A Heathen in the Holy Land

I proclaim to you new things from this time, even hidden things which you have not known (Isaiah 48:6)

2009-07-12T21:38:00.003+03:00

In case you didn't check Facebook on the right day, I have fulfilled my two-year contract in Israel, and Tim and I decided not to extend for another year. The reason is simple: Tim was basically living there as an illegal immigrant. He played the three-month visa game well enough, but we started to worry when a person in the same situation was told that if she left the country again, she would not be allowed to return. Although Tim was never given this ultimatum, Jewish last name withstanding, I didn't like the idea of potentially being trapped in the Mideast without my boo.

And so we issued an ultimatum of our own, but to the school: We would stay only if there were a position for Tim, one that was more clearly legitimate than his subbing arrangement, the economics of which remain legally suspect to this day. Many ideas were tossed about, and Tim even had some interviews with principals, but when nothing substantial was offered before the job fair, we decided to take our chances. Said job fair was less than a week after I had to turn in my declaration of whether I was staying or not, and the school wouldn't give me an extension, so with one yellow paper put in a mailbox, I said goodbye to Israel.

As a country full of ironies, there were many for us even at the end. Within a month after the job fair, quite a few positions that would've suited Tim opened up, including a Spanish teacher spot. Presumably, this departing teacher should've handed in her declaration before the job fair as well, but she just claimed she didn't know she had her new position yet. She was in the clear, because the letter of intent is not legally binding, only the contract is, and she hadn't signed that yet. Live and learn, I guess. And now, the school probably is planning to fill this job with a local part-timer for a year -- instead of a sought-after sub and tutor who fulfilled obligations to a school that he wasn't even officially employed by.

Indeed, the school never truly recognized Tim's contributions, even if some were at my behest. One principal, for example, refused to fill out a job fair evaluation for him because he hadn't observed Tim (apparently, that doesn't bar you from being alone with 20 kids in a classroom day after day). In another ironic twist, at the end of the year Tim was asked to take over for a teacher who was asked to resign. As part of this subbing period, he was not only supposed to develop, explain, and coach students through the final, but he also was asked to grade the end product. About 100 essays in all. Indeed, the guy who was not deemed good enough to be offered a position at the school next year was relied upon to replace a teacher who was allowed to be in the classroom for this entire school year. And don't even get me started about how this teacher was given a "favorable" recommendation letter for agreeing to depart gracefully.

This treatment, along with a 6 percent pay cut and the mutual moving-on of good friends, didn't make leaving the school very hard, actually. But leaving those friends who are staying did. I can only hope I find some people as nice as those in Israel as I start at a new school in Costa Rica. Read and see on my new blog.

What is wrong cannot be made right; what is missing cannot be recovered (Ecclesiastes 1:15)

2009-06-02T08:57:00.031+03:00

Much to my surprise, I have spouted forth my opinions in 46 posts on this blog. In looking back on them, I must admit that -- although my boyfriend thinks I can't say it -- I was wrong. Of course, I didn't lie to you, but upon further analysis and reflection, I can see that I should adjust my attitude, which I have been told to do many times in the past (mostly by teachers). Here are just a few things about which I was mistaken:

Tel Aviv is not at all like Athens as the bars do not have the much-needed discounted "Aquarium Nights" and the streets are severely lacking in burrito buggies. (And this shall be the sign to you)
Tim's messiah-like beard did not land him a job in ESL teaching, telecommuting or tour guiding, but he did almost grow awe-inspiring dreadlocks. (Walk worthy of the vocation wherewith ye are called)
After being told not to walk on our lawn at all, we encouraged Sage to pee on the birdbath. (He abode two whole years in his own hired dwelling)
Israel is the farthest thing from consistent, unless you count everyone believing consistently that everything should be how he or she wants it, no matter how inconsistent those desires are. (Wisdom is better than weapons of war; but one sinner destroyeth much good)
Not only do people drive Hummers, but they have the audacity to block two gas pumps at a time with them. (The camel, for though it chews cud, it does not divide the hoof; it is unclean to you)
The doctors here are hardly put upon; they gladly work late into the evening to be able to milk insurance companies for writing illegible prescriptions for medicines that won't be in stock at the pharmacy for the next three months. (A cheerful heart is good medicine, but a crushed spirit dries up the bones)
Road construction appears to be done merely for the recreational needs of the workers, not to aid in easing traffic congestion (unless you call closing down a highway lane for two years helpful). (There are different kinds of working, but the same God works all of them in all men)
The school campus lost its astounding effect on me after bad drainage, tainted water, loose roof tiles, and slippery stairways helped inspire a salary cut. (Now it will spring forth ... I will even make a roadway in the wilderness, a river in the desert)
Although the buses might have regular and efficient routes, you have to be a Mossad agent to find out the timetables and stops. (This is the best of the land ... because it is holy to the Lord)
The cycle of conflict is a wider gyre than I would've thought; not only does the circle of offensive-defensive continue, but the school has started over at step one: hiring more people and approving more projects even though the debt is unresolved. (There shall they offer sacrifices of righteousness: For they shall suck the abundance of the seas)

So let this be list of corrections to my experiences here. After two years here, I feel I have a better sense of Israel, but if I stayed two more, I'm sure I would have an even longer list. Indeed, history sometimes should be revised. But I know history will prove me right when I say that I will miss these things:

Smelling those flowers that bloom only at night, with the heavy scent of SweeTarts
Wearing flip-flops and/or shorts to school without getting a single sideways glance
Drinking the ubiquitous mocha milks and iced coffees, and not one a Frappacino
Swimming in the pool at the school, even if it meant my students seeing me in a swimsuit
Eating boureka and falafel, perennial favorite morning and afternoon snacks, respectively
Biking on the highway to Tel Aviv on Saturday, when the roads are quiet
Having my sun roof wide open in December
Downing weekly beers at the beach, where buying one Tuborg gets you a free pass to drink your own cooler brews for the rest of the night
Renewing my caffeine addiction with offerings from the free coffee maker
Parking on the sidewalk simply because everybody else does
Loading up on extremely fresh and cheap produce, especially on 50%-off day at StopMart
Seeing (but not breathing) the eerie brown fog and clouds created by the khamaseen
Being close enough to Europe that it can be a three-day weekend getaway

And most important, making new friends -- who will let me couch-surf in their own future far-flung homes.

And without all contradiction the less is blessed of the better (Hebrew 7:7)

2009-05-05T11:11:00.004+03:00

Oh sure, I had the same experiences as many have had in Egypt: I alternately loved it and hated it. Sometimes I loved what I hated about it, the friendliness that borders on intrusiveness, gritting my teeth as I graciously got my picture taken with a stranger one more time. Sometimes I hated what I loved, the inexpensiveness that transforms into constant expectations of "baksheesh," getting fired up for being charged 10 cents more as a tourist tax.
I hated that I was not at all awed by the pyramids of Giza, and certainly not the Sphinx, which is much smaller than it even looks here, with the help of those wily geometrically-minded Egyptians. It's hard to take their mathematical genius seriously when there are motorized, stuffed camels for sale 20 feet away and a KFC across the street. But I loved being able to wander wherever I wanted, even out into the desert, away from all the touts and monetary favors, including the keeper in the Pyramid of Khafre, who wanted some change for him telling others not to take photographs after I was required to surrender my camera with Tim before entering.
I loved the amazing breadth of information available in the dusty confines of the Egyptian Museum in Cairo and the slick structure of the Bibliotheca in Alexandria. At the library, one of its initiatives is to archive every single page of the Internet since 1994. That's not every URL address, that's every page of every Web site, including the Flying Spaghetti Monster. But I hated the lack of a clear organizational system for this vast knowledge. After looking at the umpteenth sarcophagi, I still had no clear understanding of the meaning or importance of all those Ramses dynasties.
I hated how Luxor was a boiler, both in terms of the temperature and the pressure on tourists. We spent three hours in a bar one afternoon to escape the heat and rackets; we were so happy with our cold beers that we didn't even care about getting to Karnak, purportedly one of the most stunning sites in the Nile Valley. But I loved Luxor and its temple -- which we also didn't go in to see, bad travelers that we are -- at night, when the place seemed like a real city, not just a port for cruises. It took us only a few seconds from the train station to be offered hashish and find falafel for less than 25 cents (the food, that is, not the drugs).
I loved how I was finally impressed by the Valley of the Kings and the Necropolis, both for the reconstruction of the Temple of Hatshepsut, which showed the architectural excellence of the society, and the preservation of the drawings there and in all the tombs, which held their colorful grandeur for over three thousand years. But I hated how the "traditional" show at the alabaster factory was clearly orchestrated, with each guy acting on cue when his part of the carving process came to light. And of course, our guide was in on the performance; had we bought anything, he would've got a cut of the proceeds.
I hated leaving Dahab, plain and simple. After more than 10 days of constant negotiating, being at a place where the costs were set, albeit pricier, it was nice to simply relax between eating a huge $2 breakfast and snorkelling to see some tropical fish. Oh, I loved opting to walk around, read a book, and drink some beers rather than hike up Mount Sinai, where I'm sure some helpful soul would've wanted an offering for taking a photograph of the view.

There shall they offer sacrifices of righteousness: For they shall suck the abundance of the seas (Deuteronomy 33:19)

2009-03-30T14:30:00.001+03:00

Not that I should care, considering that I am leaving for Costa Rica next year, but watching the reaction to a proposed an across-the-board 6 percent pay cut at my school has been an interesting micro-study of the psychological factors that might contribute to the prevention of Mideast peace on a macro-level.

First, let me establish a few facts that everyone agreed upon as the pay-cut proposal was raised. 1) The school is in financial dire straits; both school and teachers union auditors agreed that strong measures needed to be taken immediately to prevent the school from having to declare bankruptcy. 2) If the pay cut were not accepted, costs would have to be trimmed in some other way. 3) The area that could put the biggest dent in expenditures is salary (both internal staff and external contractors). Therefore, 4) if a broad-based pay cut was not instituted, entire positions would have to be cut, meaning people would be fired.

In general, the reaction to the facts fell upon party lines. A lot of local hires did not want to approve the pay cut. Quite a few local hires also supported the proposal, but I don't know of a single overseas hire who was against it. And this, I believe, is a result of the fact that the did not suffer the same conflicts of psyche. To name a few, one for past, future, and present:

Never Forget: Perhaps the main agreed-upon fact is that a primary reason the school fell into financial ruin was the poor timing of the decision to build the new campus. I'm no accountant, but even I know that you don't pull money out of your contingency fund to cover unexpected extra construction costs, especially when a high COLA based on the dollar-shekel exchange rate is indicating currency instability. Thus, although the board and administration never admitted to it, there were many allegations of prior financial mismanagement. True or not, the damage had already been done, and although I think awareness as a result of past wrongs is good, I do not think stasis borne out the necessity to correct unfixable failures is. And yet, I signed a letter to the board containing the following the line: "True, one can never go backwards in time, yet, sometimes, doing the right thing takes the wisdom, strength and courage to undo the wrong thing." I took this as a plea to try to do better in the future, but I'm not so sure. I think some people will wait until the wrong thing is undone before they cooperate any further. It makes me wonder if some Mideast mediators are waiting on the same thing.

Never Forgive: And some people are even making it clear that, even if the wrongs can be righted, they won't ever forgive the board for their problems with process: "We expressed great concern about the coercive manner in which the package was presented with a 'take it or leave it and be ready to accept the consequences' approach. ... This threat created a feeling of a 'hostage' situation that brought unbearable pressure on teachers and divided the faculty in an untenable way." Did I really sign a letter that called the board hostage-takers? Indeed, the board did offer a lesser-of-two-evils choice. But its alternative was to not offer us a choice at all; the members could've decided to start firing people without asking if we'd rather take a broad pay cut instead. This is perfectly legal and highly likely; just ask anybody in a U.S. public-school system. In my view, the board does not deserve forgiveness, but thanks. But even if there is some culpability, how is it going to encourage better negotiations in the past when one side continually attacks the other for not living up to their standards for the negotiation process? I'm talking about my school here, but some Gaza political groups might know what I mean, too.

Never A Frier: The refusal to forget and/or forgive both seem dedicated to an ever-present phenomenon: the refusal to be a frier, or sucker. Any attempt, perceived or real, to pull the wool over people's eyes will get them itching for a fight. In this case, some teachers saw the cutting of sabbatical for new hires as not just another way of tightening the pursestrings but as a method of insulting their intelligence: "We were told that the school is in an emergency situation, yet the package included a non-emergency contractual item, sabbatical for new hires. We can only see this as the Board taking advantage of the situation by linking these two issues together in the same package." If had line-item veto powers on the letter, I would've deleted this for sure. Another non-frier allusion in the letter is to the teachers' beneficence, or "willingness to help find solutions and make sacrifices." In actuality, when the teachers union requested suggestions to trim budgets, it received few besides mine. Some said they were afraid to submit proposals, fearing they would face those cuts along with the salary reduction. The fact that any extra eliminated expenditures would probably benefit the school nonwithstanding, these people hardly demonstrated the same "good faith" they sought from board members. In a compromise situation, someone always has to be the first to give, which certainly puts that person at risk, but without that risk, little reward can be received. Not a bad reminder as the new Israeli legislature starts its work.

To be fair, the response from the board wasn't exactly stellar: "The Teachers’ Association letter, however, suggests the Board failed to act in good faith while negotiating. ... The facts do not support this claim." It, too, was laced with tinges of anti-forgetting, -forgiveness, and -frierhood. But when faced with such an offensive, it's hard not to be, um, defensive, which itself turns into a form of an attack. And thus, the cycle will continue, long after my part in the close 33-31 vote is forgotten.

... an image formed by the art and thought of man (Acts 17:29)

2009-03-09T18:26:00.006+02:00

Perhaps Montenegro could've been just as colorful as Croatia, but we had some bad luck, making it feel imbued with the overcast-day dreariness of "Rain, Steam, and Speed" by J.M.W. Turner. The same muted smears covered the walls of our hotel room in Bar, an overpriced accommodation we suffered through when our plans to go into Albania didn't pan out. But in the painting, as in my image, there is a subtle hint of light shining through. Through the window behind the bleak beds in my vision, I see the glint of the Ulcinj shoreline sun prisming through a beer glass resting on the table in front of Tim, a glowing reminder that although we didn't get a true sense of the country, we at least glimpsed the positive while passing through.
The light is more pivotal in my view of Kosovo, as in "Philosopher in Mediation" by Rembrandt. Indeed, Prishtina is in the spotlight right now after the country declared its independence more than a year ago. Individuals, like the philosopher, are spotlighted in my three-dimensional perspective of Bill Clinton Boulevard. In the closest and brightest streetlight is the professor whose hostel we stayed at; he is encouraging travel by opening up more and more rooms throughout the city (albeit some of them are used for less-than-noble pursuits). In a slightly more distant streetlight is your typical Kosovar, a macchiato in one hand and a hamburger in the other, showing the infiltrating Western sensibilities. Smaller and less distinct is a KFOR (Kosovo Force) officer maintaining a clear but subdued presence. Farthest in the distance and least in the light is the NATO guard, trying to stay in the shadows but still clearly visible, like the fire tender in the painting.

From our quick visit to Albania, a bus ride from Macedonia, my only impression is a collection of characters. And although our cast, crammed in a small coffee house, would've looked routine from the outside, there was much going on inside, as I've always interpreted "Nighthawks" by Edward Hopper. I see our waitress stealing our Lonely Planet book over and over again to express shock that her beloved Pogradec isn't highlighted. The town-drunk fixture seemed to share in this consternation, although some of his muttering and gesticulating was less comprehendable than his companion's; the off-color remarks still came through, though. In my perception of the cafe, our taxi driver Mario and the lazy-eyed border dog are also there, doing their part, through benevolence only, to help us negotiate this very non-tourist-friendly part of the country.

Between Lake Ohrid and Skopje, Macedonia melds into a distortion similar to "Print Gallery" by M.C. Escher. My optical illusion stems from a combined pedestrian street forking into two disparate directions. To the left is the wide, marbled promenade of Lake Ohrid leading to the Church of St. John the Theologian, a tiny, mosaic-filled altar situated on the perfect hill to look back peacefully on downtown. Our Serbian friend Luka, who jabbered us into the new year, beckons us to join him. To the right is the crammed, puddle-filled path of the Turkish Quarter in Skopje, leading to the all-male tea shop that accepted my female self for a drink. But in our way is a Roma gypsy and her son, who literally felt us up as they tried to pickpocket us. This disconnect reflects my overall feeling toward Macedonia: There, I had the best and worst times of our trip. It also reflects the overall ethos of the Balkans: The positive aspects will bring tremendous joy, but the negative aspects will creep in, reminding you of the hurt that has pervaded the place.

(As a footnote, I finally bought a new camera, but upon taking it to Greece, I realized that the memory card held unbearably few pictures. So when I tried to re-format the card so I could take more, I erased all the pictures I had taken in the three days so far. I decided to call the vacation a wash, in terms of photos. After all, you've seen one photo of the Parthenon, you've seen them all. And then I took my completely empty camera to Jericho, but I couldn't get in the photographic mood. But I make this solemn vow to all of you: I will be back in full snapshot shape for our spring break in Jordan and Egypt.)

We ought not to think that the Divine Nature is like gold or silver or stone ... (Acts 17:29)

2009-03-08T17:50:00.000+02:00

Gold, silver, and stone are reliable. Divine Nature is not. Despite my best efforts to fix my camera by buying a new battery, it finally died at the beginning of our winter break trip to the Balkans. Sure, I could've borrowed Tim's whenever I wanted to take a picture, but that just seemed to complicated. Besides, it would ruin the spontaneity of capturing a moment. At first, I was extremely angry that I wouldn't be able to record the images of this trip in particular, where I felt like I would see things different than anything I had ever seen before. But every time I longed to take a picture, I realized that it reminded me of something I had seen before anyway: artwork. We started the true part of our trip in Serbia (after flying into Istanbul, Turkey, and taking the train through Bulgaria to Belgrade), which reminded me of "Village Wedding Feast" by Pieter Bruegel. The noisy friendliness from this painting is what I see in my own conjured picture, except mine is more focused on one jocund and rotund bartender near the market in Zemun who served us huge pints of dark beer. (Incidentally, I also picture him serving us a full pig, mouth stuffed with an apple, even though we didn't eat at his bar, because I remember eating so much pork, especially in the bohemian neighborhood of Skadarlija.) Behind him, through the bar window, is Kalemegdan Fortress, which now guards nothing but the river-raft nightclubs below, and a bombed-out downtown building, a strange juxtaposition of the country's dominance and submission.
The friendliness continued into Bosnia, but the reality was much starker and superimposed, like "Church Aisle" by Scott Mutter. We met a woman at one train station who spoke to us at length, ruing her countrymen's attitude, dependent on falling back on a false identity that doesn't exist and that has led to many deaths already. She had high hopes of escaping the country, yet our conversation was tinged with the sadness that comes from being trapped. She is the central feature in my own Mutter creation: In a long dark coat, she walks past a cemetery, her shadow cast on gravestones that grow into four different apexes -- an Orthodox dome, a Christian steeple, a Moslem mineret, and the Sarajevo Brewery smokestack, representing the singular, hopeful unity amid a convolution of asserted traditions.

In moving on to Crotia, we headed straight to the beaches of Dubrovnik, once again full of color and light, plus the breeziness found in "Interior with Phonograph" by Henri Matisse. The hues of the town lingered together like its influences. As we walked up the steep, stepped streets, I turn to look below. I see the country's native fish on a plate outside one door and the adopted Italian staple pizza outside another. The attempts at internationality are more palpable here, as my vision includes Tim taking a photograph of our new Japanese friend Hirosh, who shared mussels and calamari with us in Dubrovnik after catching up with us after we toured Mostar together the day before.

Shall two walk together, except they have agreed? (Amos 3:3)

2008-10-12T14:26:00.010+02:00

Just in time for Tim's and my next adventure, to the Balkans, I'm finally getting around to posting pictures of my last trip, sans Tim. Traveling with Tim is a certain type of experience, which I enjoy very much. So it was interesting to see what it was like to have different traveling companions when I went to Budapest, Hungary. Because I took the lead a lot of the time, my co-workers and I did a lot of outings similar to what Tim and I would. But we also made some forays into places that Tim would probably only tolerate.

For example, Tim and I would trek across town to see train stations, like the main international hub Keleti, which in our case was about a block from our hostel:
But we probably wouldn't bail on a whole day of sightseeing to just relax in the park (of course, perhaps if I offered beer ...):

We would wander around the city to take unsuspecting photos of people, like we did at Margaret Island while eating some of the cheapest (and therefore most delicious) ice cream around:
But we probably wouldn't stop on the way back to take such a touristy photo of the sun setting over Buda:

We would make use of public transportation for day trips to take more unsuspecting photos of people, like this one of a little boy getting a horse ride in the artists' haven Szentendre:
But we probably wouldn't be taken in by overpriced touristy garb, like this dyed fabric made in the traditionally time-consuming way for years by the Kovacs family:

We would seek out cultural activities, like watching the old boys' club play chess in the Szechenyi Bath, where tourists and locals mix in the middle of the city park:
But we probably wouldn't consider the Marzipan museum, in Szentendre, a cultural activity, with or without a life-size almond-paste Michael Jackson statue:

We would plan to eat lunch at the food market, like platefuls of sausage at the Central Market Hall:
But we probably wouldn't hunt down a place I saw in a guidebook, even if it does have rustic charm and a true Hungarian name, Paprika:

As much as I harp to Tim that he doesn't let our vacations actually be vacations, as in relaxing, I discovered that I am just as addicted to wandering around a town and venturing beyond its boundaries as he. Perhaps it's time for me to admit that Tim's version of a vacation is just as relaxing, mainly because he is with me.

Thus saith the Lord Jehovah ... I will give you Israel (Ezekiel 11:17)

2008-10-12T13:36:00.004+02:00

The other day in yearbook class, I heard one student say to another: "You can't not believe in God and still be Jewish." (I swear, my staff members often have this level of conversation; I've heard better discussion on the U.S. election -- among non-Americans, I might add -- in the last two weeks than I've ever heard on Hannity and Colmes.) The student in question replied, "I'm culturally Jewish." A former co-worker of mine would agree. When one of our mutual colleagues declined a Hanukkah card, declaring that he was a practicing atheist, she told him that he was still Jewish -- by default because of his parents.

I'm not sure what precipitated the discussion in my class, but it was suspiciously close to Yom Kippur, which was the very next day. On that day, a friend and I discussed how little we actually knew about the holiday before we came to Israel. Because of the aforementioned co-worker, I actually knew it was the Day of Atonement; I knew that traditional Jews would fast and reflect at home, except for walking trips out to ask or pray for forgiveness. However, this is the religious American Jew's version of events. If this person were in Israel, he or she would be surprised to see the streets full of families bicycling on the empty streets. Surveys find that two-thirds of Israelis declare themselves as religiously Jewish, in either a conservative or traditional sense (The difference between the two, I gather, involves whether you go to synagogue on holidays and keep kosher). So I have to assume that at least some of these people, at least for this day, are focusing on being culturally Jewish instead of religiously Jewish. At least I hope they are not fasting while out bike riding in the desert sun and heat.

And this, it seems, is part of the crisis of the Jewish State (besides the fact that this official name is not included in any government documents; officially, Israel is the "national home for the Jewish people," not exactly a phrase ringing high with property rights). Some people would prefer to emphasize the culturally Jewish and others the religiously Jewish. In my observations, the latter is more often asserted by immigrants than the people who have been living here since the advent of Zionism, which makes sense considering the fact that the freedom of religion is probably a bigger impetus to leave your home country than the freedom to play paddle ball in Speedo-like underwear.

When American interests insert themselves into issues of Israeli nationhood, this conflict comes to a head, literally. By Israeli law, to make aliyah and therefore get a passport, Jewish identity can be established either culturally, through being born to a Jewish mother regardless of whether she or the child practices, or religiously, through undergoing conversion per Jewish law (read: circumcision). However, an Israeli citizen cannot get married in the country unless the Orthodox Israeli Chief Rabbinate approves. Typically, this means that conversions (circumcisions) done outside the country are not enough all by themselves. As you might imagine, American Jewish movements believe that religious conversions in their country should be plenty to get married, but in an ironic twist, they say Jewish identity should not be established culturally if the parent does not claim Jewish identity.

Are you confused yet? Me, too. Is Judaism a culture or a religion? Yes and yes. As crazy as it seems to have a culture encouraging a horde of training wheels to overtake a six-lane highway, it's even crazier to envison a religion provoking a mob of stoners to attack any wheels of the non-training variety -- all on a single Jewish holiday.

There was a rainbow round about the throne, like an emerald to look upon (Revelation 4:3)

2008-08-03T14:41:00.020+03:00

When I started packing for our trip to Ireland, the first thing that came to mind was rain. I wanted to make sure I brought enough waterproof gear. But the first thing that normally comes to people's minds -- which, incidentally, is related to rain -- is the green landscape that gives the country it's "Emerald Isle" nickname. My trip to Ohio was verdant enough, but after spending a week in tan and dusty Israel, the lushness of St. Stephen's Green in Dublin was admittedly quite striking:
But the colors of other jewels were just as evident throughout the country. Despite my fears of downpours, we had plenty of clear weather, including this sapphire sky in Bray, a southern suburb of Dublin that was hosting a summer carnival:
The Salthill promenade near Galway on the west coast also had a carnival, but the main attraction was the silver sea instead. The rare sun brought people of all ages out to test the waters. My wussy self only waded, but Tim took a dip long enough to make his teeth chatter. The Atlantic Ocean is no Mediterranean Sea, even in summer:
Tim was also brave enough to bear the 40 Foot natural pool in Sandycove right as the amber sunlight was beginning to fade. The pool is only steps away from the Martello Tower that houses the James Joyce museum. Joyce was inspired enough by the local scenery that he describes it in detail in the opening chapter of Ulysses; it's easy to see why:The filtering of rays through the clouds gave me an inspiration of a different kind: Time to drop in a pub. No trip to Dublin is complete without the obligatory trip to St. James's Gate Brewery, home of Guinness. The tour, although somewhat hokey, is worth the final reward: a complimentary topaz pint with a 360-degree view of the town and, if you're as lucky as me, a shamrock head:As much of a cultural institution as Guinness is, Ireland is rich in the slate of history. We saw Muiredach's Cross on the way to Newgrange, a Stone Age passage tomb built before the Egyptian pyramids. The 10th century cross at Monasterboice, where the remains of a monastic round tower also still stand, is considered the best example of a intact high Celtic cross in Ireland:
In keeping with the color of history, we had a few gray days, including during a trip to Howth. But the fishing village north of Dublin was dotted with jewel tones. When we did our one and only "hill walk" south of the harbor, I realized that the boats and houses resembled a collection of birthstones: The Irish landscape is full of gems, to be sure, but the true pearls of the country are its characters. The seals in the Howth harbor were happy to get leftovers from the wharf fish mongers. But Tim's oysters and my Dublin Bay prawns, we decided, were too delicious to throw to the seaborne beggars:
Much more intrusive and much more scary were the Close-Act performers roaming the streets at the Galway Arts Festival. I managed to get wrapped up in their antennae on our way to one of the most famous fish-and-chips establishments in Ireland:
The sights of Ireland were undoubtedly gorgeous, but truly, I got most caught up in the people, including the Belfast couple who bought Tim and I so many pints that we nearly missed our train back to Dublin. It saddened me that we only had enough time to merely scratch the surface of the country's many facets. Rain or no, we will return.

I have been a stranger in a strange land (Exodus 2:22)

2008-08-01T14:15:00.003+03:00

I know, I know, I can't believe I haven't used this title yet. But until now, I hadn't really felt out of place in Israel, well at least more than expected. Recently, though, I had an experience that makes me feel like an unwanted immigrant. In general, I'm pretty liberal on immigration to the United States. When Americans represent only 4 percent of the world's population, but use more than 30 percent of the world's energy resources, for example, I feel the country is somewhat obligated to open its doors. Yet I also sympathize with those people who feel that new immigrants should make attempts to integrate, even in terms of language. But we could be more accommodating during this transition. Consider my recent experience trying to fix my car embellished as a little fable, with the following roles:
Me = Recent immigrant
English = Spanish (native language)
Hebrew = English (new language)

So a young Mexican woman immigrates to the States, and one day her car is hit while parked on the street, leaving damage to the front driver side of the car. After calling her insurance company numerous times and never hearing back, possibly because it's too hard to find someone to speak to her in Spanish, she just decides to take it to the shop anyway. Upon arriving at the garage, the employees are nice enough to act as translators in dealing with the insurance claim, which must be filed in English. This takes almost half a day to negotiate, causing her to get reprimanded by her employer for taking too much time off.

A few days later, the shop calls to say the claim has been refused. So the woman goes to the shop to see if she can find out why. The employees there are not nearly as helpful this time because it seems she wasted so much of their time before, but they still help her get in contact with the insurance company. A representative there tells her in Spanish that her policy covers only "body damage." This woman, who has taken enough English to buy groceries, get gas, and pay bills, clearly does not know enough to understand her insurance policy; apparently, she didn't really understand her insurance policy in Spanish either. Although her car is merely dented, requiring no repairs beyond structural, this does not qualify as "body damage."

Now the garage and insurance employees are both frustrated with her. Her claim isn't going to be covered, but the parts have already been ordered. Luckily, the woman has enough savings to pay for the repairs, which is a good thing because now that she has missed another day of work to deal with the problem, she will probably lose her job. After feeling like a burden to everybody and an idiot to herself because she was ignorant of how bureaucracy works in her new country, she just wants a cigarette and a stiff drink.

So the woman is now out of a job and out of money, so she just keeps coping by smoking and drinking, which eventually puts a strain on her new country's social services: She has to draw unemployment because of her poor work record, and she has to apply for Medicaid to cover her tobacco- and alcohol-related ailments. You see where this slippery slope is going, right? The open-door immigration policy is now hurting every honest taxpayer.

And so the critics have some validity to their claims. But all of this could've been mitigated and perhaps even avoided if someone, anyone would've helped the young woman negotiate a system that even native Americans oftentimes have trouble navigating. It would've taken only one person -- from the insurance company, from the car title office, from her job -- to tell her that her insurance policy was not complete, and she would've fixed the mistake before she had to face the consequences. And this is only one of many bureaucratic nightmares she will have to endure. Changing the initial cause of the effect -- refusing immigrants, period -- certainly takes care of the issue, but addressing some other causes -- like new-immigrant assistance -- might achieve fairer results.

Though he knew it not, yet is he guilty, and shall bear his iniquity (Leviticus 5:17)

2008-06-17T15:39:00.000+03:00

I don't like to proliferate sterotypes, so I am going to try to dispel one, that of the Jewish mother, accused of laying on the guilt so thick that her children have mental breakdowns, ala the stock character in Portnoy's Complaint. I am here to say that Jewish mothers are not to blame, for this is an Israel-wide phenomenon -- parent, child, sibling, spouse, significant other, friend, landlord, neighbor, boss, co-worker, and stranger alike. Almost all of these have guilted me into action within the past year:
I park my car elsewhere after neighbors told me that specific spots on the public streets belonged to them.
I walk my dog twice a day after my landlady told me that Sage's pee and poop (the latter of which was not his, but her own dog's) was killing her plants.
I go to Monday morning meetings after my principal said all staff were required to attend even if they have no responsibilities there.
I grade homework on weekends after students told me that they didn't have enough time to revise them by the end of the quarter.
I sub for my colleagues after a few requested me specifically to fill in for them, knowing I could actually teach in their absence.
I took on students for independent study classes after guidance counselors told me that students just couldn't fit my class into their schedules.
I move my stuff between Herzliyya and Even Yehuda on a near-daily basis after the children of friend told her that they didn't appreciate the intrusion of their privacy through our voluntary house- and dog-sitting.
I go the gym more after a trainer told me that I could be in even better shape if I just a little more cardio and lifted a little more weight.
I call my dad every Sunday to let him know I am okay after my uncle told me that bombings are the only Mideast news in the Mansfield paper.

I drink more beer at the beach with my boyfriend after he told me that my stress level was affecting our relationship.
I drive to Haifa to drop off the school yearbook after the printer told me he felt disrespected that I shared his bid with another company to get a counteroffer.
I carry my contract and a business card after a security guard told me that my work visa was not enough to prove that I am allowed to live in Israel.

To be honest, I'm not against using guilt as a tool. My parents were pretty adept with this skill. Disappointment was always a more effective motivator than punishment in my life, and I turned out pretty well, albeit as somewhat of a perfectionist. I think I am just jealous that, despite all this training, I have not mastered the art myself. If I had, things would've went much differently here:
I would ask my neighbors to call the eyewitness who left me note after my car was hit while park in one of the "non-reserved" spots.
I would respond to my landlady that, if the plants bore vegetables, we would be more careful, considering we can't fit more than three apples in our mini-fridge at a time.
I would suggest to my principal that I use Monday morning meeting time as my planning periods, considering two are eaten up by voluntary independent-study courses and the other is spent on cafeteria duty.

I would tell my students that since they whine about too much work, I am taking away the option of revising essays to raise their grades.

I would request my own personal sub to see if they could teach, say, how to download a photo to my newspaper class.

I would refuse the guidance counselors' intention of adding a fifth prep to my schedule simply because they won't tell parents "no."

I would agree when my friend told me that perhaps her child-rearing skills are to blame for her son's and daughter's attitudes.

I would declare to my gym trainer that I am, in fact, in as good of shape as most of the other female members -- even though I don't flaunt the cleavage to prove it.

I would e-mail my dad that get-aways from all the violence are exactly why I can't call every week.

I would send my boyfriend to the beach to imbibe alone yet still expect him to bring me back food and a bottle of wine.

I would demand that the printer give us 100 more yearbooks for free because it was the rush to do changes for him that made me mis-add the total order.

I would reply to the security guard that perhaps he or she should check with the Ministry of Education about my credentials, considering it still has my diplomas and teaching certificate.

And yet, I am building my talents of manipulation. Within the past month (which is how long this post has taken to write because of my succumbing to guilt), I have made some progress in using guilt to get what I want:

I helped ensure that my neighbor next year will be another teacher from the school, which won me favor with both the administration and my landlady.

I took pictures of a bruise left by a bite from the landlady's dog, which I plan to use as leverage (along with the new tenant) for a new refrigerator.

I suggested to my principal that, considering I have five different preps next year, I don't think I should have to have any duties, homeroom, cafeteria or otherwise.

I stuck to my requirement of an 80 percent to get my recommendation for AP Literature, and all but one student revised multiple essays by the deadline to get in.

I started assigning staff members as responsible for various parts of the new Web site, implying that they will now have to download their own photos if they want them online -- unless I have time to do so while I am subbing for them.

I decreed to the guidance counselors that I will not entertain any requests for students to switch in or out of my class next year.

I split from house-sitting for my friend, telling her that the disrespect, no matter its cause, was interfering with my personal well-being.

I alluded publicly to the fact that I know my gym trainer, who happens to be my landlady's son, had a nose job to fix his physical flaws.

I told my dad that continuing to talk every other week, which happened accidentally for a while, was a good idea.

I asked my boyfriend to drink his beer with me at seaside restaurants instead of at the local kiosk.

I created a purchase order with the newly contracted printer and accurate total for next year already.

I piled three yearbooks and a newspaper on the security guard, just in case she really needed to see them for verification of my work status.

Am I proud of these things? Some, yes, a little, and others, a lot. But more to the point is that I have learned to fight fire with fire. As someone with a Superwoman complex, guilt is my greatest kryptonite, as all my arch-Israel enemies have discovered. What they didn't realize is that they are not immune to guilt either. And this tragic flaw is the stuff all good comic books and novels are made of. After all, even Philip Roth, through his Portnoy, turned his guilt around: into a writing career. I wonder if perhaps, just perhaps, those printed words have put the guilt back on his mother.

Jehovah made a covenant with Abram, saying, Unto thy seed have I given this land, from the river of Egypt unto the river Euphrates (Genesis 15:18)

2008-05-10T08:19:00.011+03:00

All good historical holidays and lessons come served with beer, so let us commence. Last Saturday, I took part in a tour to Taybeh, in the West Bank, where a factory there makes a beer that is "the finest in the Middle East." Five days later, on Thursday, I drank this aptly-named beer at a BBQ during my day off for Yom Ha'atzmaut. Israeli Independence Day commemorates when David Ben-Gurion proclaimed the establishment of the State of Israel, realizing Theodor Herzl's Zionist dreams, on May 14, 1948. This same day is called the Nakba, or catastrophe, by Arabs and Palestinians, because although their lands became free of the British Mandate, they were soon to be controlled by another nation. Israelis believe they were only recovering the land that had been promised to them by Jehovah and that their ancestors had been ousted from; meanwhile, of course, a new population would be displaced.

According to the International Herald Tribune, 1.3 million Arabs, or 20 percent of the population of Israel, are being restricted on land where they once had independence. To ensure the security of the Israeli (not Jewish, I must say) state, some rabbis dictate that Jews may not rent apartments or give jobs to Arabs. The larger key to this security, though, is land. Arabs are not allowed to work on about 120,000 hectares of their land, even though it might be just sitting idle. And I'm not even talking about the West Bank and Gaza Strip yet.

So where does beer come in, you ask? Taybeh is located in Area A of the West Bank, which is under complete Palestinian control and is supposed to be legally inaccessible to Israelis. Area C is under complete Israeli control and is the base for many settlements. Area B is under joint Palestinian-Israeli control. Here is a good map of the situation. It is not just the West Bank that is partitioned off by the separation barrier, but each of these areas is isolated too, with parallel highways on each side of many walls, one for settlers and one for Palestinians. Therefore, even though Jerusalem is only a 15-minute drive from Taybeh, any of the beer that is sold in the city is likely bootlegged; it is not legal for Israelis to transfer goods from Area A to Israel proper. And if the beer is to be shipped through Israel -- which it must be to get to, say, Jordan -- the taxes are incredibly high.

So at his grandfather's urging, in the early '90s, Nadim Khoury (above at right) came back to the West Bank to open his brewery, instead of staying in suds-central Boston. Granted, things were looking good: In the year the brewery opened, 1994, Israel signed a peace treaty with Jordan that, among other agreements, stated that "normal relationship between them will further include economic and cultural relations." Since then, though, Ehud Barak's "generous offer" was rejected by Yasser Arafat during negotiations at Camp David in 2000. This offer would have ensured Palestinian control of portions of the West Bank and the Gaza Strip, about 80 percent of the green-line area you hear talked about. But even if this deal would've been struck, Khoury would've been left in the lurch, because only small strips of land would connect three patches of Palestinian property, surrounded by Israeli-controlled estate. And the "generous offer" didn't include any specifics about "economic relations," including non-exorbitant export procedures and taxes.

The Gaza Strip, of course, is a whole different ballgame. Its residents aren't worried about exporting; they are worried about importing. Israel does not allow the territory to have its own port, and the state also controls incoming goods across the land border, which often aren't much. Some aid groups have pulled out of the area, because negotiating through restrictions is difficult. Just last month, the United Nations Relief Works Agency suspended aid to 1.1 million refugees in the territory because of fuel shortages caused by Israeli sanctions on Hamas. It's no wonder that desperation led to the storming of the border with Egypt.

Okay, but back to beer, with an analogy: You're Coastal Extreme Brewing Co. in Newport, Rhode Island. You're trying to make your livelihood with your latest stout, but you aren't allowed to export anywhere outside of the state borders, not into Connecticut, not into Massachusetts, without paying the price. And anyway, your production depends on whether you can get the shipment of Canadian malted barley into the state, because your truck has been stuck at the border for a day now because the crossings were closed and security is investigating your supply. And your Bavarian hops couldn't come in by plane or boat because you're not allowed to have an airfield or port.

I say all this because I want to show that statehood is not the issue. The constituents in Israel already understand statehood; they can draw and re-draw borders with proficiency and on a daily basis. What the area is lacking is an understanding of nationhood, where individual states cooperate with one another, including shared authority over security and trade. A two-state solution can't be a solution until this is realized. Giving the Palestinians, or even Arabs, their own state would mean little if they are going to continue to be partitioned off like my hypothetical Rhode Island, unable to participate in the broader country -- and even world. Perhaps, just perhaps, younger generations of Israelis will consider this as they sip beers on the beach during their Independence Day BBQs. And maybe one day they'll even drink Taybeh.

An unhealthy interest in controversies and quarrels about words that result in envy, strife, malicious talk, evil suspicions (1 Timothy 6:4)

2008-04-26T13:33:00.007+03:00

Although Turkey is perhaps one of the friendliest countries I have ever been to -- even the free-roaming neighborhood cats and dogs would let you pet them -- at times during the trip, I undeniably felt conspicuous, if not suspicious.

Despite Istanbul's reputation as a party city, drinking beer was not as accepted as you might imagine. Although Istiklal Caddesi, which stretches from Taksim Square to Galata Tower in the newer Beyoglu district, serves as an eastern European Bourbon Street, imbibing was not as prevalent in the older Sultanahmet area. When Tim ordered a beer at a tea cafe near the Spice Market -- and, granted, in the shadow of a mosque -- it was brought to him in an opaque glass and announced loudly as a cappuccino. I have to admit that the beer foam did look like milk froth. We debated the need for secrecy. After all, a hawker enticed us to the cafe by pitching beer. If the establishment had moral qualms about serving quaffs, it shouldn't mention beer on the menu, orally or otherwise. We concluded that it was probably more about not offending the more conservative clientele. Indeed, none of our fellow patrons, many of whom wore head scarves or ran off to the mosque after the call to prayer, were having alcohol. But then again, no one was having cappuccino either. So we were, um, obvious.

But the stares weren't as evident as when we sat down for tea in the bazaar area of Erzurum. In the West, drinking tea is a non-gendered equal opportunity, but in the East, it is more reminiscent of the old boys club. I felt like Tim was the stupid guy who brought a girl to his friend's stripper-filled bachelor party, and I wasn't there to take show off my G-string. Once again, the proprietors cheerfully served me, but they weren't as inviting with the refills as they were with Tim. I tried to be casual as I sucked down my spot of tea. They are small glasses, so we got out of there quickly, but I felt extremely disconcerted, so much so that I didn't mind wasting four hours at the supermarket and train station instead of wandering more around the city.

Surprisingly enough, it was an American -- or so he said -- and not a Turk that made us feel most suspect. As we headed in to check out Istanbul's Sirkeci Station, once a hub on the Orient Express, a pedestrian asked me, in English, where I was from. Trying to keep up my resolution to be more open to talking to strangers while traveling, I answered him. We chatted for a good 15 minutes before he asked us if we wanted to join him at a whirling dervish show at the station that night. I didn't mind talking or even going to the show, but I didn't want a third wheel for the night, so I mustered up as much diplomacy as I could to extricate us from the dialogue. It was only after we parted ways that Tim expressed doubts about the numerous coincidences that came up in the conversation. Okay, so he said he was on business in Ankara -- which we were planning to visit in a few days -- but taking a break in Istanbul. Believable. He said he worked for in counter-terrorism and lived outside DC -- where we used to live. Still believable. He said he had recently visited Berlin -- which we just visited in December. A little scary. He said he had traveled as a Fulbright scholar -- which Tim applied for last year. Getting scarier. He asked Tim if he was a international politics major -- which he is, well, international relations anyway. Definitely strange. He said he had taken a tour of Israel where he had visited the Interdisciplinary Center in Herzliya -- which is about a mile from our house. What the hell?!?

The most disconcerting part, though, was all the information he got out of us: our current location, our previous homes, our hometowns, our professions, our educational backgrounds, our previous travel, and our current itinerary. The near-cross examination almost made me feel I was worth being interrogated. Of course, we had no need to worry because our intentions were pure. We were heading to the East, but with no malevolence. In fact, we managed to avoid an outbreak of fighting in Kars province, in which a Turkish soldier and five PKK members were killed, two days after we left. We dodged another bullet, literally, by skipping our treehouse stay in Olympos. The morning of the day we were scheduled to arrive, two nearby hostel owners engaged in a shootout that wounded a dozen guests. And still, this guy made us feel suspicious. But if you ask me, inviting two strangers to attend a show where men in fezzes and dresses twirl around to honor Allah is much more eyebrow-raising.

What thou seest, write in a book and send it to the seven churches: unto Ephesus, and unto Smyrna ... (Revelation 1:11)

2008-03-25T14:08:00.056+02:00

The whole time I was in Turkey, I just couldn't get Israel out of my mind. After all, the two countries have a lot in common: an abudance of feral cats and mangy dogs, a domination by small children, an affinity for ice cream, a network of confusing shared taxis (sheruts/dolmuşes), a proliferation of gas-station restaurants and cafes, a peculiarity of trash-littered remoteness, a defiance against Arab associations, and a denial of minority oppression. But mostly, the diversity of geography was cause for comparison: Both contain seas, lakes, rivers, mountains, forests, deserts, pastures, fields, groves, and of course cities.

We started our 12-day tour in Istanbul, the Tel Aviv-like hub of commerce and entertainment. First on our agenda was a cruise down the Bosphorus Strait to its mouth to the Black Sea, along which there were great views of the waterline from the boat, including Rumeli Fortress, and of the area from an old castle at the final stop. But being that it was on a public ferry, it was hardly the relaxation of trolling on a sailboat in the Mediterranean, where one can stare all day at the gleaming coastline. One point Israel.

The castle at the end of the Bosphorus cruise was rather crumbly, but Istanbul proper had some more solid -- and stunning -- architecture. The grand dame of the city is Aya Sofya, a cathederal ordered to be built by Constantinople as the largest at the time of its construction. The sixth-century structure was overwhelmed with renovations, though, so we headed instead to the 17th-century Sultan Ahmed Mosque, named after the man who built it to rival the Aya Sofya and nicknamed the Blue Mosque for its decorative interior tiles. The interior of the Dome of the Rock in Jerusalem is off limits to non-Muslims, but its gold-plated dome is awing enough; plus, the seventh-century mosque is the oldest Islamic building in the world (The Aya Sofya was originally created as a church, not a mosque). The serenity of the mosque's surroundings on the Temple Mount, as opposed to the loud tourists and incongruous vacuum in Sultan Ahmed Mosque, gives Israel another point.

Another major attraction in Istanbul is Topkapi Palace, the home of Ottoman sultans for almost 500 years. As intriguing as it sounded to take a tour of the palace's harem, we didn't have time for more than a stroll around the palace grounds. We hit the very end of the city's tulip festival, so it was in incredible bloom. Tulips, though, are hardly a match for the conscientiously groomed flora at the Bahai Gardens in Haifa. But at least you can picnic near Topkapi without arranging a tour months in advance, like you must do for Bahai. This one's a push.

Tranquility is nice, but there's something to be said for frenzy as well, which is why we dove into the Grand Bazaar in Istanbul, which claims to be the largest shopping mall in the world with more than 4,000 vendors. As you might imagine, the bazaar is easy to get lost in. The shopping quarters of Jerusalem's quarters are no different, but at least there, you -- literally -- run into a wall. In Istanbul, it's hard to even tell when you've left the bazaar and wandered into nearby streets, perhaps even all the way to the Spice Market, which is blocks -- and I mean blocks -- away, by the Golden Horn. In terms of wares, the markets both have the requisite souvenirs and knock-off designer goods. Jerusalem edges out Istanbul because of its food offerings, which are more diverse than doner kebab and tea. Israel is in the lead with three points.

After only a few days in the secular West, we hopped on a plane to the more religious East. From Trabzon, our base on the Black Sea, we took a dolmuş to Sümela Monastery, built on a cliff after a Virgin Mary icon was found in a cave there in the fourth century. The dolmuş, however, did not drop us at the doorstep. We had to take a steep, 30-minute hike, with backpacks, to witness the site's glory. But glorious it was. The way the buildings are built seamlessly into the rock showed me that these people must have figured out how to commune with nature. And the spectacular frescoes surely put it above the Masada, a Judean fortress where Jewish fugitives elected to commit suicide rather than be captured by the Romans in the first century. I wouldn't know, for sure, since I didn't have time to make the hike up to the top of the cliff. But then again, there is a cable car to the top, which proves that the hike must not be that worth it. Turkey scores its first point.

We spent a short night in Erzurum, a valley town surrounded by snow-capped mountains, including Palandöken, a ski resort. From a clock tower in the city's citadel, you could turn 360 degrees and continuously see pallid peaks. Mount Hermon has a ski resort too, but I was barely able to get some proof that it does actually snow in Israel. To show the powder-covered slopes, I would've fell off an outcropping at Nimrod Fortress. The mere specks of white just beyond the hills give Turkey a second point.

Erzurum was mainly just a stopover point on the way to Kars, which we decided to visit after reading Orhan Pamuk's Snow, a novel about the East-West conflict that is set in the town. The book is very atmospheric, with foreboding descriptions that we witnessed from a lookout at Kars Castle. The clouds, in the book and in the city, intimated the sense of oppression coming from the never-ending battle over the wearing of head scarves, one among many religion-secularism debates. From the ramparts of Jerusalem's old city, the same battle is represented in the meshing of crosses and antennas, similar in shape and symbolism. Whose struggle is more interesting, illuminating, or important? It's another push.

Kars itself was even more intriguing than we might have thought, but the highlight was a day trip to Ani, the fifth-century capital of an Armenian kingdom. Now, of course, it is just ruins opposite the border with present-day Armenia. You can even see military watch towers beyond the remaining city walls. Israel has a similar ancient site: Nimrod Fortress, a 13th-century stronghold built to defend Damascus. Now, of course, it is just ruins opposite the border with present-day Syria. Both land grabs are equal in significance, but when it comes to feeling that magnitude at the site, Turkey ties up the score.

Just in time, after the clear connection of land to politics, we jetted off to the capital, Ankara, Turkey's Jerusalem-like center of government and patriotism. One of Tim's former students, Sinem, took us on a tour of the must-see site: Anıtkabir, Atatürk's mausoleum. The park is a shrine to the first president, admired by many for his transformation of Turkey into a secular nation-state and therefore world player. Crowds throng the memorial, just like at the Church of Nativity, recognized as a shrine by Christians and Muslims, both of whom view Jesus as a messenger of God. Incidentally, that same shrine was where nine Palestinians were killed in a siege by Israeli forces in April 2002. Both places -- and people -- are not necessarily as revered by everyone as their proponents might think. But when it comes to putting on the best show of deference, Turkey goes a point ahead.

From manmade wonders, we proceeded to the natural wonders of Goreme, where large mounds of spewed volcanic ash have been eroded into precarious towers of rock. These "fairy chimneys" are nearly indescribable, perhaps most similar to the geological arches in the national park in Utah. Israel's greatest natural wonder is Ramon Crater, the country's equivalent of the Grand Canyon. The crater is surrounded by native Israeli fauna: the ibex and the Jericho missile. On the way to the crater, I nearly drove off the road when I heard a blast from the nearby military zone. The overwhelming tourism of the Cappadocia area was almost as disconcerting, but once you got hiking away from the tour groups, it was no contest: Turkey is now two points ahead.

The many residents of Cappadocia -- including Persians, Romans, and Selçuks -- all carved living and worshipping rooms into the pillars of stone. Some even created entire underground cities to escape religious persecution, such as monks in the fourth century before Christianity was recognized. In the 13th century, the Knights Templar used an underground tunnel from the port to a fortress in Akko to help secure pilgrims coming to Jerusalem when the area was under Muslim rule during the Crusades. Both notable pursuits to be sure, but the monks get credit for working within the constraints of their environment. Turkey takes over Israel's once three-point lead.

We had planned to spend a night in a treehouse on the Mediterranean coast, but because of limited bus schedules, we had to settle for a morning in Antalya, a popular port for gulets, wooden tourist boats. A common pitch for the tours is the offer to swim in some nearby coastal waterfalls, such as the one right around the corner from the port. In Israel, it's an annual summertime tradition for many to cool off in the pools of Ein Gedi, created by waterfalls that eventually flow into the Dead Sea. Israel earns a point for its less logistical -- and less expensive -- option.

If we had taken a dip, it wouldn't have been in a waterfall, but at the beach of Bodrum, a relax-by-day party-by-night coastal retreat. The water and weather wasn't quite warm enough for my taste, but it was still nice to sip tea while taking in views of the Aegean. We couldn't deny the opportunity to float in the Dead Sea when we had it, despite even cooler weather. Experiencing the weird sense of weightlessness was definitely more worthy than wading into your only typically salty sea. Israel has brought the tally back to a close 6-5.

From Bodrum, we spent a long morning of dolmuş hopping to get to Ephesus, the former capital of western Asia Minor, second only in prominence to Rome during the Classical era. Not much remains of the city's temples and harbor besides some attempts at reconstruction, but individual details, such as statues and carvings are well-preserved. At the same time as the rise of Ephesus, Herod the Great, the Roman kind of Judea, was building Caesarea as a tribute to the emperor. The foundations of the city -- the amphitheater, the hippodrome, the palace, the baths, the aqueduct, and the harbor -- are much more clearly recognizable and explained than in Ephesus, but the details aren't as stunning. Overall, though, Caesarea is a better place to spend a couple hours. The score is tied once again.

After a grueling schedule of ferry rides, plane flights, bus hauls, and sidewalk hikes, I was ready for a good bed in Izmir (known as Smyrna in Homer's time), Turkey's Haifa-like center of industry and transportation, on Tim's Hilton points. Much to my surprise, when we arrived, backpack- and sweat-laden, we were immediately whisked to the executive lounge, where we ate a buffet dinner as they checked us in. With a free breakfast, including pastries, until 11 a.m. and free drinks, including alcohol, until 11 p.m., we didn't wander the town for much of the day. I have only had a drink at the Hilton in Tel Aviv, so Vered Hagilil, a ranch overlooking the Sea of Galilee, is my only source of the Israeli resort experience. The cheap Thai massage with jacuzzi cooldown was great, but it can't beat free booze and bacon. Drinking bought beer while playing the pig game just isn't the same.

So Turkey wins by a point, but perhaps one bought with complimentary slippers and toiletries. In the end, though, we barely scratched the surface of Turkey. More than half of our guidebook could still be gobbled up with more trips. On the other hand, the unexplored regions of Israel are dwindling fast. If traveling were a seven-game series, Turkey would definitely win the championship. After all, it is about 30 times the size of Israel.

Hearken, O daughter, ... forget also thine own people and thy father's house (Psalm 45:10)

2008-03-24T15:22:00.012+02:00

You can take the girl and her father out of Mansfield, Ohio, but not the Mansfield, Ohio, out of both, as proven by these photos of my dad's recent visit to Israel, particularly our shared penchant for funny hats. Is fashion sense genetic? You can decide after checking out a few of these images.

Despite my best efforts to offer him a floor matress, my dad opted to rent his own apartment, which was right around the corner, at the end of February. With horror stories of high-speed traffic and high-priced gas, I did manage to talk him out of renting a car, which basically meant, unfortunately for him, that he played victim to our traveling whims for two weeks. I did have to work while he was in town, but I took enough time off that we nearly hit every corner of Israel -- the Golan Heights, the Negev Desert, the Mediterranean Sea, and the Dead Sea -- with Jerusalem and Tel Aviv thrown in for good measure. In the windy Golan Heights to the north, near Mt. Hermon and the Syrian border, we demonstrated our headgear homogeneity:

By the time we finished surveying even windier Mitzpe Ramon in the southern Negev Desert, I had even convinced him to share in my affinity for the toboggan:

It was back to the full brim by the time we got to the Caesarean ruins on the Mediterrean, where Tim and my dad re-enacted a scene from Ben-Hur:

After all that exertion, we headed over to the Dead Sea. Tim and I took a dip later, but my dad stayed on dry land, head protected (unlike me, who left her trusty sun visor at home), as we hiked up by the waterfalls at Ein Gedi:

I was thankful for my dad's Stetson when he shot off into the souk in Jerusalem after we walked the rampart walls. It was easier to find him (i.e. not the person in the burqa):

Always the gentleman, though, my dad shed his chapeau when he treated us to a last supper in Jaffa before his flight home:

People could not go about their business safely because of conflicts (Zechariah 8:10)

2008-03-04T08:07:00.013+02:00

My deepest apologies: Sometimes living your life gets in the way of blogging about life. In the past couple of weeks, my dad was visiting, but I was still doing my day job, including writing comments for midterm grades, planning a Poetry Night, and reviewing proposals for my school's new Web site. Plus, there is always the "nightlife" to contend with, including going-away parties, intramural floor hockey games, and Hebrew lessons.

So I guess the title of this post is a bit of a misnomer. Despite all of the recent escalations in the Middle East conflict, I am still going about my business. But I will admit that "safely" is becoming a relative term. At the beginning of the week, the embassy sent out a message urging Americans, including workers at the international school, to stay away from east Jerusalem. Normally, I would dismiss such warnings as overly cautious. After all, embassy workers also are encouraged to avoid buses and trains, which Tim and I ride regularly with no qualms. A day after that message, however, an east Jerusalem resident opened fire in a seminary in west Jerusalem. Obviously, I am one of the last people you would catch at a religious school, but this was yet another in a series of ominous situations.

Just five days earlier, more than 50 Palestinians were killed in the deadliest day of fighting in Gaza since 2005. And a day before the Jerusalem shooting, it was revealed that the number of deaths from that offensive had more than doubled. One of the main provocations for this incursion was Hamas' launching of rockets from Gaza Strip toward Sderot, including one that killed a university student at Sapir College. Despite the fact that this was a rare Israeli death from rocket fire and college students and professors were mostly unified in their plea for no retaliation, Israel launched air strikes on the Gaza Strip border and raided a refugee camp in the West Bank, on the other side of the country.

All this news happening, in two areas both a one-tank trip away from my home, and yet my life continues normally. It's like living in Cleveland and not noticing a war going on -- even if that war is in Columbus. Certainly, there have been murmurs of heightened concern from the long-term Israeli residents at my school. It is worse than in the past: More Israelis have been killed so far this year through acts of terrorism than throughout all of last year. But I wouldn't say these people seem to be caring any more, and why?

My reasons are not going to be deep, let me forewarn, but I'll take some stabs. Israelis don't care because they don't know what to care about: There is a media blackout in the Gaza Strip, meaning Israeli journalists can't enter with the intention of reporting on the situation there, and if they manage to sneak by, they can be fined or jailed. The more academic press, like The Jerusalem Post and Ha'aretz, give detailed -- and often insightful -- accounts of the conflict, but they are not the popular press. Just like in the United States, more Israelis read the equivalent of the Metro tabloid than the full Washington Post.

But even those who are well-informed seem to find the conflict more surreal than real, including myself. Unless your daily life is governed by unemployment and food aid and disrupted by water and medical care shortages, it's simply hard to give a damn. And even if you're a lot more empathetic than me, it's easy to get desensitized when your interests don't follow the extremes that drive the dispute: You neither fully support the Palestinian hard-liners or the Israeli settlers, and all you want is compromise -- a peace that never seems to come. No matter how many speeches by George Bush or visits from Condoleezza Rice. And it's certainly not going to help that the new U.S. ambassador has no "significant experience in issues related to Israel or the Arab states."

So you give up, decide to stop devoting your thoughts and energy to an issue that you can't control. It reminds me, dare I say it, of a little thing called the Iraq war (with a little "w," thank you very much). If we aren't careful, this war could easily turn into a second long-standing "Middle East conflict," with Americans dutifully sending their sons and daughters off to service without really understanding how it helps get anyone closer to resolution (but hey, at least it's not conscripted like in Israel -- yet).

Trust me, I have no right to feel superior. I, too, can't seem to care about rockets that are killing people an I-71-ride away. And I'm finding it harder to care about those Americans being killed now two states over from me. But I now realize that every Middle East story I edited or read for the newspaper was not just the daily "bleading lead." Each one is a warning blast, its siren stifled by apathy.

If a man ... said, "I will speak out to you concerning wine and liquor,"' he would be spokesman to this people (Micah 2:11)

2008-01-22T19:22:00.001+02:00

I took over 150 pictures during our trip, and only one of them is of my boyfriend and me together. But I have plenty of Tim alone. Basically, whenever he picked up a drink, I picked up my camera. You could say that I just wanted to make sure I captured him at his happiest, but I also wanted to remember the various drinking experiences we had as well.

The first real beer we had on our trip was at the Tollwood Winter Festival, which is where the locals go to find unique gifts for the holidays. Of course, shopping can be exhausting, so many stop to have a beer, the unofficial but undeniable national drink of Germany. We weren't shopping, but we stopped to have a beer anyway. Later, outside the tent, Tim had a hot caipirinha, the national drink (although usually cold) of Brazil, which was one of the exotic offerings along with hot mai tais and hot mojitos:

Whenever we had time to kill during our wanderings, stopping to have a beer was a good diversion. Despite the cold weather, Tim like to have a brew al fresco. In Berlin, he got one at a kiosk on Staatsoper Unter den Linden (Under the Trees Boulevard). This was just a typical lager, but in the summertime, we were told, the rage is flavored beer. Near the end of our trip, I tried one at the airport. It wasn't the greatest, but to be able to drink it while walking down this avenue without a single open-container worry, that would be divine.

Because we were there during Christmastime, about the only places we could find some drinks in Warsaw were at the Turkish doner stands, almost all of which offered beer on tap. But this great bar opened up just in time for us to stop by before we caught our bus. And even though I should have had a vodka, in true Polish style, I grabbed yet another authentic dark beer to match the truly dive bar; it was located in an underground passage used to get across a busy street:

Vilnius didn't seem to have the drinking culture like that in the other cities we had been to so far, where you could find a cheap drink on every corner. We had to get off the beaten track to find this bar, called "The Bear." Before noon, we were the only ones in the place, which was under an office/apartment building, although you couldn't tell from the real-wood paneling. This also was where we first tried Krupnikas, a mead-like liquor that is Lithuania's national drink. As Tim and I agreed, this was by far the best of the regional quaffs:

Riga, on the other hand, offered drinks in all shapes and sizes. We were early in Vilnius and late in Riga; we closed down this hokey medieval bar, called "The Droplet." The waitress had to kick us out, perhaps because some shady business between some Russian proprietors was about to go down. We were happy to venture forth, though, because we had had enough pints to wash away the aftertaste of Black Balsams, Latvia's national drink, which tastes like a mix between Jagermeister and spruce beer, in a bad way:

Luckily, the Tallinn Christmas Market in Raekoja Plats (Town Hall Square) was still going strong more than three days after baby Jesus' birthday. Although it was consumer-oriented enough that vendors would take credit cards for hot cherry nectar (for Tim, nonalcoholic, for once) and hot apple-ginger-honey grog (for Kim, alcoholic, thank you very much), the towering tree and hall (and probably alcohol) provoked that warm, fuzzy feeling. To keep the glow alive, we headed into a happy hour at yet another medieval bar, where the waiter gave us free shots of the brandy-like Vana Tallinn, the Estonian national drink. Much to our relief, we found out later that the guy was a lawyer-turned-restaurateur who had just bought the place weeks earlier, so he had a right to be raiding the liquor cabinet:

By the time we hit Scandinavia, it became less fun to shoot Tim drinking, because the bars were more pedestrian and the beers more expensive. At times, we rued the fact that we hadn't bought more canned gin-and-tonics or pear ciders, which actually were pretty good, at the supermarket in Tallinn or in the duty-free shop on the ferry. We could have brought in a whole cart because of this poster explaining the Schengen Agreement, which makes borders between most European Union countries less restrictive. We were incredibly lucky because, as per the agreement, the Baltic States opened their borders on December 21, a day before we left on our trip, which made the train and bus rides much more bearable, especially when you could bring cheap booze with you:

With less than half a day in transit, we didn't have time to try to find any decent bars in Stockholm. Besides, after we felt ripped off by paying too much for bad coffee, we just didn't feel like risking it. So instead of soaking up some suds, we drank in this scenery instead:

I was glad to do the extra walking, even in the Stockholm snow, because I was sure I would gain many pounds with all the alcohol I consumed. But apparently, standing out in the cold weather boosts your metabolism enough to counteract those liquid calories. In the end, Tim and I each lost a few pounds. So I dare say, the Baltic Backpacking Diet was well worth it. Watch for the new best-seller in your local bookstore soon.

I'll forget about all of my problems. I'll change my frown into a smile (Job 9:27)

2008-01-20T21:19:00.000+02:00

You might notice that the heading for this post comes from the same bible chapter as the last, only in a different translation. This one includes the idea of a frown along with a smile. In hindsight, it's easy to act as if I had the perfect trip, with nary a moment to grimace. But the truth is, there were quite a few sobering sights that hit me right in the gut: twisting it with confusion, punching it with guilt, constricting it with sadness, or simply paralyzing it with indifference. After all, eastern Europe has had a storied past full of events not to be grinned at.

This vast wasteland is Theresienwiese (Teresa Meadow), where the infamous Oktoberfest is held in Munich. Throughout the rest of the year, it sits idle, like some sort of post-environmental clean-up, and in a way, I suppose it is. A woman from Munich who we met in Berlin expressed dismay at how the festival is so far removed from its roots. Apparently, the original event was a horse race to celebrate the marriage of Prince Ludwig and Princess Therese in 1810. Sure, there was lots of beer at that first party, but I doubt it was accompanied by tourists bent on swilling so much that they puke and piss all over the German city:

In terms of much more profound impacts, Berlin gets two gut-wrenching entries. The wall is still a palpable presence in the city, being pushed as a tourist destination in similar fashion to Oktoberfest, but its remnants are not so expansive. It takes some effort to follow the wall through the municipal streets, but markers can be found; to me, the most shocking part of seeing these memorial bricks is the last year, when I was not only alive but already 13 years old:

A different memorial recognizes an equally unnerving separation, although further in the past, before my lifetime. A whole plaza is devoted to the Holocaust. From the outside, it looks like mounds of coffins, but when you walk among them, they feel like cells. I didn't venture in far, waiting instead for Tim. My nerves at wondering when and where he would emerge from the pillars was a small echo of emotions from the genocide:

In our wanderings around Warsaw, we trekked up to the Cytadela (Citadel), the outside grounds of which actually have become a nice park for the surrounding neighborhoods. Inside, however, you can follow the path on which Soviet executioners led their soon-to-be victims. Luckily, the fortification was closed for the holiday, because the imposing metalwork on this gate was fearsome enough:

This next picture isn't something to rue about the past, but about the present. Vilnius has done a great job fostering a quaint feel amid commercialism, but like many of the Baltic cities, it is just now realizing the need to preserve its buildings. The Bastėja (Artillery Bastion) was closed for renovations. A good thing, indeed, considering it was used in the 17th century as a defensive wall against the Swedes and Russians, in the 19th century as an orphanage, and in the 20th century as a vegetable storehouse by the Soviets. And even before then, the Basilisk living there was said to act as a Medusa, turning people to stone with its gaze:

I've already mentioned the seedy side of Riga, but that didn't make me frown; in fact, I kind of enjoyed the debauchery. But beyond the market (the largest in eastern Europe), where few tourists are urged to venture, there are some sorrier sights. Lots of Soviet-era buildings and projects have been left abandoned. And the overcast skies didn't do much for the graying facades:

It was pretty hard to wipe the smile from my face during the medieval merriment of Tallinn, but during a walk home after most of the family fun had shut down, I was reminded what the town might've been like during the Dark Ages, despite the electric lights along this slick corridor:

I was pretty excited when we booked bunks in a dorm room for the second night of our stay in Helsinki. I thought it would be fun to spend a night inside the Olympic Stadion (Stadim), built for the 1940 Summer Games, which were canceled because of World War II. It wasn't used until 1952, the first time the Soviet Union participated in the Olympics since 1912. But the hostel was a bit of a disappointment, as was the arena, which seems to have fallen into disrepair. Sadly, the tower was closed because of the holidays, so I never got to recreate the season 10 stop of "The Amazing Race," and I was just a few months shy of the good summer concerts, including Bon Jovi and Bruce Springsteen later this year:

The first full day of our trip was full of sunshine, so it was probably karma that our last full day was full of clouds. Stockholm was a beautiful city, but it just looked so cold, literally, with all those nimbostratus puffs. By this time, I was getting a little tired of wearing a scarf, toboggan, and gloves, too, so this landscape -- almost -- made me feel ready to get back to the Israeli desert:

In the next, and final, installment: An optical ode to my boyfriend

I will forget my complaint, I will change my expression, and smile (Job 9:27)

2008-01-13T19:31:00.000+02:00

As everybody always asked after our trip, indeed most of our time abroad was cold and cloudy, making for some not-so-sunny days, both literally and metaphorically. But that doesn’t mean we weren’t able to find some sights to make us smile. One of the only 2½ days of sunshine we saw occurred our first full day, in Munich. We woke up to a fairly frosty morning, but by the time we had walked to the Englischer Garten, the sun was glinting off the frozen glaze, creating a provincial painting-like scene in the middle of the city:

I wouldn’t have thought that the re-creation of Checkpoint Charlie, the Cold War-era barrier between East and West Berlin, would’ve made me smile, but I couldn’t help but crack one when I saw how commercialism has been so blatantly leaking between the city boundary. It’s hard to see, but the American guard holding the flag also wore a sign that read “1 Euro for Photo,” which I guess would be cheaper than the macchiatos at the Starbucks a block away in the background:

Seeing how few shops were open in downtown Warsaw on Christmas Day, we decided to head south to the Łazienki Palace (Palace upon the Water), a huge plot of bucolic ponds and gardens. Many people had the same idea, bringing bread and crackers to feed the birds and squirrels at the park. Apparently, this is a common outing, because the fauna have become a bit forceful. This squirrel jumped on Tim’s leg, demanding food, but at least it didn’t charge a euro for this photo:

I was prepared for the cold, but I was hoping for it amid a winter wonderland of sorts. But we only saw serious snow our second-to-last day, in Stockholm. So you can imagine that I was happy to see at least a few snowflakes falling on the main commercial strip by our hostel in Vilnius:

The family fun in Riga, amid many a house of ill repute, never failed to amuse me. I was particularly heartened by a couple who paid to put their two tots on this hand-powered carousel near the Vecrīga (Old Town):

Even with all the electric lights, I felt truly transported to medieval times when we ventured into Tallinn’s Historic Centre, near Toompea (Cathedral Hill). Even the restaurant to the left of the Town Hall had a quirky menu that tried to stay in period, encouraging perusers to read the menu out loud to potentially illiterate peasants nearby. Right behind me, performers in Teutonic costume pitched the simple pleasures of the 13th century, including roasted nuts and hot grog:

On the small-town island of Suomenlinna, a 20-minute ferry ride away from Helsinki’s main port, bicycles are the top choice for transportation. I enjoyed this somewhat schoolboy display of two-wheelers against the pretty-little-princess pink building, especially considering it was part of a 250-year-old fortress complex described as the “Gibraltar of the North”:

I was so excited by the snow and so shaky from the cold that I didn’t focus very well on this park we stumbled across in Stockholm. But trust me, behind all of those trees are quite a few families sledding down a small hill (I wanted to join them, but we had to go arrange our train to Nykoping, a town an hour train ride away from the city, which is apparently why the Ryanair flight from there back to Germany was so cheap):

In the next installment: A few frowns for good measure

I see men; for I behold them as trees, walking (Mark 8:24)

2008-01-07T20:17:00.000+02:00

We didn't set out to find the perfect Christmas tree, but we could have. Every city had some sort of non-deciduous display in nearly every plaza. This was less of a surprise when we found out that the first documented use of an evergreen tree in a winter celebration took place in Riga in 1510. Legend holds that the tree was decorated with paper flowers, attended by men wearing black hats, then burnt in a bonfire. A plaque, engraved with "The First New Years Tree in Riga in 1510" in eight languages, marks the spot in the Rātslaukums (Town Hall Square):

At the beginning of our trip, two days before Christmas, we still had the chance to pick up a last-minute Tannenbaum of our own, at the Munich Christkindl Markt. This one in particular seemed to be calling to us; with the streaming light, I could almost hear the angels sing:

The main tree at Berlin's Christmas market, Gendarmenmarkt, prompted a similar sort of awe. It was erected beside Kaiser Wilhelm Gedächtniskirche, consisting of two churches: a 19th century cathedral serving as a bombed-out reminder of British air raids during World War II and a 20th century structure featuring a cross made of nails from Coventry Cathedral, a British church destroyed by the German Luftwaffe. The thought of such merriment taking place in the shadow of such destruction was nearly as breathtaking:

We were lucky enough to see the two trees in Stare Miasto (Old Town) of Warsaw on Christmas Day. The one in Rynek Starego Miasta (Market Square) was drawing more attention and photos, but I liked the medieval background of this one more. Plus, the busker playing "Silent Night" on the accordion added a special touch:

Vilnius was perhaps the most clean-cut of the Baltic capitals, which was apparent even in its holiday display. Lest you become too consumed by the pagan roots of the Christmas tree, in the square by the Zemutines Pilies (Lower Castle), a nativity could be found only a stone's throw away:

Oh sure, Riga puts up a tree right next to the plaque, but it's not the main attraction anymore. After all, it's pretty far away from all the nightlife (read: strip clubs). In keeping with its attempts to make even the seedy sophisticated, these somber trimmed-down trunks were spruced up ("spruce," get it?) with some sparkle, leading you to the main timber attraction, which incidentally is at the intersection of one of the aforementioned "nightlife" districts:

Being a port town, Tallinn welcomed and sent off ferry-bound tourists with the Christmas spirit. I spied this tree out the window as we left for our two-hour ride to Helsinki:

By the time we got to Helsinki, Christmas had been replaced by the New Year, so we didn't see as many trees on the streets. Instead, we got to see the real deal. The nicest hotel we stayed in had an aesthetically-pleasing alpine view. Pristine pines provided camouflage for the seaside sauna, which unfortunately wasn't open, but we did get to have our first experience with steaming coals elsewhere at the resort:

Demonstrating a stereotypical lack of sentimentality, Stockholm was tearing down its tree displays only two days after the new year. In a courtyard of a Gamla Stan (Old Town) apartment building, however, we were able to find one lingering, lit fir:

In the next installment: Sights besides trees that made me smile

Our garments and our shoes are become old by reason of the very long journey (Joshua 9:13)

2008-01-07T17:38:00.000+02:00

Well, we did it: We managed to visit seven countries in 13 days for our whirlwind winter break tour. With the help of three planes, four trains, two buses, two ferries, and many subway and trolley cars, we made stops in Munich and Berlin, Germany; Warsaw, Poland; Vilnius, Lithuania; Riga, Latvia; Tallinn, Estonia; Helsinki, Finland; and Stockholm, Sweden – all with nary a horror story to tell. We made every connection on time, we got lost only when that was our objective, and we kept our belongings intact, even adding some souvenir mugs and a sweater along the way. About the only downside to the trip were the inevitable frayed nerves from spending too much time in one person’s company, which led to a few minor and quick spats. But those are all a distant memory, so let’s start with the more pleasant details.

If I had to sum up my overall impression of the trip in a thesis sentence (hey, I am an English teacher), it would be: Just like the individual identities of Ohio, Indiana, Wisconsin, etc. get usurped by a Midwestern stereotype, eastern Europe countries get unfairly pigeonholed. As we moved through our journey, certain characteristics resonated from country to country, but each city had a definitive flavor. So to start what will be a series of blog entries, since I have a lot of photos and stories to share, I will post the most representative shot I took from each locale.

Munich has a standing as a party city, what with Oktoberfest, and I probably shouldn’t judge based on our day there – which consisted mainly of visiting Christmas markets, the one for tourists in the historic downtown and the one for locals in the suburban outskirts – but I’d say the reputation is founded. But that’s not to say boozehounds are bombarding the streets (unless they’re foreigners perhaps). Munichians (Munichites? Munichers?) just like to have a good time with minimal preparation and consternation. So, you simply show up in the free music tent at the Tollwood Winter Fest, where grandparents sip coffee, middle-agers drink mulled wine, and teens down pints amid kids climbing on wooden bear statues, dogs chewing on stump tables, and a band playing a folksy version of “TNT” by AC/DC, complete with the drummer accompanying on accordion:

Berlin is a fun-loving city as well, but it’s much more subdued. The effects of the wall linger, with the west side pulsing with capitalism and the east side still adjusting to being unconstrained. Even more than 10 years after the fall of the wall, the neon of the west and the gray of the east are uniting precariously, making for an interesting merger of contrasts. Only a few yards down from where the city has moved a part of the East Side Gallery, the longest stretch of once-intact Berlin Wall, so residents of a new arena district can access the riverfront, this young club/goth fashionplate wrote a note on the fading artwork celebrating the barrier’s opening:

Warsaw has a similar collision of identity, but its sources are harder to recognize, considering the boundaries here were less blatant and publicized. Therefore, there has been less attention and money put toward mending old wounds of separation, despite their palpable presence. We had to a hunt a while before we found the remnants of the ghetto wall, only recently protected by U.N. decree, in between some downtrodden apartment buildings. Towering over the wall is the Palace of Culture and Science, a gift from Stalin to the Polish people that has now become the most conspicuous mall and office complex in the city:

Vilnius suffered some of the same offenses of Soviet oppression, but it has fared better in moving forward from its bitter past. Instead, it has chosen to focus on its more ancient and honorable history; the city is in the middle of rebuilding or renovating multiple sites, including the Royal Palace, in time for its millennium anniversary, which according to the earliest written mention of the city will be in 2009. Extending from the palace is the main commercial strip, with brand-name fashion boutiques and upscale coffee houses. Once again, pieces of the “old country” remain, and here, they aren’t even on a map but maybe just in the appearance of some passers-by on the “new country” drag:

Riga isn’t simply moving forward from occupation, it is morphing. The many Russian immigrants, who perhaps learned how to make an underhanded cent under the Soviet regime, have turned the creativity of desperation into an explosion of entrepreneurship. Riga is the Las Vegas of Europe, with travelers from every corner coming to take advantage of five-star cuisine and top spas or strip clubs and escort services, all combining nearly seamlessly amid an anachronistic medieval backdrop. And so families can frolic amid the snowmen in this lovely park, just across the street from a row of adult entertainment outlets, like May Day with wenches on the side:

Tallinn also has gone the tourist route, but with a good dose of Scandinavian propriety. If Riga is Las Vegas, then Tallinn is Myrtle Beach; it’s just as touristy, but more wholesome, in an overly polished kind of way. But in this case, the usually prefabricated aspects are actually genuine. Plus, I’m a sucker for even the phony kind of stuff. I had no qualms sitting near the kitchen of an “authentic” medieval kitchen, where I could see the cooks putting “baked” potatoes in the deep fryer. On the way home, though, I caught this authentic moment. Sure, the sparklers aren’t appropriately medieval, but the simplistic enjoyment of overlooking the town’s lit spires is:

Helsinki also retains a small-town charm, but it is found amid big-city trappings. Contemporary skyscrapers sit amid Renaissance towers. It is nice to have elements of both worlds, but modern conveniences come with modern prices. Residents seem to fall back on old-fashioned – and inexpensive – pursuits, including drinking. But somehow the local dive bar, where we saw and heard an honest-to-god slap in the face, seemed more enchanting after we passed a packed skating rink. Even the city’s New Year’s Eve celebration seemed quaint, considering there were fewer people that night in Senate Square than at any Red, White, and Boom in Columbus. If there hadn’t been the old building in the background, this father and son watching fireworks could have been in anywhere in middle America:

Stockholm is a more expensive and cold version, if that’s possible, of Helsinki. It only took us a half-day in the city to see why European economies are outperforming the United States' so well. No wonder all those passengers rolled carts of duty-free beer and cigarettes off the ferry. Despite the high prices (nearly $5 for a black coffee!), downtown businesses were booming. They were more packed than the Royal Palace, where the guards apparently aren’t required to remain stoic against the biting, chafing winds. Despite just having taken over his post, this one was fidgeting furiously to fight the cold:

In the next installment: Christmas trees from around the world

Let us now go even unto Bethlehem, and see this thing that is come to pass (Luke 2:15)

2007-12-18T09:07:00.000+02:00

Just in time for Christmas, Tim and I headed to the West Bank, the occupied territories of Jesus's birth. The main attraction, of course, is the Church of the Nativity, and even I had to admit that it seemed pretty holy upon first approach, what with the streaming light and all:

And it was pretty awe-inspiring to see how the events of this place sparked a faith that spread throughout the world. On this day, there were hundreds of what appeared to be Indians and Pakistanis worshipping at the church, including these two lighting candles for prayer:

But the serenity of this sanctuary was soon shattered as we descended into the cave that makes the city famous. It hardly seemed pious to be so pushy at this holy site:

The cause for the crowding was the Star of Bethlehem, an ornate plaque dating from the fourth century that marks the presumed place that Mary delivered Jesus before he was set in the manger nearby. The people in line knelt to kiss the spot, probably not thinking, like me, about the fact that afterbirth likely landed here, too:

After birth inevitably comes breastfeeding, so we continued on to the Milk Grotto, where legend holds that a drop of Mary's milk, which dropped as she stopped to nurse Jesus as they fled from King Herod's baby-killing soldiers, turned the rock unnaturally white. The custom today is for women to chip off some of the shrine's wall to give them luck in fertility. I kept my hands in my pockets, but I did see a member of this party scrape some off, for what reason I'll never know:

No Christmas visit would be complete without some consumerism, so our guide took us to a olive wood-carving factory and store, where we bought requisite souvenirs (a candlestick and a bell). I was able to refrain from splurging on this impulse buy:

After blowing our cash, we stand-shopped through the Palestinian souk, which intermittently included blow-up Santas and hand-knitted stockings. The most eye-catching store, though, had to be this one, smack dab in the middle of Manger Square:

Besides this sign, very little else about Bethlehem aroused the Christmas spirit. Workers were only just putting lights on the trees, to prepare for the Christmas Eve concert. Perhaps it would've been more festive when they were turned on at night. But we didn't stick around that late, because we had to get back for a true Christian tradition: the staff holiday party. So I settled for staring up at this one sad, small, strung-out collection of ornaments:

No one should wrong his brother or take advantage of him (1 Thessalonians 4:6)

2007-12-13T14:48:00.000+02:00

The first word you learn in Hebrew is "balagan," which means chaos. A close second is "frier," which means sucker or pushover. Whereas the former is acceptable, said in witty jest, the latter is unacceptable, spoken as a staid insult. This reveals a lot about Israeli culture: They can deal with progressing amid chaos, but not being taken advantage of or taken for granted. Some natives have told me that the obsession with not being a frier comes from persecution in the past, especially the resignation during the Holocaust and the prorogation of the Israeli state, two things Jewish people have vowed to never let happen again.

However, the manifestations of the frier mentality seem much more banal. Not being a frier means weaving through lanes of heavy traffic just to get two car spaces ahead. Not being a frier means leaving your stuff on the checkout counter to keep your place while you finish shopping. Not being a frier means refusing to put up with foreigners' feeble attempts to speak Hebrew. Me, I'm a frier. I am not aggressive enough to nose up so another car can't merge in, to hold my spot with a gallon of milk, to continue to speak stilted Hebrew even when people respond in English.

Despite how hard the frier mentality is to cope with sometimes, I can accept most of these displays as the cultural differences they are. However, I find it hard to deal with others assuming that an honest mistake is an attempt to make someone look the frier. For example, my landlady has accused our dog of pooping on her lawn (which is really our lawn), even though he has never done so (and her mutt has). Just recently, she told Tim to make sure the newspaper was delivered on our driveway, not hers. We never had any intention of soiling her yard with turds or her driveway with ink, but she still issued a pre-emptive anti-frier strike. She wanted to win a battle of wills that we didn't even plan to enter.

I hate being accused of bad deeds I never even imagined (especially when true allegations of my villainy can be levied). I feel the two possible responses -- confrontation or oblivion -- are confining. I can barely call to order pizza, much tell someone face-to-face that their dog is the defecator, so confrontation is out. And unfortunately, my racing brain won't let me remain oblivious; seriously, I've lost sleep thinking about how I would have to call newspaper customer service (egad, a phone call!) to change the delivery location. So a third response, insecurity, results, sparking off a viscious circle of frierity (yes, I just made that word up).

Case in point, the other night, my landlady's boyfriend woke me up to move my car, which was blocking a neighbor from opening the gate to her driveway. I had no way of knowing that my car was in the way; there was no sign and therefore certainly no malintent. But after I backed up my car three inches so she could get in, she shouted from her car window: "Aren't you going to apologize?" Startled, I could only reply with a lame, "I'm sorry," sealing myself as the frier in this situation.

As with many similar cases, I later thought of better comebacks that would have made her the frier, and strangely, I wanted to seek some revenge so I could end up with the "win." Because I knew the former was impossible and the latter was immature, I vowed to not let the next person get the best of me. It was then I realized: My neighbor's insecurity about losing her last dispute had migrated to me, and I would pass the torch when I tried to win my next showdown; I was only a single stop in the spread of the frier mentality. And so it goes.

The water that I shall give him shall become in him a well of water springing up unto eternal life (John 4:14)

2007-12-11T10:14:00.000+02:00

Here's the biggest thing I learned from my photos from Prague: I don't like to take pictures when it's cold outside. Even when I took outdoor landscape photos, I did it from indoors. For example, this shot of the famous Charles Bridge is from a window in Prague Castle:

Prague Castle was about the only obligatory tourist site we visited. Mainly, we hunted down train stations and outdoor markets, sometimes in vain; we missed the Holesovice Market, over 100,000 square meters full of flea market and fake designer goodness, by a day. But the castle was worth it, if only for Vladislav Hall of the Old Royal Palace, where I caught this picture of Tim, indoors of course:

I couldn't avoid the outside as we walked from the castle to our hotel, which was a bit of a hike. Tim was stopping about every minute to take a picture, so I got in on the act to keep myself warm. These swans didn't seem as concerned as I was about the cold:

By this time, I was getting pretty hungry and thirsty, so the taverns started looking pretty appealing, especially this cozy, packed one with the sign for Gambrinus, which Tim and I agree was one of our favorites of the many available Czech brews:

The day before, our first day in the Czech Republic, we tracked down the warm interior of U Flecku, one of the oldest beer halls in Prague. The waiters were forceful with the drinks, thrusting lager pints and Becherovka shots onto your table without request. But the entertainment was accommodating, even playing Stevie Wonder's "I Just Called to Say 'I Love You'" so the Asian tourists could sing along karaoke-style:

We were thankful for Becherovka the day we took a day trip to Karlovy Vary, also known as Carlsbad (yes, it is the California burg's sister city), a high-end spa city known for its healing hot springs. You can drink from many of them as you walk through the city, but they are so sulfuric that the liquor is needed to drown out the chemical taste:

Unfortunately, you are not allowed to bathe in the springs, which would have been nice to cut the cold bite of the valley wind, so we settled for toasting our insides with sips from the springs instead, although not at the main one, which shoots up like a geyser:

We took a remedy of a different kind when we took the bus on to Plzen, home of the Pilsner Urquell brewery, where drinking is allowed, even encouraged. The Brewery Museum admission included a coin voucher for a draft at the restaurant next door. The museum itself was a bit hokey, but I like that it gave me the opportunity to take this cheesy photo of Tim:

Our last night, back in Prague, we did the real-life version of the painting in Plzen, drinking the original Budweiser, Budvar, at U Medvidku, one of the oldest beer halls in Prague. We also ate traditional dishes: a potato pancake full of bacon for Tim, and sirloin stew with dumplings for me:

We started with the oldest hall and ended with the biggest one, a nice way to bookend a beer-filled trip that provided many good excuses to get out of the cold and to the bottom of a glass.

Your sons and your daughters whom ye have left behind shall fall by the sword (Ezekiel 24:21)

2007-12-08T15:55:00.000+02:00

I can't believe I am about to do this. I am going to point out something good in the "No Child Left Behind" act. As a teacher at an international private school, my current position is not governed by any federal legislation regarding testing and funding, so I have spent six months on the flip side, and I am beginning to see why this law came about.

First, let me say that I am not going to defend the testing of students in an inconsistent and unattainable way, in my opinion. But I am going to praise one of the intended side effects of such testing: a focused curriculum. Without standards-based testing like in the States, the teachers at my school are left to create their own curricula without any overarching guiding force.

Basically, my school's English curriculum is a map by each teacher explaining what NCTE standards she (they're all women) meets with what assessment. However, since these standards are so broad (see for yourself at NCTE's Web site), teachers must break them down into more specific benchmarks. But because of the generalized standards and individualized control, these benchmarks end up being whatever the teacher can cook up to match what they want to teach, not an identification of skills that students should learn. At my school this means the education has become content-driven, based on what books or texts the teacher deems worthy, which to me is an outdated notion. And therefore, skills-based instruction is overlooked and definitely not aligned from grade to grade.

This, in part, is why my English students are freaking out by my arrival. All of sudden, I am asking them to exhibit skills, without emphasis on knowledge of a book. In no high-school English classroom before my own did they examine nonfiction in any way. So as should be no surprise, my students are frustrated by trying to analyze essays and speeches at the same level they can with literature. Likewise, they are not used to having to write in a nonfiction style that focuses on synthesis instead of reader response. Now, I'm not claiming that nonfiction is something that should be a benchmark necessarily, but I think it's something an objective group has to determine without the influence of subjective preferences. And if the school is going to revere Advanced Placement, then the tenets of that program should be reflected throughout the high school curriculum, not just in a single class.

So, you ask, what are you doing about it, Ms. English department chair? Well, smarty pants, I am starting by merely introducing the idea of a holistic writing rubric based on skills. Many teachers still use rubrics giving points for the inclusion of particular formulaic writing pieces, say 1-10 points for a thesis based on how effective it is. Once again, there is no problem with that, but the only way to start aligning instruction across the grades is to identify the skills that all of us hope to see in our students' writing, without breaking it down into parts, some of which might not be relevant for specific writing assignments. The translation of that to numbers for the gradebook can stay individual.

It's not an easy change to make, considering the teachers are resistant to change their lessons and I feel like I might be inflicting my bias upon them. If there were an assessment, for example, that was developed from the outside and that governed what skills were most important, then we'd all be united under a common goal: making sure our students knew those skills so they could pass the test. "Teaching to the test" might not be fun, but it at least ensures an objective impetus for what happens in the classroom.

Now, now, now, don't start with the red herrings and non sequiturs. This is the ONLY good I find in the act. The tests themselves are often invalid, required passing rates are unreasonable, the consequences for failure are inexplicable. Indeed, one of my British colleagues was explaining to me about how schools in England are put on watch if they don't meet standards criteria, which by the way are based on more than just test scores, including in-house observations. But when this happens, schools aren't threatened with less funding; they are given money to help them improve. Still, she said this had a negative consequence: The diversion of funds to lower-performing schools prompted some borderline schools to lose money and fall into the watch category.

It seems, there is no easy calculation of school success (certainly not one that includes a 100 percent pass rate!). But a deeper look at the necessary variables to manipulate is valuable. Maybe those Impact Games people should make a simulation of running a school under "No Child Left Behind." After all, education isn't a bad place to start in making peace.

I form the light, and create darkness; I make peace, and create evil (Isaiah 45:7)

2007-11-28T13:24:00.001+02:00

So all those political muckety-mucks might have shipped off to Annapolis for negotiations, but just because I don't get free flights off public coffers doesn't mean I can't help make peace, too. Thanks to Pennsylvania-based Impact Games, I can "Play the News. Solve the Puzzle" with its interactive CD release, PeaceMaker. In conjunction with the summit, the company and the Peres Center for Peace sent 100,000 free copies to subscribers of the Israeli newspaper Ha'aretz. Unfortunately, I didn't get one, probably because I subscribe to the English-language edition, and there's already been enough worthless American and British intervention in many people's eyes. Luckily, one of my students brought the video game to school. This, my friends, is what educators call a teachable moment, otherwise known as "I'd rather not do my actual lesson plan," so I spent the first half of my first class installing and testing out the simulation.

Here's the setup: You can pick to be the Palestinian President or the Israeli Prime Minister (or let the game choose for you) in a calm, tense, or violent scenario level. You enter into a virtual Israel, where real incidents from the past reoccur, as shown through newspaper articles and television footage, but you get the option to try a different reaction. The main responses are political or security. One option under security was assassinating an opposition leader; one under political was giving a speech to the international media. As you react, you get input from public opinion polls, both in and out of the country, and from advisers, called The Hawk and The Dove. You win the game if you respond appropriately to achieve a "two-state solution."

It's this "solution" that I take issue with, not the typical criticism that this is oversimplifying a complicated issue. Indeed, a simplification could just be the ticket to a solution. But how does one come up with the way to win the game when the simulated outcome has never occurred in reality? In truth, you win the game if you figure out how the makers presume that peace could be established. Their presumption rests on a few assumptions about human nature, all listed on the game's Web site, www.peacemakergame.com: 1) "You can make a difference," 2) "Don't let the perfect be the enemy of the possible," and 3) "The other side wants peace too." The real humans involved might be contrary to these assumptions: 1) They do not care to make a difference, 2) They are unable or unwilling to compromise, and 3) They do not want a solution. These variables, I think, would be more apt as level choices instead of those based on external conflict factors; they could be labeled apathetic, resolute, and antagonistic.

As a teacher, I do see this as a great conversation starter, a way to reveal some assumptions we ourselves make about the peace process. In fact, researchers at Carnegie Mellon are examining how prior vs. deeper knowledge impacts players' decisions. But until these human influences are taken into account, this game should never be examined as a way to solve the actual Mideast peace puzzle. The good news is, Impact Games says one of its next ventures will be to take the game online, so people from all over the world -- and from all perspectives, apathetic, resolute, antagonistic and beyond -- can play the fantasy football version of foreign relations. Now that's the kind of negotiations I can see President Bush getting into, even after office.

Until then, if you have access to this game in any way, please tell me if and how you manage to "beat" it. And I don't mean with any of those silly codes you find in gaming magazines. If there were a secret passage to ultimate peace, like getting three levels ahead in Mario Brothers, I would hope we would have found -- and taken -- it already. I don't believe this is a game where there is any pride or accomplishment in taking the longest path to rack up the most points.

O Israel, your prophets have been like foxes among ruins (Ezekiel 13:4)

2007-11-12T09:14:00.000+02:00

I spoke too soon. One of my first posts on this blog was a rail against the CNN effect. This effect is nothing compared to Fox News fallout. Recently, my cable provider, HOT (yes, you actually have a choice here), took CNN off the air because the company rejected a hike in the news channel's subscription fee. At first, I was happy, cheering HOT on as it stuck it to the international "man." But that was before the the cable provider elected to replace CNN with Fox News.

If CNN gave a skewed perspective of global situations, Fox News gives a perverted one. Two of the first stories I saw gave proof for the assertions in "Outfoxed," the movie detailing the network's questionable journalistic practices. First, there was Fox News's version of "Fear Factor," in which anchors report the slightest inkling of a terrorist threat with a banner of something like "Malls targeted for attack" and a small disclaimer of "report says." This was a week ago, and I'm not aware of any suicide bombings at Sears. Next, there was the channel's version of "Rob & Big," except it was the "George & Dick" show, labeling even the most mundane appearances in the president's schedule "breaking news." The one I saw was Bush urging soldiers at an American military base to continue to "stay the course" in Iraq; obviously, such a speech had not been given in at least a month so it must garner full attention.

Two other phenomena emerged as I watched coverage from abroad. First, my boyfriend pointed out that a lot of the short spots called "Fox Spotlights" and "Fox Features" are actually underhanded attempts to make liberal segments of the population look foolish. The two topics I saw: people who stare at the sun to gain energy and a man who donated teddy bears to be distributed to child victims of traffic accidents. The weight of these acts was presented so straight-forwardly that they became sardonic. The channel's priorities obviously are out of whack, making the serious seem silly and the silly seem serious. Second, because I usually watch the news in the morning, the broadcast is what is on during the middle of the night in the States. This time slot includes a show called "Red Eye," which is basically "Inside Edition" and "eXtra" combined with a host conceited enough to call his online blog a "Greg-a-logue." Problem is, on the show, entertainment fluff stories about Paris Hilton and Britney Spears are presented in the same format as regular news. Not only does America come off paranoid of terrorist attacks but also servile to superficial celebrities.

I can only imagine what the overseas audience thinks of America when this late-night trash presents a panel discussion on Steven Colbert's presidential bid in South Carolina, on presumably the morning news. Don't we already have enough of a rep as a country with a puppet president? (Not that I think Colbert would be any more of a puppet than Bush; at least he's pulling his own strings along with our legs.) CNN, on the other hand, presented the same issue on its version of "The Daily Show." I know, I know, I criticized CNN for blurring the line between news and comedy before, but at least Jon Stewart's commentary was backed by obvious audience laughter.

In the end, I am, of course, just as hypocritical as Fox News. I don't like CNN, but I don't like the alternative, either. I'm whinier than Sean Hannity after a Clinton stump speech. But at least my criticism of the two channels is "fair and balanced": They both suck.

Those whom I love, I reprove and discipline (Revelation 3:19)

2007-10-23T14:54:00.000+02:00

Up until now, I have not-so-subtlely rubbed the benefits of my school in your digital faces. But cynical skeptics like myself must find the bad in everything. And at my school it is this: lack of discipline. As the title of this post suggests, I only share my thoughts on this topic in an attempt to share my love for this school's students -- or I'm just annoyed.

I've never been one for enforcing rules, especially those that seem petty. It was a known fact that I was not a part of the flip-flop intifada at my last school, never reporting the wearing of said footwear to administrators and in fact flaunting my own during in-service days. But I have always agreed that some rules should be enacted to preserve the stability of a community. Even if people often don't like the rules, they sometimes like to know on which side of the law they stand.

In an hour I will leave on a three-day field trip with a group of high-schoolers. It has been clearly issued that every student MUST bring and wear a hat to avoid sunburn and/or sunstroke. But the powers that be have refused to issue a ruling that students MUST NOT smoke during the trip, even though it is not allowed on campus.

The first argument is that those old enough should be allowed to smoke because we are not on the smoke-free campus. I posit that the rules of a community should follow that community, even if they go "off campus." After all, the school rule against drinking, which supersedes the national legal age of 18 (the same as for smoking), remains in effect.

So the second argument arises: If you acknowledge smoking as an addiction, you don't want to bar students from a trip because of a "health condition." Of course, I can easily point out that alcoholism also is an addiction, so we should bend that rule as well. But more importantly (and yes, I would've been a hypocrite at one point in my life for saying this), if you can't go three days without tobacco to enjoy a get-out-of-school-free trip, then by all means, stay home and chain-smoke.

In the end, what is most bothersome is that there seems to be acknowledgment that both arguments are without validity, that this is to avoid confrontation with some students and parents. The school is bowing to a minority -- a small one, at that -- to assuage dissent. Which brings us to the third argument: Is it appropriate to enforce a don't ask-don't tell rule on smoking without informing the parents of all the nonsmokers that this will be the policy? I'm sure many parents are assuming that the same rules at school apply on school trips, which certainly isn't unthinkable. At least in the military, soldiers know that the GI Joe in the next bunk might be jonesing for the same sex.

But this is the way of this school -- and perhaps the country: smooth sailing is valued over rocky negotiation, perhaps because the latter hasn't often led to the former in the past. But man, does that rub my American sense of imposition wrong. Truly, I don't care if I catch a whiff of smoke, even during a lovely restaurant meal, but I don't want to have to play the heavy if the smokers overstep their bounds. It's just so much easier to blame the administration. Natch.

This is the best of the land ... because it is holy to the Lord (Ezekiel 48:14)

2007-10-07T20:42:00.000+02:00

Every day, the newspapers are espousing what Israel has done or is doing wrong (um, yea, about that bombing Syria thing), so in the interest of fair and balanced coverage (just call me Fox News), I thought I would share some of the things that I think Israel is doing right:

The bus system: With only a burgeoning train network, the bus lines have become extremely efficient. You can get in between major cities on a daily basis and across town in a major city within an hour. But the best part is the location of bus stops; pull-offs alongside highways are accessible from walking paths into the neighborhoods, so the buses can maximize pick-ups without having to wind through residential streets (which, incidentally, are not among the things Israel does right). And if Egged's bus schedule doesn't fit yours, sheruts, or community taxis, run the same lines. No more running to the stop, because a sherut is likely a few minutes behind the bus.

Plastic and glass recycling: You might not easily find a garbage can along the street, but if you walk a couple of blocks, you're certain to run into a large green cage for depositing plastic bottles. Most of them are more than half-full, so it would seem Israelis are way ahead of the eco-game or recycling collection workers are way behind. Glass bottles run Michigan-style; if you buy beer by the case, you return the empties to the supermarket when you pick up your next party pack. Paper products are a different story. Napkins, cigarettes, and newspapers become beachside tumbleweed. This, I'm sure, is the only reason Gore beat this environmentally-minded country for the Nobel prize.

Car security: In my old car, I had a blinking LED light on my dashboard; presumably, would-be thieves would think it was a security system and head to the next car (not that the car being a Ford Focus wasn't deterrent enough). In Israel, there is still a blinking light, but it's accompanied by a keypad where you must punch in a code before you can start your car. It's amazing how much moving this small device from the lock to the ignition increases the chances that my Hyundai Getz (the Toyota Camry of Israel) will not get hotwired.

Buffet breakfasts and business lunches: The former is usually included with the cost of a hotel room, and the latter is usually less than $20, and both are generous. The breakfasts will offer fruits, vegetables, cheeses, pastries, eggs, and drinks (Pancakes and French toast aren't big here; bagel and lox are). The lunches will come with a starter, main course, and drink. And lucky for me, Sunday is a work day for the Israelis, so I can leech off the working stiffs on my day off.

Irrigation agriculture: Speaking of food, I wasn't expecting much in terms of fresh produce when I realized I was coming to a desert. But my first bite of watermelon immediately changed my mind; it was the most juicy and flavorful piece I had ever tasted. And that's not all. The same goes for kiwis, peaches, mangos, and avocados. This is a result of that ingenius and innovative Israeli Simcha Blass, who invented drip irrigation. The idea not only opened Israel to agriculture, it also promoted the conservation of water in an area lacking in available groundwater. Sadly, water supplies are continuing to be drained (pun intended), so the country needs a new Simcha to lead hydroliberation.

Urban planning: When I hear the words "industrial zone," I think of the smokestacks on the Ohio River surrounded by the vast dumping grounds of the Meadowlands. But in Israel, industrial zones are centralized areas where workers toil in the upper floors of skyscraping office buildings by day then head down to the ground floors to eat, drink, and shop by night. These mini-downtowns provide a way to draw traffic and noise away from residential neighborhoods. Of course, this causes congestion in the industrial zones themselves, but hey, if you grab a parking space in the morning, your car can stay there through happy hour and beyond.

Chilling out: Israel is good at incorporating the best of other cultures into its own. It has effectively stolen the afternoon siesta from Spain, for example. From about 2 to 4 p.m., offices, banks, and some stores shut down, so everyone can kick back with a mid-afternoon snack. And even better, for many adults, that snack is an ice cream novelty bar and coffee; does it get any better than a Nestle Crunch bar dipped in cappuccino? Only about five hours later, the same people will reconvene the relaxation at restaurants, where no obtrusive servers are trying to turn tables. Of course, that means you aren't going to get a table until at least 11 if you didn't make reservations. But hey, you can bide time with another popsicle, right? Damn right.

Though in a land of peace thou art secure, yet how wilt thou do in the pride of the Jordan? (Jeremiah 12:5)

2007-09-29T13:10:00.000+02:00

After a crossing the no man's land border crossing, we started our trip in Jordan with a long drive in a crowded van to Jerash. Along the way, the landscape seemed to me much like what Iraq would be. My suspicions were confirmed when near Amman we saw a sign directing us to the border crossing to Iraq; we were less than 100 kilometers away.
At Jerash, they recreate the typical traditions of Roman times, from which the ruins date. This includes chariot racing, troop marching, and gladiator fighting, all narrated tongue-in-cheek by an obviously underpaid narrator who enjoys messing with tourists.
We were also lucky enough to see this performance of Irish music played on Scottish bagpipes by Arabs in a Roman amphitheater. The music is a holdover from the Crusades. This is the Middle East in a nutshell. They've had so many things foisted upon them through colonialism and evangelism that it's no wonder they're a little sensitive to outside interference.
After touring Jerash, we spent the night in Amman, which is a bustling city in the middle of a wasteland. If people weren't speaking in Arabic and women were walking on the street, it would be like any big city in the States. But the absence of Western images (besides pirated DVDs) and females was palpable.
We spent the next two days in the desert, Wadi Ram, being bounced around in Toyota trucks by our Bedouin guides. It was like an adult playground, with all the rock formations to climb up and sand dunes to roll down.
A hookah was in order after a long day of dust and sun. But we weren't too tired for dancing, even without beer. Because of the Muslim holiday, the only available alcohol was Ramadan beer, the Arabic form of O'Douls.
To end our trip on a high point, we saved Petra for last. To build up strength to tour this "Wonder of the World," we ate dinner at the house our guide Mohammed. But we ended up burning most of the meal's energy off by dancing with his seven children. If you think that is crazy, Mohammed has 17 siblings. The extended family is so big that their homes take up an entire hillside in Petra.
After relaxing by the pool and gorging at the buffet, we were ready to take on the miles of hikes in old Petra. The teaser is the obligatory shot of the Treasury, the site used in the "Indiana Jones" movie.
But more impressive is The Monastery, including its nearby lookout, where this Bedouin shopkeeper was biding his time by text messaging. The old and new truly collide in the middle of nowhere.
The highlight for me was hiking up to the sacrificial point, where Emily sacrificed some of her lungs to a cigarette. We dared to take the "shortcut" back to Petra's entrance. It was neither short nor a cut, but it was one of the best hikes I've ever done, well worth the burning thighs and calves at the end.
We made it back in time for sunset at the hotel, which was fitting because its colors so closely matched those found in the stones within Petra. Next time you come to my house, try to figure out the artwork created from pictures of the fascinating sand designs, a constant reminder to me of the beauty to be discovered throughout the world.

Now it will spring forth ... I will even make a roadway in the wilderness, a river in the desert (Isaiah 43:19)

2007-09-28T14:53:00.000+02:00

As if my room weren't taunting enough, I thought I'd show you the new school in its entirety. If you can see the video, it starts with the guard station. This is scarier than it looks. It's more to keep expensive equipment in than to keep bad people out. Just to the right is the elementary school, which has two playgrounds, two soccer-pitch-size fields, and two basketball courts behind it.

Next up is the library, which is where my lab is located. It is supposed to be the central hub of all things technology, nevermind that the book stacks are still in disarray because the roof, the first of its design in Israel, had to be redone because of leaking problems. Did I mention that rainy season is coming up? And that all the computer labs are on the bottom floor?

To the right of the library is the middle school, which is like a mini-high school, with the same set-up, offices, science labs and all. The high school is just on the other side of the outside amphitheater, the backdrop of which is purely Israeli: It's a kibbutz. The high school, like all the other school buildings, is completely high-tech. Eventually, every room will have a Smartboard with mounted overhead projector; the wireless Internet is already intact.

Another central hub is just opposite of the library: the cafeteria, which is entirely kosher, with isolated areas for meat and dairy. No cheeseburgers here. Typically, lunch consists of one main meal; Wednesday is pizza day, for example. If I don't bring my own lunch, I tend to partake in a variety of yummy fresh salads. The only problem is, it's more expensive than the typical U.S. school lunch; that's what you get when ketchup doesn't count as a vegetable, I guess. The school also has absolutely no vending machines, and you can't even buy soda in the cafeteria; no Coke sponsorship here.

Behind the cafeteria is an in-ground pool that won't open until the spring. The pool is done, but they are still working on enclosing it. Awnings or roofs over pools are typical here because of the dry season, with its constant sun. Behind the pool are two more soccer-pitch-size fields, two tennis courts, and eventually two more basketball courts, once the construction moves out. You can't see it on the video, but to the right of the pool is the gym, which can accommodate two full-size basketball courts at once. It's hard to get volleyballs stuck in the rafters here; trust me, I've tried.

The tour de force of the school is the performing arts center, in front of the gym and to the right of the cafeteria. It has one of the best lighting and sound systems in the greater Tel Aviv area. The school plans to make mad bank by renting it out for community concerts. There's an entire set construction area behind the stage, which is fitted with professional-level rafters and even trap doors! Outside the auditorium itself are all the choral, band, drama, and visual arts classrooms, including a dark room, a kiln room, a TV/radio studio, and a smaller black-box theater. With all this equipment, the school got the rights to do Beauty and the Beast this year. I'm looking forward to reprising my role as salt shaker.

All of the various buildings are connected by pathways covered by pergolas to provide sun and rain protection. The goal was to create a campus that blends in with the environment -- note all the sand-colored buildings -- but that also seems like a green oasis within the desert. It's like being on a well-maintained college campus, really. It still feels incomplete, but once all the backhoes are gone, it will certainly be a nice atmosphere to work in. I already look forward to getting to work and walking around. Feeling like I'm in nature motivates me to be creative, I think. Meanwhile, back in the States, the only green space comes from mold in 30-year-old buildings. I'm truly, truly sorry. All students, and teachers of course, should have access to such an inspiring setting.

The tenth day of this seventh month is the day of atonement ... and ye shall afflict your souls (Leviticus 23:27)

2007-09-24T14:55:00.000+02:00

Up until two days ago, Yom Kippur was just a Jewish holiday with a funny name. Now I think it should be an globally recognized day of peace. For the Jewish, the Day of Atonement, as it is called, is a day of fasting, meditating on one's sins, and seeking forgiveness for them. This means all stores are closed and all roads are empty ... of cars, at least. For the non-devout, including heathens like myself, the Day of Postponement, as I've nicknamed it, is a day of dropping any obligations, drinking wine in the middle of the road, and bicycling down six-lane highways. And as a special touch this year, we played Taboo, with at least one round devoted to sex-related clues only.

Okay, so I'm not one for the religosity. But I can definitely get behind a forced day of relaxation. Besides the shouts of pre-adolescent biker gangs, the streets are quiet. And the air is so clean that the anti-haze sunset is more stunning than usual. If I had the power, I would mandate a non-driving, non-thinking, non-doing day for every country, big cities especially.

Like all contradictions in this country, Yom Kippur has a dark side: the stonings. If for some reason you find a need to drive, you must take care to post a red Star of David in your window, to represent an emergency. Otherwise, you might encounter angry mobs, armed with stones to express their discontent with your non-atoning. One of my co-workers got a flat tire on his bike on the way home, and his wife encountered quite a bit of trouble leaving the neighborhood to pick him up. Despite knowing this, I rode to Tel Aviv without a spare, and guess what? Yup, a flat. Thank goodness for better-prepared boyfriends of co-workers who save me from walking the 10 miles home.

As far as religious spectacles go -- and I'm counting those South Americans who crucify themselves and those Spaniards who toss goats from towers -- this is one of the most amazing ... yet more enjoyable. I invite all of you to try reflecting on your life with a tipsy ride on a Trek.

You teach me wisdom in the inmost place (Psalm 51:6)

2007-09-18T14:52:00.000+02:00

All right, I'm totally going to brag for a moment. The video is of my new room. As you will see, it is decked out with 19 computers, 13 of which are equipped with PhotoShop and InDesign along with the usual Microsoft Office fixings. The last computer you see is the laptop issued to me by my school. I can carry it to any classroom and access the school's drives through a wireless network. With the wireless setup, I also can find open networks around town, which has been incredibly helpful as I still struggle to get a phone and Internet line in my home. I hoped to filch off a neighbor's wireless modem, but so far, no luck. And my lab is not the top one in the school. Next door is the photo and video lab, which students can use to create podcasts and webcasts. Unfortunately, this means my lab often gets co-opted by other teachers, but despite that, it is still more of a newsroom than my last school's and even my university's. After all, I got to set up the lab myself. I hooked up all the monitors, plugged in all the hard drives, installed all the printers and scanners, and added RAM. I am learning a lot about computers, both technically and philosophically. Right outside my room is a biodiversity area. There is a pond that is supposed to contain algae and other water plants to sustain dozens of fish. A few pits for trees, which were supposed to create the water cycle environment for the pool, remain empty, because some bacteria got into the pool and killed all the fish. I'm sure this had nothing to do with the fact that there was no protection for the pond, so in the beginning students were throwing trash and rocks in. In the attempt to be technologically-savvy, some common sense was lost. Better the fish than me, though. Natch.

There are different kinds of working, but the same God works all of them in all men (1 Corinthians 12:6)

2007-09-02T17:06:00.001+03:00

This is a country of contradictions. According to The Xenophobe's Guide to Israel (yes, it's a real book), Israelis desperately want to be American, but you wouldn't know it from their behavior. It's like communism: Their theory is good but their practice is different, in some cases better and in others worse. So here are my noticeable "buts" so far:

There is indoor plumbing, but you can't flush the toilet paper; instead, you put it in a trash can nearby to avoid backing up the sanitation system.
There is toilet flushing, but it is usually a button instead of a lever, and you get two options: the "just rinse off the bowl, please" option and the "power wash the stuff out of there, thank you" option.
There is hot water, but you turn on a switch to get it; this activates the solar panel on many roofs to heat the water in tanks below.
There is building construction, but houses are often built with said solar panels in mind, not to mention large walls to block blowing sand.
There is road construction, but it is usually to allow for more public transportation, not more cars.
There are many highways, but all have the same no-rules, no-courtesy mentality as the I-75 corridor in Atlanta; however, despite lots of beeping, there is seemingly less road rage.
There are stoplights, but a yellow light indicates that it is about to turn green, like a drag race, and a flashing green light indicates that it is about to turn red.
There are speed b/humps, but the only people they slow down are bicyclists.
There are bicycles, but all of them are mountains or hybrids; no path to anywhere is entirely paved.
There are good bike trails, but they are known as six-lane highways.
There are beaches, but they are like giant ash trays and sandboxes where children up to age 8 often run naked.
There is paddleball on the beaches, but it is done with dazzling proficiency, the ball staying in the air for hours on end.
There is American fashion, but it is taken from the worst fads; they sell decorative bra straps for when you wear those tank tops that show your bra, for example.
There is American television, but it is aired commericial-free for the most part; so it looks really redundant with reality shows that have teasers to keep you on the channel through the break.
There is English language music, but it is either British punk or American '80s; seriously, I heard "Living in America" by James Brown at a fake Irish pub in the middle of Israel.
There are bars, but no one appears drunk until at least 3 a.m., when they start standing to dance.
There is dancing, but not just by packs of women; the floor includes men dancing -- with other men -- who are not gay.
There are margaritas, but they are a little salt and lots of tequila, which I suspect helps with the male dancing.
There is coffee, but no Starbucks; in fact, iced coffee is the one of the only beverages that often is self-serve.
There are McDonald's, but the No. 6 value meal is shwarma; I broke my 10-year abstinence of the chain to try this, and it wasn't worth it.
There is Oriental food, but this means falafel and tahine and such; if you want stir fry, you have to find a restaurant that has chopsticks and the word "Asian" on its sign.
There is hummus, but it actually tastes like beans, not garlic, pepper, or red dye #5.
There is American rudeness, obstinence, cynicism, and chutzpah, but in this case, I fully appreciate all of it.

With your own eyes you saw those great trials, those miraculous signs and great wonders (Deuteronomy 29:3)

2007-08-30T14:43:00.001+03:00

The moment you've been waiting for, the next edition of pictoral heathen. Tell the kiddies to leave the room.

This was my first view of the West Bank. No, those aren't Palestinians. Those are my colleagues Chet and Eman. He's a theater director from Jersey, and she's a middle school math teacher from Egypt; it's a peace-making marriage, for sure. Yea, those white villas in the background that look straight out of Italy, that's the violent hotspot.

Only my second day, and I had found authentic pita. You actually can buy your own pita grills here; they're as prevalent as hibachi. But hummus is not the topping of choice. That would be oil and zahatar, a green spice mixed with sesame seeds that they give to you in a paper cone, sort of a savory Pixie Stick.

This is my covert shot of American teenage tourists weeping at THE wall. At least I had the decency not to take pictures of the truly devout. For the record, it's no longer called the weeping wall, because Israel finally got its state, so now it's just the Western Wall, so said my tour guide (who was Chelsea Clinton's once, so he must be right). As you can see, that doesn't stop people from crying.

These two monks were praying, or whatever they do, outside the supposed tomb of Jesus Christ. Me, I'm busy taking pictures. I did wait in the line to see the tomb. Others obviously felt moved, falling to their knees to kiss the ground. Me, my only movements were of the internal kind, a growling stomach. Although tasty, zahatar is not filling.

And onto the real religions of Israel: Elvis and gasoline. This station is outside of Abu Ghosh, which bills itself as having the best hummus in Israel; I respectfully disagree. But it does have the best kitsch in the country, including Jailhouse Rock Merlot.

Orthodox Jews just want to have fun, too. Just look at them whooping it up on this sculpture at Caesurea, the best Israelite/Roman/Ottoman ruins in the world. Sometime in the spring, they hold actual horse races in this hippodrome. But for the time being, these guys would have to do.

Last but not least, here's my first dinner at sunset on the Mediterranean. Yup, I said first, meaning there have been more, many on the school's dime. This night, WBAIS bought me goat cheese ravioli in a salmon sauce and two Tuborgs. I was sitting in the foreground, at the PE table; that's Rachelle and Danny, both of whom made aaliyah from England, and Jim, a Stateser by way of Singapore. In the background are Chet and Eman again, sitting across from my superintendent Marsha and Beth, an intern and recent graduate from Boston University who has been my willing bait for adventures with strangers. Together, they make up "The Replacements."

A cheerful heart is good medicine, but a crushed spirit dries up the bones (Proverbs 17:22)

2007-08-27T18:36:00.000+03:00

I had my first visit to the hospital today. No worries, it wasn't because of a bus bombing or car accident. At the end of last week, I started breaking out on my face, chest and arm, but I thought it was because of joining a new gym. I got a small rash after joining the Y's in Virginia and Florida; apparently sweat has regional bacterial properties. So yea, I was smearing athlete's foot stuff on my face (I won't even tell the story of my exchange with a pharmicist over such an idea, which was obviously absurd to her; of course, keeping athlete's foot medicine behind the counter is absurd to me, too) over the weekend. The rash wasn't getting better, and by this morning, I woke up with one eye nearly swollen shut. It looked like I had been licked, literally, by Israel.

Of all the shows Israel has imported ("The Biggest Loser" and "Are You Smarter than a Fifth-Grader" in Hebrew!), medical dramas are not among them. This is because doctors here are treated like crap. In the mornings, they work in hospitals, which pay minimum amounts as proscribed by the state, so in the afternoons and evenings, they work in shared offices, trying to making as much buck as possible with drive-by diagnoses. This might sound bad, but it works to the advantage of the consumer, mainly me. I called at 8 in the morning to set up an appointment; the nurse called back at 8:30 to say I had a slot at 3. I left work early, arriving at the office with 20 minutes to spare in case I had to fill out paperwork. After only writing my address on the top of two forms, the doctor had arrived, 15 minutes early. He immediately saw me, and I was out the door with my prescription before the original appointment time.

You must be thinking that this increased effeciency can only mean lessened quality. You would be wrong. We discussed my health history for five minutes, since this was the first time I had met the doctor. But he quickly said that we wouldn't go into details about my possible genetic predisposition to cancers of many kinds, because it wasn't relevant at this moment. I had a rash, not a tumor, after all. He asked me a few Colombo questions and deduced within minutes that I was probably allergic to my pillow. I thought of this myself, but the fact that he didn't feel the need to talk over my head with other -- unlikely -- possibilities was refreshing. And then, this kind soul, officially diagnosed me with a skin rash, not an allergy, to make sure my insurance would pay for it. Socialized medicine works, my friends.

And here's another tip that made me feel good, whether it's true or not. The sun spots on my face, which I always attributed lack of SPF PSA's when I was a kid, are more likely the result of a cortisone build-up. (In fact, he joked that he hoped I wasn't coming in to get rid of them, because man, I was screwed; doctors are funny, too.) Like athlete's foot cream, cortisone can only be prescribed here, because it is a steroid that often causes long-term skin yuckiness not worth the short-term anti-itchiness. So I guess I can't blame my parents for my premature aging after all, considering I'm the one who would slather gobs of the stuff on whenever I got poison ivy or mosquito bites. But skin cancer on the other hand ... Oh wait, I just moved to the desert of my own volition. Rats.

Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face (1 Corinthians 13:12)

2007-08-19T13:22:00.000+03:00

One of the first catchwords I acquired upon looking into international teaching was "the CNN effect," which is basically the idea that people's perspectives of other countries are drastically skewed by what they see on cable news. After two weeks in Israel, I would have to say that this effect is a real phenomenon. Israelis are not living their lives in fear, as you would imagine from what you see on television. (At least not from bombings: More Israelis die from car accidents than terrorist acts; the driving here is atrocious.) The only violence I have heard of so far was a Palestinian being shot when he tried to take a gun from an Israeli guard in Jerusalem, an incident no different than something that could happen in New York, without the ethnic labels perhaps.

Honestly, the CNN effect became clear to me when I saw how the United States is portrayed on the channel here, which is different than the one in America. Here were the first three news stories I caught on CNN: Minnesota bridge collapses, Barry Bonds breaks the home-run record, and Utah mine collapses (the latter is still being covered on an hourly basis as "breaking news"). The implications of these stories is not positive. We look like a country so obsessed with something a superficial as a sport to pay attention to the safety of commuters and laborers.

But here's the kicker: CNN airs a global edition of "The Daily Show." I, of course, love this fact. However, it's no wonder America isn't taken seriously when a inside-joke interview between Jon Stewart and Denis Leary is given prime-time play. In fact, it's not quite made clear that the show is parody. But even if it were made clear, it still gives a bad impression of American journalism if we mock everything. Don't get me wrong, this is a great show, and amid U.S. television news, it's some of the best offered. But is this what we want the world to think of our interests, that we think every national and global issue is a joke? It's no wonder we're losing the respect of the rest of the world.

Okay, okay, that was a bit high horse for my first post from Israel. So I will share some other insights to taunt you. Israel has got it going on. MTV plays videos, and newspapers still publish Calvin & Hobbes. Both are a nice way to unwind after a typical day of work, along with "The Daily Show," of course.

And this shall be the sign unto you ... that ye may know that my words shall surely stand against you for evil (Jeremiah 44:29)

2007-07-28T18:51:00.000+03:00

Only three days left until I leave for Israel, and I've hardly been emotional (I'm not exactly a crier, although I hear there is spotty anecdotal evidence to the contrary), but yesterday I broke down -- because of my dog.

The one last thing I had to do was get my dog's health cleared so he may be shipped overseas. Despite all my best efforts to make sure I was going through the proper procedures, I was told yesterday by a veterinarian that he does not have the proper paperwork to get on a plane or get out of customs. (Nevermind that I called her well in advance because I thought she would help me with the paperwork, which I now know she could've never acquired in the first place -- that's another story.) So now I will have to spend at least a month apart from Sage, which I haven't done since we adopted him. This, my friends, made my eyes nearly gush in public and in front of my dad, two things I try very hard not to do. And trust me, no hormones, steroids or otherwise, were involved.

The worst part is, I have no one to blame but myself. I put my faith in this veterinarian to guide me through the process, when I should've been trusting my instincts and taking the initiative myself. Of course, I hate confrontation, especially over the phone, which is how I dropped the ball in a big way. In other words, my own negligence is the reason why my dog will have to live in the foster care of Tim's mom for the next month.

Indeed, such pseudoparental failings were the reason for my last crying incident before yesterday. About three months ago, Sage attacked a small poodle at the dog park. Sage and said dog had already exchanged mannerly olfactory greetings, so I didn't think anything of it when he went back for a second round a little later. Out of nowhere, Sage attacked. Both made more noise -- Sage growling and the toy canine yelping -- than was warranted; there was no bleeding or broken skin. I can only assume that this snooty, frou-frou pooch said something offensive in doggy language, like "Get your slanty-eyed face out of my butt," which would make the onslaught totally justified. Nonetheless, I felt terrible. I shakily wrote down my phone number for the yuppie puppy owners and took Sage out of the park. I was so visibly rattled that a witness to the attack came up to comfort me as I started crying, telling me it's okay because sometimes dogs just don't get along.

Now imagine your 3-year-old son biting someone's face off at the playground, except he's mute so he can't tell you why he became so incensed. This is my dog at this very moment: licking my hands to calm me and wagging his tail to get the eyewitness' attention, like he wasn't 10 seconds away from being declared a public nuisance. And here I am, feeling as if I have entirely botched puppy rearing.

This clearly tells me I am not ready for children. These two incidents put me out of commission for the rest of the afternoon. Imagine what I would be like if, god forbid, an actual child of mine had to go to day care and bullied someone there. Sometimes having the best of intentions lead to the worst of outcomes. That might be why two-parent homes are cited as more stable. When one starts throwing wild pitches, the other can come in as reliever and earn the save. So the end of this story, of course, is Tim will be bringing the dog to Israel when he comes over in about a month. And the happy ending for all of you is: I will be incredibly far away from your progeny.

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

2007-06-30T21:15:00.000+03:00

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)

2007-06-27T16:59:00.000+03:00

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)

2007-06-26T17:49:00.000+03:00

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)

2007-06-18T20:47:00.000+03:00

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)

2007-06-14T17:43:00.000+03:00

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)

2007-06-12T19:06:00.002+03:00

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)

2007-06-11T19:21:00.001+03:00

"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)

2007-06-08T16:00:00.000+03:00

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)

2007-06-07T17:20:00.001+03:00

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)

2007-06-06T18:20:00.000+03:00

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.