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

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)

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)

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)

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)

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)

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)

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)

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)

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)

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)

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)

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)

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)

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)

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)

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)

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 leads 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)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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