Scrooge no more

I'm notorious for giving super crappy gifts for birthdays, Christmas etc, that is IF I actually remember to do anything. But I am turning a new leaf. I've even started my Christmas shopping already. I know, so thoughtful, huh? 

I've been trying for a couple months and here is something cool I made my sister, Vanessa, for her birthday in October. It was given late, but don't judge me. 

It's made entirely out of recycles grocery sacs or plastic sacs from stores ironed together to make a thicker plastic material that I could then sew together to create this sac. All is plastic except the handles, which are part recycles plastic and part fabric (I line them so they are more sturdy). I used bags I collected in Costa Rica and Israel this year. The side panels are the poka dotty stuff. I've made a few before, but this is pretty much the coolest thing I've ever made. It's to carry groceries. So you are seriously limiting waste here. Tight, no?

My trip

As requested, I'm posting a few pictures from my most recent wanderings.
This is Kerstin, my German friend who put up with me for five days. She was my trainer on the mission. She remembered that during those first two transfers I pretty much only ate this chocolate candy disguised as the best breakfast cereal ever (it was cold and life was hard, what can I say?). She had a box waiting for me when I got to her apartment. Love her. So much.
This is Lucy, a gorgeous brazilian, and her boyfriend from Portugal. I can't remember his name but he is wonderful. He drove me from Geneva to Annemasse to get my luggage and then to the Geneva train station. Love these people. We had just eaten a HUGE brazilian meal with Joelma, her baby Estaban and Lucy's equally fabulous sister, Lucia, who refused to be photographed
This was in Rome. Apparently they ride the short bus there.
This is a view of Paris from Sacre Coeur. Yes, my hair is hideous and in desparate need of a cut in this photo.
My little french cupcake, Christelle. Her aunt, who was out of town, let us (plus her fiance Stephan) crash at her Paris apartment for a few days. It was really tight.

Me in Salzburg, Austria. It was freezing. And that is my new coat from Mango. It's totally awesome. Too bad I live in AZ at the moment...
Salzburg once again.
A "new" Mel Brooks musical? In like 1968.
Trevi fountain. Geraldine and I were people watching for a long time. We sat staring at these two guys arguing about whether they were gay or not. One guy looked in his mid thirties or later and was very attractive. The other guy looked about 15 and had his head on the other guys shoulder. No way, I said. It's his dad. My brother never put his head on my dad's shoulder like that, she countered. This went on for about 15 minutes until they started kissing. Geraldine-1, Erin-0.
Crappy picture of me in from of the coloseum. Rome. Abdout 10 minutes later some creepy kids tried to take advantage of us. Love Rome.

Switzerland somewhere between Geneva and Zurich. I fell in love with the country all over again. I will live there...again. Gorgeous place.
Gareith (a girl I found and taught who is now getting ready for a mission) and I had just left the church building when we witnessed a totally Jason Bourne-type car chase. The guy was in a sports car and was driving like a maniac weaving in and out of cars at about 100 mph. A solid 15 second later, 6 police cars followed. Several minutes later, the police had come back. The guy had totally lost all of them. Which is why the Jason Bourne car chases are so improbable. There wouldn't even be much of a chase. The foxy JB would lose those european cops in no time at all. No doubt in my mind.
Strasbourg, France. I lived just a couple minutes from here.
My door. It always smelled of pee and booze. It was the favorite hangout of the bums.

Lessons in the City of Light

Riding around the Paris metro last week, I was taught a valuable lesson about life. Did this lesson come from an encounter with a wizened beggar, a refugee, or a courageous single mother? Or perhaps a particularly poignant philosophy about the meaning of things written on the walls in black permanent marker? 

No, my friends. The source of this priceless piece of wisdom came by way of an advertisement for McDonald's.  It seemed to be everywhere and whenever I saw it I couldn't take my eyes off of it. The slogan was "Venez comme vous etes" which means simply "Come as you are." It's basically a way of saying the becoming fat and diseased is for everyone. They don't discriminate. All are welcome at MacDo.

In any case, on these advertisements are several pictures of people from various lifestyles. Notice especially the picture below in the top right corner. We see that guy all the time. A nasty biker guy, right? 
No, wrong. All the pictures happen to be of the same guy. He's just dressed differently. So now please direct your attention to the fox below to the left (or right depending on your particular taste).
All I can say is that I am definitely looking at all the hairy biker guys I work with MUCH more curiosity and wonder. 

Reality check

After roaming the planet my fair share this year, I am staying put. At least until next year. And I've decided that I am actually finally ready to contribute to the world and settle down. Maybe.

I feel that today, while I was going through customs today in Washingtin Dulles International, the customs official managed to put my life in perspective for me.

There were two customs officials screening US citizens and we were being seperated into two different lines just before we got to the counter. I was put in the line of the tall, well-built man with salt and pepper hair, glasses and a completely expressionless face. I noticed this guy seemed to be taking an extra amount of time with each person for while the short latino woman would screen through three people, yelling "NEXT!!!" after each one, Mr. Stare-into-your-eyes-to-see-if-you-are-lying-to-me would only screen one person. I was a little nervous because I had, in fact, snuck something I wasn't supposed to into the country. Frommage de Chevre. Well, actually Crottin de Chevre which is basically the best thing ever: french-made goat cheese.

When I got up to the counter, he eyed me suspiciously. I just hope he doesn't ask if I brought any food into the country, I thought. But instead he asked me the purpose of the trip.

"Vacation," I responded.

"Where did you go?"

"Uhhh...France, Switzerland, germany, Austria and Italy."

He gave me a quizical look and then asked what exactly took me to those places.

"Well, actually," I started. I thought for a moment and decided to give him the completely honest answer. "I graduated university and had no clue what to do with my life. So I figured 'Europe. Why not?'" Boyfriend could have been a psychologist. I might as well have been lying on a couch.

"And who paid for yout trip? That must have been expensive."

While he probably thought maybe some drug or human trafficing cartel was footing the bill, I took it a little differently considering what was bearing on my mind at the moment (becoming a real person with a real job in my own real apartment) .

"Listen," I said. "My dad did not pay for it. Okay, so I worked for his company for a couple months to earn the money, but it was me who earned the money."

In other words, I was begging to be respected even though I pretty much don't do anything. Clearly, he hit a nerve.

He continued to flip through my passport and ran over the various stamps and visas.

"Jordan, huh? What took you there?"

"I was doing an internship for the US embassy in Israel and I hopped over there while I had the chance."

Then came th look that drove it all home. His look clearly read: "So you have clearly had some amazing experiences in your life and yet here you remain jobless and directionless in search of your 'true calling' when in reality my dear you have to get a job and just do it like me for instance sitting here in this little booth you think i dreamed my little heart away about stamping peoples passports when I was a little kid but look at me this is what I do and it pays the bills and puts food on my kids table you little ungrateful brat who epitomizes what is wrong with the rising generation."

Meanwhile, the efficient latina had screened at least 5 people while I stood feeling like a parasite. All I can say in that guy should get a raise. Tough love. Very Hebrews 11. I finally feel ready to halt my gypsy ways for a moment and figure out my life. And as chance would have it, not 45 minutes later, waiting for my connecting flight to Phoenix, I ran into a lady from the Congo and started speaking lingala. She loved me immediately, which is not a feat with the Congolese: they love easily--especially if you speak lingala and will sing in lingala in busy airports. But turns out, Mrs. Decked-out-in-Marc-Jacob's husband of 26 years, an American, is the Vice President of an international NGO that is currently in 45 different countries. They have lived all over the world. She is convinced I was meant to work for them.

So we'll see...Maybe I can still be a gypsy AND have a real job.

Three days and counting....

To say that the last week or so has been insane would be the understatement of the century. But I am reporting alive and reasonably well from an internet cafe not far from a Paris train station. I arrived this morning firm Munich on a night train. That was three hours late. So I got to share a little moving room with two strange europen women, one of whom ignored the statment that on night trains, "you are expected to wear your day clothes." She didn't wear her day clothes--or any clothes for that matter.

Right now I'm just killing time until 19h59 when my french friend, Christelle, will be showing up with her fiance. The three of us are going to chill for the next three days and then I will once again return to the land of nice teeth and customer service.

So that's two hours to kill and this internet is pretty cheap. At least it seems to be. Sometimes they gouge you at the til, but I'm at the end of caring. I just want to sit here and type away and not walk around aimlessly since being Sunday eveing, everythng is closed. I did my darnest while visiting church today to secure a dinner appointment for tonight, but instead I got one for tomorrow night. That works too. A lady from Ivory Coast is going to make me African food. I am pretty happy. I probably could have wrangled something for tonight, but as usual these days, a creepy guy with bad breath was "leaning" and I decided to split right after the meeting was over.

Oh, I saw Holiday on ice the other day in Nurnberg. I was afraid I wouldn't enjoy it, but frankly, it was awfully entertaining. Fruitiest dang thing I have ever seen in life. I got to see a group of men wearing skin tight clothes in magenta and baby blue adorned with 50% of the world's sequins pranicing about in ice and taking themselves very VERY seriously. It was so great. I was so entertained. Inspired, even.

Stuck in the middle

Thanks to the fantastic work ethic championed by the Italian people, I am stuck in Rome. Transportation strike. Yea.

But on the bright side, I am walking distance to some pretty amazing gelato. That is what I will be doing all day tomorrow. Eating gelato. And looking at the beautiful men this country has no shortage of.

Reason number 5 why I love europe: trains and staring

To say I've had a great time in France and Switzerland would be a gross understatement. I am about as in my element as possible. I just go around some of one of the most beautiful places in the world all day and see people I adore. And they feed me.

I also get to ride trains AND stare at people. These are two of my favorite things in the whole world. When you combine the two, it's pure ecstasy.

So the other day I was on train from Basel to Bern and I was sitting across the aisle from the most fascinating man ever. He was dressed in older clothes, his pants dirty, and his shoes worn in a great deal due to his severe pronation. He was tall, his hair a wild mess and was surprisingly good-looking. He had his breifcase opened before him on the empty seats he faced. The case was full of what looked like the free magazine ads that come with the newspaper. He was pouring over stacks of them. Next to him were a few scattered plastic sacks and a roll of brown packing tape.

This guy was one strange cookie. He moved seriously and in sharp, jerky motions. I was assessing the smattering of very random objects were strewn across the seats around him when suddenly he broke out a huge pocket knife and I began to see this ecentric man as exactly the kind of guy that would blow up buildings, eat his own clothing, keep journals of everything that left his body, and certainly reach across the aisle and stab a travelling American with a swiss pocket knife. I could practically see the news coverage. CRAZY MAN STABBS YOUNG AMERICAN TOURIST REPEATEDLY WITH POCKET KNIFE, TRIP ENDS IN TRAGEDY FOR DIRECTIONLESS AND NOW MANGLED COLLEGE GRADUATE.

I thought that maybe I'd better move. But it was as though he had cast a dark spell on me and I was glue to my seat and could do nothing but stare as he started cutting up the magazine ads. "This is how I'm going to go. This is really how I'm going to go," I thought. "Stabbed in a train in Switzerland."

He got up and ran to another car and I saw what looked like a nudy magazine on the seat where he was. At least I gathered that from the picture of the woman on the front with no clothes. But this IS Europe. It could have been advertising socks or bicycles.

"This is my chance," I thought. But like I said, the spell was cast and was fated to watch as his work unfolded. Even though he was no longer in the seat, i couldn't rip my eyes from his strewn belongings, from his tattered coat (totally a serial killer coat) to his German computer magazine.

When he returned, he looked right at me and I about peed my pants. Not wanting to provoke Mr. Crazy's attention, I gathered all my strength and looked away. I started staring out my window, but in reality, I was watching him through his reflection in the window so as not to appear that I was staring. He was messing around with the brown packing tape and cutting up the plastic bags into small peices with a pair of scissors. Wearied by his effort, he pulled from a sack at his side a kronoenburg beer and started chugging. Putting down his drink, he began wrapping the plastic bag fragments into rolls and wrapping them further in the brown packing tape making licorice length tubes. He cut them into little pellets and then proceeded to light each one on fire with a little lighter he had. Blowing each out after watching them a burn moment, he eventually tired of that and pulled out his laptop and began surfing the web until the train arrived at Bern.

It was like watching performance art. I couldn't have been happier.

Dear France,

It's so good to be back. I heart you.

Erin

Prop 8/Prop 102 and why it's really not all about you

I need to get some stuff off my chest and what's a blog for if not to get stuff off your chest?I don't present myself perfectly, but let me begin by offering to open a dialog with anyone who wishes (evthornhill@gmail.com).

There is a great deal of misunderstanding concerning the supporters for both the California Proposition 8 and the Arizona Proposition 102 and I cannot sit by another second and let close-minded and ignorant people spit out rhetoric dripping with hate and disdain. So many of these noisy opposers to the propositions cite hate for gays as the motivating force behind these proposition. But guess what people? It's not all about you. In fact, in my opinion, it's not about you at all.

It's about protecting our rights and not allowing others to impede on them under the banner of "tolerance." I will tolerate quite a bit, but the moment my rights are under attack, I will most definately react.

Let me first say this: If you are gay, that really truly doesn't bother me one bit. No really, it doesn't. Not even a little. I don't feel the need to dictate how someone else should live based on my beliefs. It's quite against my beliefs, in fact. If you don't believe me (that I could feel this way and be an active proponent of said Propositions) I'm happy to open up a dialog with anyone who wishes to do so. I have gay friends who I love because they are great people. We don't agree on everything, but friends don't always agree--they just continue to love each other regardless. If you want to share your life with one person, that's fine by me. It doesn't affect me and it's not in my agenda to force my beliefs on anyone else.

And that's the key to my stance on this issue: forcing someone's agenda on someone else and altering their life without their permission. Let me explain.

If these propositions don't pass and gay marriage is legalized, the effects of such things are far greater than what is one the surface. I am a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints and my religion is essential to me. The Gospel of Jesus Christ and the Church I belong to has been the source of my happiness. I'm not trying to get all right-wing religious fanatic, but I'm just being honest with you. Not only has it brought me incredible happiness and peace in a world that I'm just not sure about sometimes, but I have seen first-hand its same effect on thousands of people around the world. Many people see organize religion as destructive ( my shout out to Bill Maher), and as a student of world history, I can certainly see why. But my church really is different. But that's not what I am hear to talk about. So let me continue.

Because The Church will not perform gay weddings in the temples (sacred building where worthy members are able to be married "for time and all eternity"), someone could sue the Church for discrimination and the temples would be shut down for not being in compliance with new legislation. The Church (and many many others) would lose their tax-exempt status and I don't doubt that law suits destructive to peaceful religions and people would be filling up and spilling over the sides of our judicial system.

Some might say, "This is a good thing. We've got to stick it to those horrible intolerant religions" (like my buddy Bill again, for example). But that is projecting the ideals of a group of people on everyone if this is to happen. I mean, what happened to freedom of religion? Freedom to teach you children the values you cherish?

I'm going to close with an essay written by a retired judge that fills in a lot of the gaps in the points I am trying to make. But once again, my support for these propositions is so that I can safeguard my rights, beliefs and values--value that are so essential to me. It's not about stopping anyone from living their lives, but it's about protecting really everything I hold dear.

Please read this article. Thanks for hearing me out.

Erin

GENDERLESS MARRIAGE: A BRAVE NEW WORLD?

by William T. Garner

Judge of the Los Angeles County Superior Court, Retired

It is no exaggeration to suggest that when California voters go to the polls in November to select a new president, they will also decide another issue at least as important. A "yes" vote on Proposition 8 will create a state constitutional amendment allowing marriage only between one man and one woman. A "no" vote will allow same-sex couples to marry.
What is the benefit and what is the harm of recognizing genderless marriage (marriage without a gender requirement)? Aside from being able to call themselves "married," there appears to be no benefit to same-sex couples that did not exist at the time of the 4-3 California Supreme Court decision of May 15, 2008 legalizing genderless marriage. Section 297.5 of the California Family Code already provided that persons who register as "domestic partners shall have the same rights, protections and benefits as married spouses." However, the harm of official recognition of such relationships as "marriages" may be irreparable.
Although we cannot foretell the future with certainty, if a genderless marriage remains lawful, then so must a polygamous marriage be. The California Supreme Court effectively changed the traditional definition of marriage by holding that an individual must be allowed to establish a marriage with a person of either sex with whom the individual has chosen to share his or her life. If the person chosen is already married to another and all parties agree, in light of the court's language, how can the state refuse to recognize a three-party marriage, or indeed place any limit on the number of marriage partners? We have recently seen in Texas and elsewhere that there are many people who want such a marriage, and it appears that choice now trumps tradition.

Many personal freedoms, including the free exercise of religion, may well be diminished or lost if the amendment is not adopted. Although the free exercise right is provided in both the U.S. and California Constitutions, because genderless marriage has now been held to be another constitutional right, who can doubt that there are judges who will decide that the marriage right must prevail over the religious one? Consider the following:
In Boston, the Catholic Charities recently closed down its adoption program because the state of Massachusetts insisted that every adoption agency must allow same-sex couples to adopt. Thereafter, an affiliated agency in San Francisco did the same.
A Methodist group in New Jersey lost part of its tax-exempt status because it refused to allow two lesbian couples to use its facility for a civil union ceremony.
In Albuquerque, a wedding photographer was ordered by the state's Human Rights Commission to pay $6,637 to the attorney for a gay couple because she declined to photograph the couple's commitment ceremony. She had explained to them that because of her religious beliefs she photographed only traditional marriages.
What of the effect on education? Section 51890 of the California Education Code requires teachers to instruct children as early as kindergarten about the legal aspects of marriage. The state's position that same-sex couples are equivalent to opposite-sex couples will in all likelihood require changes in school instruction to ensure that a homosexual relationship is not treated differently from a heterosexual one. We can anticipate that the princess in a children's story will be as likely to marry another princess as a prince. Differences between sexes will be minimized or ignored. What confusion will that create in the minds of young boys and girls?
If a parent objects to the teaching of homosexuality in the public schools, there is probably little he or she will be able to do about it. A federal district court in Massachusetts has ruled that parents may not prevent an elementary school from teaching their kindergarten and first-grade children that homosexuality and same-sex marriage are moral and acceptable, even though contrary to the parents' sincere religious beliefs, and that the parents are not entitled to notice of any such instruction or to opt their children out of it. That decision has been affirmed by the First District Court of Appeals. Incidentally, in that case a first grade student was required to listen to a teacher read the book King and King, a story of a prince who falls in love with and marries another prince. (Parker v Hurley)
In England, a Catholic school has been prohibited from firing an openly gay headmaster. In Quebec, a Mennonite school was informed by the Ministry of Education that it must conform to the official provincial curriculum, including teaching that homosexuality is an acceptable alternative lifestyle, or be shut down. The Mennonites say they will leave the province. A similar government position can be anticipated here.
A loss of free speech rights is likely. In Canada, the Alberta Human Rights Commission issued a ruling forbidding a Christian pastor from making "disparaging" remarks about homosexuality. Expect the same in California.
Opponents of Proposition 8 ask the public to discard the wisdom of centuries by giving official approval to same-sex marriage. But at what price? The mere fact that a practice is old may not make it right but neither does it make it wrong. We have already witnessed the loss of important rights, and recent history suggests that defeat of the proposition will bring others.
Let us hope for the triumph of reason over emotion.
William T. Garner
Judge of the Los Angeles County Superior Court, Retired

Brilliant

This is hilarious.

Ear Coning

If you have never done it, I highly recommend it. At least if you are the kind of person that takes much joy out of popping zits.

You basically light a special candle, stick it in your ear, and *viola* a few minutes later, this special "ear candle" has sucked out all sorts of nastiness from your cranium. You even get to see this nastiness. It is basically amazing.

I just did it and I swear that I hear so much better than I did before. And before you go thinking that I must have had some abnormally mingin' ears, I must say that I clean my ears with a q-tip everyday. So I'm pretty sure an ear cone would basically change your life too, no matter how clean you think your skull is.

Okay, so I'm about 99% sure that this post is what Michael Scott would call TMI (too much information) so I will stop and spare you a description of the post-use ear candle. But if you are interested, go to hi-health or Sprouts (or probably any health food store) and pick up your own set of ear candles. You wont regret it. Promise.

Jordan Knight in my heart forever

My dream from 4th grade has finally been realized.  And what a blessing it truly is. 

When visiting my friends' homes as a child--friends with parents that didn't think video game would automatically make their children social outcasts--I would slobber over their nintendo systems. If they had a tv in their room with a nintendo attacted to it, I would be jealous beyond words. I would try to be as endearing as possible to the parents. I would begin cleaning their homes hoping they would notice how helpful I was and adopt me so that I too could have nintendo in my room.

I wanted nintendo SOOO badly. I begged my parents. But all of my pleadings fell on deaf ears. I mean, my father didn't break down and buy a computer until flat screened monitors became a standard feature in basically every household. He was convinced that computers and video games make children dorky. Like we'd get picked last in kickball if he kept up with technology. Well, guess what? I didn't have video games or a computer growing up and I was never any good at kickball (I did, however, kick trash in four square).

But as I mentioned, recent events have changed my life for the better. Thanks to kind neighbors who gave me their old super nintendo instead of throwing it in the trash, my mom trying to get rid of an old TV, and a dorky friend good with technology, I now have super nintendo set up in my bedroom. I played super mario for a solid 15 minutes today. From the comfort of my bed. It's just about the greatest thing to happen to me since New Kids on the Block busted onto the scene and changed my life forever. 

Oh, and get this: the TV has a VCR attached to it. Classy.  

BTW

Gaucho pants are never a good idea.

Oh, the Injustice

Gas prices are far too high. The inhumanity of it all is just mind-blowing. I mean, P.Diddy has been forced to ground his private jet and sit among the miscreants in first class due to the extravagant fuel costs.

Poor guy.

But this is P.Diddy we are talking about. Far from stupid or resourceful, he has taken the burden of lowering fuel costs on his very capable shoulders. He just made a video proving to the people of the world that gas prices are way too high. He also pleads with his "Saudi Arabia brothers and sisters" for free fuel so that he can be up and flying again in his private jet on his arduous commute to and from NYC and LA to pursue his acting career. 

Frankly, there are so many places I could go with this and I'm at a loss of which direction to pursue. Should I talk about the environment and poverty and explain that there are much better ways to be spending both his time and money? Should I join him in begging his Saudi "brothers and sisters" for free fuel so he will no longer pester the innocent and unsuspecting passengers of his regular American Airlines flights? Should I recommend that he take an economics class to better understand that high fuel prices are not intended as a personal affront on ego-tripping, multi-bazillionare a--holes? 

Well, Diddy, like you, I am at a loss. 

  

Arts and Crafts

Given the fact that "La Boheme" is now crashing at her parent's house (and yes, by "crashing," I mean "living at until she figures out what she's doing with her life") I figured I had better change the name of my blog to "the Mooch." It'd be false advertising otherwise.

And yes, I am a mooch. I own up fully to this fact. What can I say? I like free things. I've realized that out of the 4 cell phones that I have owned, I have only paid for one of them. The stereo in my car? Free. A healthy portion of my wardrobe? Free. All the mints in my purses? Free (thanks to those big bowls full of them sitting by restaurants doors just waiting for greedy hands and large purses). 

I've pretty much spent the entire year, up to this point, mooching off the goodwill of those around me.  I've crashed on a couch in Provo, a spare bedroom in Tel-Aviv, and now I'm in the guest room at my parent's home in Mesa.

But enough of all that. I want to share what I did today. I'm quite proud of it. I mod-podged a lamp shade using little things that I saved from my first trip to France. I was 18 and absolutely nuts--I just bought a ticket and went by myself. It was a pretty pivotal experience for me and was probably pretty instrumental in creating the nomadic lunatic that I am today.

So I now have a lamp shade to remind me of that amazing experience. Ticket stubs, maps, and brochures now adorn a lampshade on a really cool lamp I bought today at Goodwill for $4.99. While I do not easily part with my money, this was well worth it.  

UPDATE

1) I've decided that the only way to keep myself from a building ledge or walking into oncoming traffic is to leave. So come rain or shine, this girl is heading to Washington D.C. September 1st and is fully prepared to sell her soul for the right salary.

2) I am a reject of rejects. I sat for 1 hour waiting with the poor people or Provo to sell my body (plasma) only to find out that while the plasma of the smelly guy next to me was perfectly acceptable, mine was not. I've visited not one, but THREE countries on the malaria scare list. But with fibromyalgia, the technician said I could never donate regardless of where I went. They'll never want me. I was crushed. Sixty dollars a week extra would have made it possible to stop mooching rides, food, postage stamps, and laundry detergent from roommates, friends, and on occasion, complete strangers. But at least the guy let me take a juice box and bag of crackers (i.e. dinner) for my time.

3) I finished the last paper I'll ever write as an undergraduate and handed it in. It felt good. So good I might have actually leapt through the hall as I left Dr. Green's office, and incidentally frightened the guy coming around the corner. 

 

Peer Pressure

I just applied for a job that I'm 98% sure that I don't want. Why, you ask? Peer pressure. Plain and simple. I'll do just about anything short of selling my organs if adequately convinced. And it probably doesn't take much to convince me. 

So I work at the MTC (Missionary Training Center) as a French teacher and teaching evaluator. I absolutely love my job. But I am graduating in a couple weeks and have been very much looking forward to saying goodbye to this part of the country. And when I say "very much" I mean that the only thoughts that are keeping me sane at this point are thoughts of me driving away from this place and starting a new life far far away.

Which is why I am surprised that about 10 minutes ago I just completed an application for a job that if I got, I would be expected to stick around another few years. Oi.

So here's what happened: 

Basically, my boss has been encouraging all his employees with a pulse and an ability to string coherent sentences together to apply for his job. I have been resistant and resolute in my decision to NOT apply for the job since even before I left for Israel. But strangely enough, I've felt actually really good about applying for the job that could potentially destroy all my dreams. So naturally, I've tried to fight such self-destructive  feelings. But today, on the very last day the job was open to applications, I sat down with my boss and somehow, he convinced me to run home and apply for his job. 

And I did. And I think I might just throw up.

Plummeting

I'm preparing myself for rejection on a titanic scale. I'm beginning the application process for just about every job opening in the Greater DC area that sounds interesting.  And when I say "every job" I really do mean it. 

I read something online that said to apply for all the jobs you are interested in, even if you don't necessarily fit all the qualifications. Usually hopelessly realistic, I took the advice seriously and have applied for positions that no one in their right mind would give me, but sound exciting.  Regional Representative for the World Adult Kickball Association? It's only 10 hours a week. And what wouldn't I do to be able to say, "Why yes, I am with WAKA."  An executive with the Royal Bank of Scotland? You can bet I applied for that one.  The very thought of coming in daily contact with men in suits speaking with scottish accents is enough to make the rigorous process of writing 15,000 cover letters worth it. I can't imagine how annoying it will be when I actually have accomplishments to toot my horn about. 

I have a place to stay in DC, rent-free, till I get on my feet with a job and such, so I'm significantly less worried about my future. Since I have a tendency to play worse case scenario with my life, this eases my mind quite a bit. By playing "worst case scenario," I mean that every time I walk down stairs, I see myself plummeting to paralysis. When someone doesn't return my call in a timely fashion, I assume that they have decided to hate me and form groups (with others who don't return my calls) dedicated to discussing all my negative qualities. When I plan to visit a foreign country, I figure a plane crash, political coup d'etat, or nuclear holocaust will make my plans impossible. I basically assume that everything that could possibly go horribly wrong will do just that. But hey, at least I'm never disappointed. Just pleasantly surprised that I have once again evaded failure. Hey, it works for me. It keeps me upbeat. 

The End

Today I started freaking out. 

Not only did I write the last check to my university I will ever write, but I potentially found housing in Washington DC. Exciting, yes. Initially, I was ecstatic, but the absolute reality of my situation sat staring me in the face. This college experience (that I have managed to drag out over the last 7 years, taking time off to live in Switzerland, France and most recently Israel) is all really going to be over and that real life really is just around the corner. 

Oh and by the way, if you or anyone you know has connections to a job in DC that wouldn't involve me wearing a shirt with my name on it, working with anyone that calls coworkers "champ," or selling my soul to the devil, please let me know. Connections, like spare car keys and leather, are things one can never have too much of.

Memories

It's the end of the month and you know what that means: Police quotas.

My 7 year ticket-free streak officially ended Tuesday when I was pulled over in Cedar City Utah by an officer in shorts and a bright yellow polo. I don't profess to be pure in the area of traffic violations. In fact, any member of my family will tell you (as they just love to remind me) that I've had my fair share of run-ins with traffic enforcers. I admit it--I did have my license revoked for the last half of my senior year. But seriously, most of the tickets were totally the result of some power-tripping police officer. I mean come on, rolling through a stop sign at 11:30 pm in the middle of nowhere? A 35 mph in a 25 mph zone? They were angry men out to prove something. But I had put that behind me and have enjoyed a clean record the past few years. 

Which is why when I got pulled over I started crying.  I have never cried when I've gotten pulled over. My friends all tell me stroies about faking tears and getting out of tickets, but that has never worked for me. In fact, the thought always made me a little queasy. I usually am so ticked off (because it's something stupid), yelling is the only thing I want to do. One time, an officer asked "Do you know how fast you were going?" (I had been 10 over, rushing to get to track practice) and I had to use all my self control to not answer "No but you do, doncha'? Just give me the ticket and get on your merry way." 

The one exception was my junior year when I zoned out for a few seconds (something I do regularly) and ran a red light and hit a car with an old lady driving. Don't freak out, she was not infirm or elderly. She was a pretty saucy lady, in fact. She jumped out of her car and started swearing at me and telling me I was stupid. I was bawling on a curb a while later holding my head in my hands and muttering "my dad is going to kill me" over and over again when the same lady came and put her arms around me and told me everything was going to be okay. The police just felt sorry for me and issued me the lowest possible infraction for the accident. Let's face it, I was pretty pathetic. 

In all my other encounters with traffic-enforcing police, however, they were less than pleasant and I was far from teary. Tuesday's officer in Cedar City, Utah was actually a really nice guy.  He was probably the kindest cop I had ever encountered. Which I found odd because if I was forced to wear a bright yellow polo and little shorts, I'm about 98% sure I'd have a chip on my shoulder. In any case, amidst my tears, he dropped the infraction from 17 mph over to 10 over, which cut the ticket in half. And these tears were genuine, make no mistake. All I could think of was increased insurance premiums after 4 months of an unpaid internship and nothing but high hopes for a job and "good plans" for this fall. Considering my vivid imagination and propensity to play the "worst possible case-scenario" with my life, at that moment, I was sure this ticket was about to ruin my future. I'd be even more penniless and vagrant. Since I already beg for food, I was frightened at the prospect of potentially even less money.

Looking back, I realize it isn't the end of the world. But it does take me back to a dark time when traffic violations defined my life. I'm being forced to relive some awful moments in my life.  I see the faces of cops, faces smirking with the knowledge of their power over me as their pens move across their pad of paper, hell-bent on destroying me. I feel the shame of having to bum rides off everyone for the last part of my senior year of high school. And out of the haze of my memory, I see a wiry old woman, arms flailing as she barrels toward me with expletives spewing from her mouth. And I am afraid.

McKenna

I love my little sister for a lot of reasons. Of course, one reason is I have to--she is my sister. But she's actually a pretty enjoyable person. A little quirky (can't be sure where that comes from...) and always surprising. 

When she was nine and I was in my junior year at university, we were talking on the phone when she informed me that she had begun naming all the cars belonging to my family members. Amused, I asked what she would name my SUV (which was amazing, by the way, and I sometimes tear up thinking about how nice it was and how crappy my current ride is). 

"Well, that depends," she said with a serious tone, "is it a boy or a girl?" 

"Oh, I dunno," I responded, "and I'm not quite sure how to figure that out."

As though it was the most logical and simple solution ever, she exclaimed, "Just look underneath it!"

This is how my sister thinks. Or thought. That was five years ago--and she was nine. But while rummaging through my little sister's purse Sunday in search of a mint, what I found reassured me that she is still pretty funny. When I asked her why exactly she carried around six containers of hand sanitizer, goggles and a pack of baby wipes in her purse, she responded simply looking me right in the eyes and shrugging, "You just never know."

Later, I found her purse and photographed the contents. Evil, I know, but I couldn't help it. I just had to know exactly what she had in there. So here's what I found:

1 gold wallet

8 bottles of fruity-smelling lotions

6 bottles of antibacterial hand sanitizer

1 pen

1 yellow highlighter

18 lip moisturizers

1 tub of vaseline

1 candy bar from England

1 pair of orange socks

1 pair of swimming goggles

1 pair of sunglasses

1 tin of mints

1 package of baby wipes

I told her later what I had done. I had to because I wanted to know why she carried around all that she carried around. Her response, "I just do. You never know."

Right. One must always be prepared. You never know when you are going to be trapped in a dirty elevator with a bunch of people with really really dry skin and lips and you get cold feet and a hankering for chocolate. And when that happens, you can bet she'll be prepared.  

Petra

Road tripping through Israel with my parents and my older sister has been an interesting experience. Despite being a few weeks shy of 25 and my sister being 27, we still know how to push eachothers buttons in a way that merits our parents screaming at us from the front seat. I thought we'd all grown out of this, but apparently I was mistaken. I find myself saying, "But Vanessa started it," way too much. It's a little unsettling, actually. This and the fact that everyone in Israel think I'm 18 has led me to think that the only thing that will make me feel like an adult would be to move to the other side of the country and get a real job. 

Well, I've got to say, the Dead Sea was a heck of a lot prettier than I imagined something called "dead." The white you see, however, isn't sand. It's rock hard salt deposits. Hey, can you imagine jumping in with cuts all over your body? That'd really hurt. And that's all I could think about as we were at the sea shore. While my family was commenting on the beauty of the sea, I was thinking just how bad it'd hurt to jump in with sores all over my body.Crossing the border from Israel into Jordan was quite an experience. Here Vanessa and I are waiting for our visa clearance into Jordan. This is my new hair cut.

Petra was AMAZING. I highly recommend going. To be honest, I really like Jordan as a whole and I hope to go back after a few arabic classes. Petra is about 44 square kilometres. We had to hike about 2.7 km into the city through these amazing cliffs. It was quite breathtaking when lille horse-drawn buggies weren't flying by full of bedouins hellbent on running us over and tourists with looks of panic glued to their faces.  

My dad is probably one of the biggest geology dorks I have ever met and he was basically in heaven. For my dad, Petra was a geological dream. 
This is the first facade you see coming into Petra. It was pretty incredible. The only thing that could have made it better would have been a younger Harrison Ford with the fedora and the bullwhip.
Against my will, the Jordanian tour guide (who didn't like that I was way too out-spoken) grabbed me and dressed me up. I think the store owner really hated me. First off, I put up a fuss about having to get dressed up in his store(I don't like being touched or dressed by strange men--weird I know) and second I gave him a really hard time about the prices. My israeliness was at a peak here. 

Me: 12 dinar? Are you kidding me? Look at that little stain. And that one too.

Him: Fine. Go get another scarf.

Me: But I like this one and it's the only one you have.

Him: Fine. 10 dinar. 

Me: And what about this bracelet?

Him: 6 dinar.

(the guide mumbles something to him in arabic)

Him (now more disgruntled than before): Fine. It's free.

The guide: He's my cousin.

(while checking out)

Me: What a minute Chachi, how much are you charging me fore the scarf?

Him: 12 dinar.

Me (moving closer and pointing at him): But you said 10.

Him (losing his cool and imagining himself strangling me with the scarf): But then I gave you the bracelet for free.

Me: But you said 10. Are you going back on your word, friend?

Him: Fine, 10.  
Here are some bedouins on camels riding through Petra. Actually, up until the 1980s the bedouins lived in the rock rooms carved out of the cliff walls of the ancient city. I walked into one of the rooms and by the smell of it, I'd say I found the one they used as the restroom. I'm 95% percent sure. 

Dead to Red

Today was pretty eventful. I:

1. saw about a zillion camels.

2. went to Masada, hurt my foot, and sat staring at tourists for about a half-an-hour.

3. started hating passionately American tourists with loud voices and southern accents.

4. decided people should read much much more

5. got my hair chopped short in a hotel bathroom thanks to my sister, a really great hairdresser who never makes me pay and who I convinced to bring her scissors.

6. touched the Dead Sea. It's really salty.

7. decided to return to Provo earlier than I anticipated. 

We're currently in Eilat, right on the Red Sea and tomorrow we're off to Jordan (where I will ride a camel, if the Fates smile upon me). 

With all that talent, they were bound to be weirdos

I've just come to the realization that there are far too many excellent songs with really weird and slightly creepy music videos. 

1. The Hardest Part by Coldplay. I mean, am I the only one uncomfortable watching this?

2. Somewhere Only We Know by Keane. The music video is, in my opinion *cool,* sorta fairytale like, Big-Fish-esque--that is just up until there are odd glowing little tree alien things staring back at the band. I had seen parts of the music video before but just recently saw the whole thing. I was following them right up until the creepy alien things. They totally lost me there. And then, bam, the music video is over. It's sort of how I felt after watching "There will be blood." I followed right up till then end, enjoying the movie (as much as one can). Then the last minute left me unsettled and staring blankly at the credits with a dropped jaw and a queasy feeling in my stomach.

Okay, I said "far too many" and I only came up with two. I'm lame, I know, but I'm sure there are more. I just can't think of them at the moment.   

Jerusalem continued

So let me continue my story from where I left off while my buttocks were suffering. Geraldine and I had just come back from Al Pasha, a middle eastern food place in Jerusalem. Assad deposited us back at Jaffa Gate where our ghetto hostel was. Little did we know just how ghetto is was going to be.              

We has dropped by earlier in the day to drop some of our stuff in the room and take some pictures of the cool view from the upper levels of the hostel (see below--the Dome of the Rock is just hidden by the building on the right). Staying in the Old City, I figured the ghetto-ness would be a fair trade for such a cool experience. 

So we arrive back around 11:30pm and Geraldine goes back up to the private room that we booked while I stay in the common area on the main floor to use the WiFi and my laptop to retain what little connection I have to the rest of the world. I follow her up a few minutes later t find the door open all the lights off and Gerladine sprawled dejected on the bed. Or at least I think she was sprawled and dejected on the bed. The lights were out, so I couldn't tell. I go to flip on the lights and she announces to me that they aren't working. 

This can't be true, I thought. No way. Not happening. 

I run down and try to find someone that works there or call someone who can put the power back on, but to no avail. The workers had gone home, the pay phone wasn't working, and the hot guy from Paris didn't have a cell phone I could use. I raced to think of the way out--how we could fix this, but it was too late to find another place, the power box was locked shut, and we had no way of contacting the people that worked at the hostel. Geraldine comes down soon and, completely exhausted and a little irritable, we realized to our horror the truths of the moment:  and we were going to have to suffer through the burning hot night with no power and in a sketchy place. 

This is how people die. Or get raped. It's like we were in the first 30 minutes of a scary film. This is where the unsuspecting innocent girls expect fun-loving adventure and instead due to chance and bad luck are placed at the mercy of a psychopathic killer. I could practically hear the creepy music beginning.

We slept with the door open most of the night, which was most awkward for me because anyone who walked by saw only me lying on the bed, while Geraldine was hidden from view. But I was past caring. It was either be exposed to the world or die of over-heating. I chose being exposed.

By the next morning, our anger at the establishment was more muted and we left in reasonably good spirits before the workers arrived at noon or whenever they decided to show up and do their job (that was probably, according to Geraldine, a very American thing to say). I did leave a note on an envelope I found behind the desk detailing our discontent with their establishment. I wanted to say that unless they "want both toe-curling reviews on every website advertising their hostel that would insure that no normal human being stays there again and it to be my personal mission to destroy them," they should refund us the money. But instead, I watered it down considerably and some diplomatic crap like "should you wish to remedy the situation and improve our feelings towards our experience at you establishment..."

I still haven't heard from them. I'm already drafting the most awful reveiw humanly possible. Several actually. I will review their hostel as many times as it takes. As different people. With different experiences. Cockroaches crawling from the shower drain, sewage backing up, serial killers, Islamist terrorists hiding out--I have a few ideas. All I can say is they messed with the sleeping habits of the wrong person.

Maybe I have become a little scary...

Our bathroom. My favorite was a sign above the toilet that said: "Please do not flush tampons, pads or TOILET PAPER down the toilet. Please put them in the trash."

We didn't entirely comply.
The master deluxe private suite at the Jaffa Gate Hostel. 
Okay, so as promised, the camel picture. Assad had taken us to a place where one could get a different view of the Old City. We got their and while Geraldine, awed by the veiw, discussed it with Assad near the ledge, I was mesmerized by the massive camel just hanging out. I take a few pictures when a young American guy comes up to me and asks me to take his picture with it. He said they normally charge for pictures, but the guy with the camel was out cold, snoring in the corner. So we shot a few pics. On the left side of my head, you can see the Dome of the Rock and in the bottom left, you see the Arab Sleeping Beauty. His rest would soon be interrupted when his boss comes and starts yelling at him for sleeping while we were freely taking pictures and playing with his camel. Poor guy.
Completely unrelated picture, but I wanted to post it. Last weekend I went to the Bah'ai Gardens in Haifa and it was amazing. Absolutely breathtaking and the people were real gems. Very calm peaceful people. I love the Bah'ai. 
This is my last blog from the Aroma Cafe on Rehov Sokolov. My parents and my sister V arrive tomorrow morning at O'Dark Hundred (5:30am) and so I'll be all over the place for the next couple weeks traveling. I go to Petra on Thursday and I have to admit, I'm pretty pumped. I hope I get to ride a camel.

The Internet Thief

It's 11:26pm and I'm sitting on a metal bar outside the cafe with WiFi (it is closed) and it seriously smells like pee. My bum is now starting to hurt.

A lack of comfort aside, I figured I'd fill in on the past few days. Last night we stayed at a hostel in Jerusalem that was pretty dang ghetto. But, I figured it was part of the experience. And oh, what an experience it was. 

The hostel was right in the Old City, so we bused into Jerusalem early (from Tel-Aviv) and checked in and threw some stuff in our private room (I'll post pics later, PROMISE). We then went out and roamed the Old City and haggled with the sometimes sleazy dealers at the market. Luckily, we met a really nice guy who was selling gorgeous jewlery from his fathers store. He made Geraldine a fabulous necklace on the spot as I chatted with him in Hebrew/English. After she handed over the mula, he told me how much he liked me and said I could pick out any pair of earrings I liked as a gift from him. Never one to turn down free things, I picked a really nice set of earrings. I love them. Both because they are good-looking and because I tend to love anything free. Especially food.

So we roamed the city and at about 5pm, Assad, a really fabulous Palestinian guy who worked for the US Embassy came and picked us up to take us around. I've talked about him before. He is wonderful. Anyways, he knows the manager of the BYU Jerusalem Center (his old school chum) so he got us a special tour outside of hours. Then he showed us some really cool stuff and I took a picture with a camel (great story I will tell later when I post the pic). We then went to a local arab restaurant which was AMAZING. We were there for about 3-4 hours. No joke. We had a little drama-rama too when a large groups of Assad's friends came in and saw him eating with too very non-arab girls (e.i. us). We got some strange looks. That sat right next to us and listened in (quite obviously) to our conversation. He denied it, but I think he'll have some explaining to do...

Well, I really wanted to go on, but my butt is really hurting from this metal bar. Well, the left side hurts, the right side is basically numb.

WARNING:

This is just an advanced warning to those who are going to see and interact with me in the next few months. Turns out, I've become far more Israeli than I realized. And when I say Israeli, I mean unpleasant.

Geraldine, my Swiss friend, arrived yesterday and it's been a real blast hanging out with her. However, she's alluded to the fact that I've become a little cold and no-nonsense. Being cold and no-nonsense, I really didn't let it get to me.

But that's a lie, because in the end it really did after I though about it. I've come to the realization that in adapting to my surroundings in order to survive, I'm just not quite a sweet and outwardly kind as I used to be. Or rather, I'm more or a jerk. When I first got here, and someone would give me the wrong change at the grocery store, I'd say, ever so sweetly and with a darling little smile, "Excuse me, but I think you owe me five more shekels..."

They would then look at me like I beat puppies just for kicks and not say a single word. I'd then continue, this time showing them my receipt and my change, "See...you gave me the wrong change. I gave you a twenty and..." 

This would continue till I finally got sick of it and left. 

But not too much later, I got wise to the way these people work. The next time someone gave me the wrong change, I got awfully testy and said loudly with big hand motions, "What the heck!?! This is 3 shekels short? Where's my money?"

The cashier quickly and without expression gave me the three shekels. It's not that I was being rude, I was just acting like the rest of the people here. If you don't act that way, people will walk all over you. Seriously, that's the way it is. I learned that quickly and so basically what I'm trying to say, is I'm an even bigger jerk than I was before. So sorry. In advance. I will try and be better, but I'm not going to make any promises. 

So back off.

Coming to you live from a cafe in Ramat HaSharon

So I've actually moved. It's a really long story and I wont get into it, but yesterday I moved into an apartment under Karen's house in Ramat HaSharon, a really happenin' suburb outside of Tel-Aviv. Right now I'm sitting in a cafe using their WiFi. I didn't have to pay to use the internet, but I felt like such a mooch just slapping my laptop down and going to town without so much as purchasing a bite-sized muffin. So I picked the smallest juice I saw and didn't look at the price. A dixie cup full of juice just cost me 16 shekels. That's nearly 5 bucks. Guess, I wont be eating dinner tonight...

So as I sip my very pricey juice, I'll fill you in on what's going on in my very weird life. Let me begin with the apartment. One of the windows doesn't shut all the way and certainly doesn't lock. This is a little unnerving since I will be spending several nights alone in the apartment, though today I will be joined by my Swiss friend, Geraldine Canonica. In fact, I need to get to the airport soon. Actually, come to think of it, I need to figure out first how to get to the airport via the most confusing bus system on the planet. Oi.

So, in any case, I point out the busted window to Ofer, Karen's husband, when he comes down to make sure everything is okay in the apartment. He said, "Oh yeah, that is broken," and then (true to his Israeliness) shut the blinds, then with a huge smile on his face said, "See. All better."

I wasn't convinced that shutting the blinds would keep out thieves, mass-murders, or rapists, but I wasn't about to trample on his hospitality by pointing out his faulty logic.  So if I don't get back to you in one piece, you'll know why.

But other than that, and the mold currently waging war on the bathroom (and winning), the place is pretty great--it has cable. Ofer came and set it up for me. 

Three weeks and counting

Today was a pretty eventful day. I stepped in vomit. 

I was on the bus home from the Israeli Ministry of Interior where I had to extend my visa here in Israel. I had an appointment for 10:30, showed up right on time and made my presence known as there was no one other soul waiting to be seen in the waiting room. they told me they'd call me in as soon as they were ready. I then watched as the three women working in the office surfed the internet and complained about their children and husbands for the next 30 minutes (apparently they didn't realize that there are some American who actually do speak Hebrew). I reminded them of my appointment and sometime after 11:00, one lady finally agreed to process my visa extension. Feeling quite put-out by the way the country is run, I hopped on the bus headed towards my home. I gave my 5.30 shekels to the yarmulke-wearing bus driver and made my way towards the back of the bus.  A whiff of something foul hit my nostrils, but I thought little of it, since buses full of people, especially in foreign countries, tend to be a little on the ripe side (in my experience, at least). I bee-line straight for a large empty space in the middle of the crowded bus. I thought I was so smooth, stealing such a prime spot before someone else could get it. Before I could feel too pleased with myself, a young Israeli soldier pointed at my feet. I looked down and saw my feet in the vomit that was strewn across the floor and across one seat. Suddenly it became very clear why no one was in the big empty space in the middle of the bus. Luckily, there was only a little vomit that ended up on my shoes and I managed to wipe it off on a clean part of the floor. The soldier just sort of stared at me pitifully.

 As I stood there, feeling stupid and on the verge of dry heaving, I wondered what kind of country I was in that would leave a large pile of vomit in the middle of a public bus. People around didn't seem near as disgusted as I. It was just a small inconvenience as it took up space in an already crowded bus. 

Needing reassurance that I wasn't the stupidest person within a 5 km radius, I stood watching as the bus stopped and opened its doors to the unexpecting masses, secretly hoping that someone would daftly step in the vomit just as I had. To my great dismay, of all the 50 or so people that entered the bus before I got off, not one even came near the vomit. It was as though they expected it upon entering. I mean, why wouldn't there be vomit on the floor of a city bus in a Tel-Aviv suburb? It seemed common place and normal. These people were roll-with-the punches kind of people and it made me nervous. 

I had just waited nearly 45 minutes at the whim of the all powerful Israeli visa counselors to get my visa extension approved. The week before, I waited for well over two hours to even get the appointment I had today. All because I want to stay in this country. As I stood in the sweaty, packed bus wreaking of vomit and body odor, I wondered why exactly I did that. Why was I subjecting myself to all this!?!

The doors then opened and I exited the bus and was about to head home when I noticed the fantastic little shwarma/shnitzel place near my home. I smiled recounting all the delicious meals I'd enjoyed there. 

And quite suddenly, all the waiting and even the vomit became worth it. Man, I love schnitzel.

The Pilgrim's Progress

Tomorrow is my last day the embassy. And to be honest, I'm feeling a healthy dose of melancholy settling in. I'm going to miss it here. I really truly am. 

Granted, I've been looking forward to this for quite some time. I've been anxious to move on, but looking back, I've really loved my time here. I mean, who doesn't like sharing gloriously awkward moments with co-workers on a daily basis or accidentally mixing 2-4 languages in one conversation? But seriously, I've made some really great friends here. I realize today just how close I've gotten to people at the embassy. As I sat in my adopted office, several people dropped by, as they usually do, just to chat or talk business. The others in my section have really trusted me with some difficult work and told me time and time again that I have been their best intern by far (apparently, they've had some real screw-ups).  

I've come in 5 days a week for the last three months and worked full days. I've worked hard. This has been my life and I've grown to find comfort in it. I had to prove myself to all these people and now I have to leave and do it once again. I have to start over somewhere else. I've had some incredible experiences, met some incredible people and seen some incredible things.

That being said, however, I have been anxious to move on and finally settle down a bit (this makes my mother very happy). After all, I've lived in over 14 different places, in 4 different countries, within the last 7 years, and I've spent the entire year of 2008, thus far, crashing at other people's homes. Essentially, I've been living out of a suitcase for five months now. Over the years, I have purposely kept my possessions to a minimum because I know full well that everything I own needs to be able to fit into my '99 Honda Civic, Ruby. 

I daydream and fantasize about one day owning a coffee table (or any furniture, really), having a complete matching set of silverware, and having a magazine subscription. This signifies several things: 

a) to own furniture, especially a coffee table, you clearly have to have money to buy the furniture and live somewhere where your furniture is necessary (e.i. living in your own place) b) you can afford a year's worth of National Geographic Adventure or The New Yorker and 

c) you live at one residence for 12 straight months

These traits have eluded me completely, but mark my words, these things will one day change as I finally get a big-girl job in that mystical place known as "the real world." And hopefully, this day comes soon because I feel like such a nomad. I keep having flashbacks from elementary school when I learned about the nomadic hunter-gatherers, the primitive peoples that gave way to more stationary agriculturally-dependent peoples. As a child learning about these things, I imagined hairy cavemen walking around picking grass and berries and hitting animals over the heads with clubs. I then imagined the pilgrims, cute, clean and picturesque, building their little homes and planting their fields with the bright future of modernity shining upon their cheery faces like a rising sun. 

It seems that now, my childhood imagination has resurrected into disturbing visions with me as the oafish caveman, wandering clumsily through the wilderness, club in tow. I then see my contemporaries as adorably precious little pilgrims, primly-dressed and bright as they toil on their land.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that I want to be a pilgrim. I'm done with being a caveman-hunter-gatherer. I want to start farming. Okay, not farming literally, but figuratively. I want to settle down. And by settle down, I mean, get a real job with a salary, stay in one place for a year and maybe, just maybe, get a magazine subscription to National Geographic Adventure to sit upon my second-hand coffee table.  

And so tomorrow, as I finish my internship, I'm going to metaphorically throw out my club and hairy toga, don my crisp clean pilgrim's bonnet, grab my land cultivating tools and build up my life.

  

That is, after I run buck-wild throughout Israel and Jordan for the next three weeks. Come to think of it, maybe the pilgrim Erin is just going to have to wait a few months. Maybe September.  

Africa Day (i.e. The Greatest Day of My Life)

Yesterday, as I was on the bus taking me downtown to attend the massive "Africa Day" party in Tel-Aviv, I was really super excited. I was looking forward to speaking a great deal of French and even busting out some of my most polished Lingala phrases (like "your hair is so nice" and "my dad is from the Congo"). I was anticipating wild dancing and a whole lot of the blessed African food that comforts your very soul.

But then I remembered how crestfallen I had been upon entering the St. Patrick's Day "party" at the Irish ambassador's residence. Let's just say it wasn't as I had invisioned it. No drunken singing, no Cheiftans, no Jonathan Rhys Meyers and no fun.

So I came down from my little cloud of high hopes for the evening and was grateful to have chosen my smart little black dress and heels that wouldn't leave me standing out as I had at the St. Patrick's Day event. Can't go wrong with a black dress (even though I think I probably looked like a nun). I was ready for whatever was coming.

Well basically, turns out it was ALL I hoped for and much much more. I think I even used the word "paradise" several times throughout the evening to describe it. At this massive bash at a hotel in Tel-Aviv all the embassies from Africa joined together to party like it was 1999. And oh, did they.

Bernadette, a wonderful French FSN who works at the US embassy (she immigrated from France when she was 22 and holds both French and Israeli passports) managed to secure me and invite to the event (she used to work for the Togolese embassy) and I'm probably going to name my first born after her because last night was that great. I forgot what it was like to be around warm, inviting people. I've never had a hard time making friends, but it's been difficult getting close to people here (absurd Englishmen and crazy hot-blooded Italians aside, of course). And last night, I had at least two proposals for marriage (when I told my mom she said, "What, did you finally wash your hair?"), several invitations to people's homes (including the ambassador to Congo Brazzaville), and made about a zillion friends. 

Did I mention that I love Africans? 

I held my camera up during a really crazy dancing performance and took a shot of the crowd watching the performance. The little lady in the bottom right looking at the camera is Rose, a diplomat from the Ghanian embassy who was so sweet to me despite the fact I turned into a silly little 16 year old in the face of all the excitement. I was loving all the amazing dresses the women were wearing. My safe little black dress made me stand out just as my loud green dress made me stand out on St, Patrick's Day. I guess I can't help it. I stand out. Especially in these pictures. Standing next to these Africans, in combination with a really bright flash, completely negated the tan that I swear I really do have.

This is the ambassador of Congo Kinshasa's wife. She was a very regal lady. But when I told her I could sing in Lingala and began singing "yesu ndecko na bolingo," she definitely started singing with me and we finished the song together clapping and swaying. Freak, I love Africans. 

Here I am in a Conglolese ambassador sandwich. On the right is Brazzaville and the left is Kinshasa. Yes, there are two Congos. I'm partial to Kinshasa because that's where a lot of my friends are from, but the Brazaville ambassador did invite me to his home and that moves Brazaville up a little. I met ambassadors from all the countries, but I am very partial to Congo in general, for whatever reason.
Okay, now this is Victor, the Togolese driver for the Nigerian Ambassador. He was pretty funny and introduced me to a lot of people. And after the party was over, he took the ambassador home and came back in the smokin' hot armored Mercedes and took me the thirty minutes home to Herzilya Pituach. In the car we talked about politics, the American Civil Rights', Israel and a bunch of other things, which was really pushing my French. I probably came off sounding ridiculous in trying to sound intelligent in a language I don't speak much these days. In fact, Hebrew words kept slipping in. I think I'm lingually retarded. I cant keep any language straight for every long anymore. I mesh them all right now. If I'm forced to speak multiple languages in the same setting, I become completely incomprehensible. And my poor father thinks I'm so smart...

Anyways, while we were stopped in front of my house and I was about to get out, he complimented me very generously and ended by very seriously saying, "If I wasn't married, I would definitely marry you. Why wont you gave me your phone number?" I just laughed and refused for the 12th time that night to give him my phone number. I told him I didn't have a phone because the embassy took it away. And it wasn't even a lie.   

God bless computer geeks

Thanks to a group of people devoted to outsmarting Steve Jobs and sticking it to the man, I have been able to transfer nearly 30 GB of music from my iPod (which had music from a friend's computer) onto my new macbook. Thirty gigs of music is like, oh, a billion dollars worth of CDs or iTunes downloads that I can simply not afford to buy (two words: unpaid internship).

And it was incredibly easy. Easy enough that I, one who cannot work any microwave made after 1979, was able to transfer the music with ease. I can now jam to all the Lady Sovereign, Shiny Toy Guns, Joshua Radin, and Frank Sinatra that my little heart desires. I was even able to fill in the gaps in my collections of the Beatles, AC/DC, Dave Matthews, Van Halen, Sean Paul, Regina Spektor, Muse and Ella Fitzgerald (just to name a few).    

My happiness is unimaginable. Thank you Senuti. 

New Hair

So I'm thinking of chopping my hair off and I need to know what you think. I'm thinking of doing this:

And by "this" I mean cutting my hair like Victoria Beckham, not becoming anorexic and marrying an flaming-hot international soccer star (though I wouldn't mind the latter).

So I need some opinions. Should I keep it around my shoulders, or chop it? I need some ideas.

Good News

Turns out a sewage pipe broke and that's why church was cancelled. Stewart Tuttle, the spokesman for the embassy here and also a counselor in the branch presidency just described the foul scene to me while I was wasting time talking to Karen about how I'm going slightly out of my mind.

But the good news is that church is on for this Saturday (shabbat is on Saturday here) and will probably be at the Tuttle's house. Which probably means there will be food. And the good news doesn't end there, folks. As luck would have it, Alan (the FSN here who I love--he gives me food and introduced me to his daughter who has become a good friend out here) is out of town this week (and next) and offered his office to me while he is away. This means no more Harold. I never have to be stuck in an office, listening to his tourettes and mindless banter while having to stomach the foul stench from his burps EVER AGAIN. Turns out Harold is a gassy little feller.

That is unless by some cruel twist of fate this blessing is ripped from my fingers just like my cell phone. Oh, the embassy issued me a cell phone shortly after arriving. It was just for incoming calls and emergencies, but just having it was heaven. Being alone and secluded out here, it was my one connection to the friends I do have in country and any semblance of a normal life. Plus, it had a clock on it and as I don't have a watch and have to take buses, it came in very handy. However, just over a week ago, they decided to take the phone away and give it to a paid employee. It was a big bummer. My one consolation is that the people I work with who found out were furious and shook their fists angrily at the administration and ranted on about the injustice of it all. Which I found comforting. So even though I don't have a phone, transportation, or a hot Israeli boyfriend, I have a solid group of people out here in my corner and that made me feel good.

More good news is that I actually adore a bunch of people here. Bernadette is this wonderfully crazy French woman who works upstairs and always comes in to gossip and complain about something rather dramatically. She worked for the ambassador from Congo and just may have wrangled me an invite to a huge African party this weekend with all the African embassies in Israel. For those who know me well, getting an invitation to a massive African party (full of Congolese) is like winning the lottery. I just might be able to die happy now. Needless to say, I'm already polishing the Lingala (the dialect form Congo-Kinshasha) that I know. I am fully prepared to bust out singing "Yesu Ndecko na Bolingo" for anyone that will listen. Oh man, the Congolese love that song. While in France, I met a guy from the Congo at a bus stop and mentioned that I knew some Lingala and then proceeded singing that song. I didn't get two lines into it before he started singing along and clapping. All at the bus stop. It was great. 

Irit is one of the most capable people that work here. She is very tough and very smart. I was a little afraid of her when I got here because she will tell you like it is, even if that sends you into therapy for the next few years. But yesterday, she bought me lunch, listened to my life story, and told me that she thought that I was about as great as it gets, the best intern they've ever had, that I had a really great head on my shoulders, and that I was going places. This was a welcomed surprise/compliment because I go through extended moments of feeling rather pathetic. It felt good coming from someone who I respect a great deal professionally. And there are several other people here who've really saved my life by taking me in and treating me like one of their own. Overall, I'd have to say that even though I'm anxious to see the end of my internship and move on, I really love this embassy and will have warm memories of most of the people.

Harold excluded, of course.