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.