Chapter 5: News, Neuroses, and...Stuff

Let me start by stating I have been busy...very busy. Being a lunch lady is hard work, no matter what you may have heard from Adam Sandler. In addition, I have taken on the awesome responsibility of trying to decide which is a better series - Jeeves & Wooster or Nero Wolfe...this is rough stuff, folks. Not only that, I had to clip my toenails...AND my fingernails. Honestly, who has time to post on a blog if all of that is going on? (But seriously, I truly was busy...I PROMISE! Many things have happened, both good and bad and now I'm ready for blogtion (that was an attempt at a blogging-action contraction...not so good), again...at least for a little while.)
First, I must post a few warnings concerning this chapter:
1. There will be one obscenity, maybe two - bear in mind it is important to the story line and that is why I am putting it in. While I have the mouth of a sailor in real life, I find it a bit crass to drop f-bombs all over my writing (it doesn't flow as one would hope)
2. Corey - this is a long one. You might want to save it for when you have a lot of time and are in desperate need for distraction. Might I suggest printing it out and reading it on a bus trip? I believe you have some coming up.
3. I have yet to decide if we will travel through the time chronologically or ummmm...please read a good antonym for chronologically. If you must have order and logic, this is not the chapter for you...maybe.
4. (Sorry, lost my train of thought as I had to take a bathroom break)
4. There will be mention of the bathroom
5. (Again I lost my train of thought. I watched a movie trailer...Okay, I watched ten movie trailers.)
Alright, it's clear that I can't focus on the task at hand and I must bid you farewell until I can redeem myself. I will drown my sorrows in fresh gingerbread and whipped cream (visiting here with mom is SO awesome)
Okay, I’ve pulled myself together...more than a week later (you didn’t know it but I started this post October 18....and it is now October 26. Corey, my earlier suggestions and surmises about road trips no longer apply as I believe they have all finished...my bad)
To Judy and Jeff, this one is for you. I am delighted to know that people read this enough to demand more, I mean...want more. (Dad, W, A, don’t get angry...I love you all very much and look forward to your comments on every post, but let’s face it...you’re family. You guys have to write or else I’d melt into a ball of gibberish and crazy talk...more than I already have.)
Here’s the plan - I have many stories to tell and the idea of organizing them into a perfect narrative is daunting (“I’m gonna shut off the computer and never type again” daunting...this might be why I haven’t posted in so long). So, I’m going to tell a story and if it becomes apparent in the middle that I need to fill in background info with another story...I’ll do so.
We begin with a tale of a city by the sea...the Mediterranean Sea...the city of Akko, or Acre...maps, people, and highway signs have yet to come to a consensus. I mentioned Akko (I choose Akko, because it sounds like Iko and it makes me think of a song I like), in an earlier story about Spice Man Spiff, the greatest spice warrior that has ever lived...or that I’ve ever met, but it was only in passing and the city deserves more than that.
We (meaning C, Mom, and myself) first traveled to Akko back in September. On our drive up, we came across some lovely scenery



and some struggling travelers

(I think Claire said it best, “Mattress Man, we hope you made it”)
and the Newark of the Holy Land.

Oooooooooooo...pretty.
We also drove through an industrial district which had a more colorful side (I refrain from saying seamier side...well, actually I didn’t) as this photo demonstrates.

Perhaps the Holy Land isn’t so holy?
Anyway, we arrived in Akko to see the sunset from our hotel room

and collect ourselves before dinner. We had been told (by our guide book) that we needed reservations and had made them a week earlier. The necessity of reservations had led me to believe they would expect more formal attire than my everyday wear, so I dressed accordingly, as did mom and C. When we hopped out of our cab and strode confidently up to a waiter, informing him that we had a Reservation...only to be met with an odd look and silence. He called over another waiter and we again said, with somewhat less enthusiasm, that we had a reservation (at this point I had some reservations about our choice of restaurant, but Frommer’s had never steered us wrong before...). The new waiter spoke English and understood us and, with a small smile, took us to our table. Upon seeing the dining room (a large concrete patio with a metal siding roof, a sea of tables and plastic chairs...and about five people eating on food laden islands far distant from one another) we understood the confusion and smiling...seriously, who makes reservations over a week in advance for the world’s biggest and most deserted restaurant? All that aside, the food was delicious. The view was also amazing...but completely impossible to capture from my phone camera. C had some fish, as we were in a port town with lots of fresh fish and she’s kind of a fishy person anyway, and it was delic..ious. It came with it’s face intact, a face that even a mother would have trouble loving, and almost seemed to growl at C, but she schooled him and we had no more of that nonsense.

Besides the view and the mouthy meals, Abu Christo (that’s the name of the restaurant) also provided us with companionship

While he (and yes, I’m sure it was a he...unfortunately) was a bit needy, he was very pretty...kind of a Derek Zoolander of the feline world.
Okay, so we ate dinner, went back to our hotel, indulged in English speaking TV (thank you VH1), and went to bed. The next day, we went back into the city and after paying the overinflated taxi fare (freaking taxis) we planned our assault on the walls.


We decided that they were too big to attack and instead chose to walk on them and learn their history...I know, we’re total pansies. But before we did that (can you tell that I forgot to add something in the story and now have to come back and add it in with a rough transitional phrase...or in this case transitional word?), we went to see El Jezzar’s Mosque. El Jezzar, also known as “the Butcher” (and not in a good way), was very big in Akko. He had a mosque built in his name. He was very mean. That is today’s history lesson. He may have had something to do with Napoleon, I can’t quite remember. Anyway, the mosque was pretty cool and completely deserted.



Most of the decorations (columns, marble, other pretty stuff) were taken from nearby Ceasarea (more on that later). We came to the conclusion that stealing is bad and people really know how to do courtyards in the Mediterranean. Obviously we celebrated these conclusions by buying hats. (I didn’t really have a smooth connector here...obviously)

Mom is a very fancy lady.

Claire is quite mysterious and chic.

This was our first group effort at a hat for me...clearly I am not happy in my baby bonnet.

This hat was my destiny, so perfectly does it match my Electric Lemonade Backpack (thank you Waltus Maximus). Armed with knowledge and new hats we approached the city walls with renewed vigor.

The walls were large and had many placards in our mother tongue detailing Napoleon’s failed siege of Akko (poor Napoleon, no Akko and no Russia). C, being a natural teacher, was not satisfied with the knowledge that had been imparted to us and so read aloud from the history given by Frommer’s (they really know their stuff).

I believe her exact words at that moment were, “Mom, let me inform you.”
After wandering around and taking many photos that showed off or glorious headgear (because, really, who cares about history and stuff)...(okay, we actually did learn a lot and read almost all the informational signs about Napoleon’s assault) we went down the stairs (a recent addition I think) and descended into the moat...or what remained of the moat, which was just an empty canal which is now used as space for basketball courts and other odd items.We ran into a tour group and were jealous of the information they were being given (it was in German, a language which none of us even pretend to speak) so we decided to give our own tour.

This is a typical Napoleonic playground, C informed me.

These are the ancient metal sculptures of the cavemen, I told Claire.
Mom did not believe us, despite our credentials.
We decided to explore the remnants of the Crusader city in and under Akko. (Did I forget to mention the Crusaders? Well, they were in Akko too.) We received audio guides with the price of admission. They were full of information...

too much information.

Almost every section began with, “Built upon Hellenistic foundations...(in a terrible British accent)” and ended with “and was covered in earth until present day.” Soon we grew tired of our British companion and left the Crusaders for more intriguing locations, such as the shop of a thousand sparkles...

and adventures, such as trying pomegranate juice from a street vendor...

(Mom and C fared well in that experience...I did not...probably because I tried to chug my juice at the end...it’s pretty intense)
After we visited a Turkish Bath (it was all for show, no services offered) and Spice Man Spiff, we returned to our hotel, donned our beach apparel, and set off for the sands. It was my first time swimming in the Mediterranean Sea...or any sea for that matter. Delicious. Amazing. I believe my Spanglish word “refrescoeing” describes it best. We lazed about on the beach and surfed the waves for quite awhile before soaping up and dressing in more appropriate clothes for our second dining experience in Akko. This time we ate at Uri Buri, where reservations were needed and the food was to die for. It was a very seafoody place and I loved it...and I don’t even LIKE seafood!
On that astounding piece of prose I will end this part of chapter 5. It’s 10 o’clock (that’s when the monsters come out according to Bill Cosby) and I’m tired. Bedtime for Nardpants indeed. My warnings of obscenities never came to fruition...at least not in Part 1 of Chapter 5. The same warnings apply for Part 2...or to Chapter 6: And It’s As Yet Unnamed Ummmmm...Name. Until tomorrow, Dear Reader.

Many Photos Make Viewers Happy

As promised, I have provided pictures of my new best friend. His name is Lucky.

Watch Lucky sleep.

Sleep, Lucky, sleep!

Shoot! (Stop yelling as you read along...you'll wake Lucky) (By the way, I was not given the honor of naming my canine pal. That duty fell to the Headmaster's daughter (because Lucky lives at her house))

Never mind...He's back to sleep again. (I realize this is not terribly stimulating)

Oh, here's what I would look like if I were arrested on my way to a my bridal shower in Nepal...(actually I don't think it was Nepal. Maybe it's if I were Bedouin. It's clear I need to brush up on my cultural understanding.)

And the side shot...


Stayed tuned, Fearless Reader, for when I return (Mom and I are going to Nazareth during break...that's another story entirely) there shall be a new chapter concerning the facing of one of my greatest fears (members of wcrew, you know what I'm talking about) among other things. Until then...toodlepip! (I've been watching a lot of Jeeves and Wooster on DVD lately...Hugh Laurie and Stephen Fry are right funny fellows)

Short Story 4: Welcome to Puppytown

Population: Nardpants and her bevy of beautiful babies (I just liked the alliteration there)
Here's the point I'm trying to get across...THE SCHOOL GOT A PUPPY TODAY!!!!!! The as yet unnamed puppy (Jet would be acceptable...)was sleeping comfortably in his carrier when I left school and I didn't want to stress him out with a photo shoot, so pictures of my new best friend will be posted later. He is black with coffee brown paws and his ears are floppy. I am well aware that I sound like a five year old and I don't care (sticks out tongue)...I PLAYED WITH A PUPPY TODAY (and by played I mean I watched him sleep)!!!!!
Not only did the school get a puppy today, we also had a field trip. A FIELD TRIP! Totally awesome. Everyone took a charter bus together and one of the kids was playing a drum while a few of the teachers were singing and dancing...as we were traveling at light speed through the tiny streets. Again, totally awesome. I think the puppy stole my capacity to write...he licked my face...how cute is that? Oh God, it's time to go if all I can talk about is PuppyPower.
OH WAIT, before I go, I just wanted to mention that my dashing and daring, courageous and caring older brother Waltimus Prime also has a blog (in fact he has had a blog much longer than me and was able to show me the blogging ropes, such as they are). While he already has a large readership, as demonstrated by his wealth of comments (yes, that's right. I'm shaming all of you who read and do not comment...do you guys realize that I have finished most of the books I brought with me and am now checking my email and various blogs for reading material?), I recommend you check out Big Walt's Thought Vault at www.walteriskindacool.blogspot.com. I know I enjoy it (even though he is now thoroughly kicking my bootay in posting)
For all of you who need a Posting recap, here are the important points:
1. Puppies are extremely cute
2. My long drought of field trips is finally over
3. There is much shame in not commenting...kinda
4. Walter is kinda cool
5. (I just like making long numbered lists)

Short Story 3: Spice Man Spiff in the Battle Against Bland...ness

We find our hero in Akko, an old city on the coast of the Mediterranean that was home to Arabs, Mameluks, Crusaders, and more. Even Napoleon tried to live here, but his application was firmly denied. In the center of the maze-like market, Spice Man Spiff has built his fortress of deliciousness, a beacon of hope for the unwashed, and washed (...and the people that pretended to wash but really just splashed some water under their arms), masses. But you have to know what you are looking for, dear Reader, for unlike all the stalls around him, Spiff does not display his merchandise out front. Instead he has pictures of horses and large casbahs hanging in the windows (WINDOWS! Already this should be a sign that Spiff is not your average spice guy), largely blocking the passerby's view of the interior of the spacious shop (I do mean spacious. You could have easily stuck 7 tall people in there and had them spin around with their arms out wide and they never would have touched one another...if the giant L-shaped counter were removed). Most seller's stalls are tiny and cramped, forcing prospective buyers to almost spoon the shopowner if they want to look at the wares that might be hidden within the dark recesses of store. As a result, most businessmen take advantage of the small piece of sidewalk they have outside their stalls and display half the contents of their respective stores on hangers, boards, barrels, shelves, tables, and people (and sometimes animals, but that is a serious gamble depending on what they're selling).

Many spice merchants have huge barrels of paprika, curry, cinnamon, and more in front of their establishment, perfuming the air and the people walking by. Not so with Spice Man Spiff. He believes in the purity of his product (and I suspect he has made enough money in his business to buy a space that is adequate for his needs and those of his customers...I mean disciples). So there we were, three weary walkers who had traveled to places far (I consider going from Seattle to Jerusalem far) and wide (I have been to the Grand Canyon once...it is very wide) and had read in at least two guidebooks that this establishment was the Holy Grail of spices. (Incidentally, it has been said that the Holy Grail was found in Akko...or maybe it was Ceasarea...I'll have to get back to you on that.) As we walked in, Spiff gracefully rose from his seat in the corner and greeted us. One arm (the larger of the two) of his counter top was devoted entirely to two rows of enormous glass jars that held the individual spices that had drawn us to the sight. The other arm was a simple glassed in cabinet full of sponges, shells, a bejeweled horse (obviously my favorite), and many other odd items.

Later on in our spice odyssey, I asked Spiff what that cabinet was all about. He replied simply, "It is my Nirvana." That's the kind of guy our hero is. Back to the story at hand, Spiff (or BLANKETY BLANK as he is actually called in real life) began unscrewing the tops of various jars, offering each one to the three of us in turn, so we could smell it, guess the contents, and be praised or learn a lesson (depending upon our answers).

After we had smelled the entire contents of the store (including the fragrant individual just outside the door), we began making our choices. By this point in the encounter, Mom (along with C and I) had impressed Spiff with our appreciation of his spices and the knowledge he had shared with us. We were rewarded with many recipes from Spiff himself that we could use with our new spices. But that was not enough for Spiff, his happiness at the bounty we purchased could not be expressed in simple recipes. We did make a sizable purchase as this image of our bounty displays.

He walked over to the spice counter and started pulling more spices for us as a gift. And still it wasn't enough. He gave us a bag of his own special blend of Arabic coffee...still not enough. Then he pulled a small clay oil lamp from his Nirvana and presented it to us as a token of his friendship. In the fight against tastelessness (wow, apparently that is actually a word...I thought I was making it up) Space Man Spiff is truly the champion. And so dear Reader, I leave you again...mostly because I want to go eat a piece of cake [I made my first cake all by myself last night and while it was only Betty Crocker Rainbow Chip cake with Rainbow Chip frosting (and thus not that difficult) it turned out beautifully. Also, I did have to convert the temperatures from F to C...but google helped with that.] And now for a Cake Break from your local Nardpants...

Short Story 2: Ill-fated Checkpoint Romance a la Valley Girl

(Never fear, I am aware that much time has passed since my last post and there is much to discuss...I mean tell. Consider this a peace offering to placate you until I upload my photos and write an acceptable chapter.)
So, we were like totally on our way to the checkpoint, you know, and I was sitting in the front. Ugh. It was like, for sure later than our usual time, so like, it was totally dark. We pulled up to the line, being suuuuper careful, and they were all (they being the three guards) "Aggressively spoken words that none of you in the car can understand, plus some strange motions with our hands" and we were all "Maybe our lights are off or something. No, no...they just turned off and now we have them on again. Ohhhhhhhhh, they want our headlights off."
So we pull up to the gate house, for sure, and the guys were totally dreamy. Like, I passed one of them our passports and he was all "Where are you from?" For sure hitting on me. He was totally going to ask me for my digits, but his other two friends made him nervous. Gag me with a spoon. So I was all, "We're from America." Smooth, totally. And then he was all "Open your trunk." How it really happened was that he asked me to open the trunk and as I was eye level with a very large fire arm I skibbled to comply, saying something along the lines of "Certainly, of course, right away good sir!" I was most definitely flustered and trying to hurry to comply with his wishes but he was standing very close to the door and I really didn't want to tap his weapon so I tried to sliiiiiiide out the door. I promptly caught my foot on a strap of my backpack, which was in the front seat with me, and almost fell flat on my face in front of Guard #2...who I hadn't seen before because he was basically standing in the dark. Apparently, something in my pitiful appearance moved him and he said "Slowly, miss, sloooooowly". I corrected my stance, opened the trunk, met with G#1's approval, and we were on our merry way back to the guest house.)
Like, totally, for sure, I'm still waiting for him to call.

Chapter 4: The Neverending Dessert Tray and the First Day of School

I have a few housekeeping items to cover before we begin this adventure in earnest. First and foremost, I noticed after I posted Chapter 3 that there were a few glaring grammatical errors. Rest assured that I do know the difference between to and too. I was simply too tired to reread and edit. Please forgive my lapse. Second, this chapter has a decided lack of visual aides. Never fear, there are many pictures to show, but just not with this story (so far...it is entirely conceivable that I will change my mind mid-post).
And now we begin for reals...
(OH WAIT, about the whole grammar thing, I make no promises that this post will be mistake free. Think of it as the price we pay for obscenely long posts)
Okay, so there we were, in the Holy Land with fragrant refrigerators (that is the sum total of the recap...if that is not enough, tough, read Chapter 3). Sunday dawned bright and early and we (Mom, C, and ME) scurried through the city back to Notre Dame for mass. What we hadn't realized on our first visit, because it didn't affect (C and I just had a discussion about which one to use 'affect' or 'effect' and we decided that since the rule is confusing I can do whatever I want...well that wasn't actually what we decided but it's how it's going to be) us, was that the parking situation was...interesting. All the visible parking spots were taken so we tried our luck in the lower parking garage. Not even a picture could capture the craziness that is/was this receptacle of motor vehicles. It can best be described as the Labyrinth a la David Bowie, not King Minos. We escaped (without falling prey to the Bog of Eternal Stench) and attended mass. We decided to be daring and try the local fare for breakfast - half because we're cool like that and half because the cafe attached to Notre Dame was closed, but mostly because we're like Darkwing Duck - we like to get dangerous. (On a side note, I am in a foreign country so I feel as though I shouldn't be speaking English and as I don't speak Arabic my mind is searching for some kind of substitute. Instead of falling back on my five years of spanish...well, really it should only count as two because high school spanish only taught me how to say "My bad"...the language of choice in my brain is Icelandic. Sure, that makes perfect sense, because the shopkeeper is totally going to understand "Takk" more than "Thank you" or the proper "Shokran" (all of my Arabic words are written phonetically)) After consulting with Frommer's (my that side note was long, I bet you've forgotten the original thread of the story), we headed down the hill from Notre Dame to the Damascus Gate of the Old City which leads into the Muslim quarter (I think). Our goal was Jafar and Sons bakery (second largest pastry shop on the right after the fork) and we reached it intact and in a timely fashion (I hadn't eaten all morning...I am not happy when I'm hungry). We were instructed (by Frommer's) to order the kanefah, as it was the speciality (dessert 1).
Oh. My. God. So good. There was cheese and crackly stuff (maybe shredded wheat but that sounds disgusting) and something sweet on top, maybe honey, and I have no idea what kind of spices but they were amazazing too. It was awesome, in the original meaning of the word. The kanefah was awe-inspiring. Seriously, wherever you may be stationed right now, look up the best place to get kanefah and go there.
Shortly after finishing our three large portions (and the special treat one of the guys at the counter brought us - mom thinks he brought it because C is so foxy but I think it was because she was smiling and miming how good the kanefah was every time he looked at her that he wanted to reward her positive feedback) and fought the urge to sink into sugar shock we sklathed (that's for you A) over to the counter and got a huge plate of baklawa for the road. No, we did not need it for the journey back up the hill to our car...or to leave a trail behind us once we entered the Labyrinth. The baklawa was our offering for lunch at the Chez J (K's family, who has adopted us wholeheartedly and firmly believes that we are all skin and bones, no matter how much we try to convince them otherwise, and feed us accordingly). After a short rest period back at the guest house (I admit it, sugar shock was too much for us) we headed for lunch.
Lunch was delicious (I know, it's incredibly lazy of me not to describe it but I am stressing out because I am at least a week behind in my posting and I'm starting to mix up what happened when...bear with me) and we all settled down in the living room (directly in front of the fan) for an after lunch coze, which consists primarily of needlepointing and talking. After an appropriate amount of time (about 6 minutes) we pulled out the baklawa and presented it to the ladies (we had lunch with K's mom and his two sisters-in-law who are all super fun). It was immediately opened and we each had a chunk...and were sadly disappointed (dessert 2). The kanefah had been so good that morning, we expected that the baklawa would be equally earth shattering. It was okay, but nothing to write home about (as you can plainly see dear Reader), and so the ladies J told us. We told them how upset we were, how we had such high hopes, and they told us it was fine that yes, the kanefah at Jafar was incredible we were not mistaken...and then they slyly slipped in that there was a place in town that had even better kanefah AND baklawa. They offered to get some, it would be no problem, a pleasure, but we forcefully declined. I swear to you, I was near exploding with food and I am a champion eater (go big or go home...or go home big). We continued to needlepoint (Mom and C were working on super sparkly Santa's and I was trying to finish my flamingos) until K's older sister No arrived (she didn't get off work until 1:30). We should have known, should have seen the signs, or the writing on the wall, or at least noticed that N, K's younger brother, had disappeared. Sister N, Brother N, and two large covered dishes arrived altogether. The dishes were grabbed before anyone had greeted the newcomer and the covers were ripped off...to reveal a huge plate of baklawa and another of kanefah. There had to be a taste comparison (desserts 3 and 4...and 4 and half, more like 5 for me). The baklawa was leaps and bounds above the stuff from Jafar and the kanefah was decidedly different, not better, just different, but still ridiculously delicious. By this point I was wired from the sugar, and I'm not that sensitive to that kind of stuff (unlike those hoodlums Walker or Texas Ranger, whichever one is likely to come at you like a spider monkey). Before I could start licking the plate, we headed off to another friend's house so Mom could have a meeting with him. S is the principal, or the closest thing to it, at the school we were visiting. He is very kind and very gracious and his wife V is even more so. There daughter T is also wonderful (my vocabulary has deserted me for the time being). We all sat down and prefaced the meeting with a clear statement that we were incredibly stuffed and couldn't possibly have another bite...really, please, one more nibble would cause us to explode in a vulgar manner. Of course, we didn't want to be rude (and it was crazy hot) so we gratefully accepted cool glasses of water. Slowly, without any of us noticing (again I refer to Mom, C and myself because S, V, and T knew exactly what was going on), our waters were augmented with sparkling mango spritzer, individual dishes of nuts, and more water. Finally, they gave up on the sneaky side and came out with it. We were getting ready to leave and S stood up and said "Please, you must at least try this, V made it for you." Only a brute would have declined, and we are not in the least brutish...and I had secretly become peckish again. V brought out a dish of lubnah (I think) which was kind or puddingy choc(sorry had to take a moment to find out the proper spelling of bulemia or bulimia or whatever, because C believes the book she was reading was incorrect and needed a better editor)olately crusty sort of thing. Very good and also, delightfully, served cold (dessert 6). (It now occurs to me, and has been occurring to me for quite some time, that I have been misusing/overusing commas...oh well, there's nothing to be done for it now) V had also made something that looked like Jello, but we stood firm with just one dessert (jello-almost dessert 7). We said our goodbyes, rolled to the car, and made our way back to the guest house, full for the day (or forever) and ready for bed so that we'd be raring to go for school on the morrow.
Okay, I have to warn you now. I am quite tired and losing interest (heaven forbid!) in finishing this post, but I must at least complete the first day of school so that I won't be so ashamed of my blog (that still sounds weird to me) and will be fresh for tomorrow's blog-a-thon. Only the high points of the first day will be covered right now, Reader (that's right, you're not even dear at this point, that's how low I've gone), and things may come to an abrupt halt. One never knows.
So, first day of school. Wake up at 6:25AM and get dressed (white shirt, blue skirt, super sweet gellies, pulled back hair with a blue thick headband, and my sparkly Guadalupe necklace...just so you have a visual) eat bowl of Raisin Bran (Walter how right you are in your choice of cereal) with bananas and hop in the car. Walk into school with bright smile on face (even though I was very nervous). (mmmmmm I just got up to get some 100% Grapefruit Juice from the kitchen. Man that is tangy) Okay, so I was nervous but smiling. We went through the normal morning routine, which I'll talk about another time, and then we went outside to greet/monitor the kids as they arrived.
I ended up shadowing the school nurse during the day (I know, no transition) and they gave me the bell to ring to signal when classes ended and when everyone should switch rooms. The nurse, a Swiss- German who has a fabulous accent and is named H, and I made milk and laid out lunch for everyone. Of course, the whole time we were doing that I kept looking at the clock every two seconds to make sure that I hadn't missed the time to ring the bell. Anytime someone gave me a task that day (and every day that I have been at the school) I would jump up and run around and complete it as quickly as I could to prove that I would indeed be a useful asset (and perhaps to try and make up for any mistakes I might have made or would make in the future). At one point I came sliding back into position (my gellies don't have much grip) next to H, and S turned to me and said "Gwynedd, you are full of such energy" and H said (please make sure you are giving her the Swiss-German aczent) "Yes, she is like a volcano." I mentioned that volcanos are quite destructive and she matter-of-factly said "Only at the end. In the beginning they are very beautiful and fun." I'm not sure if I believe her but I will take it as a compliment, which is good because she has taken to calling me Miss Volcano (she pronounces is Mizz Vol-can-o not vol-cane-o). The rest of the school calls me Miss Henedd (Gwynedd does not translate into anything except Welsh, but that doesn't count because it is Welsh) because the math teacher gave me the nickname on the playground on the first day. (More about the playground on another day/post).
Okay, my memories are escaping me so I will end for the day, and anyway I really need to finish my flamingoes...

Short Story 1: A party...FOR ME?!?!?!

Before I say anything, here is the promised picture of Party Town.

What's that you say, not exciting enough, there’s NO WAY such a party could have inspired hopes of fabulous foot parade for the next day? Well, you’re wrong. Gaze upon this photo taken the next night.

Are those...? Yes, yes I think they are...FIREWORKS! This picture does not do the scene justice. They set off a barrage of (I can’t remember the name of the firework and neither can C, we think it’s something like Artillary Shells or Roman Candles...I know we set them off in Missoula this year during the 4th of July) that lasted at least 15 minutes. It was sparkletastical.

Chapter 3: Our Lady of the Blessed Refrigerators and the Reclining Nude

Before I relate to you, dear Reader, the origins of Our Lady of the Blessed Refrigerators, I feel it is important to offer a few savvy travel trips. First and foremost, for those who are used to residing in warmer climates, the air currents of Newark-Liberty International Airport are akin to arctic blasts, or so my traveling companion Caesar AKA C would have you believe. Luckily, I always carry a spare pair of hand knitted rodeo socks (I have no idea why they’re called that), and in a pinch an old pajama shirt served well as leggings.

Second, black and white are no longer considered travel chic colors, much to my chagrin. Instead of blending in with the on-the-go East Coast crowd, I stuck out like a sore thumb as I apparently resembled a nun (Benedictine is my guess) when my hood was up.

Sister Mary Gwynedd stepping in for Sister Mary Clarence.

“This turns into a nun's bar, I'm outta here.”
Once we arrived in Tel Aviv everything seemed pretty standard in terms of international travel. Walk a ridiculously long distance from your plane to passport control, proceed to baggage claim and retrieve your personal mountain of luggage (not to be confused with Mr. So-and-So’s Mount of Oigos to your left), pass through customs (one difference here - I have never been sung to, by a customs agent as I entered their country...I can no longer say that) and join the throng of humanity that gathers around the giant international arrivals corral. This is where I began to notice differences. When you pick someone up at the airport in Tel Aviv and you have something to tell them, from “Hello!” to “I love you!” and everything in between, you say it with balloons.

By Mom’s count, the most popular balloon was the Smiley Face “Welcome/Hebrew version of welcome, I assume” closely followed by the classic Red Shiney Heart (I felt like using capitals).

My personal favorites were SpongeBob with accordian-like legs, the giant yellow Hummer, and Dora the Explorer (yes Corey, Dora is currently exploring the Holy Land with me).
After we navigated through the people and their balloons (no I am NOT jealous that I left the airport sans balloon...okay, maybe just a little jealous) and made it onto the minibus, which has a special name but I cannot remember and thus it has no importance in this post, we enjoyed the scenic ride into Jerusalem.

We arrived at Notre Dame, our hotel for the night, which is right across the street from the New Gate in the Old City wall, and skibbled up to our rooms and rotated through the showers. This was the view from our room.

You can kind of see the Old City Wall, not to be confused with The Wall (the Western Wall, the Wailing Wall), but now that I look at the image again, you really have to know what you’re looking for to see it. It’s harder to find than Waldo.
C and I greeted the next day with cookie feast (we’d like to thank the generous Cookie Foundation Grant provided by Mama and Corky, Inc. for making that possible), accompanied by a fine luke warm bottle of San Pelligrino...at 4:30 in the morning (clearly we have trouble adjusting to time changes). To while away the hours before our fair mother arose I began knitting while C read aloud from Frommer’s Guide to Israel. Our chosen topic was the history of Jerusalem, one of the oldest continually inhabited cities in the history of the world (what is the oldest contiually inhabited city? - sure I could look it up online, but this is more fun, it’s like a discussion topic for comments. Crazy old cities, discuss.) Later, after a legitimate breakfast, we grabbed two cabs (one for us, one for our luggage) and flew through the deserted streets to the guest house. The caretaker of the guest house, who is extremely nice and super helpful, greeted us with open arms and the keys and warned us not to eat anything in the refrigerators as the apartment had been without power for one week. Ah yes, you sense it don’t you, dear Reader, the beginnings of a fantastical tale about to unfold.
Such a story deserves it’s own paragraph break. We entered the apartment, immediately forgetting what our informative new friend had told us...until we entered the kitchen. Such a stench cannot be described, well actually, it should not be described. Just imagine the worst thing you have ever smelled and multipy by two because there were, that’s right, you guessed it, TWO FRIDGES!
(Sorry, even though you had no idea it occurred I was distracted from my writing by what I thought was a parade coming down our street but was in fact a very loud piece of machinery operated by one man and some weird whistling noises which I choose to attribute to birds, or electrical wires, or something equally exotic/interesting. The parade thing could have happened though - the people on the corner had a huge party last night and it’s feasible that they would need to have a parade to top their last shindig.)
Back to the matter at hand, or nose, the refrigerators which were refrigerating things that would be better off in the dumpster up the street.
(Again, my deepest apologies, mom and I just spent 40 minutes and 17 seconds on Skype with AT&T making our phones international...and I didn’t figure out that I could still type in a word document while on hold with skype. It is unforgivable that I neglect you, dearest and most faithful Reader.)
Once again, we return to the violent assault on the olfactory senses of the Ladies R. We opened the first and smaller fridge and immediately began throwing things away, not even looking to see what they were because our first glance assured us that a colony of maggots had moved into town. Gil Grissom would be thrilled, we were not. Our insect friends had also moved into the freezer and the vents all over the fridge. Again, I feel no need to describe the scene, just know that it was disgusting, incredibly disgusting. Instead of playing the fridges man-to-man, we, the expansion team of the R Family Flying Salmon Circus, worked out a zone defense. C emptied and scoured the fridges, Mom scraped and sanitized all of the shelves (more on that later), and I provided support in the form of drying, encouraging, running garbage up the hill to the dumpster, and setting up fans in such a way that we sucked in fresh air and pushed out the gross stuff (I wanted to say fetid there but it didn’t seem to fit...and was a little too fancy for my taste right now.) Once everything was cleared out, C came up with the brillant plan of putting candles in the refrigerators to burn off the yuckiness (my taste is decidely not fancy and leaning more towards the 5-year-old level).

And that is how Our Lady of the Blessed Refrigerator came to be.
Unfortunately, all of our efforts to date have not rid the smaller refrigerator of its offensive perfume. Most likely we will soon give up hope and move it out onto the back stairs, where it can harm us no more.
Now, I also mentioned a reclining nude, actually THE Reclining Nude. I also wrote that I had more information concerning Mom’s part in the zone...yes, the two tales are intertwined. The shelves, drawers, and egg holders were too great in number and size to wash in the sink, so Mom opted to clean them in the bathtub of the tiny bathroom off the kitchen. To avoid drenching her fetching (ooooooo...that’s at least 7th grade level wordage) ensemble (well now I’m just showing off), she stripped to her undergarments. Some might refer to her actions as those of a hussy (I certainly hope not for that is my mother you are speaking of and I do not take kindly to any comments that might tarnish her reputation. In essence, thems fightin’ words...), but she preserved her modesty by donning a lavender gingham apron. After slaving in a hot bathroom which lacked any kind of air circulation, Mom decided it would be a good idea to take a rest on the bed...before she passed out from heat stroke or the noxious fumes that were swirling around the bathroom. C and I could not contain our admiration for the fine outfit she had created for herself and the pose she struck upon the chaise...I mean mattress (think odalisque, but waaaaaaaay more lady like and covered up). Such an image was too inspiring for a meager photograph and must instead be recorded on canvas, and so you must wait, indefinitely, for a visual aide. Mom informed us that in college she was nicknamed the Reclining Nude. This refers to a pose that she would often take, not the possibility that my mother attended classes in a prone position completely unclothed.
And there you have it folks, the end of my first full day in the Holy Land, and the end of my patience in writing this post (I’ve been at it for nearly two hours I think...over two if we count time spent with AT&T). Remember your discussion topic for next week class and enjoy this parting picture of the neighbor’s party last night. A party so raucus I thought it conceivable they were having a parade (with elephants) in the early evening today. (actually, I can’t seem to load the picture right now but I liked my description too much to erase it...I’ll show you the picture tomorrow)
Preview - Chapter 4: The Neverending Dessert Tray and the First Day of School

Chapter 2: Torrid Tales of Transit...but not really

Marhaba...be advised that's the way cool people say hello in Arabic according to a reputable source. Rosetta Stone would have you say "Marhaban" but apparently that is the equivalent of "Good day to you good sir." I wish to write more, but obviously not enough to continue writing. We're here and still in three respective pieces. Yay for us.
P.S. Preview for Chapter 3: Our Lady of the Blessed Refrigerator and the Reclining Nude

testing

Yes! 1 to nothin' I win! Imageshack can't control me. Oh yeah, this is my niece.

Chapter 1: Gaze in GAZEMAZEMENT!

For I have begun my blogging career. But it's not really a career because I'm not making enough money off of it to survive...or any money at all. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say I have begun my blogging hobby. Never mind. Clearly I'm reaching for subject matter to discuss in this first post if I'm debating what to call this activity. Instead, I will simply give up and say welcome, watch out for rapid subject changes devoid of any transitional phrases and aggressive streams of consciousness. They're more like raging rivers of consciousness capable of sweeping one away. Oh man, this is not turning out at all as I had planned. All of my attempts at humor are falling flat...bail out BAIL OUT! I think it's because I feel like I'm writing for more than just my friends and family (who entirely understand my writing style, or lack thereof) and I'm stressing out that I have to impress the imagined masses and make them love me.
Screw that. I'm AWESOME...wanna ride bikes?