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My random thoughts and reactions to my everyday life. The voices like a forum. |
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Created: November 4th, 2014 at 2:58pm
Modified: May 16th, 2024 at 5:48pm
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I do not know quite what happened or when , but my hubby and I now qualify for seniors' discounts at some venues. This creates a quandary; in order to save money, but not face, we have to admit to our age. HMMMM..... We definitely do not consider ourselves to be old. In this day and age ,when people as a whole are living longer and healthier lives why are 'young seniors', those in their fifties, like moi, considered 'old'?? It's so true that age is just a perception! "Maturity" is very objective/subjective, and I object! Whew, a few years have skittered by since I composed this biography block. Those "fifties" are in the rear view mirror and they are distant, fond memories. Oh, I do not plan to stop writing any time soon.
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| It is not my habit to greet the dawn. I've always been more of a night owl. For this dawn balloon cruise I made an exception and it was well worth it.Imagine rubbing your eyes and yawning repeatedly in an effort to awaken. Your brain is insisting it's still dark and therefore it cannot possibly be the beginning of a new day. Someone hands you a steaming fresh cup of coffee and the caffeine slowly meanders through your blood stream urging you to greet the coming day. Fires flare up around you and giant silk canopies expand and bulge with hot air. They billow and strain against their anchors raring to go. Singsong voices coax you into a basket and you reflexively grip the edge as your rainbow hued balloon gently rises towards the horizon. The sudden and brilliant sunrise takes your breath away. Only moments ago you noticed a yellow glow that exploded into a burst of gold. The shadows retreat as the light advances to reveal a world of lush, vibrant green. Morning has taken charge and banished the darkness. Soon, you are chasing your balloon's shadow across the landscape.You hear yourself gasp, but that sound is muted. The roar of the flame envelops you. The balloon's structure ripples and dances. You float weightless above throngs of teeming wildlife. Your view is a panorama, unobstructed. Stunning, statuesque giraffe strut, or gallop. Hippos cavort and spray each other with water. Lion cubs roll and wrestle. Zebra kick up their feet. You stare mesmerized unwilling to blink. The word breathtaking is not enough. You are struck speechless in reverence. This more than warranted my rising before the crack of dawn. |
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  Dress comfortably. That's all the Egyptian guide said. Not that I had packed camel-riding gear because what is that exactly? Thank goodness I have never been fond of dresses, frocks whatever anyone wishes to call them. I'd also been warned Egypt is a conservative country dress-code wise. They believe in modesty and as far as that goes I agree with them. Modesty and decorum go hand in hand while mounting and sitting astride a camel. No one would wish me to flash them unless it was a beaming smile. I chose to garb myself in my usual summertime attire, shorts and a t-shirt. As soon as I return home I plan to have a likeness of Claude the Camel's face plastered to a new t-shirt as a memento of this excursion. He wasn't very talkative. In fact I'd describe him as a bit standoffish. When I attempted to engage him in conversation, he'd stare at me with those large, somber eyes and bat those impossibly long, curling eyelashes. I did manage to snap a quick pick of his brief toothy grin. He dazzled me with it when I hopped off the saddle at the Pyramids of Giza site. I say he didn't speak. In reality he grunted, a great deal. it might be my overactive imagination, but I swear Claude also sighed several times. I suppose ferrying tourists around has become a bit blase. He's seen one gawker, he's seen them all. I saddled my camel with the moniker Claude because it rhymed with plod and of course it began with the letter 'c'. That's what he did. He did not sail through the sea of endless sand as I anticipated the mighty ship of the desert would do. He seemed to have one unhurried, measured pace. Again, how many times has he witnessed the formidable scope and grandeur of the pyramids? I can understand his lack of excitement. They're not going anywhere and they've survived for centuries. They were present when he last saw them and they'd be awaiting his imminent return. No need to get his cud in a tangle. No need to break a sweat. I learned from the guide that camels rarely if ever perspired. Lucky animal. So, Claude plodded. While Claude trudged, I swayed. Okay, that particular motion reminded me of being aboard a ship. It was constant. I rode the swell, the surge of each powerful stride. His immense feet barely disturbed the sand. Those knobby-kneed legs of his ferried us forward. I patted Claude's neck a few times probably to remind him that I still clung to his topside. His hair felt coarse, but I suppose anyone's mane would be rough and dry if they made a point of exposing themselves to the strong sun rays. My tresses were contained within a long, colourful scarf I purchased at a bazaar. Hats and I have never been sympatico. I enjoyed my day tripping as a novice camel jockey. The only comparison I know is that of horseback riding. In that situation I must fling one leg up and over the equine's spine while simultaneously pulling myself up. It has never been anywhere near a graceful maneuver and it depends greatly upon the horse not deciding to sidestep my efforts. Mounting and subsequently dismounting Claude was similar to employing an assistive device, an automatic lift. He did the heavy work by first kneeling and waiting for my overtures. All the effort required from me was to hold onto the pommel. Not wishing to plummet to the sand was also a practical motivator. Thanks Claude for acting as my unique mode of transportation. |
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| Who has time to sleep? There's so much to explore. These eyes of mine cannot so much as blink.I ventured to Angkor Wat an immense temple complex before dawn. I wished to see a spectacular sunrise set against all that red sandstone and I was not disappointed. The climbing, blazing sun set everything aglow. Imagine all the sun rises and sunsets that have graced that site for hundreds of years. Time both stands still and marches on. Seeing all of the stone formations, foundations, doorways, walkways ,columns, statuary and more I couldn't help but wonder how it was all moved here. Was there an immense sandstone quarry within the building area? How was it lifted into place to form walls and rooves? How was it transported? Was it shipped in along the river? What great vessels carried it? Did oxen pull the sandstone blocks in reinforced wagons? Had dynamite been discovered and utilized to blow great pieces from the earth? Were the builders granted super-human strength? If the formations could only speak of the blood, sweat and tears they witnessed. Were they ingenious and used rope and pulleys? It is an impressive sight and the logistics of its being are mind-boggling. Did the stone carvers devote their entire lives to creating the intricate designs in the stone? Did they chip away miniscule bits, piece by piece, to carve faces that would stand the test of time and endure the elements? I appreciate the determination and patience they must have possessed. I am in awe that people had a vision and could transform rock into one humongous testimonial to ingenuity and beauty. The grand scale took my breath away, or it might have been the non-stop hiking with my mouth agape. I stumbled along, huffing and puffing, craning my neck to take in everything. The banyan and fig trees were not dwarfed by the temple. They seemed to stand as sentinels. After all my trudging, I treated myself to a tuk tuk ride. I bit my tongue and kept a death grip on my seat as the driver steered around the teeming crowds. Sometimes, I waved my arms and shouted warnings fearing a collision and mass casualties. At sunset I indulged in a hot air balloon excursion. Nothing compares to floating above it all, yet seeing it so clearly. Sound is muted. The greens of the trees shone like emeralds. I liked the feeling of weightless suspension.I saved my late evening for the night market Psah Chas. Now this is nightlife at its finest. The smells of fish, fruits and spices perfumed the humid air. Sound echoed. Voices carried on a continuous wave . Vendors shouted to attract attention. People waved. People smiled and nodded heads in hello. Many groups formed to view the haggling, the bartering first hand. The repartee, the give and take is animated, quick. My knees twinged and I grimaced to see most of the sellers, women, crouched on the tables amongst their wares. They were not seated, nor did many of them stand. Ouch! Most of the feet I noticed were happy to be in flip flops, or thongs as some refer to them. This market seemed to be constructed of numerous stalls butting up against each other. Words like teeming and bustling came to mind. It was more than a crowd, it was throngs. Everywhere I looked I viewed a kaleidoscope of colour. Jewel tones blended in the form of fruits, vegetables and fabrics. Vibrant. I noticed numerous tanks of fish swimming in clear water and I gasped when I saw tourists willingly submerging their bare feet and then giggling. Apparently, the fish nibble at toes and it is described as ticklish. No thanks. I felt sorry for those fish. Did they ask smelly, dirty feet to invade their space? Thanks Siem Reap. I enjoyed my whirlwind day. |
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I must admit I was a wee bit leery about today's virtual tour. Even pretending to balance atop a bicycle never mind pedal it seems daunting. I have difficulty staying seated upon my computer chair and my poor battered toes bear the bruises of my faltering efforts. In real life I have avoided wheeling about a la cycle since at sixteen a car ended my forays. One vehicle crashed into me and I then began driving another. My son tells everyone he has never witnessed me riding a bicycle and therefore, he believes I cannot. What is that expression? It's like riding a bike. What is? Wobbling? Weaving? Balancing?I am relatively well-balanced. I clutch a cookie in one hand and a cup of tea in the other. What could go wrong? I'll be pretending. The first thing I noticed was that the bike tour seemed to have the name of a travelling stage show: The Beauty of Perth by Bike: Private Tour. As long as there will not be a world tour, I'm in. I also chose to skip the head armour. When I could call myself a cyclist I never wore a helmet preferring to feel the wind in my hair. This is Perth on a glorious, sunny day. I did wish I had a t-shirt emblazoned with Pedal Power, or Petal Power since I oohed and ahhed over so many gorgeous blooms at Kings Park. The second oddity that struck my curiosity was that this tour was touted for 1 to 99 year-olds. So, do many infants and advanced seniors opt to pedal around Perth? Is this an Aussie thing ? If so, colour me impressed. The third thing I remarked upon was the billing of this being a carbon neutral activity. I cannot speak to the other easy riders, but I was emitting/expelling something, probably not carbon, but some gases. Carbon dioxide for one streamed from my efforts. Kings Park is humongous, but I was relieved that I did not find it necessary to shout Look Out! constantly. The pedestrians gave me a wide berth. I did find it exhausting to swivel my head in order to take in the lovely scenery. Everything is so lush and green. The flowers were vibrant with every hue possible. So much of the flora is unique to Australia . One bloom had the name kangaroo paw. Huh. Here in Canada I doubt we have a polar bear paw, or moose hoof flower. I stared mouth agape at the gigantic Boab tree. To me it resembled a bulbous root vegetable on steroids with large limbs. I could see it as a turnip turned tree. This bike tour lived up to its hype. Perth is beautiful.
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May 6th's walkabout/bush walk is all a blur. I recall stumbling along a creek bed and scattering stones as I disturbed sand. I suppose I was in awe of the Katherine area scenery and I remember gaping at those orange banded beehive formations. Nature is a marvel. I did find the name Bungle Bungle to be amusing. From the moment I went in search of a billabong I lost all track of time. No matter, I am refreshed and ready to tackle a Darwin excursion. Of course, I cannot ever admit to wandering in Australia without checking out at least a few crocodiles. I suppose the equivalent would be for an Aussie to visit Canada and set eyes on a moose, or a beaver, or a polar bear. That creature is iconic. The idea of a jumping crocodile seemed intriguing. I envisioned circus performer crocs jumping through flaming hoops as a ringmaster with that incredible Aussie accent snapped a whip. What I did witness was a handful of crocs thrash their incredible tails and launch themselves skyward in the hopes of snagging a free snack. Their teeth were impressive. I will admit to gasping and oooing. Strange, but no one on the cruise boat was tempted to pet a crocodile. I don't recall that we needed to be warned to keep our hands to ourselves either. When that first massive jaw snapped shut, I thought of Captain Hook and flexed my safe fingers. Lyn's a Witchy Woman  quipped that she was considering a crocodile encounter/mishap as the basis for a murder/mystery. Would it be a great method of body disposal? I don't believe she'd consider to test this theory with the disappearance of one of the virtual trippin' bloggers...This worry remote, unthinkable possibility fled my mind when we writers began to imbibe the generous wine proffered aboard the evening catamaran cruise. This exceptional grape elixir worked its magic. Dare I say we were giddy? Sumojo  , 💙 Carly  , Simply Me  , 🌸 pwheeler - love joy peace  , Lyn's a Witchy Woman and myself did admit we could see ourselves feeding some of our lesser scribblings to a croc. Eat our words. You know, food for thought and all that. Chew on this. We were not drunk, but mellow. The poor staff just rolled their eyes and pasted those polite smiles on their faces when we mumbled what probably every tourist does at some point. "Can I throw a shrimp on the barbie?"I snickered because all I could think of was a Barbie doll on the grill. Did I mention I was slurping the wine? I may even have requested a straw. |
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| I am hanging my head and muttering to myself. I missed the train yesterday. I'll admit I may have dawdled. After all of that adrenalin thrumming in my veins during my Sydney sojourn, I crashed. When I stumbled into the station, The Ghan was gone. I, of course, did pause to ponder my predicament. I knew without a shadow of a doubt that I could not actually catch a train. The only running I do now is sometimes running on empty. The ol' knees refuse to expel that type of undignified, unnecessary waste of energy. I opted to plead with a purveyor of rental vehicles and in the local parlance, I hired a Jeep. Yep, I opted to partake of a mad desert run across country to rejoin the train tour. My jostling, dusty journey afforded me to really feel the grittiness of the sand. No, the red sands of Coober Pedy are not particularly tasty. I'm not sure if my eyes appear to be reddened because of my lack of sleep, or that infernal, pervasive dust. I arrived to get down and dirty mining for opals. I just rushed the dirty part. What's another layer? May I stress the heat of this desolate place? Is this desert community really a sauna? I must say I thoroughly enjoyed the tour of the dugouts excavated into the sandstone hills. Residing underground is a novel approach to avoiding that extreme heat. Caves are indeed cool . Does this give new meaning to the Aussie term down under ? The warning signs topside gave me pause. Apparently, there are abandoned mine shafts everywhere and watch your step seems to be a local greeting. The signs advise me not to walk backwards, as if. I was also admonished not to run, but as I already explained my cranky knees watch my back. If I had been warned not to trip, I could not have complied. The knees believe that is acceptable and most likely probable. I can understand the allure of the opal. Many of us are attracted to the shiny, the pretty, the hidden. The local opal miners are no different than the gold prospectors. They live for the thrill of the hunt, the surprise pay dirt, the almighty mother lode. Just one more search. Just explore one more vein. Just dig a little more. That elusive big strike is here somewhere waiting to be discovered. I admire the tenacity of the Coobers. They epitomize resilience. They see far more than a barren landscape. By the end of the day, no one had succumbed to the dangers/temptations of an open hole. Imagine the rescue fuss if this calamity had befallen one of us clueless tourists? Would several someones shout, "One in the hole!" Is there appropriate slang such as "he/she is hole'd up", or is the correct vernacular "he/she's shafted"? I've heard of 'walkabout'. Is there a "fallabout"? Would there be rampant confusion if say a woman named Opal slipped into one of those former mine openings and it would need to be announced that "Opal's in the shaft"? Who would ken that to be a bad thing? Now I'm curious. How many of the local females are named Opal? I ask this of woman named June. "Were you born in that month?" I must be dehydrated. My mind is wandering without me again. |
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| My computer chair is in the upright position. While not technically strapped in, my feet are braced against the floor. Today, I am virtually travelling within Sydney , Australia. I have advised my ears to translate the unique accent I shall be immersed within. I do not plan to so much as blink. It shall be all about the letter A with today's activities. Adrenalin. First stop, all be it a brief one, was Hilton Sydney. Yes, I verified that it is centrally located. In the heart of the city one might say. When I departed anticipating my full day of screaming sightseeing, I was still scratching my head and pondering. What exactly is that sculpture thingy in the lobby? Is it a strange conception of a wire funnel cloud? A giant worm? I can say definitively it was---- tall. First up on my expedition bucket list was a dip, okay, a dive with the sharks at Bushrangers Bay. I assured the handlers that I was indeed a certified diver, they didn't need to know this is a virtual qualification. I did pause to consider I might be certifiable. Submerged with man-eaters? Are sharks ever referred to as women-eaters? Would I be secure with that distinction? Nope, sorry, I'm not male, therefore, you cannot dine upon my person. Sink those impressive teeth into something/someone else. I had to be reminded to breathe. My reflex was to hold my breath and will my muscles not to twitch. Of course this was my feeble attempt not to draw attention to myself. No one suggested I avoid eye contact, but sharks could be sensitive to the stares of tourists. I concluded they are not in the least cuddly, pettable creatures. On a side note, I enjoyed the sense of suspended animation and the serenity of bobbing under the ocean. I survived without the loss of a limb which I consider a positive. Next I opted to try my hand, or test my notoriously fickle balance surfing at Bondi Beach. I must stress I mean the above the ocean, on the waves type of surfing. Computer surfing has been hazardous in and of itself. The instructors assured me I would increase my confidence and actually be able to boast of a certain amount of technique. They blathered on about catching a wave, but I am confused as to what I am supposed to do with it if I should trap it. Are their international treaty laws forbidding the smuggling of waves? Would a wave fit into my luggage for the return flight home? When I came within spitting distance of a verifiable wave it slapped me and knocked me into the surf. I am not one to complain and point fingers, but the surf board was not as soft as advertised. It packs quite the wallop. I don't believe I shall ever develop a taste for the salt water. Swallowing it is not at all refreshing. The obviously veteran surfers were correct. I have the newfound confidence to now know for certain that I am not a surfer. Balance and I are not on the same level. Since it was impossible for me to be any more soaking wet, I next hopped aboard a Sydney Harbour Extreme Adrenaline Rush Ride which is a mouthful meaning I strapped myself into a jet boat. Again the waves pummeled me, but I didn't care. What a rush! I whooped and hollered as I spun in 360-degree spirals, power slides and wave jumps. I can still hear the roaring in my ears and the engine thrumming in my veins. I'd immersed myself in the sparkling, inviting, azure sea, yet I hadn't viewed its true beauty. For this I elected to try tandem skydiving over a beach. Strapped next to a stranger and sharing a parachute gives closeness a new meaning. I wonder if my air travel partner is now deaf. The wind seemed to tear my screams from my fluttering, trembling lips , but they had to go somewhere. His ears were within my vocal range. I recall a certain amount of flapping on my part not that I hoped to sprout wings and fly. My arms and legs wished to flail. Those poor sunbathers below must have believed a squawking pterodactyl was about to pounce. The sky high view was beyond breathtaking and I had to once again be reminded to breathe. The blue is stunning and dazzling. My initial plummet became a floating suspension. I experienced weightlessness and a lull in time. Thanks Sydney for my adrenaline fix. My blood is pumping on all cylinders now. |
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| ANTARCTICA Vernadsky Station, May 2nd, 2024. I tell you waking in the morning here does not entail simply rolling out of bed. Rolling in a sleeping bag leaves me discombobulated which is a long, fancy word for dizzy and entangled. Anyone up for a sack race? I also feel somewhat stiff, but surprisingly not frozen. When I'm snuggled in the cozy confines I cannot help but think of the cartoon/comics in which bears consider campers in sleeping bags to be packaged food. I'm fairly certain penguins are not prey animals. I am enjoying the wonderful absence of insects, too. Thank goodness parkas do not exist small enough to fit mosquitos. Some of my resonate dizziness must be an after effect of imbibing the local vodka. It may look like water, but it does not hydrate like H2O. Although plenty of ice surrounds this research center I did not add any to my drink. I am grateful to the steadying pole at the Vernadsky Station Lounge. I'm almost certain the South Pole would not have let me lean on it. The winter temperatures here are balmy compared to those back home. Minus 20 Celsius? I dressed in fewer layers for this expedition. What timing. We are invited to visit green snow and I am feeling somewhat green around the gills. When I first viewed it I thought to myself how pretty. The green is so vibrant set against the vast whiteness of the snow. It's akin to something Dr. Seussish. Why yes, I like green snow Penguin Sam I Am. It appears fuzzy and reminds me of moss. Apparently, this green snow is an algae bloom that acts as a carbon sink, and is due to rising temperatures. Back home I've yet to notice the early crocus. Soon the daffodils, lilac and tulips will make a triumphant return. I wonder if I will learn to see and differentiate the shades of white that exist in this harsh landscape. The Inuit are said to have many names for 'white'. Of course I will mail something to my family just for the post mark. I also wish to search for a novel written by the Ukrainian writer Andry Kurkov. It is based upon the first Ukrainian expedition to this research station. The title is intriguing, Death and the Penguin. |
April 24, 2024 at 11:04am
April 24, 2024 at 11:04am
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| "Blogging Circle of Friends " April 24th, 2024.PROMPT: Write about a library, or libraries of your childhood. Ah, the local library of my childhood. It was my second home, my sanctuary. I would stroll there. Occasionally, I pedaled my bike there. I could and did spend hours there lost in exploring the banks of shelves groaning under the weight of books. Sometimes, I actually curled up in one of the armchairs, but most often I sat cross-legged on the floor comforted by the shade, the shadows of books waiting for me to select them. The Hardy Boys, Nancy Drew, Black Beauty, Call of the Wild, Wind in the Willows, Charlotte's Web, Anything and everything Dr. Seuss, I devoured them all. I remember being in awe that I was permitted, no, entrusted to borrow books. I treated each one as the treasure it was to me. Having my very own library card made me feel special, too. At one time I considered the position of librarian to be a coveted, revered one. Imagine being surrounded by books all the time. Heaven! |
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| I love reading anything created by Canadian author Louise Penny. She has created believable, lovable characters based in or near an imaginary Quebec town, Three Pines. They are murder/mysteries and so much more. She delves into human behaviours and psyches. I cannot wait for the next offering!1. How the Light Gets In2. A Great Reckoning 3. Glass Houses4. The Beautiful Mystery5. The Long Way Home6. The Nature Of The Beast7. Kingdom Of The Blind8. A Rule Against Murder 9. A Madness of Crowds 10. State of Terror( co-authored with Hillary Rodham Clinton) Each of these novels is a delight to peruse. I recommend them all. Her Surete detective Armand Gamache is a wise leader and student of mankind. |
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