Chapter 21: Papers Aplenty

So today Mom and I drove through a different checkpoint. It's a beautiful drive and was even more so tonight as it was twilight and the air was crystal clear and the light from the setting sun looked fantastic on the (it has taken me five minutes to try and find the right word to describe the clouds...and nothing) clouds. While it is the longest drive home, it is often the most relaxing, or at least refreshing, so we approached the two shacks and giant cement dividers that make up the checkpoint at peace with the world, all our chakras aligned. Usually we flash our passports at the guard of the day, he gives them a cursory inspection, smiles and then waves us on, telling us to be welcome and have nice days. Tonight, our guy was a just as courteous as ever, smiling, gentle, almost welcoming...I mean, minus the giant gun of course, but then, after looking at our passports, he asked us a question. While the question turned out to be both surprising and a bit confusing to Mom and I, I think we were more shocked that we had been asked anything at all. Don't get me wrong, we are used to be grilled and not just in military situations, at the post office, the bank, sometimes even the supermarket, but this checkpoint was a beacon of hope to us, a place where they seemed strangely uninterested in what I had eaten for lunch and actively worked to keep some of the mystery in our relationship alive (they were active because they didn't ask...never mind, I'm sure you can understand me, or at least cobble together something interesting for yourselves).
Anyway, the guard, we'll call him George (as in Curious), leaned over and asked, "Is this a rental car?" And now I can explain our resulting surprise and confusion. I don't think I have ever explained the car we drive over here. It is a forest green Diahatsu Applause, no idea what the year is, but it at least a decade old judging by our registration stickers on the windshield. I say forest green, but it is more than just that for the Applause, or our little habibtee (Arabic for sweetie for girls...I learned the hard way that when you call a boy sweetie it's habibee...I have yet to live that down), has been struck with some kind of vehicular leprosy (not like a leopard...but actually, it does have spots, kind of). It looks as though someone has diligently taken a blow torch and various acids to the paint job, stripping it away chip by chip. Something must be wrong with the composition of the paint because apparently it just started washing away before the sisters eyes (I should also mention that the Franciscans own the car and graciously allow us to use it). What we lack in paint, we make up with dents and scrapes. Apparently our car is invisible to the woman who lives across the street from us, or Madame Ding-Dong/Senora Crash, for she smacks into it quite often. In short (but not really that short), our car, while reliable and wonderful, is a Middle East hooptie (on the outside), and that is why we were surprise George asked if it was a rental. What sketchy rental agencies does he think we frequent? Despite our confusion, we answered that no it was not a rental car. This did not satisfy him completely and so we started to search for the current registration paper, despite the fact that our current registration sticker was clearly displayed on the windshield not two feet from his face. We were handicapped by our inability to read or understand Hebrew, so we just started shoving random papers from the glove box at him. At one time we had all the pertinent papers in a single pouch, but things fell apart for various reasons and the center could not hold (yeah, I'm classy like that). I pretty sure I gave him a napkin at one point. Anyway, we finally gave him the correct paper, he read it, and then mumble something like "Sistermphrmga", which we understood to mean, "this name is different from the passports". We looked at each other and returned our gaze to the maelstrom that had once been the glove box for inside was the letter written by one of the sisters saying Mom has permission to drive their car, the letter we believed would set us free. As I dove in, I heard Mom mutter under her breath, "If Lily ate it, I'll kill myself." If you remember, Lily is our landlord. I knew Mom's mutter was in fact referring to the destruction of our pouch of car papers at the jaws of Blackie, Lily's giant black dog (who is incredibly sweet and under the impression that everyone greets him with gifts...like scarves or keys or scarves....he's very partial to cashmere blends). I knew that she was more concerned that Blackie had ingested the all important letter, not that Lily had taken to scarfing down bits of paper.
Eventually, I found the required item, George read it, gave us a big smile, and told us to be welcome and have nice nights thanks. As we drove away, I gazed down at my lap, strewn with papers and passports and realized I was clutching something in my hand, ready to pass George another piece of paper in case the last one failed to satisfy him. When I looked at it I realized it was a prayer card with a picture of Divine Mercy Jesus (basically Jesus with two beams of light that look almost like heavenly traffic lights, not in a good way, one red and one blue...maybe he should called Policeman Jesus) and the phrase "I confide in you, O Jesus"...or something similar to that. Probably not the best card to hand over to the soldiers, no matter how nice or curious they might be.
So that's my story for today. And now I need to get ready for bed. It's nearly 8 o'clock afterall...