in the end.

You stayed awake the entire ride home. Perhaps it was the peanut butter cup cookie from the dessert cart, or it was so you could write up on my whiteboard the final score. You were right. It ended the way you predicted, and it was better than I could have imagined.

A photo I took in Madrid prompted this exploration of what is occurring with the couple in the photo. I decided to imagine him writing her a letter...

Crafting email that is at once witty and thoughtful is something I strive for but believe I'll miss the mark this time. What can I say? You've consumed my mind at times, as I've been dating and interacting with other women I haven't found a smile worth keeping around for very long.

That's not entirely true. At times I've found the distance in my mind is shorter than the length of my heart to find your sweet smile. Other times, it couldn't be farther away. I seem to fall madly and deeply in love with an idea, with a fascination of what you actually **might** be like to love forever. In reality the perception in my mind is but a mere fantasy that I've concocted of the perfect woman. Could that be you? Yes. Is it fair of me to thrust that image I have onto you? No, of course not.
So all at once I seek the beauty in your smile, the strength in which you carry yourself, and the self esteem that emanates through the care you take in your appearance. All at once I've been left speechless by your stunning beauty and style, even for a mere outing that for most girls would not merit anything fancier than jeans and a shirt.
I am rambling, but i think what this comes down to, is my need for the **idea** of you to be close in my life. And that doesn't come **from** you, for you are a mere representation of a projection that I have created, one that appears to be lacking in my life.
The only thing I'd like from you, is to listen and hear me when I say a profound and deeply gratitude inspired thank you. Our time together was fabulous. And my only wish is that our paths cross again, each time being much sooner than the last until the real you is someone I can be consumed by, in the real world.

-Me

How do you get to Carnegie Hall? Practice.

How do you get to Staatsoper Wien? Either you pay over 100€, or you pay with your time, and a bit of comfort, by standing in line four separate times, the last being paired up before finally walking into the performance space.

The most magical thing about Vienna so far, was my introduction to the world of opera by way of Mozart's "Don Giovanni". An Italian sung opera, with translations in German and English being streamed just below where my scarf lay in wait, to be reapplied to the neck after serving its spot-saving task for the night. The hours spent in line were shortened considerably by the Icelandic girl who travels and lives longer in most places other than her home, her sister the classical singer who loves Mozart, and the Indian girl who lives in London, from Bombay, and is traveling Europe for the next 45 days. Entertaining even was the Austrian man in front of me who spoke briefly to answer the question of "when does the performance start?" and then chose to never speak again. And even the Moby look-alike who I was paired up with to enter the theatre, but kept his nose firmly planted in a German-written book, which apparently was quite hilarious.

Standing next to me during the performance was a lovely Austrian woman who had seen the performance a few years ago, before they changed it, and a Chilean flute player who had performed this particular opera, studied under one of the players in the production, and hoped one day to perform at the Staatsoper in Wien. Adding color for the evening was a 40-year veteran performer of opera from Philadelphia who pegged me as a singer or musician of some kind because of a voice that he remarked held lots of resonance. We talked several times during intermission, before, after, and he proved to be a handy guide.

Don Giovanni was simply a breathtaking performance. At times I was left feeling like I should watch the translations while eagerly paying attention to the stage, and the beautiful music. When I learned enough in the intermission to read a synopsis of the opera on the internet, I leaned head in hands and reveled at the voices and instruments that echoed deep into my heart. It was a lovely night with only the mildest discomfort at standing for hours, and the large payoff of an experience I'll never forget. At times you felt a kinship, then a disgust, and finally perhaps a bit of sadness for Don Giovanni. He was a man who gave no apology for his wanton desire, and left many in heartbreak and distraught throughout his reign. Such a powerful opera for my first, looking forward to more.

I may be inclined to repeat this voyage on Friday as well, for the experience proved more than worthy of my time. On a train to Salzburg for the day, and I may be found frolicking up a hilly slope singing songs no Austrian has heard for a thousand years, but have become inundated with over what probably seems long enough since that movie.

So long, farewell, auf wiedersehen goodnight...

His hand lazily grazed along the opposite side of the bed. It was empty. Josh wiped the sleep from his eyes and looked around the room for his girl. He found her, leaning against the bathroom door, applying hand lotion and watching him intently. She couldn’t help but smile, as he fixed his gaze upon her. Without taking her eyes off of him, Carolina walked to the foot of the bed, and in a sultry manner, pawed her way over to him on all fours, collapsing into him with a deep kiss.

This was how their weekend mornings usually began. Today was extra special, it was their one-year anniversary. She broke away and straddled his chest. He looked up at her, she was donning one of his dress shirts with a sly mischievous grin.

“You still haven’t told me where we’re going!” she exclaimed.

“And, I’m not going to either” he replied, laughing.

She loved his ability to control her in situations like this. At that moment, she decided to give him the first of his anniversary presents for the day. She pulled off the dress shirt she wore, and in one unseen motion unclasped her bra to let her breasts free. She fell into him, and they made love.

In the afterglow, when she was sure he would be at his weakest resolve, she attempted once again, “So, baby, where are we going?”

“You’ll see,” he said before drifting off for a quick nap. She let him sleep.

They left the house in the early afternoon and jumped on the freeway. The only thing he asked her to bring, was hiking attire, and herself. He wore similar attire. As much as she pleaded, he wouldn’t tell her anything about where they were going. They exited the freeway and headed toward a small airport. She was visibly confused. Pushing her confusion near the breaking point was when Josh drove his car out on the runway and toward a small plane.

“Uh, Josh baby, what are we doing?” she said bewildered.

“You know that I finally got my pilot license after all that hard work. So, I thought we’d take a quick trip up to Napa and celebrate” he exclaimed excitedly.

“Well, are you coming?” he said as he motioned toward the open door of the small plane.

He led her into the seat next to him, and after getting her situated, prepped the plane for takeoff. After what seemed like only a brief moment, they were taxiing down the runway and in the air. It was the most beautiful time she had ever experienced. She was savoring being miles up in the sky, with her man, blazing the trail ahead. The landing, and car trip to the winery went by like a blur. It was early evening now, and he led her to a grass field overlooking a sea of grapes. There, amidst the beautiful vineyard backdrop, was a plaid blanket where she could see a bottle of wine with two glasses, and three covered plates that appeared to be holding dinner.

“Oh my god Josh, how did you plan all this!”

He just looked at her with a big smile, knowing that his plan was a success. “Sit down baby, let’s enjoy”

He deftly popped open the bottle of wine and poured a glass for each of them. Raising his glass in the air, he said “I love you.” She attempted in vain to hold back tears of joy and sniffling said, “I love you too baby!” They both took a healthy swig and set the glasses down. “Let’s eat!” he exclaimed.

There were three platters set out on the blanket, one next to each of them, and one in the center. As Carolina opened up her platter, she gasped and let out a shriek of excitement. Josh smiled, and pulled the tiny box from under the platter and got down on one knee by her side. He said only two words as he looked up at her, “Marry me.”

“Yes! Yes, yes. A thousand times yes!”

* * *

Several weeks had gone by after the successful proposal. They were happy. Both of them sat down to dinner at Josh’s place.

“I want to spend six months, backpacking around Europe.” Carolina remarked as they were having dinner.

“That sounds like a blast, but you know I just got this job a few months ago, and that wouldn’t look very good.” answered Josh.

“I know baby, I know in my heart, and deep in my soul, that I need this, before we dedicate our lives to each other.” she responded.

“And, I was planning to go alone,” she said hesitantly.

Silence. The emotions causing turmoil in his mind would not subside, and he was unable to think clearly.

“Say something,” she pleaded.

“I need some time, I don’t know how I feel about this right now!” he exclaimed, gave her an intense look before walking off toward the door. The dinner table shook as he slammed the front door shut.

There was an uneasy tension between them for several days. He couldn’t bring himself to discuss it without letting his emotions take over. Carolina had made it clear that this was something she had to do before getting married. Before it got to be too much, he sat her down in the living room, and with a plastered on smile, asked to assist in the planning. She was overjoyed and beaming.

And just like that, the tension had lifted. They made love on the floor of the living room that night, and she fell asleep in his arms.

The next few months they plotted out her grand European adventure. Hostels were definitely going to be preferred, and she wanted to stay long enough in each location to “feel” like a native. They also worked it out with Josh’s new employer that he would join her in the third month for two weeks, in Paris. And they bought a world phone, with video chat capability, so they could talk and see each other as often as they wanted. Josh was happy enough to see this through, so he could have her back and share his life with the women he loved.

He was up early the morning of his future wife’s flight. In order to alleviate his conflicting emotions about her trip, he had taken up writing in a journal. He sat in his familiar position in a chair out on the deck, half deep in thought and scribbling his emotions and rambling thoughts down on paper. The last words he wrote before closing his journal:

If you love her, you have to let her go.

As he began to daydream in the quiet of early morning, she wrapped her arms around his chest, comforting and soothing him.

“Come on baby, I made you some breakfast”, she cooed. He had a soft spot for her cooking. Josh generally enjoyed the excitement around the trip plans, and was holding it together long enough to get her to the airport and see her off. After enjoying a wonderful breakfast he loaded her bags into the trunk of his car and they headed off toward the airport.

He pulled the car into parking and walked her through baggage drop, and up to the security line.

“I guess I’ll talk to you later,” she said breaking the ice.

“I’ll be awake when your plane lands, I know you’ll be tired, but remember to text me when you’re safe.” he was choking up his words.

“I will baby, I love you!” she said as she hugged and kissed him. “I love you too!” he replied. The tears from both were flowing now. Josh wiped his, and broke away to look in her eyes, and wipe the tears from her cheeks.

“I’ll be seeing ya,” he said as she walked through the security line.

Somewhere over the Atlantic the flight cockpit had sent a final cryptic message before losing contact completely. It would later be blamed on a combination of equipment malfunction and pilot error. Josh was napping on the couch and had drifted off to sleep while the TV was on. He awoke to the sound of breaking news about Carolina’s flight. He sat in shock for what felt like hours when his phone rang. Picking up the receiver, he couldn’t muster a response.

“Son, are you watching the news right now” his father was on the other end of the phone. Josh sobbed.

It was nearly two weeks before they were able to provide a semblance of closure for the families of the crashed airliner.

On a brisk morning the families of Carolina and Josh, and his late fiancé’s friends gathered on a private beach to say goodbye. In front of the group, a makeshift podium was anchored in the beach, a giant framed picture of Carolina to the left, and a small table opposite, with an urn carrying her remains. One by one every person who felt called to speak brought out happy memories they shared with Carolina. When Josh slowly made his way to the front, his mere presence left many in tears. He spoke of how they met, and the life he was blessed to share with her. And without sturdy legs to hold him he fell to the sandy floor and broke down crying.

Carolinas father stood up and walked over from his seat, cautiously helped Josh to his feet and embraced him. Her father never said much, but his presence left an impact. He broke away and whispered something in Josh’s ear. As he opened the boys hand, he placed inside, the engagement ring they had recovered from the crash. It was the only thing he had left of her, after letting her go.

Traveling as much as I have recently brings about grand highs, and the lowest of lows. In each of these moments it takes something more than we alone can muster to push us through. Even a grand high needs a careful and steady hand to guide it to the path waiting, at the inevitable plateau.

I’ve been told by many, that while I was in Madrid I should take the thirty minute train to Toledo, and marvel. For reasons of being complete, I had been getting over a little cold with a cough, which had brought about some of my low state. Upon arriving at the train station in Toledo, I was enraptured by a sense of bewilderment, and unable to take the future step toward a specific destination. Aimlessly I wandered from the section where one buys maps, to the tourist bus (I hate these things), to just picking a direction and walking. For me, when I am in a state of overwhelm, the act of speaking to another is usually enough to get me on the road to decision. Knowing this, I chatted up an attendant, and several others came over to offer their thoughts in Spanglish, a map was purchased, and I headed toward the center of town.

A walk is a beautiful thing. It puts you into movement, your mind has time to start bringing to you the items it feels are important for you to process. So a walk can be equally grueling. And my walk to the center of town was definitely no different. It brought up all manner of unhappy thoughts that needed a thorough processing of which I wasn’t ready to do. And so, I kept walking. And reaching town, I marveled. Mostly. At times I sat and stared off into space wondering how I was going to pass the time till my train got me out of there. Other moments I was, of course, photographing things that looked interesting to photograph. And yet other times I sat with iPad and read the latest book I was working on. I was having a wonderfully rich and entertaining time. If the sarcasm isn’t apparent, re-read with jaded colored glasses.

I decided, at that moment, to just pick a direction that I intuited was good, and go. So I walked down random tiny cobblestone streets in this ancient city without seeing a single tourist for twenty minutes. As I walked down a set of stairs that looked no different than any other, in the window over my right shoulder was singing, and piano playing, and it was beautiful, and loud. It was enough to stop me in my tracks, and wonder for a short moment, if it wasn’t a recording, but live. Alas, the backup singers gave away the origin. So I stood there, and pulled out my iPhone to record it. I had to know the song, it was sung with such emotion and depth. I was feeling that exact emotion, at that moment, and some random window in a history filled town was playing this beautiful song and speaking to my soul. My funk in that moment subsided, and I was able to muster a smile.

The remainder of my time in Toledo, anytime I felt a dip in my emotional state, I could recall and feel the uplifting those few moments gave me. When life is coming at you from seemingly every direction, just making a choice sometimes is enough to pull you out of a stuck feeling. Movement, no matter the direction, is what our bodies were designed for

.

We don't make it a habit of guessing the vehicle maker for motorcycles.  Our made-up game of guessing auto makers has been reserved for the 4-wheel variety.  But here outside of Vatican City, the curves, glimmer, and engine roar of these beautiful machines beg for attention.  

"Daddy, what's that one?" asks my little travel partner, pointing at a particularly attractive red motorcycle.

"Nice, right?  Looks like a Ducati, made here in Italy," I reply.

"Why's that?," he questions as only a 5-year-old can ask.

I give him my best description of this particular Italian motorcycle. My embellishment includes sharp tonal shifts and wild hand motions to give it that extra zing.  It must be quite over the top as I spot a pair of old Italian women staring at us quizzically from their chairs outside a shop as we pass.

After I've made an ass of myself, he looks up at me with a quick "Okay, cool."

We keep our leisurely stroll going as I spot the red bike cresting over the hill and out of sight.  I daydream about the Ducati driver now, clearly a female rider wearing tight enough leathers to allow my imagination to run wild.

Just as I'm in a haze of vivid imagery, I nearly trip over my son.  He has a habit of walking right in front of my feet to signal his disdain at the amount of walking he's been forced to endure.  At this point, he's gone less than a block on his own.  

"Daddy, up!," he whines.  I conjure the strength to lessen my annoyed glare.

He's now positioned himself strategically where I have to pay attention.  If I keep walking, he'll keep jumping in front of me, thus risking being knocked over.  Or he'll make a full stop, refuse to move, bend over slightly, drooping his mop top, complaining endlessly about being done with walking.  We've played this game a hundred times already.

I've opted for adding the monkey on my shoulders.

It's at this point I decide we need another game, so I suggest "Name That Tune."  Quite by accident, at a critical moment I discovered that not only does he love guessing the songs, he's really quite good at it.

I start us off humming selections of Maroon 5 - and less than five notes in, he's guessed it.  We continue on like this making our way up the hill to Stazione San Pietro, humming and guessing as we walk, but - let's be honest, I walk. And he rides.  It becomes obvious that the current artist selection is way too easy for my shoulder companion and I decide to switch to The Beatles.

I choose one of my favorites.  He has surprised me by singing this song in airports while we wait for connecting flights, it has made for some interesting and fun moments.  My son is a performer who thrives on attention.  I'm several notes into the song when I hear "All You Need is Love", but the voice doesn't come from the critter with his legs and feet dangling at my chest.

The voice sounds British, one of those accents I find incredibly alluring (thank you Liz Hurley).  I glance to my left to see the voice belongs to the Ducati rider.  My imagination didn't properly fill in what stood before me, dark brown hair with mesmerizing blue eyes.  Her olive skin is smooth and appears perfect save a few freckles, her chest just a bit more than a handful I'd guess and a perfect curve to her hips which are attached to legs that I can only guess are wonderful.  I am now mesmerized, and my active imagination is thinking that she's waited here for us, clearly wanting to play our fun city walking games.  Of course, she is just fishing around the back of her pack for keys.

In this split moment, I'm torn between engaging her with conversation in English, or fumble along in Italian. I've waited too long, I blurt out, "Thanks, uhhh, I mean, grazie."

She looks over at me and smiles, with a slightly mocking "You're welcome, uhh, I mean, prego." We're both giggling a bit at this now.

Looking above my head, she says in perfectly poetic Italian "Che bello bambino!"  My pint-size son giggles at this with his chord laugh, and now we're conversing with the usual exchange of age, name, how long are you here, and more admiration of how cute and adorable my son is. After a few moments of talk, it's clear my shoulders will take no more. I say "Ciao!," and my son follows suit - to which she gives out a big smile as we walk on to the station steps.  I'm about 20 paces from her now and glance over my right shoulder, catching her eyes, and I'm rewarded with another quick smile.  Forward momentum has me drifting down the stairs and within seconds kicking myself for not sticking around longer.  But what more was there to say?

My head swims with the fantasy of it all, and how I royally screwed up and missed the opportunity.  The music box above me has moved on to other songs now and I'm pulled back to the present moment as we cross the station and up toward our rented flat.  I join in and push the thoughts of what could have been behind me.

We've unloaded our stuff, kicked off our shoes, and settled in for the night.  A local church, 200 meters from the apartment, greets us with bells at the local time.  My son has grabbed the laptop and strategically placed it in a spot we discovered accidentally on our first night - no WIFi in the room, but I've successfully co-opted a neighbor who hadn't properly secured his network.  Free Internet.

I've been providing the meals for dinner and breakfast, shopping at the local Carrefour market.  I've got three pots going, laptop is charging, the water heater in the bathroom just kicked on, and it feels a bit hot and stuffy.  I grab the air conditioner remote and flip it on.  

In the next sixty seconds, everything electrical in the house goes dark.  

Food cooking on the electric stove, and the building has lost power.  I saunter over to the laptop and realize that, the WiFi is still connected

• so either I've tapped into another apartment building across the way, or I've killed power to the flat.

My phone has a local SIM, so I grab it and ring the landlord.  She starts in about how many electrical items I have running, and says, "Ah, that's it, then." Too far away to come herself at least for an hour, she says she'll ring her son and see if he's around.  A thought crosses her mind, and she says, "Go across the way, and see if the neighbor is home." While still on the phone, I walk over, but there is no answer.  We hang up, and she says she'll call back shortly.

Great.  Three pots going, and in danger of being soggy by the time I’ll have electricity again.

Just then I hear a door open and shut that sounds close, and decide to give the neighbor one more try.  Ring, ring.  I hear shuffling and a door opening.  And I can't believe who is standing in front of me in leathers, and a smile.

"Uhhh, hello again ... Apparently we're neighbors and.. well, my power went out, and the landlord said that you could..." I'm such a babbling idiot.

"I can reset the breaker for you, no problem.  Whatever that is you're cooking, it smells good," she says as she struts off to where-ever they reset things.

I glance back in the apartment, my son is blissfully unaware and continues to blare YouTube videos from the hacked WiFi.  A few minutes later, the house comes back to life.  I leave the door open, go check on the food, and take in a bit of the red wine I poured earlier.

Soon enough the Ducati girl pops her head in "Va bene?"

"Si, si, grazie, grazie..." I respond, deftly now.  "Would you like a glass of wine?  It's the least I can do."

"Niente!  I will take that glass of wine, though."

And just like that, we're finding out a lot more about the mystery Ducati girl.  Her name is Aria. She's a native Italian from Genoa.  And the accent was correctly placed as British, as she studied at a university in England.  She's in Rome assisting in restoring a church from the 15th century.  Hearing her describe the detail and passion she feels for her work is refreshing.

Wine eventually turns into sharing dinner on our rented balcony.  My son is the star of the evening.  He keeps us all entertained until his eventual yawns and signs appear that sleep is imminent.  I grab the wine bottle and pour the remaining two glasses for the adults, and usher the little one inside. Time for brushing teeth and changing into pajamas. In an act of selflessness my son doesn't require a book reading for the evening, and after tucking in and a kiss on the forehead is drifting off to dreamland.

Closing the balcony doors, I peer over to find my company relaxing on a love seat in the corner. I saunter over in my usual swagger, and we clink glasses "Salute!". A wave of anxiety rushes over me and I realize the moment is there to grab. So I reach in and kiss her. Refreshingly, I meet no resistance, and in fact she nearly attacks me. Our movements up until now have felt tense, and unsure, but we've soon developed a rhythm in our dance, feeling my lead, and her surrendering to the moment.  

I’ve found myself lost in the moment, unaware of the time, and the noises of car doors and pedestrians walking along the streets below has broken our flow. Life jumps back into focus, and we shift out of unison. She’s grabbing for her keys now, and my mind has moved to ensuring my son is snoring.

Without many words, I kiss her forehead, and she is gone, and I’m attempting sleep inside, with more layers but less warmth.

I spent all day shooting photos around Stockholm.

This is not unlike most days I spend while traveling abroad. And when I turned on the street for the hotel, I felt a finality to a good day. I relaxed horizontally on a couch to rest for a few moments, heavenly. A few moments into my slumber, my hand reached down to my right front pocket which felt surprisingly light. That's when my world fell apart. Seeing a fair bit of panic the old Swedish man sitting across from me near the fireplace asked me something in Swedish. "I think I lost my wallet..." From restful to panic in only a few moments.

You never quite realize how important the items in your wallet are, until they are lost. Money, identification, credit cards, freedom to engage in activities while abroad. I quickly ran through in my mind the companies I'd have to call and plead to somehow send me a new card, or getting someone to wire me some money so I could continue. I've run up to the front desk, asking if they've seen my wallet. We all chatted before I left for my photo morning, and no one has seen it. Rachel, one of the women who works behind the counter started to help me think through where I had been, and could it be in my bags? or left in the room perhaps? We walk to the baggage area, and as I checked both bags I had left, nothing.

Our conversation going up to the room was hopeful, and that wasn't coming from me, but my partner who could prod me into thinking different. Entering the room, I instantly know that it isn't here, I retreat and look anyway. As I'm opening the cupboards and closet spaces, I glance at the safe. And then it hits me.

My passport is still in this safe.

Upon leaving the room, I tell Rachel that I haven't found my wallet. And she suggests one more check of my bags. I'm not hopeful.

Upon looking through my bags, I have a sinking feeling that this is going to be a painful final 2 1/2 weeks. And then I reach into my jacket pocket and find a bottle of baby powder.

BABY POWDER! I just bought this down the street!

I couldn't run to the Apotheket fast enough, and as I sail into the shop, looking to my left, I ask about my wallet. We say the name in unison and we all breathe a sigh of relief together. I thank them profusely, and start my trek back to the hotel. I do have a plane to catch after all.

For fun, I walk into the hotel with a down face and a somber look, one of the girls asks immediately upon recognizing me if I had found the wallet. She reads no in my face, and I finally pull out the wallet and we all laugh in relief.

So, if it wasn't for buying the powder and losing my wallet, I would likely have not had my passport and missed my flight. And if I hadn't checked my bags a second time, I wouldn't have grazed my hand over the bottle of baby powder and remembered where I left my wallet. And without the help of strangers in a strange land, the whole thing would have been much more difficult.

As I sprint with my bags from Terminal 2 at Arlanda Airport to Terminal 5 and round the corner to my gate, I'm beaming with happiness. People inherently are good natured and want to help you. And your mind is quite brilliant, if you choose to pay attention to what it's telling you.

A week ago I returned from a two-week trip to North Korea, and China. The trip to the DPRK was scheduled, highly structured, and fully planned out by a tour group. I added a few days on the beginning and end of the trip to see some of what was in and around Beijing, China. Both countries were fascinating, and had wonders to photograph and experience.

Here are the many galleries I'd love to share with you:

DPRK - North Korea

• The Group

• Pyongyang Fun Fair

• Mass Dance

• The Guides

• Farm Cooperative

• Buddhist Temple

• USS Pueblo

• Three Revolutionary Ideas

• The Children

• Ultimate Frisbee in Pyongyang

• Ostrich Farms

• Kaesong

• DMZ

• Mass Games 2011

• Various

Beijing, China

• Lama Temple

• Palaces, Tomb & Factory

• The Wall

"Daddy, what does heaven smell like?"

I sat with my son just outside St. Peter's Basilica in Rome. Since we arrived in Italy a few weeks before, he had been asking these questions -- nothing that you would attribute to musings from a five-year old. How would you ever explain this concept? Even if you believe in heaven and hell, it's a question that would probably baffle most people. We are often regaled in stories of the sights and sounds of this afterlife, but never the smell or taste -- and not often what it would feel like.

So we have a large percentage of the population, who are besotted with a magical location after death that is missing two maybe even three of the five senses! I would love to read someones fictional narrative on the smells and tastes that would accompany a visit to the land of the clouds. Will we be entranced with constant smells of freshly baked bread, and an ever-flowing river of chocolate with perhaps the best gelato one could imagine?

What if, none of these things are smells you particularly like? Is there a district for coffee lovers? A special place for those who love the smell of barbecue on a hot summer day? Certainly there must be districts for the various ethnic foods that have distinct tastes and smells beloved by the inhabitants. Could you even hope to please everyone with their idea of what heaven would be?

Would being surrounded in things that you had liked while you were living be enjoyable for eternity? Variety and the differences between the people we meet are "the spice of life". The experiences that I've treasured having in this life have been vast and unique, and everything born from engaging in an alternate plane to my comfort zone.

Finally, I answered "I don't know, nobody alive does. Perhaps we can imagine some smells that would be good! What do you think?"

"Chocolate."

"Amen."

What does your heaven smell like?

When on vacation, and interacting with other travelers or natives, the following question inevitably comes up:

"So, how long are you here for?"

And of course, the nationality guess. What I've found, is that most can believe one of my answers, but not both of them together.

"American." and "About 5 1/2 weeks"

Double-take. Happens every time.

Part of the reason is the travelers I'm surrounded by at the moment. All Europeans. Dutch (my son and I can count to 10 now in 4 languages), German, Swedish, and of course Italians. For two weeks of our trip I've chosen the Tuscany holidays route at an Aguriturismo. I'll be posting a more in-depth review of my experience and some tips for my westward homeland inhabitants should they choose this route. My son and I have been having a blast, there are mostly families here, with kids close to his age. It's been relaxing, feels like a second home, and we've met many fun and interesting people from all over.

Another reason, the length. The normal track for an American traveler is 10 days, 2 weeks tops. Our puritan work ethic usually deems two weeks the absolute limit on yearly vacations for our working folk. One of our new Dutch friends told me they receive 6 weeks ... yes ... six (zes in Dutch btw).

Lastly, the choice of an Aguriturismo. An Italian friend of mine had initially suggested it, and while I had looked into it, I never made any firm plans to stay in one. In fact, when I got on the plane at LAX with my son on our way to Milano airport, the only thing I knew for sure was our first couple of nights would be with family. Nothing else was booked, we got up each morning and listened for what sounded fun our interesting, and we navigated in that direction. These destinations are very popular with Europeans. Many of our new friends told us they do this every year as part of their vacation. They forever have held this vision of the American I described in The Magic of Italy as the individual taking a photo near every monument and rushes through their "vacation" with an itinerary that feels like more of a chore to me than relaxation. I will happily pass by several must-see spots and take a seemingly random picture. When I shoot photos during my travel, the photo is merely an anchor to assist me in feeling what it was like while I was there.

It has been an interesting conversation I've had numerous times now. Obviously there is a mold out there for how and what a normal American does during their whirlwind European vacations. Anyone who knows me can attest, I'm not normal.

And I'm perfectly okay with that. Are you embracing your version of not normal? Mine came with an incredible view and a gorgeous pool.

La dolce vita!

Domani e un'altro giorno!

My son and I have been in Italy for over 3 weeks now. We've ventured from the very North where you could throw a rock at Switzerland, down to that ancient pocket in the center where the "man with the funny white hat" calls home. We're having the time of our lives, certainly one of the most treasured experiences of my life. I sit here writing this while looking out over a Tuscan night sky, in a farmhouse of all places, completely relaxed. We've both embraced, the feeling of slow. It's not unique to Italy, but in many regions they've mastered it.

Especially here, in Tuscany.

In Tuscany, the Italian Siesta is the norm, and literally built into the schedules of most establishments. Don't expect much from anyone between the hours of 12pm and 4pm. Nor on Sundays. And some places Monday isn't going to net you much productivity either. Oh, and don't forget holidays! Visiting from the outside, where a Siesta is unheard of, this can be a shock. It certainly seemed that way for me, when I'm used to being able to pop into any restaurant at home during "normal business hours" and get service no matter what. I've visited with some folks while in Italy who consider this unproductive, lazy, and downright rude. I see things differently.

In every place we've been to thus far, our encounters with Italians have been mostly in Italian (with hand gestures for easier understanding) and broken and often times not adequate English. My son and I often look at each other with confused stares when walking around parts of Italy, inevitably, we'll be stopped and monologued with by an older Italian gentleman. Sometimes I'll mutter off some apologetic words and pleas for him to slow down "Piu piano", and I understand only a little "Scusa, Capito poco Italiano". Other times we'll just smile, let him finish, say "Grazie! Ciao!" and be on our way.

"Dad, what was that guy saying?" "I have no idea" "Haha, he was a funny guy"

At every encounter though, as I've taken to do while at home in California speaking Spanish, I attempt to get my point across in Italian. Broken and often stressing the wrong parts of a word, but definitely giving it the college attempt. And my Italian is getting better. I ask a lot about the lack of English when I find Italians with a better conversational fluency. Most blame the school system, apparently reform in the last 10 years is finally bringing English language learning as a requirement for Italy's young. Other opinions have mostly slammed the Italian people for not adopting learning English in such a tourist-heavy destination. "Think of how much easier you could make it on the tourists!", they would say. I see things differently.

Being in Italy reminds me of the story of the fisherman and the businessman. Essentially a businessman comes upon a fisherman who is very skilled at the job of fishing, catches enough fish to feed himself and his family for the day, and then retires to play with his kids, relax, and drink at night with his buddies, laugh and have a good time. The businessman in an attempt to help this lazy sod explains how he could expand to a grand fishing empire, make millions, command large fleets of fishing boats. With a simple question of "And then what?". We essentially get to an experience the fisherman is already enjoying.

Italy has a lot of fisherman, and a lot of businessmen. The siesta is brilliant. It's the life of the fisherman in action. It's the choice between eeking out a few extra hours of productivity in the middle of the day, or taking a nap. In some spots it's simply too hot to do anything productive anyway. We see the life of the businessman in most of the tourists who visit the cities. They are very easy to spot. This creature usually carries a camera glued to one hand, a headset in the other, and moves very quickly in a large group. The leader of their group is often an enterprising foreigner speaking the groups native tongue, who holds up an unopened umbrella or other unique symbol, and is rattling off facts about each destination they stop and swarm at. I often wonder if they ever just sit and stare off into the centuries old relics and enjoy being here, without filling a photo album with sign posts of proof that "I was there."

Part of the magic of being in Italy, is hearing Italian, and experiencing what it is to be here. If you came to Italy, and only heard English spoken, would the place hold the same romance? Traveling with a child has forced me to venture where most tourists usually don't, or visit museums / monuments when lines are nearly nonexistent. I enjoy hearing the Italian flow, even when I don't understand most of what's being said, it helps me get lost in being here.

And isn't that the point? Get lost in the magic of a place. Invite me into your culture, and let me feel it. My son and I certainly have pictures of sites we've been (which include many playgrounds), and videos as well, and through it all my focus for each day is to listen. Listen to what I feel called to do for that day. And if the answer is to play with my son at a playground or color dinosaurs on the steps of a museum with a ton of amazing Boticelli paintings ready to be devoured...

I'll experience my time in Italy that way.

It was raining, correction, drizzling outside the hotel Gothia Towers at 0500 Wednesday morning. The Scandinavian Developer Conference ended the previous night with great success. If it wasn't for the sheer exhaustion I probably would have been more reflective of the past few days, all the interesting people I've met, old friends and new. As with my recent trips, camera is in hand and ready for capturing an exposure. Every shot taken brings me to a new level of understanding about the camera as an extension of my vision and how I see the world.

The bus trip and plane to Amsterdam were as memorable as the morning commute.

Everything except for the passenger on the plane who walked up to the First Class curtain and fainted in the aisle.

When I arrived at Schiphol I went immediately to the tourist center to plan out my reason for being in Amsterdam: Keukenhof (Massive Tulip Garden). After receiving the appropriate bus tickets for Keukenhof, and train tickets to get me to the city, I decided to board the train to Amsterdam to drop my bags off at the hotel. As I sat relaxing in my seat on the train I realized in horror, that I forgot my suitcase somewhere in the airport.

Thankfully, setting aside my panic at leaving a bag "at an airport of all places", I was able to grab the train going back to the airport within minutes to go searching for my bag. After visiting three separate areas of the airport, I finally found the customer service area that had my bag, and was happy enough to give it back after they had ransacked it looking for bad things.

So at this point, I have spent nearly the entire morning on a plane, several trains, a few trams and standing at a bus stop similar to how I started my morning. I'm tired, but nearly at my intended destination. Forgetting a bag, and losing most of the morning has not dissuaded me from my goal of photographing some flowers.

On the bus, venturing toward Keukenhof and it's literally standing room only up and down the aisles. My perspective about the day is shifting, it isn't noon yet, and I'm on the bus. While sitting there, I chat up a few people, all very friendly. Had a conversation with a beautiful portuguese woman who lives in Holland, and is visiting Keukenhof with her dad. She had the most interesting camera, very simple, something retro but I can't place the name. I'm quite sure she got some great shots with it, the photographer matters more than the camera and gear in most instances.

I was happily moving through and taking pictures as you can see from above, using a macro lens and getting some interesting exposures. Something wasn't clicking though, and I was becoming increasingly frustrated with spending all this time getting here and seeing what I thought were substandard photos. It didn't help that I was also getting quite bored of taking flower shot close ups. I decided to either leave, or change perspective.

Changing Perspective

So I decided to change perspective. And much to my surprise, a whole new picture appeared in the viewfinder. If I changed my perspective enough, the once boring and flat flower was shimmering in a beautiful blue sky background. At times the sun would kiss the edge of a petal and give a little surprise.

I'm pretty happy with the results. And all it took was to get down to the level of my subject. And it definitely gave the Dutch and other visitors to Keukenhof a bit of a laugh to see me grubbing it up in the dirt with the flowers.

Keukenhof 2011 Gallery at Flickr

“Change is difficult, and when it’s coupled with fear it renders one inert.

I resolve to never stay too long in fear without remembering a moment later, that I am an infinite being, that there is good wherever I look if I’m willing to just look beyond. Beyond the rat race, beyond the consistent effort to be less than our potential by the masses. To be in servitude to anyone but your own source is to discount how beautiful you are. To feel that you must be in service to an “out there” is to discount your divinity. You may believe that God is outside of you, or that you are just a microcosm of the infinity that is God. Both are correct. To take a concept and it’s opposite and keep them equally as valid in the mind is the dichotomy of our planet. To know light, there must be it’s opposite. As humans we understand concepts by comparing and contrasting them with others, until we arrive at a stable enough thought to be considered a “thing”.

But that isn’t reality. You think that’s air you’re breathing?

Be not afraid of who you really are. Share your gift with the world no matter how scary. Be presence.

Since our time together was short, I’d like to go over some things I didn’t get to say, but I know our eyes did:

• Told you how beautiful you looked,

• Said ‘peek-a-boo’ to get you to smile,

• Told you how strong you were crawling and then walking

• Said how stunning you looked before your prom

• Told you to smile while I took a million pictures

• Said how beautiful you were on your wedding day

• Told you that he has your nose, and your lungs

• Said goodbye as I drifted off for a long sleep

All was not lost on that day. I’ve been broken open many times after that moment, but it has always been a furthering of what you and I started together. And within a few short years your brother arrived and several times over your gift has taught me to say what resides in my heart.

I love you baby.

In memorium Phi, 08/24/2004

The more social connection we have attached to a device, needs an equal balance with the earth below our feet. Our activity during a social connection via computer is one of mind, and thought, which is incredibly fulfilling. To stay forever in our minds throughout the day, creates imbalance over time, and the cure is grounding with the earth. Each of the things I mentioned above are things to connect with. Earth connection is just as important as the social one with our human pack.

If you tweet, status update facebook, check in to the retail locations you’re at so you can become mayor? Ask yourself for each one, what benefit am I deriving from this in the short term? in the long term? Would it be too difficult to rise up from your mobile device and reach across the empty space between you and another human and say “Hello.”

Digital social connection can never replace a physical one. Live in the world, put the mobile device away for a while. It will still be there where you left it, to be an information tool, not an extension of the television.