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

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)

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)

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)

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 I 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)

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)

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 too 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 Croatia, 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 walk 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)

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.