My Seven Wonders

Today over at Mama Kat's, we're asked to list off the seven wonders of the world that we've seen with our own eyes. I can't pass up on an opportunity for a trip down travel memory lane and I've always been fascinated with the seven wonders of the ancient world. (It fits so nicely into that ancient Greek thing I've got going on . . . sorry modern Greece, you're kind of painful to watch right now.) And do we all remember on 7-7-07 when we all voted for the new seven wonders of the world? Just me? Okay then . . . .

Only the pyramids survive from the original list of Seven Wonders of the Ancient World and lucky enough for me, I 've actually seen them! 

All right, so maybe that's just the Luxor in Las Vegas. Still, I'm counting Vegas in as a wonderment all its own.

Wonder #1) Las Vegas 

I'm not a total liar though. The Colosseum made the modern seven wonders list and I've really seen it! I have to admit that as amazing the Colosseum is, it's hardly Rome's only wonder.  I loved the Spanish Steps, the Forum, and Keats' House too.

Wonder #2) Colosseum, Rome 

I was pulling for Stonehenge to make it to the new seven wonders of the world, but it didn't make the cut. Bummer. To make Stonehenge feel better about its loss, I've visited these ancient rocks three times. (No kidding: April 2003, March 2005, and October 2007.) I love Stonehenge, but I really don't need to see it again. However, I would accompany you on a visit, if you asked nicely.

Wonder #3) Stonehenge, England 

While human made things are impressive and all, I find myself most impressed by nature's own handiwork. Take the Giant's Causeway in Northern Ireland, for example. The Causeway is made up of thousands of perfectly octagonal rock pillars, which you can attribute to volcanic forces or giants, depending on how fanciful you feel. Nearby the Causeway, there's also Giant's Organ - similar rock pillars in the side of a cliff -- and Giant's Boot, a huge rock shaped like, well, a boot.
 

Wonder #4 Giant's Causeway, Northern Ireland

I live in a place where most trees only reach my hip. (You go wildfire regeneration!) So I'm always in awe when I see a really big tree. I mean, a really, really big tree.

Wonder #5) Big Trees, Everywhere (Example above is the Sitka Spruce in the Hoh Rainforest, Olympic National Park, Washington)

So maybe size does matter. One thing I consider a world wonder actually makes up my backyard. It's Lake Superior, the largest freshwater lake in the world. Celebrated in song and story, the lake's just down right pretty.

Wonder #6) Lake Superior, Minnesota, Ontario, Michigan, Wisconsin

I really hemmed and hawed for a long time about what the seventh wonder was going to be, but finally settled on Arches National Park, in southeastern Utah. It loses some "wonder"-full points for only being semi-permanent, but in this day and age, what really is permanent, I say.

Wonder #7) Arches National Park, Utah 

My close but no cigar list:
Newgrange, Ireland
The Mississippi River, Midwest
Manhattan, New York 
Eiffel Tower, Paris 
Speyer Cathedral, Germany

What are your seven wonders of the world? Have you seen any of the wonders that I've seen? What's a wonder you want to see?

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Travel Thursdays: The Food Poisoning Edition

I spend a fair amount of time here at Of Woods and Words dreaming about travel. While I was quite a globe-trotter back in my early 20s, now having reached the ripe old age of 26, my travels have taken on a shorter, more localized flavor. After spending a good portion of my day off yesterday playing in QuickBooks, it's become apparent that unless I give up on, say, health insurance, that trip to Antarctica is still a good five years off.


But when Mama Kat posted a writing prompt on food poisoning, I knew it was time to introduce "Travel Thursdays," a weekly feature on Of Woods and Words devoted to travel tales, tips and "to-see" lists. I can think of no better excuse to share my food poisoning story and start talking travel on a regular basis.

I've spent nearly seven years trying to reclaim Paris. I've watched nearly every Parisian flick Netflix has ever recommended. I've purchased Paris wall calendars. Last Christmas, I sent out Madeleine cards. But, although I'd once planned to minor in French,  to this day, when I think of Paris, I feel tired and slightly nauseous.

During my semester in Ireland, I was part of a group of six girls who decided to spend a long weekend in Paris. As a 19-year-old whose only prior travel-abroad experience had been spending 12 days in London, England, the thought of jetting off to the most romantic city in the world for a weekend seemed positively surreal. The Eiffel Tower, boulevards, croissants, the Seine; it was enough to make me squeal and want to don a beret and jaunty striped shirt. But my stereotypical daydreams of sipping coffees outside a cafe or strolling through the flower garden behind Notre Dame while nibbling a crepe were by far the most romantic aspects of the entire trip.

Too poor to afford a night in the hostel, we spent the night before our flights sleeping in the Dublin airport. It wasn't until we arrived in Paris the next afternoon that we realized not one of the six girls on the trip had thought to throw in a map. Cue sleep deprived wandering through the streets searching for our hostel. As we became increasingly frustrated with Parisian street signage, it started to snow.

By the time we'd found the hostel, we were tired, cold, cranky and hungry. One of the other girls, Melissa, and I ran to the bakery across the street to pick up a late lunch. As I munched down on my baguette sandwich, I thought the mayonnaise perhaps tasted a little extra tangy. Never mind that, I thought, that was probably what Parisian mayonnaise tasted like. I ate the whole thing.

We spent a lovely evening in the Montmartre section, climbing the gazillion steps to the Sacre Couer, visiting the windmills, and taking in stunning nighttime views of Paris's lights. Under the glowing streetlights, we nibbled Nutella crepes and threw spare Euros into the street musicians' open cases.

But I woke with a start in the middle of the night. I didn't feel so good. A vicious growl from my stomach got me out of bed and as I knelt in front of the room's toilet, it became clear that I really, really didn't feel so good. 

The next morning, it became apparent that Melissa and I were the only ones in our group in this predicament. Achy, retching, dehydrated  and shaky, we were also the only baguette eaters in the gang. It seemed that funny tasting mayonnaise was the most likely culprit.

At the Louvre, I wandered aimlessly through the sculptures, feeling as heavy, lifeless and grey as the sculptures themselves. I tried to act disappointed that the bell tower was closed at Notre Dame, but with my shaky legs, I couldn't imagine climbing countless steps just for some vistas and gargoyles. In the Musee D'Orsay, I sprinted up at long escalator to the sixth floor bathroom to attempt to discreetly barf into a toilet.

For the most part I rallied. After sleeping for approximately 16 hours that night, I spent our final day in Paris touring Versailles and the Opera house.  But truth be told, I was still feeling pretty dodgy as we sat in the Dublin train station wiating to make our final leg of the journey home. As we waited, I kept making some pretty uncomfortable sprints to the public toilet. And let me tell you, when the public toilet is one of those European numbers with a pay turnstile that you have to insert coins into to access the bathroom, that is not a great situation to be in.

Even my pictures from that weekend are blurry.

Oh Paris. Je t'aime? I think not. Je puke.

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What's In My Purse . . .

It's a common stereotype that all girls are awfully fond of their shoes and purses. I haven't exactly risen above shoe stereotype. But purses? I don't need no stinkin' purses.

Sure there are some cute bags out there, but while shoe departments have some magnetic pull on me, more often than not, I can pass by the purse department without a second thought. I'd like to think my purse apathy means I'm not materialistic, but considering the fact that I can always find a spare $20 to drop on a pair of shoes regardless of said-shoes practicality or lack there of, I'm not really sure this is the case.

Nevertheless, my purse is just a bag that as all my sh, stuff in it.

I've been lugging around the same purse, a birthday present from a dear friend, for years now for my everyday purse purposes. It's made out of some weird plastic-y material (maybe recycled plastic bags?) and sadly, the handles are starting to fray. Guess I'll be forced to go purse shopping one of these days.   

One peep in my purse and it becomes pretty clear that I don't like to be unprepared.

On a typical day, my purse contains: 

1. Wallet

2. Grocery List: I'd love to be spontaneous, but usually that just results in me buying random things that "look good" and us not having enough food to actually last the week.

3. Cat Pin: I actually have a cat pin collection. This guy went through the washer and came out without its pin back. Bummer. I didn't realize I'd throw him in here.

4. Cell phone: Since this only works when I'm in town, this is always in my purse. Usually turned off.

5. Cell phone charger: However, sometimes I forget to turn off my phone when I'm at the cabin. Which results in one dead battery when I actually need to use my phone. 

6. Jumble of keys: What are these? Do I even use any of these? Hmmm . . .

7. Granola bar: I have no idea how old this is. But I'd hate to have to go hungry.

8. Chica bag: Great idea, usually forget I have this. Man, I could have used this the last time I went to the Co-op and thought I'd forgotten all my reusable grocery bags .

9. A purse hanger: Another thing I forget I have, but I love using it when I do remember it. It's actually really sturdy and keep my purse off the floor and out of harm's way when I'm in a restaurant. 

10.Tampons: My obsessive need to always have personal hygiene products probably hearkens back to my teenage years when that time of the month came at whatever time of the month it pleased. My body doesn't "surprise attack" me very often these days, but tampons can be pretty handy for other reasons. Take for incidence the time my friend spill diet pop all over a train's table in the booth we were sitting in. No one had a Kleenex or anything else to mop up the mess, so voila: tampon to the rescue. After all, they're very absorbent .  . .

11. Mini multi-tool: I never use this. Andy thought I might need it sometime. I suppose I might.

Usually my camera's in my purse too, just in case I happen upon something interesting. 

What's in your purse? Why? 

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Lessons Learned as A Bird Brain

We fed the birds last winter at the Shack, but I feel like life in general took place on a smaller scale at the Shack. The living space was certainly more cramped. We weren’t quite as deep in the woods. It was kind of a mini-life, where we got to try on adulthood. A trial run if you will. You should never make assumptions based on a trial run.

So why, when the few chickadees, woodpeckers, and grosbeaks who stopped by the Shack’s two feeders last year consumed about 100 pounds of bird seed, I assumed that was how much bird seed we’d go through in every winter from there on out, I have no idea.

At the cabin this year, the feeders went out in early November. Since then, we’ve consistently gone through about 50 pounds of sunflower seeds . . . a month.

Don’t be fooled. Those little buggers can really pack it away. Lesson learned.

Just the other day, when Andy mentioned needing to run into town for something or other, I asked him to pick up some more bird seed.

He turned a little green when he glanced at the deflated bag of bird seed in the corner behind the front door.

“You mean they ate all of that seed already?”

Just a few short weeks ago, I’d made the belabored bag boy at the grocery store haul a 50 lb bag of bird seed from the back of the store out to the truck.

“Sure did,” I replied.

The temporary thaw last week exposed a veritable birdie wasteland of discarded sunflower seeds. It’s gonna look real classy around here come spring. . . .

Now I know why those birds are so chirpy and cheerful all the time: they’ve basically found the land of milk and honey in our backyard.

I think I’m going to put a little jar by the feeders, kindly requesting the little birdies drop off a nickel every time they belly up to the feeders. Squirrels and Mr. Al “the man who came to dinner” Pine Marten, I expect a dime (or two) when you come calling to the “Sunflower Seed Buffet on The Lake.” I need a little more of a return on this feeding the birds thing than just your colorful (dare I say, heartwarming) company and the guano calling cards that you’re so keen on splattering all over everything.

After all, times are tough. The economy still stinks. You guys, ladies and gentlemen of the birdy world, are wild animals. Go, head off into the woods and fend for yourselves. (You know, the way you’re supposed.) The fact that you are eating me out of house and home is just too ironic.


Do you feed the birds? How many lbs of bird seed do you go through in the winter?

 

This post is part of Mama Kat's "Pretty Much World Famous" Thursday writer's workshop. Thanks for stopping by!

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Rules, rules, rules . . . .

 

“Sometimes you have to break the rules around you to keep the rules within you” -Martha Beck 

Any regular reader of this blog has probably identified my affinity for to-do lists.  It's no secret that I like my systems, I like my structure, and I love rules. (After all, I was a hockey referee during my teenage years.) But even as the person who gets nervous whenever I'm in the presence of people talking other people getting into trouble, I realized I've been busy breaking some rules of my own . . . .

Rule #1:  Don't move back to your hometown.

Honestly I have no idea how this happened. Then the other day I read this line in a friend's blog: I still cry every time I leave Minnesota. Maybe that's it.

Although, I love to travel, but I have a hard time really, truly imagining any other place as home. Not that I haven't spent some time imagining.  (Seattle! NYC!! London!!!) Yet there's something about this remote, rural corner of this world that's not quite ready to let me go yet. Or vice versa.

Rule #2: Don't move in with your significant other before marriage. 

Does anyone really respect this rule anymore? A year into our relationship, Andy's and my work briefly intersected and it made the most sense to share a shack/cabin and make a home of our own. Now we feel like we're married and we've skipped the whole part where Andy gets something nice and sparkly for my left hand. Oops. So that's why you don't move in together before marriage . . .

In addition: I talk over people. (I'm so, so sorry. I don't realize I'm doing it until it's too late!) I eat after 8 p.m. I break fashion and beauty rules. We're just up a lawless society up here at the cabin when you get right down to it. But what's the point in letting arbitrary rules our lives and consequently, our hearts?  

Because, there's one rule I know I'll always keep: Don't take life too seriously.

This post is part of Mama Kat's Thursday writing workshop. Thanks for stopping by!

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