A Week in The Hague

Bussing into The Hague from Amsterdam's Schiphol Airport, I realize that I have no idea what people from The Hague call themselves. I know that there is a city in Oregon called "The Dalles," but I do not know what those people call themselves either. So much for comparison being able to help a brother out. As we step off the bus and into the World Forum Novatel, I decide that people from The Hague must be called "Den Haagians" because that sounds much cooler than "The Hagueians." Den Haagians it is, then.

I am in The Hague this week, attending a conference. In some ways The Hague feels familiar, but in other ways, it is another planet compared to Cairo, the city in which I now live.

For starters, thousands and thousands of people cycle here. I like this. Doesn't matter that it is colder than a witch's tittie in a brass bra and pissing rain, Den Haagians cycle everywhere; to work, to yoga, to the organic grocery store, to pick the kids up from school ... everywhere. I like this, too. I also like that Den Haagians do not wear spandex when they ride, nor do they wear helmets, or knee pads, or elbow pads. They ride to get from point A to point B. They do not ride a million miles an hour, so they are not too worried about the catastrophic accidents that obsess us pansy-ass Americans. And they don't worry about what their bikes look like, either. They ride around, sitting way up high on these great, curly-Q monstrosities that weigh a ton. Some of them have giant wicker baskets hanging from the front handle bars. A lot of them have hard-tails and side satchels suspended off of the backs. Some of the bikes have front, plastic windscreens, making their riders look a little like Dutch versions of CHiPS officers. I like all of this, except the plastic windscreens. I could do without them and the accompanying CHiPS look.

Another related aspect that makes me feel at home in The Hague is that almost every major street throughout the city has been retrofitted to include dedicated bike lanes both coming and going. I cycled in Memphis in the days before the Green Line, and I have to say that combat cycling, sharing narrow streets with two-ton automobiles, is an experience that is very much overrated. I see no combat cycling in The Hague, unless you consider two people racing one another to get to the bike parking post first as fitting into the defintion of combat cycling. 

So The Hague is a city seemingly built by cyclers for cyclers. Old people cycle here and so so young people. Kids cycle, too. I feel at home in this regard, a fellow cycler in a city of cyclers. I am among my people.

But I am not; not really. 

In some ways The Hague is a different planet for me. First off, I am not cool and stylish. I am not even from Europe. I don't have a job in a design firm or in an organic grocery store, like everyone else seems to have here. And I am not nine feet tall. As a people, the Dutch strike me as being very tall. They are tall people riding tall bikes and living in tall houses. When they marry one another, they have tall babies who grow up to be even taller. This is how I feel anyways. Like I am the shortest man in all of Holland. Or a man from Planet Short-Male visiting Planet Den Haag.

There is no garbage on the streets here, either, and this makes me feel like I am on another planet, albeit a wonderfully clean planet. During the past several years, I have lived in both Egypt and China. Cairo is cleaner than almost any city in China, but Cairo is still a massive, polluted city amidst a nation that is developing. Walking down trash strewn streets is sadly a part of life in Cairo as it was in China. But here, not so much. It's like a bunch of Den Haagians gathered together after an Earth Day party one day and decided that with such limited space, land is actually worth something and should be respected and kept clean. And maybe they also decided that they did not want to float around in a sea of rubbish. Maybe they did that, too. Whatever the means, the ends are justifiably clean streets and recycling kiosks 'round every other corner. Different planet.

And the clocks! All of the clocks work here, even the ginormous ones built into most of the city's ancient cathedrals. Even those clocks work, keeping accurate time! I remember living in Faribault, Minnesota years ago. Every shitty little bank in Faribault had more or less the same signage out in front of the bank. And part of this signage was a digital clock that never kept accurate time. One would think, as I did at the time, that it cannot be all that difficult to have a digital clock keep accurate time. Not so, apparently. But in The Hague, these ancient clocks set in these ancient towers keep the correct time. Totally different planet.

And then the are the trams. The Hague has these narrow trams that tens of thousands of people use every day. The trams are electric powered, fed by a series of above-ground cables that appear everywhere throughout the city. So instead of the unbiquitous six-lane highways that we have in our great, American cities, The Hague has two lanes for autos, two lanes for bicycles and two lanes for the trams. This is cool, but this is a way different planet than the ones with which I have become accustomed. Planet Hometown USA did not have these kinds of things. Planet Cairo doesn't either, although Planet Cairo does have a lane for donkey carts, which is kind of cool.

So you have a city of tall cyclers living in their tall homes and cycling to and from their cool design jobs every day. Add to that, a city constructed with a cycle-friendly, recycling conscious ethos in mind and with public clocks that work. Tall people that do not want to cycle to and from work can always take the trams. On top of this, every nation on the planet has a nice embassy here, so The Hague also has this groovy, multi-cultural, pluralistic political vibe to it (side note: none of the embassies in The Hague are surrounded by barricades, which makes The Hague very much a different planet).

The Hague is a city that simply works. And by that, I do not mean that it is a city full of employed people, although it seems to be. No, what I mean is that things work in The Hague. All of the things that have fallen apart in other places in which I have lived and worked - things like clean air and clean streets, organic farming that is the rule rather than the exception, sensible urban planning complete with huge tracts of green spaces, quality and reliable public transportation, etc. - all of those things work here in The Hague.

And that makes for a delightful place to visit and presumably a delightful place in which to live.

Terrorist bomb attacks on the 3rd anniversary of the uprising

We were warned.

Friends and family warned us, of course. But they are people not necessarily in the know. We take that into consideration. 

We get email updates from the US Embassy. Long, tedious messages. They are virtually identical, week after week. Americans living in Cairo should avoid public places, blah, blah, blah. Some government hack cutting and pasting the same message, week in and week out. American citizens should remain vigilant. Of course we should. I could say the same thing about Memphians, right? Be vigilant, Midtowners!

We were warned. 

This week's cut and paste job from the Embassy includes an additional blurb about remaining vigilant over the coming weekend, the 3rd anniversary of the uprising that toppled the Mubarak regime. I scan over it, blah, blah, blah. I toss the message into the virtual incinerator. I don't think anything more of it.

We were warned.

It's early morning the next morning. The sun isn't up yet. I have been up for an hour or so, well into my second cup of coffee. It is so quiet. I am writing.

A jolt. The air thuds and the windows rattle. The walls shake. Sonic boom? I have only heard one in my life. Maybe. The rumble is longer, though. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. The northern end of the apartment sounds like it is falling. I start running for the back of the flat. The hallway is so long all of a sudden. Roused awake, Dana is calling out. Not a sonic boom. I don't know how I know, but I know. Not a sonic boom. An explosion. And it sounds close.

"That was a bomb!" Dana says as I reach her. I sit next to her on the edge of the bed. She is still too sleepy to completely register what she has just said.

"Yeah ..." My voice shakes. One stupid word of affirmation, and my voice shakes. 

We hold each other for what seems like a long time. Long enough to make sure the back of the house is not crumbling. Long enough to make sure there is nothing burning.

"That was an explosion," I say quietly. "I am going to get on Twitter to see."

I go. I start my search with "#Maadi". There is already a lot of activity. A dozen or so people are commenting. All heard the explosion. So did people in all the surrounding suburbs. Huge explosion, they all say. 

A freelance journalist lives a couple of streets over. I follow him on Twitter. You do that kind of thing when you live in a foreign, not-so-safe country. You get to know the people in your neighborhood who know things. My friend the journalist knows things. This morning he is already on it, #CairoBomb. The explosion came from downtown, he says, identifying the district. Smoke is rising from the area, and gunfire has been reported. He is on his way. I am sitting in my living room, terrified and embracing a cup of coffee. I am also wondering what the hell kind of bomb can be felt from miles away.

I start to Tweet-follow another guy, a freelance journalist here in Cairo. He, too, is heading downtown, #CairoExplosion. From him, I learn that a huge bomb went off in front of one of Egypt's downtown government buildings, one of the places where police and security personnel meet. There are reports of fatalities already. There is a crater where the bomb went off. There is damage to the building across the street from the security building, a museum of Islamic art. Hundreds of people are already milling about, chanting about God and the destruction of the Muslim Brotherhood.

More comments from people all around Cairo come streaming in. What the hell, they ask? The shit is hitting the fan, they say. The Muslim Brotherhood is behind this, some say. Others say it is a rebel, terrorist organization. This organization tweeted last night on their Twitter channel, promising to kill police.

We were warned.

By this time, my two Twitter friends have arrived on the scene downtown. Both are beginning to comment upon what they are seeing. The entire front of the security building is damaged. There are people everywhere. A handful of men are heading into the building to find survivors. They can hear them, screaming and moaning. Some of the men are carrying out bodies, crudely wrapped mummies. Then my Twitter friends go silent. I follow others on the scene. A couple of tweets warn western journalists to stay away, that the early journalists on the scene were mobbed. I walk back to the bedroom, making sure all of the locks on the front door are bolted.

About an hour after the explosion, BBC picks up the story. Details emerge involving a pick-up truck packed with explosives and charging the gate of the building. There are confirmed fatalities. There is a crater in the middle of the street where the bomb detonated. Western journalists have been detained and forced to show identification and credentials. Once identified however, they are free to continue their investigative reports. A terrorist organization with no links to the Muslim Brotherhood claims responsibility. Hundreds of Egyptians have gathered outside of the damaged building and are chanting pro-democracy and anti-Brotherhood slogans. Police and security forces are pouring into the area. The Minister of the Interior is on his way. There will be an investigation launched, and the planners and perpetrators of this heinous act will be brought to justice.

Then in another quarter of Cairo, a second bomb goes off. And then a third. And then a fourth. We do not feel the thud of the subsequent detonations. They are smaller apparently, but no less lethal. By now my two Twitter friends, #CairoBomb and #CairoExplosion, are up and broadcasting again. They write that in each of this morning's bomb attacks, it is police and security force detachments that have been targeted. However, two of the security detachments targeted were operating near metro stations. There are more casualties. The bombings seem to be a part of a coordinated effort. Local hospitals put out tweets, asking for blood donors. This is bad.

We were warned.

A new constitution was to have put an end to security concerns, we were told. We didn't really believe the rhetoric, but we certainly thought there would be some security in the days immediately after the referendum. Maybe the disgruntled and disenfranchised would just give up in the wake of the results of the popular vote. Not so, it seems. 

Having nothing to which to compare our present experience, Dana and I are a little numb this morning. We will stay indoors, of course; a self-imposed curfew. We will continue to follow the Twitter accounts and news reports. We will continue to wonder as to whether or not we will have school next week. Or if the Embassy will be pulling out. Or if the current situation escalates, and we are evacuated. We will wonder whether we made a mistake. We will wonder, like another one of my Twitter-friends, whether #Cairo will end up like #Damascus or #Baghdad.

The "Red Pinkie" Referendum

It's Thursday, break, and I am starving. I head up to the cafe on the third floor of the school. Kemal, a Coptic Christian in his mid-40s, runs our cafe there. I see Kemal a couple of times per week. I always ask about his family, especially his 9-month-old daughter. In exchange, he always serves me a nuclear-strong cup of coffee so that I can re-start my heart when needed.

Today is different. Today Kemal greets me, proudly lifting aloft his left-hand pinkie finger. His finger radiates the color of dried blood or raw meat. For a second, I think he has caught his hand in the meat slicer. He is wearing the wrong face, I tell myself. He is smiling, head held high. He is not grimacing like he has been disfigured. And his pinkie isn't hanging by a flap of skin, gushing blood. Nope, Kemal is proud, proud of his blood red pinkie. Dipped in a vat of permanent ink to guard against double-voting, Kemal's pinkie is a badge of pride and patriotism.

"I voted yesterday, sir!" He looks as if he has discovered buried treasure. And maybe he has. Just maybe. It is too soon yet to tell.

My friend Kemal is one of many millions of Egyptians who are taking advantage of the opportunity to vote on Egypt's newly forged, draft constitution. Held over two days, the vote is simple, "yes" or "no". The implications behind the vote however, are not so simple.

First off, there is the constitution itself. It is a big, bulky document written by legal scholars. I have been following the constitutional proceedings closely, and even I have not seen it nor read it. Now, I do not read Arabic, so maybe the draft has been published in the local press without my knowing it. Possible. But I don't think so. Even if the constitution has been published, most Egyptians do not have Internet access. A lot of Egyptians have only a rudimentary ability to read and write. The vast majority of Egyptians lack a university education. So, I can't help it. I find it remarkably difficult to believe that folks like Kemal have read the document they are being asked to accept or reject.

Then there are the Chinooks. The massive helicopters thudding and lumbering above the heads of all of the referendum voters, droning slowly like big, fat bumble bees gorging on the pollen encrusted flowers below. The pollen laced flowers below don't have much choice as to whether or not they want the bees to harvest their golden grains. I am not sure referendum voters have any more choice. The current military-backed regime organized the framework for the draft of the constitution. They have a vested interest in a "yes" vote. A "yes" vote is a vote for the military action that removed President Morsi from power. A "yes" vote gives the current regime a sense of credibility and legitimacy. A "yes" vote means that the action was not seen as a coup, and that means investment money from countries like the U.S. can resume.

I imagine that the Chinooks are packed with shock troops ready to quell any disturbance. Or are they there to intimidate? To encourage a resounding "yes"? The answer to these questions is not so clear cut. It's complicated, not as simple as just a "yes" or a "no."

Then there is the issue of the "no" vote. Followers of the now-illegal, Muslim Brotherhood have been instructed to boycott the vote rather than to vote "no." They believe that participating in the referendum would be tantamount to endorsing the military coup; something they will never do. All of the bloody protests since President Morsi's removal from power have centered around the idea that the coup was and is an illegitimate action taken against a democratically elected individual. Participating in a referendum engineered by the military government installed after the coup would be treason. So how many Egyptian "no-sayers" are there in the electorate if the Muslim Brotherhood sits the election out? The answer is, not many.

So the referendum is a foregone conclusion. The question is how many voters will show up to vote on a document that they haven't read and whose legalities they do not really clearly understand.

If people like Kemal are any indication, lots of voters will show up to proudly cast their "yes" vote.

We'll see.

Saqqara, Memphis and Dahshur

This is us on our recent trip back to Memphis over our winter holiday:

"So, are the pyramids as cool as you thought they would be?"

"Um, we haven't really been yet," we lamely respond.

"You are joking, right?" Our friends ask us this question, making valiant efforts to mask their "are you fucking kidding me" looks. They cannot dial it back quickly enough, however. We see it. We feel it.

Lame.

Lame, lame, lame, lame, lame.

So five months and twelve days after arriving in Egypt, Dana and I visit our first pyramids. Like New Yorkers and their curious relationship with the Statue of Liberty, we have not been in a hurry to make this journey. We figured the pyramids would still be there whenever we worked up the motivation to plan a trip. And with 182 pyramids in the country to visit, it is tough to decide where to start.

This is me offering a modicum of bullshit rationalization, by the way. We haven't made the trip up to this point because we have been too lazy to organize anything, too cheap to pay for anything, too busy herding cats at work, and frankly, too intimidated to travel. 

This is me cutting the crap and being honest.

Along with some of our friends from school, we set out on this foggy, smoggy, Sunday morning to see Egypt's oldest pyramids and to pay a visit to the ancient and original city of Memphis. These areas have been a vital part of Egyptian heritage and "Western civilization" for almost 5000 years. Aside from Stonehenge and some of the other stone circles in the Orkney Islands, I have never seen structures as old as the ones we plan to see today. Armchair archaeologists that Dana and I are, we are excited. It's about time we get off of our lazy asses.

Saqqara is first. A step pyramid built for the pharoah, Djoser, Saqqara pre-dates the Great Pyramids of Giza by a couple of hundred years. It is a simpler, more diminutive structure compared to its famous Giza cousins but no less impressive. Located just outside metropolitan Cairo, Djoser's final resting place rises majestically above croplands to the immediate east and the shifting dunes of the Sahara to the immediate west. The pyramid's unique and very intentional location belies the haphazard, trial-and-error circumstances of its birth. 

Saqqara was the first of its kind, an engineering testing ground of sorts. A place where ancient builders worked out techniques that would one day create the only one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World to survive into our time. 

So the first step-slab is not big enough, you say? We will simply expand it and make it wider. The burial shaft is not deep enough and floods too easily, you say? We will dig deeper to twenty-eight meters. This works? Great, we will now make it a regulation to dig burial chambers at twenty-eight meters. So now the burial slab is not grand enough to befit the likes of Djoser, you say? We will add another slab-step. And then another. And then another. And so on. After a time, Saqqara rises majestically above the croplands and the shifting sand dunes. Builders learn cool techniques. Pharaohs get really cool apartments in which to spend all eternity. All is good with the world, and the world beyond.

Saqqara is but one of several pyramids in what is known as the Memphis necropolis. The word 'necropolis' means, quite literally, 'city of the dead.' There are many necropoli in Egypt, but the Memphis necropolis was the first to be built on such a grand scale. 

We take advantage of the opportunity to climb down into one of the lesser pyramids in the Memphis necropolis. How could we not? We first descend a good ten to fifteen meters down an inclined plank, down into the bowels of the pyramid. The incline has been reinforced with smaller, perpendicular beams of wood to prevent us neophytes from experiencing what would be a precarious slide. We have to kneel to make the downward climb. It is not easy, and it is not for the claustrophobic. Once we level out, we continue on into the very center of the pyramid, kneel-crawling for another twenty to thirty meters. The air down here smells like a dusty cave. I am very thankful for the lighting that has been added in recent years. Without it we would be trapped in total darkness. We finally reach a room where we can stand up. It is the burial chamber. Though the sarcophagus and corresponding treasure has long since been robbed, the room is finely carved with lovely hieroglyphics and images of men, women, beasts, and gods. We can still see some of the paint used to make the figures more lifelike. 5000 year old paint. Cool. We can still touch the sides of finely dressed and polished stone. Polished stone so smooth, you can almost see your reflection in it. Also very cool. 

We are standing at the center of a 5000 year old pyramid. I grew up in rural southern Ohio. Dana grew up in nearby rural Kentucky. We may not be worthy, but we are here. We didn't have shit like this where we grew up. Nobody did. We never thought we would see something like this. But we are here now, and we are quietly thanking our mothers and our fathers.

We move on to Memphis. We learn the real name of the city (I have forgotten it now). The word, 'Memphis' is what the ancient Greeks called this place when they wrote about it. This locale, now covered by an open air museum and a very rural (and smelly) town, was once the capital of a sprawling and vibrant, ancient civilization. We visit the open air museum. We see a statue of Ramses II, the copy of which today invites Memphians into a glass Pyramid on the banks of the mighty Mississippi; soon to be a Bass Pro shop. The original colossus, derelict and largely forgotten, presides over a quiet, remote courtyard of pillars and column caps.

Dahshur is our final stop. Dahshur houses the first structures that we would call pyramids. With smooth sides, no steps and concealed entrances and exits, the Dahshur pyramids (there are several here) are a testament to what the ancient builders learned from having erected structures like Saqqara. The learning experience was far from over, however. The famous Bent Pyramid of Dahshur was started based on a design that called for steep sides of fifty some odd degrees. After having completed a quarter of the pyramid, the builders feared that the structure would collapse upon itself, and they changed the degree measurements to the forty some odd degrees that we recognize in all the pyramids that we can see today.  And today, we can clearly see where the ancient builders changed their grand designs. Very, very cool.

We walk around the base of this grand burial chamber, marveling at the size of the massive stones. How many years did it take to build this? How many slaves toiled? How many times has the sun risen and then set upon the polished stones of the lower portion of the pyramid? Did the builders have a sense that they were creating something that would last forever, or did they just show up to work, day in and day out? Did the architects have the same sense of awe and wonder that we feel when we look out upon these amazing monoliths? The historical record tells us that the ancients knew how to build these things, but the record is sadly mute on the point of telling us how they felt about the monumental architecture they were creating.

This is me waxing philosophical.

The sun begins to set, plummeting toward the dunes in the west. We leave. We waited over five months to witness these breathtaking pieces of architecture. Buildings just under 5000 years old. Supremely cool. Sure, they will always be here; at least in my lifetime. But as we drive back to the suburbs of Cairo, I wonder how many more generations will have the opportunity that I have been afforded today.

I also wonder what the hell took us so long to get here.

All photos taken by the incomparable Dana Purpura.

Memphis landmarks, Bryant's and Sun Studio

Gravy, sop it up. 

That's what the sassy waitress on the sign says. She stands there in silhouette, one hand on a hip all thrusted out; the other hand holding up a serving tray. Sassy as hell. She's making a suggestion rather than a command; I think. What I do know is that Bryant's is "good eating." That's what people here say when the food is phenomenal but probably not recommended by your local doc. The sassy waitress would tell the doctor to go to hell and to go to Bryant's beforehand.

And that is what we are doing on this Friday morning. Going to Bryant's, not hell.

Phil is behind the counter. He greets us warmly, calling us by name the minute we walk through the door. It is a homecoming served with grits on the side.

Something to add to your to-do list? Go to Byrant's three times. Say hi. By the third visit, Phil or Diane (who is not in this morning) will know you by name. It is one of the things that makes Bryant's so special, and one of the many reasons people have been coming since 1968.

Bryant's is a Memphis landmark. Located on highly under-rated, Summer Avenue, Bryant's serves up some of the best breakfasts on the planet. Unpretentious and no-nonsense, Bryant's is down-home cooking as an art form. The Everything Omelet is a symphony of eggy goodness and delight. The biscuits are made by heavenly beings moonlighting as fry cooks. And the gravy bowl ... yes, I said GRAVY BOWL ... is a meaty miracle. Everything on the menu is good eating, but the gravy bowl is the titan standing on the shoulders of giants.

We order, we chat with Phil, and we eat. You know the eating is getting serious when the only sounds coming from the table are monosyllabic utterances of acclaim. Such is the case today. The first to finish wins the honor of breaking the silence, proclaiming the meal as being just about over. This is done by wadding up the napkin and then throwing it down on on the plate as if you have just scored a touchdown. Then you lean back in your chair, stifle a massive belch and say something to the effect of "done being about ready to bust." 

After we finish "throwing down" on breakfast, we are off to visit another Memphis landmark, Sun Studio. Located on Union Avenue, Sun Studio can rightly claim to be the actual birthplace of Rock N' Roll. In 1951 a saxophonist-singer named Jackie Brenston and his band, the Delta Cats (featuring Ike Turner on piano), recorded a song here called "Rocket 88." That song became a huge radio hit. And it is credited by most rock historians as the first Rock N' Roll song ever recorded. The song's popularity made a name for studio engineer, Sam Phillips, who set about on something of a mission to attract and record talented musicians. People like Howlin' Wolf, Johnny Cash, Carl Perkins, B.B. King, Jerry Lee Lewis, Roy Orbison, and of course, Elvis Presley, were among the many would-be legends to answer Sam's call.

We arrive on a sunny afternoon. Despite being with a native Memphian and another 25-year Memphis resident, I am the only person in our company who has done the tour. I promise my troop that a visit to Sun is an unmissable Memphis experience. 

The studio building is a simple, two-story affair with a brick facade, a broad, green awning and a sign sporting the famous Sun Studio logo. With the exception of the sign, this frontage could be a part of Main Street anywhere in small-town America. We walk into a 1950s diner area doubling as cafe and gift shop. We purchase four tickets, waiting for the 1:30 pm tour to begin. We begin promptly at 1:45 pm.

We start the guided tour in an exhibit room packed with photos, framed rare 78 vinyls and washer-sized recording equipment from 60 years ago. Our guide tells us stories of Sun founder and Memphis legend, Sam Phillips. Back in the day, Sam was a sound recording engineer passionate about Memphis blues and local recording artists. He didn't seem to pay any attention to the color barrier, preferring talented blues musicians and people he thought could make money; forward-thinking to a point. Sam recorded "Rocket 88" and discovered artists like Ike Turner and Howlin' Wolf. He initially passed on Elvis, so the story goes; too "poppy." We listen to a few more stories peppered with snippets of original Sun Studio's early recording. The likes of Elvis, Roy Orbison and Jerry Lee Lewis roar through the tiny room's sound system. The music is simple and raw but packed with energy and drive.

We take the stairs down to the studio itself. There is only the one studio room plus the adjoining sound booth. Only one room; one. So much history, so many classic recordings all done here in this modest studio. The soundproofed tiles on the walls and ceiling are original, having been fitted into place by Sam himself working alongside his secretary / major-domo, Marion Keisker. Marion was the first person to record then unknown Elvis Presley. A couple of days later, when Sam first heard the recording, he wasn't impressed; so the story goes. He didn't sign Elvis until a year later.

Recording equipment, amps, microphones, and instruments are jammed into every corner of the room. This is still a working sound studio, and local musicians still rent time and instruments. Sun still maintains a hectic schedule. From time to time, musicians that have already made names for themselves come to make the pilgrimage and to record in this simple studio: Dylan, U2, Aretha, Springsteen, Bonnie Raitt, and Ringo Starr, just to name a few. When Dylan first came here to record, he knelt down to the ground, kissing the spot where Elvis stood when recording his first track. Bono wept during his first take, sobbing into the very same mic Carl Perkins used to record Blue Suede Shoes. A photo toward the back of the studio captures a stunned Bono staring at the famous microphone. The room has an inescapable power and magnetism. It feels like hallowed, sacred ground. All that music. All those legends. People like Elvis just hanging out here. It is impossible not to stand and think, taking all of this in.

Then comes the feeling and the power of the shared experience. I am glad we came, glad to share this experience with Dana, Jake and Tyler. The studio and the legends are important parts of Memphis heritage, and something every Memphian should see. When the tour comes to an end, I want to stay to hear more stories and to spend more time in the studio room. Leave 'em wanting more. That is the way Sam Phillips surely would have wanted it.