See the Ceiling of the Sistine Chapel - DID IT

Our tour guide told us we could take pictures anywhere in the Vatican, EXCEPT in the Sistine Chapel.  Let me just admit that there is a "Bad Girl" that lives in me that always wants to do exactly what I've been told I can't.  So the urge to snap a shot was overwhelming. Talking wasn't allow either, and the guards in the chapel constantly yelled at people to stop talking (what's wrong with that picture?)  Anyone caught trying to take a photo was tapped on the shoulder and escorted from the room. I had to be careful but I was up for the challenge. My Canon EOS Xsi, hung at waist-level from a strap around my neck.  It was set to the highest resolution and widest lens setting possible. I melted into the packed crowd in the middle of the room.  Then I nonchalantly tilted the camera toward the ceiling without bringing it to my eye  (of course) and pretended to be intently studying the ceiling as I snapped away, hoping I would capture something worth saving.

Yes, I know it's wrong, consider this my "confession."  I got some great shots and the high rez setting allowed me to crop out some of the classic vignettes you see here.  Beyond the photos, I was stunned by being in the presence of one of the greatest artistic masterpieces of all time. The feeling of standing where Michelangelo stood, walked, and painted for four long, reportedly miserable years was overwhelming. The work defies belief, even when you see it with your own eyes.  The ceiling is barrel vaulted, yet the figures appear in perfect perspective when viewed from below.  When you consider that Michelangelo was a sculptor, not a painter, and he had to learn the plaster painting technique as well as the unique perspective required of the project, it's even more unbelievable.


Of all of the museums and art on my list of things to see, the Sistine Chapel has always been at the top and always seemed like one of the least likely, so I was thrilled to be able to check the Did-It box and to have illegal photos to prove it.  "Forgive me Father, for I have sinned."

Ride on a Fire Boat (and truck) - DID IT

Most kids dream of riding in a speeding fire truck and holding the giant water hose, and I'm certainly no different.  It wasn't until I saw the Seattle Fire boat spraying huge arching fountains of water in Elliott Bay that I added "Ride on a Fire Boat."  Getting to spray the hose was an unexpected bonus!

The Seattle Fire Department's premier fire boat, the Leschi, was heading out for an orientation run with a batch of new fire recruits.  The Deputy Chief, who had been promising me a ride for over a year, put me on the boarding list.  Accompanied by my buddy, Captain Charlie, I took a thrill ride around Puget Sound with the Seattle skyline as a backdrop. I was in the bridge watching the fireman spray the forward water cannon, when he turned to me and asked, "Do you want to spray it?"  Are you kidding me?  Of course!!!  The water jets are all controlled by a joystick from inside the heated and dry pilot house, there are no hoses involved.

I couldn't resist the urge to go the water ballet route.  I performed artistic figure 8's, swirls and spirals with the water stream.  I figured anyone who saw it from onshore would think the firemen were drunk or crazy.  Later I discovered that a friend of mine was driving on the Alaskan Way Viaduct at that exact moment watching the odd display and wondered what was up with the fire boat, not knowing it was me at the controls.I tried spelling my name with the water, but apparently, that wasn't obvious.

Back on shore, they let me to climb into the cab of the ladder truck, sit in the driver's seat and play with the steering wheel.  I realized I was entirely too old to make siren noises out loud... so I made them very quietly so no one else could hear.  It was a great day on the water.

Many thanks to Charlie and A.D. for helping me cross three things off my DID-IT list in one day.

Explore the Airplane Boneyard - DID IT

In the middle of the Arizona desert far from the public eye is a graveyard of sorts.  It's where unwanted airplanes go to die quietly. I visited with a camera guy to make an airline training video, the gist of which was "Look what happens if you don't take care of business." Airlines don't want the public to see their logos and brand names on the bodies of partially dismantled and rusting planes, so access to the boneyard is strictly monitored - no lookey-lou's, no cub scout field trips.  The identifying marks of active airlines were painted over in a mostly-failed attempt to hide their ownership, but planes belonging to bankrupt companies are left exposed without a decent burial.

As graveyards should be, it was silent except for the wind whistling through the empty doors and windows. Dust swirled around piles of passengers seats, wing skeletons and flat tires. Like a human graveyard, there was an attempt at order, noses faced into the wind, tails toward the sunset, one in front of the other, staggered side by side to maximize the use of space.  The desert seemed capable of swallowing them all and many more. It is a shrine to wasted resources in a disposable society.

Claims are that some of them are just there temporarily. They will be coming home when things improve.  That felt a bit like telling an elderly relative that their stay in the nursing home is just temporary, they will be coming home - if things improve.  You say the words, but no one really believes it.

The supposed temporary residents of the boneyard are tarped, heated and dehumidified by a crew of graveyard attendants. Like newly dug graves in a cemetery, they are bright and well maintained, no grass grows under their wheels.  But little by little the sun and the wind, the cold and the heat take their toll and these temporary guests fade into permanent residency.  Then the buzzards start removing their organs for transplant. First it's the engines, then any resellable parts, then the recyclable metals until all that remains are the scraps - the bones.

Buy French Pastries from a Boat - DID IT

Sometimes the items on the list are put there after the fact.  Who could know that there is a boat that cruises the canals of Barra de Navidad, Mexico, a sleepy fishing village on the Pacific Coast, offering fresh French pastries for breakfast.  Once I heard of the existence of this cultural oddity, I knew it had to go on the list, and I had to have some.

The boat travels down the short canal at about 8:00 a.m. just as the last of the oranges and golds of sunrise are rinsed from the January sky.  It tinkles a tiny bell as it approaches the residents' docks.  The day's selections of flaky pastries are displayed in red milk crates; plain croissants, pain au chocolat (croissants filled with dark chocolate), fromage et jambon (ham and cheese), l'almond (I think you can figure that one out for yourself).  Just for the fun of it, I politely ordered in my best French.


We sat on the dock letting the morning sun warm our faces as we munched our unexpected treats, scavenging every crumb off of our pajamas.  A nearby wild Iguana was doing the same, warming up and munching on his morning bugs - to each his own!

Isn't the world an amazingly diverse place?

Ride a Vespa - DID IT

I loved those old Italian movies where everyone is zipping around on tiny motor scooters.  Watching Audrey Hepburn in "Roman Holiday" looking so fabulous tooling around Rome on her Vespa sold me. Of course, she looks great in that gathered skirt too and those just make me look like a fire hydrant.


For our wedding anniversary my husband brought home a brand new, Barbie-doll pink motor scooter for me. He had it specially tricked out with black trim, it was the only one of its kind in town according to the Ducati dealership.  I checked our insurance to see if he'd upped the policy on me or something.  What was he thinking?  I can't ride a bicycle and he gives me a bicycle with a gas engine!

I bought a matching pink helmet and put a wicker basket on the front.  Perfect for carrying around a small terrier... oh, wait, that was the wicked witch from Oz.  Perfect for carrying a long baguette and fresh veggies from the market.  It was quickly nicknamed "Piglet" because it looked so cute parked next to hubby's giant Honda 950.

I had attempted to ride a scooter once as a teenager and promptly ran over myself - it's a long story involving a large pothole (Front tire hit the pothole, flipped me over the handlebars, bike popped out of the hole, continued on its path, and I was laying in its path.) The first time I jumped on Piglet, I rode it straight into the hedge. I got better.

I was concerned about riding it on the road, I felt so insignificant that no one would see me.  Hubby said, "It's PINK. Believe me, they will see you.  In fact, they might run off the road staring... or laughing."  That part is partially true.  I do get lots of stares as I go whizzing along.  The scooters come with a speed control that limits them to 25 mph, but it's easy to unhook, which we did.  I have gotten it up to 45!  The world just whips by.  I can't figure out how Audrey rode it in that skirt, though.  I tried it.  The skirt flew up in my face and blocked my view.

For good measure, and to complete the entire Pink package, I use strawberry scented oil in the gas tank so my exhaust smells good!  Every time it goes "putt-putt-putt" it expels little Pink Farts.

See King Tut's Treasures - DID IT

What I meant was to see the treasures from King Tut's tomb in their natural habitat, what I did was see them at the museum when the touring exhibit came through Seattle.  While I agree that it's a bit like saying I want to see a Wombat, then checking the box because you saw one at the zoo.  It's sort of true, but not exactly right.

On the other hand, I don't have time for that level of perfection.  I checked this box after standing in line in the rain for what seemed like hours with my best partner-in-crime, Phyllis (she was Ethyl to my Luci for many years).  We each had a toddler by the hand and were very pregnant.  What possessed us to take two little kids with us is a really good question.  Likely we reasoned that since babysitters were expensive we could count this as an educational experience for the kids. I probably learned more about parenting that day than they learned about Egyptian history.

This little adventure and a few more like it taught me to listen more to what my kids needed/wanted to learn at that point in their lives, not what I convinced myself they needed. Why drag kids through learning experiences that are years beyond their ability to comprehend and remember when they would learn more by doing more age-appropriate things.  At this point, the toddlers were much more intrigued by Muppets than Mummification.  Don't give kids a 3000-year-old gold death mask when a gold star sticker will do.

Oh, and a two-year-old crawling under a security rope sets off alarms - word to the wise!

Make Cheese - DID IT

I missed out on the hippie pot-smoking/free-love era by a few years. But I did join the whole "granola, natural, organic, hippie, minimalist" kick that followed.  I embraced the idea of living on my little farm, growing my own food and living an organic life.  My city-raised hubby went along with the plan, not because he was committed to it, but rather he always picks the path of least resistant and going along with whatever wacky scheme I propose is usually that.  Sometimes I wish he would take a minute to point out the impracticality of my hair-brained ideas, but then, I guess, I would blame him for squashing my creativity instead of blaming myself for the inevitable disasters.  That might be his underlying plan.

We got a good deal on a milk goat.  "Good deal" is a relative term. I will detail the downside of owning a milk goat later, but for now suffice to say we had a lot of milk with which to make cheese. It's labor intensive to say the least; milk the goat, strain the milk, add the rennet, stir the pot while warming (cooked it - oops), incubate (spoiled - oops), strain curds, squeeze, wrap, then age (molded - oops).  Lots of variables means lots of ways for things to go wrong.  Finally a successful batch of creamy white soft cheese... that tasted AWFUL!  I threw it out and tried again... and again... and again.  Eventually I decided cheesemaking was not my path to wealth and fame in a foodie world.

Years later when goat cheese became a grocery store staple, I bought some organic, farm-made goat cheese and discovered it tasted exactly like the stuff I had made and thrown away.  Turns out it's supposed to taste that bad!  I've grown to like it on my salad and in some sauce dishes, but I didn't know that at the time.

Remind me to tell you about making goat yogurt!