Chapter 11: I'm Back Baby!

It's our first night back in the guest house in the Holy Land and Mom is making her Special Potatoes. They are called special because...well...the are eSPECIALly delicious...and we were eSPECIALly lazy in the naming process.
In other news, I have begun reading a series of books by Dorothy Gilman (I have run out of JAG DVDs and I need something to entertain me) with a title character by the name of Mrs. Pollifax. Mrs. Pollifax is a grandmother from New Brunswick, New Jersey who is tapped in late life as a courier by the CIA (and not the Culinary Institute of America...oh Daphne). It makes for some truly hilarious moments (which I choose to read aloud to Mom when we are waiting in traffic, using my patented accents...which generally all sound French in the end, and not good French, but French like the chef in The Little Mermaid). Good fun had by all!
Switching topics again, I now feel like a real teacher at school...kind of. I write lesson plans, execute said lesson plans, and then observe what was effective and what totally crashed and burned. Luckily, I have not had any flaming wreckages at the end of my lessons and so have not needed to use the Little Black Box (Mom serves as the LBB as her office space is directly next to mine and she can hear everything, if she wants to). I teach one on one classes to 5 boys, all of whom are at different levels in English. They read aloud (I have almost memorized "Dr. Seuss' ABC" book), and we do activities (thank God for Hidden Pictures and the myriad of objects written in english it hides between its pages!), and I read to them (If anyone is interested in discussing Tomie dePaola's Bill and Pete series, just let me know). It's awesome.
My nasal passages are now being caressed...infiltrated?...by the wafting smells of the Special Potatoes. I have to go make Mom her Lingonberry Fizzy to show my deepest appreciation for all her efforts. Before I go, as this post does have a somewhat Bender Bending Rodriguez-esque theme to it....Bite my shiny metal rear! (for future reference, my rear is not made of metal or any alloys)

Chapter 10: Oooooo, Double Digits!

This is just a short note to update you, Dear Reader.
1. Nuush is still pregnant...to my knowledge, so no Gwynedd, Jr.
2. I won't be posting for the next 4-5 days (shocking, I know), because Mom and I will be out of the country.
3 MOM AND I ARE GOING TO JORDAN...MORE SPECIFICALLY AMMAN AND PETRA (that's right, I just type-shouted specifically)!!! (I will take pictures...I'm so excited)
4. I'm hungry. (Not exactly pertinent to your lives but it gives you an idea of the mood I wrote this in)
I think that's it. So, for now, Blackie, Nuush, Wilson, Mom, and I wish you a fond farewell from the Holy Land (actually, I'm putting words in Wilson's mouth...beak...mouth-beak)

Chapter 9: Impending Mother of Millions

What? 2 posts in 2 days?!?! (Also I had to change the format of the blog to support larger pictures, don't be alarmed) Madness I tell you! But now onto the chapter title. No I am not pregnant with milliontuplets...that's just weird and uncomfortable sounding. In fact, I now have sole custody, for the next 3-4 days, of one giant black dog (named Blackie), one very pregnant cat (named Nuush), and a small turtle named Wilson (they found him on a tennis racket). Nuush is the reason for my impending semi-motherhood. When Lily's family asked if I would take care of their animals over Easter, I thought it was a standard animal care job, feeding and enjoying the company of some cool quadrupeds. It wasn't until I accepted the job that they mentioned Nuush's condition. But I'm smart and resourceful and tough...so I ran upstairs and said "MomNuushisgoingtohavekittensandIdon'tknowwhattodoandwhatifsomethinggoeswronganddoIneedtools?!" Mom assured me that cats pretty much take care of everything on their own and we would probably just give her extra milk. Unfortunately, this has not calmed down my crazy any, but I'm sure extra research online will sooth the nervous wreck inside of me...and hey, maybe she won't have the kittens until the family gets back! But if she does have them, I'm naming half of them Gwynedd Jr. and the other half Kristin Jr. ...and one of them will be called Nemo, but only if it has a lucky fin. Oh God, I hope I don't have to call one of them Nemo...

Chapter 8: Holy Shirts and Pants...and Week

Well, it’s Holy Week over here in the Holy Land (and everywhere else in the world) and my oh my are things...holy. Some of you might be wondering how I’m writing this post so early in the day (those people are excellent at time zone math). Today is the first day of Easter Break...Easter Break ’09! WOOOOHOOOO! Everyone at school was exhausted even though we only had a three day week, perhaps because we’re all suffering from some sleeping sickness or maybe because we crammed seven days of ceremony/tradition/teaching into three 5 hour days...you decide. (ooooooo, it’s like choose your own adventure...If you think it’s the sleeping sickness, turn to page 10, and if you think it’s option 2, just keep reading...because you’re right!) Oh wait, my bad, we did Commitment Saturday and Palm Sunday on the Friday before...I’m such a liar, please forgive me. Maybe I should start with a Holy Week Outline. There’s Commitment Saturday, Palm Sunday, Extravagant Monday, Compulsion to Completion Tuesday, Wednesday-Day of Aloneness (this one totally screws up the pattern), Holy Thursday, Good Friday, Holy Saturday (someone at the name deciding committee was feeling a little lazy I think), and Easter Sunday. As I said before, we (kids, faculty, and staff at BHCP) did Commitment Saturday and Palm Sunday on Friday. It was cool. We committed to stuff and then processed around the school grounds with our decorated palms (the ones from trees...not the ones on our hands). I say we, but while everyone was committing and processing I was running around trying to get the best photographic angles and light. I felt like I was doing suicides on the world’s biggest basketball court...with the weirdest terrain. My crowning glory was when I sprinted from the bottom end of the property to the upper school at the top, through the school (scaring the photocopier delivery guy), and up the stairs to the balcony so I could get some sweet arial shots...it was awesome (and exhausting...I really need to come up with some workouts over here). Little did I know, my sprint to capture faux-Palm Sunday glory was only a warm-up for the real thing on actual Palm Sunday. (I really wanted to call it the Big Show or the Big Dance, but that would be wrong, so very very wrong) (Mom just pointed out that there actually were spontaneous dance parties in the procession, but I clarified that I was referring to the NCAA basketball tournament, or at least I was trying to) On actual Palm Sunday, Mom and I planned to meet up with two friends and their respective son and daughter. We ended up taking two taxis (because we couldn’t fit in one), and perhaps if we had all gone together things would have been drastically different, but we didn’t because we couldn’t. V and S and T (V’s daughter) took one taxi and sent S’s son, D, to pick us up in another taxi. D is about 12 or 13, very nice, very smart, and very shy. He speaks and understands a fair amount of English but I have rarely heard him use it. That all changed on Sunday. (I feel like I’m doing the voice over on a trailer for an action movie...In a world where no one spoke that much English...) D picked us up and we were whisked away towards the Old City. (our taxi driver was bold, which is nicer than saying he was maniacal) The procession started on top of the Mount of Olives (which is outside the Old City) and wound its way down to the Church of All Nations, then back up through the Lion Gate, into the Old City, and finished at St. Anne’s just inside the walls. We were supposed to be dropped off on top of the Mount, but the road our driver took was completely blocked off by the police and he/D/Mom and I had no ideas for an alternate route. We attempted to call the other taxi, but they only had one cell phone and it had no coverage on the Israeli side of the wall. We paid our taxi driver and hopped out, looking expectantly at D...who just looked right back at us. He had no firm idea where we were supposed to go (Mom and I didn’t even pretend to know how to get to the Mount) and we had no contact with the people that could help us...an exciting beginning to be sure. Meanwhile, Mom and I were super prepared for the excursion. We had packed snacks, water, sunscreen, we were carrying two separate cameras (one digital, one non-digital), and Mom was wearing her walking shoes and her fancy sun blocking hat (I decided against walking shoes because 1. I don’t have any here and 2. they certainly wouldn’t have gone with my outfit). When I looked at Mom, with my electric lemonade backpack strapped on her, a water bottle in each holster, the digital camera slung around her neck, and her lavender glasses glinting at me beneath the brim of her hat, she reminded me very strongly of Waldo, from Where’s Waldo. We looked more touristy than actual tourists. We had packed everything we might need...except a map. Where’s Waldo?, indeed. However, our happy/lost band of travelers remained outwardly confident in the face of this possible disaster and started walking towards the base of the Mount of Olives, soaking up the sun and snapping photos of cool stuff along the way (I lost my descriptive powers so “cool stuff” will have to suffice). D continued to try and make contact with his mother and in one miraculous moment he did, gleaning that they were waiting for us at Muquarnas (I have no idea if that is how it is spelled) Hospital. This was exciting, until we realized none of us knew where that was. Eventually we reached the Garden of Gesthsemene (again, spelling is fluid for me, not exact) which is connected to the Church of All Nations and it was here that Mom decided to set up Base Camp. We understood from all of the police and people standing around that the procession would pass by this very spot on its way to the Old City and it was a prime location from which to snap photos and look for our wayward companions. Also, there were a few shady seats available. Understandably, D was nervous about not meeting up with his mother so we started asking around trying to ascertain the location of Muquarnas Hospital. As luck would have it, one gentleman did know the location and he delightedly told us it was straight and then left...which actually made sense at the time. Armed with detailed directions, we decided that Mom should hold down the fort while D and I went in search of our lost party. When the man said straight, I think he must have meant straight up in the air, because the street (more like semi-paved back road that insane taxis careen down) we climbed up closely resembled the y-axis on a coordinate graph. While the views were spectacular (I don’t know if the photo does them justice) it was difficult to enjoy them sprawled out on the rocks beside the road.

We made it to the top, eventually, and joined S, V, and T in the race to join the procession. We were able to join in with a group S knew and we started down the Mount of Olives...the same Mount that D and I had just finished scaling. At this point I felt that I had already done my Palm Sunday procession, but I was in a mass of people

with no way out

and I had to go back down to meet up with Mom anyway. (And it was pretty cool to walk with all those people...

but I was tired and hot and feeling sorry for myself) I was not the only one who wanted to be done. About five minutes into the procession, T, who is 8 I think, turned to V and asked “When are we going home?” I can understand her desire to be done as she is about 4 feet tall and has thick jet black hair that is about 3 feet long. Not only was she broiling from the hair hanging down her back, but she couldn’t see anything except the backs and butts in front of her. She couldn’t even enjoy the rare breezes that went by. All in all, T got a raw deal. Then again, V did tell her not to come, saying that she would have no fun, but T refused to be left at home, convinced her mother was going shopping and having a wild time. We made to the bottom of the hill with no tears shed (by either me or T) and we picked up Mom. She snapped this photo of us.

T is not pleased...but everyone else is psyched! We continued on the path of...I don’t think it was the path of righteousness, we’ll call it the path of walking...ness...to St. Anne’s where we wandered around the grounds among the crowds until I finally lost it (I was desperately tired/thirsty/unmedicated and all I really wanted was to go home...or at least get one of the brownies from the backpack) and sat down between two cars (It was actually pretty roomy, with enough space for people to easily walk by me). We were waiting for the Patriarch to come and give a speech/blessing (this is why we didn’t just go home) and he was at the back of the procession (perhaps he wanted to be fashionably late to the party...if so, I was not amused) (actually, once we were sitting down and munching on brownies, T and I didn’t really care when we left). He came and gave his blessings and his message and it was nice and then we bounced out. S, V, T, and D headed back towards the checkpoint and Mom and I went in search of dinner at Notre Dame. In all, the procession had taken 7 hours (this includes taxi rides etc.). It was only the beginning of Holy Week and already I was exhausted.
Dang it, I was going to cover all of Holy Week up to right now in this post, but I got carried away with Sunday...as usual (the carried away part, not the Sunday thing...that would make no sense). Don’t worry, I intend to write more today, I just have to take a tabbouleh break. (Did I tell you, dear Reader (oh my, I haven’t called you that for ages) that I have successfully mastered making, though not spelling, tabouli? And that I’m back in the game Marinara sauce wise? Did anyone understand that last question?) Anyway, I’ll be back right after some deliciousness...and maybe some 30 Rock...

Chapter 7: Window into my Past (if the Window were made of glitter and JAG)

So, it's been a while and it's been said (to me at least) that the frequency of my posts is decidedly low...and that this is not okay. Also, I have recently received rave reviews for the first 7 chapters of Whiskers on Kittens, allow me to share them with you (as if you had a choice)
"Whiskers on Kittens is [truly the best piece of writing I have ever reviewed. Gaze in gazemazement at the brilliance that shines from every word, clause, sentence, and paragraph...if you're not blinded by it!]"
-The New Yorker...or the New York Times...or People (whichever you identify with most)
"Write more. It's starting to [upset me greatly] when I check Whiskers on Kittens and see that you haven't written since mid-February."
-my Dad (I know that you are all duly impressed so I need not add any alternatives)
There were scores of others, but it is too much of an effort to make them up...I mean copy them down...and I don't like to boast, because I'm humble and stuff.
Let's see, what's happened since last I/you wrote/read....hmmmmmm...well, I have become master of many jobs. I am lead animal therapist (or only animal therapist) (also, I would like to clarify that I am not providing therapy for animals but for kids...and by therapy I mean we play with Lucky). In all seriousness, working with Lucky can be helpful for the kids. I work with one kid at a time and each one has to clean out Lucky's house and fenced in outside area (sweeping, raking, shaking blankets etc, removing poop (I am actually rewriting the post from this point because the post that I just finished didn't save and so didn't publish and I lost most of it, but don't worry, I'm not going to change anything, because I'm too tired)...it's not a ladylike word, but it sure is funny...sometimes), feed him, give him fresh water, and exercise him. This promotes responsibility and a sense of importance and mastery in the individual...which is good. (Obviously I can only have a couple of kids work with him each day, otherwise he would be overworked, overfed,...overcleaned?) There are other benefits, but this isn't a lesson/treatment plan and I don't feel like writing the social work rationale, I just didn't want to inadvertently belittle the work at the school while describing my duties. So I do my animal thang (I meant to write it that way) and provide a beverage service (tea or milk for the kids at lunch time and tea for the teachers that I like...I mean the ones that want it) and I also tutor two kids in English during the day. The other students are upset because they don't get special work time with Missy Gwynedd...they have no idea how not cool/not fun I can be...and how difficult English can be when you don't have any classmates to hide behind. I'm sure there's other stuff that I do, but I can't remember it right now. I am certainly able to keep busy and for those few moments of down time, there is always another level of Bejeweled 2 that needs conquering. Now onto events that have occurred since last I/you wrote/read...
In case anyone was curious, the pasta sauce I spoke of in my last post turned out okay, but not nearly up to standard. The three types of canned tomatoes were to blame...and the fact that I had to use oregano instead of basil...and the Fates were seeking to destroy my sauce-making confidence. Mission accomplished.
(I feel my focus drifting and my will to keep writing fading...especially since I have already written this post once...freaking automatic save button that doesn't save! Curse you...you inanimate almost object! I will likely be trailing off soon)
I am morphing into my high school self. Allow me to explain. In high school I was a complicated individual with many interests and layers...okay, that's a lie. I loved two things in high school...JAG and glitter (sure, I rowed and liked school and had friends and seemed like a normal individual...but really, it was all about the glitter and JAG). What is JAG, you might ask? (Or maybe you might not, because you already know it was an awesome TV show about Navy and Marine Corps lawyers which would make you a complete and awesome person) And if you did ask that question, please refer to the parenthetical reference that preceded this sentence. Anyway, I was pretty hooked (some might say addicted...I may or may not have yelled at my carpool home from crew when I thought I was going to miss a show) on JAG all through high school. When I went to college, I cut the habit cold turkey, partly because I had no time and partly because it was cancelled after its 10th season. I was JAG free until this past week, when I broke into my Christmas present of seasons 1-4 of the show (I chose not to write JAG again because I felt I was overusing the word...acronym...whatever). I only have 3 discs left in season 4. So that accounts for half of my personal High School Musical morphing. The other half came into play today. Sunday is Mother's Day over here (don't worry this connects) so the kids made cards for their moms. I was in charge of adding glitter if it was desired (and who wouldn't want it, I ask you?). I have honed glitter application to an art form and I displayed my virtuoso skill for students and teachers alike. Everyone was in awe, as well they should be. It was like Cocktail, but the alcohol was glitter and glue...and I didn't throw the jars around because 1. it would have wasted precious materials and 2. once you spill glitter, especially the glitter I use, it gets all over everyone and everything and you can never get rid of it no matter how many times you vacuum or shower...just ask Kristin and Adam (of course you'd have to know them to ask them so that reference only works for a few people...oops). But it was still super awesome and electrifying. Needless to say (and yet I still feel the need to say it) Mother's Day will be considerably more glitter-y this year.
And there's the other half of my teenage self. Glitter and JAG...JAG and glitter. It could have been worse.
And this post could have been more coherent, but it wasn't (actually, it is considerably more coherent than the original version I was going to publish but couldn't because the blogspot Fates are totally uncool and lost my work...grumblemumblemumblegrumble...count yourselves lucky that it didn't publish). It could have been worse (as I just mentioned), actually it could have been excruciating. In my JAG-crazed state, I could have given you a minute-by-minute description of an entire season...trust me it wouldn't have been pretty...even if I had thrown some glitter on it. Until next time...may you life be filled with sparkles and lawyers (hot lawyers in uniform on TV...not the ones that cost a lot of money)

Chapter 6: The Return of the...ummmm...Gwynedd

And we’re back….from that extended nonexistent commercial break. You may wonder where I wondered off to, or maybe not. For those who are curious, I was back in the U.S. for Thanksgiving, Christmas, my birthday, my niece’s birthday, my cousin’s birthday…but not my uncle’s birthday. I cite UT’s birthday (February 13th…I’m sure he’s still accepting birthday wishes) because he pitched the biggest hissy fit upon hearing Mom and my departure date the day before. Sure, I could have posted while I was at home as there were many subjects to discuss…the Children of Peace Auction, the multitude of family Crèche sets, the Neverending Painting of F and A’s House, the Midnight Sledding Adventures, the First Time I Made the Family Pasta Sauce, the Trip to the Oregon Coast (courtesy of the wonderful W family), Quelf, the Arrival of Thor and Prince (new family kitties), the Integration of Thor and Prince, Etc… (I’m capitalizing as though these were chapter titles, including “Etc.”). But I was lazy and chose not to. Absence explained.
So here we are, back in the Holy Land. Mom and arrived the early evening and after corralling our personal mass of baggage (most of it was comprised of gifts, I swear…okay, Mom was carrying the gifts and I had half a suitcase full of glitter, but what art teacher type person wouldn’t?) and departing the arrivals zone, where NO ONE presented me with a welcoming balloon (please refer to an earlier post, I’m not sure which one), we headed towards the transportation station (what a delightful rhyme). We grabbed a cheroot (I’m spelling it phonetically according to how I’ve heard it pronounced), which is essentially a shuttle bus that you don’t need a reservation to ride, and sat down (because that is exactly what you want to do, sit down, after traveling from Seattle to Tel Aviv via two airplanes separated by a 6 hour layover in Newark over the course of 40 odd hours). Eventually, Mom and I were dropped off at the Pontifical Institute of Notre Dame, which is right next to the New Gate of the Old City and serves as a hotel, museum, church, and (most importantly, in this case) restaurant for tourists and pilgrims alike. I say eventually because there was a verbal altercation between the driver and a prospective passenger that went on for some time before we were able to depart the airport. Both parties were vociferous and unintelligible (the unintelligible part was likely due to the fact that I speak limited Hebrew, limited to the words for hello “shalom” and thanks “toda”, neither of which seemed to be very popular in the conversation). The drive, when it finally commenced, was beautiful. It was my favorite time of day (my dad’s favorite time also) when every object upon the earth (that was the nicest way I could say “all of the trees and power lines and rocks and hills and buildings and towers and cities and etc…”) is silhouetted against the ever changing color wash of the twilight sky (again, this sounded nicer than “tons of black paper cut outs in front of a blue/periwinkle/pink/peach/lavender/scarlet/cobalt…I feel like I’m in a clothing catalogue listing the colors…burnt orange/sienna/black sky”). Mom and I (and C a couple of times) had traveled the stretch of pavement between Tel Aviv and Jerusalem (AKA the 1) many times at various stages of the day and I had often found it attractive, once we were outside of the respective city centers, but I never found it so strikingly beautiful as on that late winter evening. (Forgive me for my writing style. I just finished “Mollie Peer” by Van Reid which is set in 1896 Maine and he has a way with words that sticks with a person.)
After we wrestled our baggage into the entrance of Notre Dame (the driver of the cheroot thoughtfully pulled our luggage out for us) and secured a safe resting spot for it (AKA the corner by the check-in desk), Mom and I devoured a delicious dinner of hummus, chicken shawarma, fries, lasagna, Coke, and San Pellegrino. The front desk kindly called a taxi for us (that poor man, he was overwhelmed by the site of our bags) and the taxi driver deposited us at the doorstep of the guest house. When we entered the guest house 6 ½ months ago, we (C, Mom, and I) were assaulted by the deterioration of the refrigerator contents and so were understandably gun shy about our approach on this particular evening. However, everything was fine and I have absolutely no story to tell…you’re crying on the inside from story deprivation, I can tell. We settled in over the next two days visiting the butcher, the baker, the…not the candlestick maker, but instead the green grocer, and the regular color of grocer, and prepared for school on Monday.
Currently, I am attempting to make Mom’s Pasta Sauce while she is out. Here’s hoping everything will turn out all right…I had three different kinds of canned tomatoes…that does not bode well.

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.