World's 100 Wonders

I copied this from Cindy, who copied it from someone else...


Pyramids of Egypt, Chichen Itza, Pompeii, Mont St Michel, Great Wall of China, Petra, Kashmir Valley, Topkapi Palace, Taj Mahal, Nile River Cruise, Prague Old Town, Carnival in Rio, Serengeti Migration, Easter Island, Golden Temple, Stonehenge, Galapagos Islands, Cappadocia, Amalfi Drive, Angel Falls (does the one in Provo count? No?), Grand Canyon, Colosseum of Rome, Meenakshi, Yellowstone NP, Machu Picchu, Fjords of Norway, Chartres Cathedral, Santorini, Antarctica Cruise, St Peter’s Basilica, Mezquita Cordoba, Matterhorn (does the one at Disneyland count? No?), Iguazu Falls, Egyptian Museum, Damascus Old City, New York Skyline, Bali, Borobudur, Dubrovnik, Marrakesh, Amazon Rain Forest, Valley of the Kings, Uffizi Gallery, Eiffel Tower, Ngorongoro Crater, Hong Kong, Rio Panoramic View, Ladakh, Great Barrier Reef, Sistine Chapel, Golden Pavilion, Niagara Falls, Angkor Wat, Burj Khalifa, Delphi, British Museum, Victoria Falls, Alhambra, St. Basils Cathedral, Burj al Arab, Forbidden City, Louvre Museum, Abu Simbel, Yangtze Riv. Cruise, Bagan, Canals of Venice, St Mark’s Basilica, Yosemite NP, Karnak, Versailles, Florence Cityscape, Ayers Rock, Teotihuacan, Carlsbad Caverns, Kremlin, Hermitage Museum, Banaue Rice Terr., Mecca, Varanasi/Ganges, Chambord Chateau, Bora Bora, Kathmandu Valley, Li River Cruise, Lijiang/Shangri La, Acropolis, Metropolitan Mus, Shwedagon Stupa, Neuschwanstein, Potala Palace, Mt Everest, Sahara Desert, Banff NP, Jerusalem Old City, Temple Em. Buddha, Leaning Tower Pisa, San Francisco, TerraCotta Warriors, Hagia Sofia, Baalbek, Portofino

Clearly I've got to get out more.

Where have you been?

Whale Watching

Last weekend a few friends and I took a trip to Oregon to celebrate Lisa’s birthday. We rented a beach house, cooked together, walked on the beach, read, hot tubbed, and drank hot chocolate. It rained most of the weekend, and it was all very lovely and cosy.

On Saturday, however, the weather was relatively fine, and we had the bright idea of going whale watching. We chartered a boat, and headed out to sea.




Don’t we look cheerful? I wish there were “after” pictures.

The captain reminded us that if we were sick, to make sure the wind wasn’t in our faces, and that we’d be more likely to get sick up top than down on deck. I never get seasick, so neither warning really applied to me.

After about an hour, I came downstairs to see a couple of my shipmates looking a bit queasy. The sea was pretty rough. I was feeling a little uneasy myself, but then I had a cold. I never get seasick, so that couldn’t be it. The sea was pretty rough, though.

A few minutes later, I saw Lisa reach for a plastic bin--her back was to me, but there’s only one reason you stick your head over a plastic bin, heave your shoulders, and then reach for tissues. About a minute after that, I leaned over the side of the boat, wind away from my face, held my hair back, and broke my record for never being seasick.

Just to seal the deal, I threw up a few more times after that. Rather stupidly, none of use were wearing life jackets, and you know how weak you feel after getting sick. I was clinging on for dear life with one hand on the rail, leaning far out as the boat threw itself up and down and back and forth, the other still holding back my hair (upon reflection, it would probably have been a more sensible priority to have had two hands saving me from drowning). Catherine very kindly came over to make sure I didn’t go overboard.

We were all ill except Ann, who eventually told the captain to turn around and head home. We finally made it back to port, and there was some messing around with ropes, while Catherine murmured, “get me off this damn boat.” I was about ready to jump over the edge and swim for it. Lisa said, “Well, that was a completely miserable experience.” “Happy Birthday,” I said.

We wobbled back to the car, and Lisa and I begged the others not to drive anywhere until we felt a little more steady. We were pretty drenched by then, and cold, and the dry ones piled clothes and hats on me. I get cold pretty easily, so was shaking rather a lot, and being on the pale side to begin with, I’m told I look rather dramatically white when I get sick, so I gather I looked a bit pathetic. I remember trying to reassure them that I was ok and I didn’t have hypothermia, but as my lips were numb and I was under the strong impression that if I opened my eyes I’d throw up again, I think I was a little unconvincing. Eventually we drove home with no sudden turns, and with the heater going full blast, and I was soon in the bliss of the hot tub.

It was about 24 hours before we could mention water without Lisa experiencing waves of nausea, and before we all had our land legs again. But as Catherine said, it’s a birthday we’ll all remember, and makes for a good story.

Oh, we saw some whales, too. I so didn’t care at the time, but upon reflection, it was actually pretty cool.




The group.



Watching a lightning storm over the sea.



Sunny morning, our last day.



All of us.

Power and Love

A couple of years ago I was chatting to my dad, and mentioned that there’d been a power cut in my building. I got home, and the hallways were pitch dark, and I had to fumble my way to my door, imagining murderers jumping out at me along the way (because murderers can see in the dark, apparently, which, if it were so, would make “Wait Until Dark” a very different film).

A week or two after that, I got an envelope in the post with a little torch in it (flashlight for you of the United States). My dad said he thought it would be a good idea for me to keep it in my handbag in case of future power cuts.

Tonight, I got home, and the power was out. Of course, it happened to be the one in a thousand time that I’d gone out without my purse, so I repeated the whole fumble-door-murderer-jumping experience.

It made me think of my dad, of course, and about his gift. I read “The Five Love Languages” by Gary Chapman last week, being tired of everyone on the planet knowing their love language except me. It’s an interesting read, if a little simplistic. In case you are from Pluto and haven’t read it yet, the idea is that there are five chief ways to express love, and pretty much everyone has a primary love “language.” Your options are words of affirmation (saying nice things), quality time, gifts, acts of service, and physical touch. The book is full of examples of relationships that were failing because one person kept (for example) saying sweet things to the other, because that was their own love language, and the recipient only valued quality time, so they felt unloved. In the examples, the giver started offering quality time, the recipient thus received love, and they all lived happily ever after.

I don’t mean to sound cynical, I think there’s a lot of truth to it, and if one is continuously missing out on meaningful expressions of love, it is absolutely going to cause problems.

I just think there’s a little more to it. For example, I also think the responsibility is on the recipient to learn to interpret other languages other than their primary one. Just as we don’t go to Germany and get annoyed if people there speak to us in German, we shouldn’t completely devalue other people’s expressions of love or affection.

For instance, if I’d waited around for my father to give me words of affirmation, I’d have led a very sad existence. I remember getting ready for my brother’s wedding, and saying “does this look all right” to my dad. He said, somewhat reluctantly, “well, I probably shouldn’t say so, but you look very nice.” “Er, why shouldn’t you say so?” “Well, I don’t want you getting conceited.” I’m not sure why he thought that at the age of 30 I was suddenly in danger of getting a swelled head from one compliment from my father, but I let it go.

I happen to like compliments, in general, but it wasn’t my dad’s style, and I knew it, and it was ok. I still knew he loved me, because of things like the torch. And because he’d make sure I had his AAA card if I was driving further than five miles. And because he’d fix things in my house. Or make me a drink. Or tell my aunt to mind her own business if she asked about my love life.

I also think I was fine with not getting words of affirmation from my dad, because my mum is very generous with those. If ever I’m in need of a confidence boost, she will fill that need to the point of embarrassment. She’s also more physically affectionate. And I got plenty of quality time with both. So I was fortunate in getting love in multiple ways from both of them.

Now, I think quality time is probably my primary language, but I’m greedy--I want love in all languages. I think Chapman has a great point, in encouraging us to find out what means most to the people we love. I also think he’s absolutely right in believing that most of us express one or two languages most naturally. But I also think we and our relationships can only get better if we learn to speak and interpret all love languages. I love chocolate, but I don’t want it for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Well, not every DAY. I admire my friends who are more fluent in some languages than I, and like the idea of increasing fluency in all, so that I can be a veritable polyglot of love. Doesn’t that sound...lovely?

Winter Nonsense

Would anyone care to sign a petition to eliminate January? No? Well, perhaps it wasn't my best idea of the new decade.

Here’s the thing. I think January is pretty much the worst month ever invented, and February isn’t that hot either, and I don’t find either New Year’s Eve/Day or Valentine’s Day to be particularly redeeming holidays, thanks for playing.

And yet. There’s something sort of satisfying about the deep midwinter. You suffer for years and years through it, and then at some point, you notice that it’s still light when you leave the office, and that your face isn’t frozen to the pillow in the morning, and you don’t have to chip the ice off your toothbrush before using it, and before you know it, birds are singing, and crocuses are popping up, and you heave a sigh of relief that Spring has sprung and morning has broken, and you’ve made it through the wilderness, somehow you’ve made it through, and you feel a sense of achievement and fully entitled to enjoy the weather for a few days before it starts all over again.

At least, I think that’s what happens. It’s been a few decades since last April.

I know it’s not all bad all winter. There are some positively glorious snow days and post-snow days, when the sky is blue, and the snow sparkles, and one sends pictures to one’s friends and family in England so they can all be jealous that you live in a winter wonderland ski resort. That’s pretty validating.

But on the days when you get a few hours of yellow-grey in the sky before darkness and ice falls again, I wonder if it wouldn’t be nice to fly south for the winter. And yet.

I think there are a few reasons why I don’t. Let’s ignore the job-related, practical ones. Let’s instead talk about guilt. I think I’d feel a little bit as if I was cheating on Utah. Like I’d come back in March and Utah would say, oh, NOW you’re back. Just because it was a difficult time of the year for me, and I got a little chilly towards you for a while, you cut and run off to some other younger, sunnier state. But NOW, when it’s convenient for YOU, you’re back. Fair-weather friend. And then it would spit on my head with April showers.

And then, could I really appreciate the spring? Could I really enjoy the thawing of the earth if my own fingers weren’t thawing out along with it? I kind of think not. Surely people in San Diego can’t constantly be appreciating and luxuriating in their fabulous weather all year long, can they? Er...can they...?

This is why I don’t really get the idea of heaven. I can’t imagine really appreciating somewhere where everything was perfect all the time. Unless they wake you up every morning with a little horror flick of a January day on Earth. Maybe that’s it. A little contrast every morning to get the blood pumping and make us appreciate all the calming harp music later.

No, I don’t really think heaven is clouds and harps (although that is the image that comes to mind in Pavlovian fashion when I hear the word). I’m not sure that I buy any of the creative depictions I’ve seen in literature or movies (Lovely Bones, What Dreams May Come, etc). I’m not sure that my childhood ideas of riding a unicorn and drinking rainbow lemonade all day are quite on the money, either. I AM pretty sure that I will be wearing haute couture cocktail dresses a LOT, and some really fabulous hats, and it’s those sorts of convictions that keep me going to church.

I kid, I kid! [looks skywards for thunderbolt]. But what is your idea of heaven, pray? And would it be winter, spring, summer, autumn, or all of the above?