For this journey

Unfortunately, I have not been a consistent blogger, and I hope that has not created much frustration for any of you.  

Right now I'm sitting in one of the two places in Taybeh I have access to the internet—Maria Khoury's house. She has been a beautiful source of encouragement and help to me here in Taybeh. I'm sitting here with Angam, one of my dearest friends and for that reason this blog will be short. I am in "return" mode now and so the little time I have with people here in Taybeh is precious to me—pray that the time spent will be sweet, drenched in God's Spirit. 

I leave Thursday for Jerusalem to stay there until Saturday morning with my friend from North Park University, Maggie. On Saturday I leave for Tel Aviv, pray for me around 12:00 p.m. my time. Security might be difficult for me. From there I go to London for the night where I'll stay with my professor's friend and leave for the States the next morning (Sunday). Pray for the people I'll encounter on this journey home. 

Though I haven't blogged much, I hope to continue to write and tell others about this trip. Feel free to check back here over the next weeks and months periodically to see if anything new has arrived. 

After dinner I sat with Salimeh.  She is lovely. Really. I know she doesn't feel it because when I tried to take a picture with her she was not happy.  Her face became sad and she said "Mish Helu [Not nice]."  

Tonight, though, as she lay in bed, I came beside her and we talked.  We talked about as much as my limited arabic would allow.  She is one of the few who can hear well.  That means we could talk a normal volume.  This makes the conversation much more pleasant.  

She wears a scarf on her head, probably to keep the decency of her beauty. I can tell that once she was gorgeous. You can see it in her aged face and in the dignity of her eyes. 

Last night I walked with Ad'lene again. She asked me (for about the 6th time that day) if I wanted to go. "She want to walk? You want to, you and me, walk?" 

After finally receiving the affirmative, she went directly for her sweater.  We linked arms, min being the sturdy-er, and proceeded to tiny-step our way outside. 

"It's cold!" she shivered.

"It's nice," I said. 

Earlier she pointed out that her arms are white and mine are black. "Not black," I replied. "Maybe brown. . . " and we laughed.  Slowly we made our way, arm-in-arm, past the row of yellow, pink, white, red, purple, and green.  I love the flowers here. My very favorite are Yasmine—Jasmine—for the strength and resilliance of their fragrance.  I am sure Yasmine will be forever Taybeh in my memory.  Sometimes I pick one as I walk by and give it to my companion, whoever that might be.  One day I made all the people I encountered smell the small white flower.  The other day I put one in Ad'lene's pocket.  I hope it smells sweet in death.

We talked in arabic mixed with english (araiizi, I call it).  Ad'lene rarely gets her pronouns right, so usually I don't understand what she's saying.  "My sister he want to go here. When you come he go to Beirzeit.  You want to go with me."  She wanted me to go with her to Beirzeit with her and her sister. I can't say much in arabic, so our conversations get confusing and repetitive.  We both come out okay anyway.  Sometimes Ad'lene talks so much and so much of it I can't understand, I get frustrated.  Tonight was lovely, though.  

After walking little by little half way up the big Beit Afram hill she began to hum—surprisingly in tune—something that reminded me of Beethoven's 5th Symphony.  We sang out beautiful notes for a short while, turned, and steadily made our return.  The two smaller dogs pranced around and on us, livening up the walk.  I do appreciate those dogs. 

Last night Tito, the mangiest of them all, the big one that limps and has yet to be rid of his winter coat, lay down beside me.  He came over and presistantly nudged me.  He reminds me a lot of a wolf, an I would say he's maybe a cayote but for the winter fur, maybe not.  He likes to sleep belly up and legs sprawled just outside Beit Afram's front door. 

The other do, Lucy (according to me) or Lassie (according to the neighbors) or Tito (according to Abouna Dominik), is most people's favoriet.  Her small frame is less imposing, and her black fur hides how dirty she probably is.  She behaves herself and gets more inside privileges than the others.  Abouna calls her in during meals and feeds her scraps.  One of the sisiters gave her a bath and brushed her.  Another resident, Aziyye, doesn't like her.  She shouts "Barra! [Out!]" and throws water on the spunky little dog.

The smallest of the three, Max (also called Tito by Abouna), is just a puppy.  He is tan with a few accenting dark brown patches on his face.  He tumbles around with the other tow, usually playing with Lucy, but sometimes nipping at Tito.  He behaves well for a puppy and certianly gives me joy and company on a lonely day. 

I wonder if Abouna Dominik (Father Dominik) had a dog named Tito at another time in his life.  There must be some reason why he calls three dogs by the same name when he can express most ideas in at least three languages.  Abouna studied Arabic for 20 years (though he told me it's a less than useful language), is Italian, and speaks English.  He always wears his priestly garb—a black robe, long sleeved, with black pants, black socks, back shoes, and usually a round black hat.  His large glasses give him buggy eyes and his fair complexion makes the habit dramatic.

All day long he prays.  I come up in the morning between 7-7:45 and he's sitting silently praying.  I arrive back from camp at 2:30 and he's praying.  I walk around before dinner and again I see him handling the beads of his rosary, praying.  I like to speak with him and I told him that I'd like to pray all the time too.

The other man in the home I know, Sammi, is usually confined all day to his wheelchair.  Yesterday I turned a corner only to see him, propped by Muniir, shuffling along down the hallway.  I rushed to him, smiling. "You're walking! Mabruk! [Congratulations!]" I cried. 

For him to see me I have to put my face directly in front of his own—he can't turn his neck.  I love to do this because it gives me a change to look at his eyes.  I bend over and with a louder-than-normal voice I say "Kiffak? [How are you?]." As soon as I'm in front of him a broad, toothy smile crosses his face.  His brown irises are beginning to turn blue on the rims—I think he's going blind.  Sometimes I grab his hands, sing a little tune, and lead him in some motions.  We clap afterwards, our laughter ringing in the foyer: mine young and full, his gruff, breathy, and little.  Some how though his laugh is small, it is also great. Like the triumph of a child standing.

Yesterday I cried at breakfast with Heluweh.  Her name means sweet, and so she probably was.  When I come into her room she looks at me without smiling, but usually nods her head.  She stretches out her bony hand, the clear skin loose and wrinkled, for me to hold.  I feed her bits of bread softened by warm milk.  After turning off the crackly television program (usually a recorded Catholic Mass with a children's chior singing out of tune), I sing.  I sing whatever songs come to mind, mostly ones that my mom sang me to sleep with when I was smaller (sometimes she still sings me to sleep with them).  

Song after song I am moved by emotion.  

I sang Masterpice.  While looking at her old, pained face with misplaced dark hairs growing in places hey shouldn't, and dysfunctional, dying body, I saw a creation of God. I wondered, "Is this what God designed for us?" 

My voice cracked. 

I sang Down in the Valley and hoped for the knowledge of love to reach this dying woman, too decrepit to feed herself. I stopped again and again, unable to go on for the emotion caught in my throat. 

A Home and Some Work

The first thing we did after finding Taybeh was fine Maria Khoury's house. It is right next to the Taybeh Beer brewery. There we found a scraggly, white puppy that they call doggie. He bit at my skirt. When Maria found us (she wasn't at home) she hugged me warmly and took us to the brewery. Taybeh Beer is not just any brewery. The beer is of teh finest quality and sold in Israel, Japan, and Germany. It represents the fight in Palestine for freedom because it supports Palestinian commerce as it is an all Palestinian product. It also displays Palestinian ability and ingenuity--one argument against Palestinians is that they could not sustain a government/society if given the opportunity because they are disorganized and incapable.
Beer in the Middle East is also a very Christian thing. Muslims, by the Quran, cannot drink at all. When consumed in moderation, this drink represents the beauty of Christian freedom from the law.
A postcard designed by Maria's son says "Taste the Revolution... Drink Palestinian."
Following this, Bishara, Katie, and Mono went back to Jerusalem. Maria drove me to Beit Afram, the elderly home where I stay and serve. It is a beautiful place on the outskirts of Taybeh. The building is 3 stories tall and made of white stone (as all the buildings are made) with bright blue window frames. From the windows and terraces the sight is glorious—especially at night. In one direction the lights of Amman, Jordan sparkle, in another Jerusalem shines. On a clear evening the dead sea is also visible, it's waters stretching across the front of a range of mountains dividing Palestine and Jordan. The mountains fill the land all the way to the horizon in every direction and the weather determines how far the eye can see.
As Maria showed me all that surrounded my new home, she couldn't ignore the encroaching Israeli settlements that are also in view. From any orientation a cluster of pretty, white, geometric buildings with red roofs takes up a portion of the view. Settlements are yet another encroachment of Israel into the Palestinian homeland—they are the most blatant message of Israeli domination. The settlements are houses built for Israelis only. They are built on confiscated Palestinian land. Sometimes the land already had Palestinians living on it, but in those cases the people are forced out and the homes demolished. In fact, the three settlements surrounding Taybeh right now are built on the community's land—including some of Maria Khoury's own. The settlements expand year after year.
My room is simple. There are no adornments: three beds (one for me with a pillow), a table, a bedside table, and a simple bathroom with a shower head, but no designated shower aread (the showers here are often just a corner of the bathroom). Since I'm on the ground level I found a lot of bugs in my room. I captured three beetles and I carried the outside. I killed three spiders in the first day. The ants wont seem to leave me alone, either. Good thing I don't get the creeps too easily!
My favorite part of my room, however, is that there are two huge windows on either outside wall. I like to open the shades before I go to sleep so that when I wake before seven in the morning the dawn light has already flooded my room like noonday. It gets bright early and stays light lat here. I'll be switching rooms now, though, because there are three boy volunteers coming to live in Beit Afram. The new room is still in the basement of the home. It's smaller and smells like rubber, but it'll be fine. It still has a window.

After Maria left me in Beit Afram, the manager, Ramon, took me to the Latin Church (here they call the Roman Catholic, "Latin," because there's also Greek Catholic) where I work at the kids' camp. I met with the two seminary students who are here for the month for the camp. They told me I would be teaching English to 80-150 students, 40 minutes classes, ages 6-15. I about passed out. 150 kids! And I don't even like kids en masse! I thought. I love kids in small numbers, but I lose most confidence in myself when I'm around lots of kids because they are so uncontrollable—they get riled up and there's no way to communicate anymore. The teaching task terrified me.
The first class I taught was iffy—the girl translating for me said "No comment" which didn't encourage me at all. The second class was terrible. I began to teach, but my lesson was too advanced for them.
"They're just babies," the other helpers said. And it is true—I had 6 year olds in that class and I was clueless.
At one point I thought the class was over so I sent them away. The kids stampeded out of the room. Feeling relieved, I thought about how glad I was that the 40 minutes flew by. Unfortunately, after I looked at the schedule again, I realized I read the wrong time slot—class was barely halfway over! Embarrassed and regretting my consentment to teach, I ran after the leaders to bring the kids back.
Instead of the plans I had been thinking about for days, for the last 20 minutes we sang the alphabet over and over, said the numbers over and over, and I drew some animals on the board and we said those over and over. . . it was miserable until we sang. I taught them "I've got the joy, joy, joy, joy, down in my heart! Where?"
After class really ended, the feeling I felt was far from relief this time. Not only did the kids refuse to listen to me, but the other leaders were not happy—they probably thought me a fool.
The second day God encouraged me in the morning. I prayed quietly in the church while the other leaders had Mass in Arabic. God reminded me that my purpse is not, in fact, to teach English. My purpose—at the summer camp, at Beit Afram, in Taybeh—is to love. With this word of life, I set out to teach in love. The first class, grades 4-6, enjoyed the game we played because they got to cheer at each point. They also giggled and sang along with the motions of "I've Got the Joy."
The second class, grades 7-9, was squirrelly beyond my patience. Eventually, I stopped and said (or rather, half-yelled), "Okay, this isn't working is it? Let's sing a song. You see, I'm not Catholic, and a way I've learned to worship God is through non-liturgical songs. Let me teach you one of them." I proceeded to sing the chorus of "How Great is Our God." The kids got a kick out of it. One of the boys recorded my voice on his MP3 player. Eventually they sang with me.
So, songs for teaching it is!
I had asked the North Park prayer team to pray for humbleness in my life. The asked me if I was sure I wanted that... it's risky and scary to ask God for humbleness. The lesson is never fun. I believed coming to Taybeh was going to orchestrate one of these lessons somehow. I thought that humbleness would consist of menial, behind the scenes work that would keep me quiet and out of the way. Instead, God gave me the task of teaching (something I don't like doing) a bunch of children (people I'm uncomfortable with) English from a foundation of Arabic (an exceedingly difficult language that I can barely speak). And so, the humbling experience has been through needing to trust in God for strength and peace, rather than just trust in myself for ability. The lessons are not fun, but it is good.

Onward (mostly) to Taybeh

After everyone got off, the driver took me to an intersection and told me to get out. "Here? This does not look like the Damascus gate" I said.

"It's close enough." 

"This isn't the Damascus gate!"

"I'm not going to drive all the way back in there. Get out here."

There was not use arguing. I got out.

At this point I called my friend Katie Cavallo.  She has been to Palestine three times now.  This girl truly has a deep passion for the Palestinian people.  I knew she was going to be in Palestine, so I contacted her for hlep since the flight debacle of getting here. She was mad that the driver took me only so far and that I paid 50 nis (shekels) for the ride.  She did assure me, however, that I wasn't far from the gate so I just began walking.

I rushed along awkwardly along the crowded sidewalk/street fumbling with my suitcase. Men overwhelmingly outnumbered women here. Great, I thought as I walked about 80 meters without seeing one woman.  I stayed on the phone with Katie, walked with as much confidence and strength as I could (with a rolling suitcase on a confusing and uneven sidewalk, this is not easy).  We met up shortly, and she bought me a fallafal sandwich. 

The first thing she said to me was, "Oh, you look so Jewish. Your skirt, hair, scarf..." Apparently Jewish youth look like what we Americans call hippies. For anyone who knows my style, this is not a promising look to walk around in a Muslim Arab community under Israeli occupation.  This was a very frustrating thing for me while I was in Jerusalem and Bethlehem.  I knew that most of the people around me abhorred me because of teh way I looked but I had no other option but to wear the skirt (remember, the lost bags...). I guess I could appreciate that I would automatically be accepted if I went to the Orthodox sector of the Old City, but even then maybe not—I wore short sleeves.  No matter where I went the people would be offended by my presence. 

It is anything but easy to exist in an occupation zone. 

The driving in this part of the world is simply crazy.  Old streets for donkeys pulling carts were not made for cars as well.  Funny, though, I have not been afraid while in a caryet.  We took a sherut from Damascus gat to Bethlehem but halfway there the taxi's wheel was bad so we squeezed into the next taxi that came.  We didn't have to pay (the taxi drivers work together like this).  We both stood and had to pile out each time someone wanted to exit.  I almost fell over so many times because the roads are all so curvy, hilly, and my huge backpack made balancing difficult. 

Upon arriving in Bethlehem Katie forcefully said "La', la' (no, no)" to the taxi drivers lobbying us for their business.  From there we walked to the souk, a marketplace.  In teh souk shoppers mix with cars mix with oriental rug shops mix with shoe stores mix with corn sellers mix with noise mix with anxiety.  All aound us people talked openly about the two white girls walking through the souk.

We turned into a garage and an energetic neighbor-boy rushed Katie. "Marhabah!"

"Kif haalak, Eliaz?"

"Mnih."

"Hamdulilah! (Praise God)"

We entered a large home on the top floor—Haitham and Shad's.  Still and refreshing compared to the frenzy of the souk.  Their home is like many Arab homes with the first area set aside as a sitting room.  It is packed with seating arraged for comfortable conversation.  Lush decorations of gold and velvet covered the room.  These sitting rooms are ornate—pretentiously so by Western standards—and, I have a feeling, not used often.

A long hallway connects the sitting room with the rest of teh house. As Shada walked toward us from the other end of the house light flooded the space behind her and made her sihouette appear dreamlike.  She welcomed us in.

Haitham jokes all the time and has kind eyes.  Shada is a gentle friend and a beautiful woman.  I stayed for 1 1/2 days in Bethlehem with these kind people.  They welcomed me and provided food, shelter, and safety.  Praise God for them and ask Him for blessing upon their home.  

At this point I was almost overwhelmed with lack of sleep (only by Friday did I finally have enough energy) but Katie and I went to the Church of the Nativity—Jesus' birthplace.  It is a beautifully adorned Orthodox church.  There are golden incense burners hanging, craggy walls, a wooden ceiling (this is rare, since wood is scare and stone plentiful) and mysterious rooms and passageways contributing to it's mystical essence.  The place of birth is in a hearth type chamber on the lower level of the church.  As we walked out into a courtyard kept by Franciscan monks two Muslim women from a Palestinian town that is unabashedly abused by the Israeli settlers there (see Katie Cavallo's blog entry on May 26th at katiecavallo.blogspot.com).  The younger woman, very pretty, wanted a picture with us... because we were pretty!  They were happy to meet us.  The feeling was mutual. 

Next we walked to the place where Katie has been staying, Hogar Ninos Dios.  About 14 severely mentally and physically handicapped people liver there from ages 1-40.  There are nuns who run the home and a teacher who comes to teach for a few hours each day.  Katie was not the only foreign help.  There's Lorenzo, a young, attractive, comical Italian cleaned and repaired all the while joking, and three people from Argentina: a doctor, dentist, and teacher.

As soon as we walked into the compound a girl, aged about 23, ran lopsidedly out to pounce on Katie with a greeting.  I met these lovely people, some so severely handicapped that they can barely move and make noise let alone walk and speak.  One girl, 15 years old, has only bones in permanently bend legs and is probably about three feet tall. 

Ramez, a toddler, had back, hip, and feet deformities that condemn him to scooting on the tile or concrete wherever he wants to go.  He will never walk without surgury.  The doctor from Argentina believed Ramez could walk with surgery and practice.  Katie intends to raise money for this small, bright boy when she gets back to the US. If you are interested in helping out, contact her at kcavallo@northpark.edu. 

After meeting everyone we simply spent time with them until it was time to go to bed.  This bedtime process lasts for hours because none of the occupants can be forced—they must be convinced—and this is not easy.  It made me smile to see the patience of the workers and the delight of the occupants.

The home was gentle and abrasive; beautiful and ugly.  The occupants' smiles and ability to communicate love warmed me, but the deformities and pain did not.  Some hit and yelled without restraint, but others lay softly in their beds with quiet smiles as I held hands and stroked hair. 

We were there until about 10:30 when Haitham and Shada came to drives us home (it's not safe to walk after dark).  We went to their neighbor's house to celebrate a birthday.  Everyone sits around and enjoys the company.  Family and friends, young and old, talking together.

For breakfast, pizza, but I couldn't finish it.  I have much less of an appetite here. For some reason I can't seem to eat as much, but I usually coerce what's given to me down.

I finally checked my facebook and there saw that my friend Bishara (the one who I asked to pick me up when I arrived in Tel Aviv on Sunday morning) wrote me a message saying he had waited at the airport for 5 hours and that he was very concerned for me.  He didn't get my message teling him that I was coming later until he came back from the airport.  Internet here can be difficult.  I was thankful that his character (which had partially broken apart in my eyes because I thought he forgot about me) was restored.  Even more so, when we called him he asked if I needed a ride to Taybeh.  "Yes" was the resounding answer. 

To get to Taybeh we encountered two checkpoints. Another safety precaution Israel employs is the checkpoint.  Checkpoints are places where soldiers check each passing car and approve or disapprove.  The Israelis do this to prevent terrorism and so have the right to dehumanize anyone passing through.  A refusal need not be explained—maybe the soldier's girlfriend dumped him and he doesn't feel like being nice.  There are permanent and temporary ones so there's not a good way to tell how long a drive will take between any two places.

After searching through Bishara's trunk (though he has an American and Israeli passport) the first checkpoint let us through.  "Judin!" the female soldier yelled to her peer as we pulled away.  She thought Katie and I were Jews. 

The second checkpoint was not so accomodating.  Though the road it's on leads to Taybeh in about 20 minutes and is nicely cared for, it is for diplomats only.  "Where will we go, then?" Bishara asked the soldier.

"Ramallah, Miami, Las Vegas" the unconcerned soldier boy remarked.

We took another road for over an hour instead.  One hill this way was so steep we nearly didn't make it to the top.  I didn't mind the detour much, though, because I could take in the scenery all day and not be tired of it.  The ancient hills of olive trees and rocks and sometimes Bedouin enthrall me.

At the top of the big hill we stopped to let the car cool and put water on it.  Here I walked away to take a photograph of the mountainsides.  Instantly, I met some of the townspeople.  I greeted a man an two little boys shepherded me to a tree that is thousands of years old—literally.  It is hollowed out but still blooming.  We drove a few more miles and arrived in Taybeh.

I'll finish the story of "Getting here" in another post. They have been written out of order. sorry! However, this is long, so feel free to read it all at once but you'll probably want to get cozy with some coffee or tea first. 

On Thursday morning I woke up more than once. I stirred at one and two and four. The whinny of a horse, bray of a donkey, and bark of a dog joined the chorus of the wind. The final time I woke to chanting on the dawn wind. I lay still, wondering if it could be the Muslim call to prayer, though I'm in a Christian town. Yes, I concluded. Slowly, I rose and slid back the window. Pressing my ear to the screen, I heard the eerie call.  I have been told that the modern call is ugly because itis mechanized. Here that is certainly not the case.  The call traved to me from a distance on the force of the ancient wind rushing through these mountains of substance.  This land breathes meaning.  The wind speaks secrets. 

As teh call filled the mountainside, thousands upon thousands of Muslims woke to bend their bodies and whisper submission to Allah.  They are up now, bodies aching and eyes tired.  Devotion to religion. May this land—the whole land—be someday ringing with devotion to Jesus alone.

These past two days, though both terrible and wonderful, have been some of the longest days of my life. After leaving the airport at 7 I walked (maybe stumbled a little) outside and found a sherut (a public taxi).  Here the man asked me where I was going.

"The Damascus gate."

He pointed to a bus and I pulled my suitcase over to throw it in the back.  I climbed in and found one bag in the first single seat. I took the second.  The sherut filled up with people—all quite Jewish—and luggage.  I laughed at how full a bus could get. 

This ride to Jerusalem showed me the political chargedness of the land.  An Orthodox Jew behind me asked me question after question: "Where are you going?" "Are you Jewish?" and finally, sadly, "Are you going to secure land for Israel?" He was asking if I was going to live in a settlement. Land for the settlements is illegally confiscated from Palestinians and then built upon for Jews.  Taybeh has three settlements on its land.  In fact, one of the settlements took land from Maria's husband and built on it.  There's nothing he can do.  They are slowly squeezing the people in. 

I replied to the man, "No, rather I'll be working in an elderly home and teaching English to kids."

Another man on the sherut spoke kindly and knowledgeably with me. He told me about irragation of the olive groves.  Hardy, old, sometimes sinister in appearance, the trees grow all over the countryside.  I have learend elsewhere that these are teh livelihood of Palestinian dwellers.  For many it is the only work they have (some places in the West Bank and Gaza have 50% unemployment, like Taybeh).  Families own the groves for generations and each year they harvest olives for oil and sometimes the trees for wood. 

I saw a terrible thing yesterday: hundreds of olive trees chopped off at the stump. This is brutal for the Palestinian people.  Apparently the Israelis do this to punish them for an attack that happened in the countryside.  It is unfortunate that for the stupidity and hate of a few, an entire nation of beautiful people is punished.  

There are also walls built within the holy land that are for the so-deemed protection of the Israeli people. These walls are about 18 meters high and a foot thick. Cement.  (Check out my facebook profile picture) Brooding and demoralizing, the walls split cities from side to side, mother form son, family from olive grove (remember how important the olive groves are?) and even lover from beloved.  I saw a cry painted onto the wall Wednesday: "There is no wall high enough to keep a girl from the one she loves."  Whenever I drive by these walls my brow cinches, my eyes close, and my hand flies to my chest what for the aching in my heart. 

more tomorrow.

Getting here

So far this journey has been anything but usual and smooth. This is a frustration, but so much more than that, a blessing. Here's the story (I will write some excerpts from my journal into this)

June 27-30, 2008
at the airport the family contributed more to get me on the flight than I did. What with all their guidance and direction I couldn't NOT get there: "push that button." "Don't carry your purse like that." "Walk this way." "Keep your papers together!"...

Time wore on at the gate in Columbus as the flights to Philly goofed up over and over again. I eventually missed my connection into Hethrow (London) and becuase of that I spent the next two days with my Aunt Melanie in Philly. I also ended up in Delaware, and Jersey.

I went the historical district all day on Saturday. We walked around the same square 5 blocks all day long. I loved the history and the prevelance of actors telling stories, giving tours, and simply playing into the atmosphere.

On Sunday we went out to Cape May. It was beautiful. I enjoyed relaxing (sometimes sleeping!) in the sun and being bullied by the bay's waves. Aunt Mel gets up early and has mannerisms so like Papa that I second guess who I'm with sometimes. Twins...

Sunday night I left for the airport. Once I got there there were many people waiting everywhere.


July 2, 2008
Right now I am sitting in Shada's house in the suk eating the best baTikh (watermelon) i've ever had. It's not seedless and tastes a bit like the earth. Our baTikh in the U. S. is good, yes, but it is missing the real-ness. This is a hard thing to describe.