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.