As with most things, Alaska makes my top 43 because it has been widely romanticised in my brain. I want to go to Ireland, to Chicago, to England, to Australia, to Scotland, the Netherlands, and to Alaksa. Not necessarily in that order. The wish to travel to these places stems only partly from the innate necessity to run far and away from my life on the mainland and to a place where they speak with cool backcountry accents. The other contribution comes from, of course, books. What else can totally seduce your imagination, romanticising it from New York in Winter, to a small town in Alaska, to an Irish pub in Dublin? (Two words: Nora Roberts. I think I read every one of her bloody books a few years ago within eight months.)
Anyway, I read the book entitled “Northern Lights” by Roberts and fell hard in love with the topmost state as the main character fell for the heroine. I haven’t been the same since.
It isn’t just the fact that I read about Alaska – and immediately Google imaged it – that makes Alaska and the Northern Lights hit the top 43. There’s a sense of irrationality that springs forth from my innermost heart’s compartment and heats up my blood stream.
I want to go to Alaska and wear shorts. The first thing people think of when they hear Alaska are penguins followed closely by frostbite.
And I want to wear shorts, freeze my bloody damn ass off, and see the Northern Lights.
I have this image of me in the middle of a frozen street, or maybe the side of a frozen pond, sitting in a lawn chair, teetering on the ice, and gazing wide-eyed and open mouthed at the Northern Lights.
Shorts, frozen boogers, and all.
