The camel, for though it chews cud, it does not divide the hoof; it is unclean to you (Leviticus 11:4)

Okay, okay, back to stuff about Israel. Before I even got an apartment, I bought a car. It just happened that way, but now that I think about it, it was pretty wise to at least make sure that I had somewhere to sleep, even if it was on wheels. I bought a Hyundai Getz from the woman whose teaching position I am taking. Since the car isn't sold this side of the pond, here's a picture:

I specifically picked this picture because of the sailboats. It represents how this car is viewed in Israel. Although it costs only four figures and it's probably only two steps up from the Ford Focus (hey, it has a sun roof), the Getz is considered a pretty frou-frou car in the Middle East. As you might imagine, SUVs are a little impractical, what with the narrow streets and high price of gasoline (6.17 shekels per liter ~ $6 per gallon), not to mention the American exorbitance they represent; nary a Hummer in sight, I'm sure.

So yes, I am moving up in the world -- in terms of gasoline. Israel is one of the countries with the highest gas prices in the world, along with the Netherlands, Norway, and Italy, which are also in the $6 a gallon range. A day trip away from Israel are a few countries with the lowest prices: Kuwait, Egypt, and Saudi Arabia, all of which are less than $1 a gallon. I hope you find this shocking. I know I do. Every time I fill up in Israel, I will remind myself that my everything-revolves-around-oil conspiracy theory might not be so surreptitious.

And that's just oil companies alone. I haven't even mentioned the automakers, which just recently whined that there's no way they could make a light truck reach a fuel efficiency of 35 miles per gallon. Now I'm not saying it's an easy task, but it's possible, especially by 2020 for goodness sake. Certainly hybrid cars are already hitting that mark; the Prius is topping 50 mpg. And if you can't get trucks and SUVs to those standards, then screw trucks and SUVs, at least for personal operation. The truth is (yes, that means I'm about to spew another conspiracy of mine), automakers get kickbacks from oil; it's been happening ever since GM bought up and tore down the railroads a long time ago (sorry to my dad for bringing that up). But just as likely is that if fuel efficiency truly becomes free-market competitive, American companies will lose (once again, sorry dad), and nobody feels like giving up any part of what contributes to superpower status.

Okay, I said this was going to be about Israel, right? Here's my contribution to the solution to the gas crunch in the Middle East: I plan on riding my bicycle to work as much as possible; it's a five-mile shot straight north. Besides, I never heard of a bicycle bombing. I plan to use my car only to travel within and without the country, especially my monthly jaunt to Egypt to fill up on the cheap.

And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil (Matthew 6:13)

My last official outing in Old Town was trivia night at Murphy's, a weekly tradition for me for more than a year. In honor of my departure, my friend Eric named our team Kim's Krusaders, and my friend Cory suggested that I should be the person to answer the final tie-breaker question. Normally, I would feel pressured by this responsibility, but I accepted because I was two Guinnesses in and I didn't think we had a shot in hell to win. Here was the question: According to some poll in 1985, what percentage of women would prefer cuddling over having sex? In my reasoning, this was the era of the power suits, worn by women who were kicking through the glass ceiling; they didn't need no stinkin' cuddling. I guessed 42 percent. As you can surely infer, I lost us first place -- and some Nationals tickets that would've served me well on my last night in Alexandria, when the only thing not in a box was my dog -- by a 30 percentage point margin; as it turns out, 72 percent of women with shoulder pads still wanted to snuggle instead of get down to business. Incidentally, when I shared this story with Tim, he initially asked for clarification: "So it's one or the other, right? The question isn't what percentage of women want to cuddle AFTER sex, right?" When I verified this information, he guessed 46 percent. And that, my friends, is why we have been together for more than four years.

Behold, I come; in the scroll of the book it is written of me (Psalm 40:7)

Yesterday began the summer of ablution for my childhood home before I abandon my father for Israel. We started with my old room because we plan to organize our garage sale efforts there. In the closet were boxes of stuff from my past that I had previously tried to toss but my mother rescued from the trash can: grade cards, drawings, love letters, and so on. Most of it I directed straight into a trash bag; I'm not really one for sentimentality. But I kept aside three things: my mother's bridal garter, a box of my and my brother's baby blankets, and four diaries from elementary and middle school. I plan to keep the first two for the remote possibility that I ever get married or adopt children (no, I have not changed my mind about a watermelon coming out of my womb). As an aspiring writer, I thought to keep the diaries for when they make this Mansfield split-level into a historic site, along the lines of that cat house in Key West. But then I read them.

Here are the only educational tidbits you'll uncover from three of the diaries: 1) Like many youngsters, I did not know the meaning of many words I used, "pervert" being the prime example, because I used it repeatedly to insult any third-grader who was making me mad on a given day (but I must say I used the word "seldom" correctly in first grade); 2) Like many adults, I did not know the difference between "your" and "you're," "through" and "throw," and "there" and "their" (bad, bad English teacher); and 3) Like many people, I attempted revisionist history, crossing out entire sections of my diary that I later found to be inaccurate and writing over words that drastically altered the sentence's meaning, as in "love" to "hate."

There was one great revelation for me. I had designated one diary to be more philosophical, eschewing the gossip-laden triteness of the other three. In one entry from sixth grade, I profess a complete and profound belief in God. I write that I don't let things worry me because I know God will take care of everything. What a doozy, eh? I wondered when my feelings had changed. I can't pinpoint it exactly, but by 10th grade someone had signed my yearbook: "See you in hell!" It must've been a crazy four years.

I feel unsettled by that entry, but another one from the same diary made me a little more proud. I write for three pages about how everybody's eyes might be physically different to the point that we literally see the world in drastically different ways. As an example, I use how another girl could think a boy was "hot" and I could not. I go on to say that these varied senses of sight mold our personalities (although in a lot less eloquent terms). I write that I must see a lot of things uglier than other people, which makes me "not very good at being caring." Now there's the ol' Kim we know and love, right?

Wisdom is better than weapons of war; but one sinner destroyeth much good (Ecclesiastes 9:18)

Did I mention, in all my attempts to dispute the CNNified violence-filled version of Israeli life, that the culture isn't exactly the same as America? Take guns, for example. Apparently, there was a bit of controversy at my new school this past year about whether seniors should be allowed to use photographs containing guns on their yearbook pages. The answer in American high schools would be obvious, but in Israel, where every citizen is required to serve at least one year in the army, this would be the equivalent of Johnny posing with his four-point buck and rifle in the Mansfield News Journal (yes, my hometown newspaper publishes such photos). The photo in question, which I tried my darnedest to get on this blog, shows three boys, two with handguns, all wearing shirts supporting a military association. However, it gets a little gangsta, as the kids like to say, because all three are wearing sunglasses, and the two boys packing heat are holding the guns more like they're going to pistol-whip someone than respectfully explain the 2nd Amendment. It was a little shocking to my American sensibilities. Even more shocking, though, was that elsewhere in the yearbook are photos of students smoking cigarettes, puffing cigars, and using hookahs. These photos were not even questioned, even though the yearbook has a policy of not printing any photos with skin, expletives, illegal substances, or other inappropriate behavior. The gun photo, on the other hand, prompted a letter from the school's dean formally outlining which types of gun photos are appropriate for the yearbook.

It got me wondering about which photo would cause more of a reaction in suburban D.C. or central Ohio. After all, both types of photos show nothing illegal: 18-year-olds can own guns and smoke cigarettes. But man, I'm almost certain that the tobacco would cause more of a stink, pun intended. So what, right? I think this example illustrates the cultures of both countries. Israeli culture has its dysfunctions, no doubt, but it seems to be consistent. You are allowed to own things that might result in your own death by cancer and other things that might result in others' deaths by bullets; and both, I might add, might come in helpful for pure survival. America, on the other hand, has a different kind of consistency: We can deny that the proliferation of guns might contribute to a higher murder rate, and we can deny that sheltering young people from vices like cigarettes might contribute to a greater allure later in life; but once again, such denial might contribute to daily survival. Now you tell me: Which one of those scenarios seems more close-minded and conservative?

I, of course, don't really think either is worse than the other. I just think that it's weird that some people would automatically assume that Israel is so much more radical. So what does this rant have to do with me going to Israel? I don't really know. That's where you come in: What do you think those yearbook photos say about Israeli culture? I guess I'm just thinking that at least it will be more interesting to work in a place where discussion about violence is encouraged -- the last issue of the school's newspaper had a front-page story about Palestinian honor killings. Now that is something I would like to get hate mail about, instead of a quote that the football team's championship berth was stupid. But that's another story.

Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil (Psalm 23:4)

My ever-antagonist work spouse Sean just came to my room to tell me that there was just another bombing in the Gaza Strip. This is his good-natured way of trying to convince me to stay in the States. What he fails to accept is that I am immune to such scare tactics, mainly because I am not afraid of what could happen in Israel. No, I'm not in denial. One question I asked my interviewers from WBAIS was: How do I convince my father that I won't get blown up? So yes, I know it's a possibility, thus the previous reference to bomb shelter procedures. In the end, though, the odds of my exploding, even if I ride the bus, go to a nightclub, or stop for a coffee, are pretty low, as Tel Aviv is far from the center of conflict. After all, it is the economic, not religious, hub, and people are fighting over righteousness, not retail. And, to refute Sean's declaration, it's closer to the West Bank than the Gaza Strip.

Nonetheless, it still is possible, and yet I still feel strangely calm. ALERT: I am about to get serious here. In general, I'm not really afraid of death. I am sad about what I will leave behind and I am worried about the potential pain. But the actual not-being-on-this-Earth thing -- not a problem. And I'm not talking about when I die in my sleep at age 80. I mean right now. I could die tomorrow (it happens, you know), and that's okay. By virtue of my experiences, I have come to know death as a natural, and even mundane, event, as ordinary as walking the dog or taking a shower. This is the way I make myself all right with the deaths I have faced. So really, my greatest fear about death is just how boring it might be. Rest assured, if I die from what people fear about Israel, it will not be boring. It would be extraordinary, to be a casualty in one of the longest-lasting and most deeply entrenched disputes in the world. Now watch, I'll die in a car accident over there. Yawn.

The fact is, if I die, I die. There is no point in being scared about it. Worrying does not prevent it from happening. I can only control my own actions and behaviors, which, in the case of dying, means I must express to all those I would leave behind how much care about them. ALERT: I'm bringing funny back now. So I can't think of a more personal and intimate way to declare my love for you all than this blog. Yes, even you who stumbled across this blog when hunting for actual Bible passages, I have loved you deeply and I will miss you when I die.

I'm not saying I'm not scared at all. I just worry about things other than dying. Like becoming allergic to hummus or hating my co-workers or being hated by my co-workers or ticking off ambassador parents or failing my new students or regretting my two-year contract or exacerbating the Lebanese stand-off or offending religious sensibilities. Extra worried on that last one. But once again, these are healthy worries, ones that will make me watch my step in a way that is beneficial to me and those around me. Unlike worrying about death, which would simply make me limit the incredible opportunity I have fallen into. So if any of you are worrying, stop. It's a waste of mental and physical effort, unless it drives you to become my bodyguard and take the car bomb for me.

He abode two whole years in his own hired dwelling (Acts 28:30)

Enough with all the words. It's time for some pictures. No, not that kind. Not yet, anyway. You'll have to check out my other Web site for those if you want immediate gratification. I thought I'd give you a taste of where I'll be living.

This is the walkway I will stumble down after a night of nightclub crawling in Haifa.

This is the yard where my dog will get treats -- Beggin Strips, not real bacon, of course -- for not peeing on the birdbath.

This is where Tim and I will film our low-budget porn if Tel Aviv is beyond our cost of living. The chandelier and black laquer entertainment center just beg for it, don't you think?

This is a better view of the black laquer entertainment center, with my landlady in the background. We have not yet told her about our potential "in-home small business."

This is the bedroom cabinet where we will store the video equipment, for easy access for the scenes that require a mattress.

This is the nice, big window in the bedroom that is great for its natural light but is horrible for the potential peeping Toms, especially during filming.

Just for the record, I am not kidding about the no peeing on the birdbath, but I am kidding about the shooting pornography -- at least I hope so.

Walk worthy of the vocation wherewith ye are called (Ephesians 4:1)

"So yeah, you got a job at a school in Israel, but what exactly will you be doing?" you ask. It's rather mundane, actually. I will be teaching two of the same classes I teach now: AP Language & Composition and Newspaper. The third class will be Yearbook, which I fought like hell not to do at my current school but I accepted at my new school because, well, I will have only three preps ... and I thought it a worthwhile sacrifice for achieving peace in the Middle East. My new school is on a block schedule, which means I am expected to have five "duties," one for each day; three of those will be my classes. My other two duties (heh, heh duties) will be acting as technology consultant and department chairperson.

My consultant position is somewhat nebulous, but from what I can gather, I'm supposed to help encourage the staff to incorporate the wonderful world of computers into the classroom. I'm more than the Luddites and less than the IT guys. I just hope I don't turn into point woman on PowerPoints. I guess I qualify because I helped my students build a Web page, and I started this blog. You, too, can be a technology consultant in just two easy steps! As for department chairperson, my responsibilities are to do all the lame, boring tasks that no one else wanted to waste their time on, like the budget and the annual speech contest (just joking on the latter). I qualify because I reorganize book rooms in my spare time.

And now for the more frequent question: "What exactly will Tim be doing?" Well, he'll start by doing what he has been doing here in D.C.: looking for a job. The Catch-22 of working overseas is that most places won't give you a job until you get into the country, but it's hard to get into the country unless you have a work visa. Nonetheless, we both have confidence that he can find some sort of ESL (English as a Second Language) job. But just in case, he has been working on setting up telecommuting opportunities. Plus, he's just self-published his first book, and I'm certainly encouraging him to work on a second one ... you know, with computers. Hey look, it's my first official act as a technology consultant. If all else fails, he has maintained his beard, so he can provide the most authentic "walk in the footsteps of Jesus" tour in Israel. At the very worst, he gets to hang out on the Mediterranean for three months at a time before being required to travel outside the country for one month, per regulations of a tourist visa. It ain't so bad.

Coming soon: "What exactly will your dog be doing?"

Consider well the path of your feet (Proverbs 4:26)

A lot of you have probably heard bits and pieces, but I thought I'd explain the machinations that led up to my pilgrimage to the holy land. After all, I am satisfied with my life and job in the greater D.C. area. But, as many of you know, Tim has not been treated as well by our nation's capital. We had set a deadline of getting overseas after five years here, but we pushed that up when Tim kept getting passed over for jobs that he was obviously more than qualified for. It became clear that he is not in the federal loop, and I don't mean the Beltway. So he decided to apply for a Fulbright Award to study the functionality of nationalism in Catalonia. So I could go with him, I started looking for teaching jobs in Spain and signed up for a recruitment fair ... in Iowa ... in February.

Although two Barcelona schools were at the fair, neither had openings for English teachers. But I was ... in Iowa ... in February, so I decided to look for connections, at least for the future if Tim got the Fulbright. The fair starts with a cattle call in a huge convention center ballroom. You basically walk up to people and beg for interviews. I signed up for interviews in Ecuador, Korea, Mali, Guatemala, Colombia, Trinidad and Tobago, Dubai, Mexico, Bulgaria, and Israel. Then I spent the next two days shaking sweaty hands, carrying around a portfolio that I never used, and referring to things like "multiple intelligences." The weirdest part is that most of the interviews were held in the hotel next to the convention center, so often I was sitting next to the bed that my interviewer had slept in the previous night. I tried my best to maintain my composure as I envisioned the guy across from me renting in-room porn. In the end, my best bets were Mexico, Korea, and Israel. All the Southern American countries and Trinidad and Tobago wouldn't hire me because of my lack of marital status (And here I thought my dog would be the deal-breaker). Dubai and Bulgaria needed a commitment immediately, which I couldn't give because Tim hadn't heard about the Fulbright. Mali was thrown out after I learned that I would be working at a school connected to diamond mines. I don't want any blood on my hands unless I am the direct cause of said blood.

Shortly after we got back from the fair, Tim, my fluent Spanish-speaking boyfriend with extensive reporting and writing experience and a master's degree in international relations, found out that he didn't get the Fulbright (see statement above about being out of the federal loop). In the interim, Korea and Mexico had filled their open positions. So I accepted in Israel. Besides, it was a perfect fit; I would be teaching two of the same classes I have now and act as English department chair. Sure, there was some discussion of holding off for a another year, but losing the Fulbright was the last straw in a series of inexplicable rejections for Tim. And the rest, as they say, is frivolity, or something like that.

And this shall be the sign to you (Exodus 3:12)

This is for the J-school kids out there. As with any job change, I felt a little apprehensive after I signed my contract. My nerves were assuaged, though, when I received some files from the journalism adviser I would be replacing. On the cover of the school newspaper's staff manual was a quote from a familiar name: “Good writing is clear thinking made visual.” Can you guess said this? Here's a hint: Some of us suspected that he took quick naps during our tutorials. That's right, it's ...


Guido Stempel III, my first adviser at Ohio University. I thought maybe the journalism adviser was a fellow Scripps grad, but it turns out she just read the quote somewhere and thought it was a short and apt description of her philosophy on journalism. Now, I'm not a huge believer in fate or omens, as the title of this blog belies, but I have to admit this was pretty reassuring, especially considering that the very same day, I was briefed about my new school's safe area guidelines and procedures, which outline what to do in case a new Six-Day or even Six-Decade War breaks out. But more important, I am happy that good ol' Stempel is getting the international recognition he deserves. It's like Tel Aviv is just another Athens, Ohio, except with more firepower and less pork.

Ask, and you shall receive (John 16:24)

Almost immediately after I announced that I would be moving to Israel in July, many people asked if I would be starting a blog about my experiences. My first reaction was negative. I'm not a fan of blogs, even though many of my friends have them. I just can't seem to find the time to read all of them, so I vow to read none of them. So yes, it's incredibly hypocritical of me to ask my friends to do what I will not.

But, there have been requests, so I feel justified in starting what I think will be absolutley cathartic for me and perhaps interesting for you. So as I encounter the enlightening and frustrating, I will spew out my happiness and bitterness to you. It'll be almost like I never left. And I fully expect you to comment in return, mostly with mocking and taunting remarks, to remind me what I left behind. If I can't see you at that backyard barbeque, family dinner, faculty meeting, or happy hour, I hope I can at least see you here. Asalamalakem, good buddies.