A Visit from Losaunne

My sister Losaunne came and visited at the end of February. It was an AWESOME visit, filled with excitement, randomness, and of course awesome people who wanted to contribute to my new life view (found in Spain) that people are wonderful and nice and loving. Here are just a few experiences from her trip.

*Day 1. Losaunne arrives and, after greeting her at the airport, we take the bus back to Jerusalem (I was a mean sister. Without a license I couldn't rent a car, so I made her take public transportation). Lugging her bags through the Central Bus Station, I stop to let a group of soldiers pass by. (Now, let me say that I usually only come in contact with Israeli soldiers at checkpoints. They do not inspire warm fuzzy feelings inside of me.) I see a male soldier eyeing me and my luggage. I pull out my phone so as to pretend like I am just checking my texts so he will just walk up the stairs and not offer to help (gut reaction--I initially reject everyone's offers to help). He waits for me. I put my phone away and go to pick up the bag. He walks over to me, looks at me and motions with his head, "Are you taking this up?" I motion with my head, "Yes." And he picks up the bag and takes it up the stairs for me.

*Later that day. We go to Hebron. It's full-on initiation for my sister, who has little first-hand knowledge about "the conflict" and "the situation" in Israel and Palestine. We see the soldiers, the checkpoints, the abandoned streets, the graffiti. Luckily it is raining and there are no settlers around to throw stones at us. We go into the Tomb of the Patriarchs, first the synagoge side and then the mosque side (passing through two different checkpoints to do so). We walk into the mosque. An old Palestinian woman, all of the wrinkles on her face turned upwards into smiles, walks over to me. "Welcome," she says in Arabic. I respond in Arabic. Her face lights up. "You speak Arabic! Welcome, welcome! How is your family? What's going on in your life? Is everything going well?" I exchange similar greetings with her and we both continue on our way.

*Later that evening (I let Losaunne sleep on the bus rides) we go in to Jerusalem. It's Thursday night and the Ultra-Orthodox are making, selling, and buying Challah for Shabbat. My friend Beverli just read about the 4 best Challah bakeries in Mea Shearim, the Ultra-Orthodox neighborhood, and a few of us go to compare them. With the recent protests surrounding the Ultra-Orthodox community, I am especially wary of my "secularness" with uncovered hair and pants. We send Greg, the only male in the group, into a restaurant to check and see if women are allowed because only men are present. When he waves us in, several people in the restaurant volunteer their opinions on the best food. We go to the bread store, where we are also the only women (4 women and 1 guy), and several people there also tell us which breads and cookies are the best. I am shocked. My stereotypes of and fears about two groups of people, soldiers and Ultra-Orthodox, are confounded in one day.

*We visited Safat. Nothing spectacular happened there, but I took this awesome picture--one of the only good ones that I've ever taken with my ipod.

*The next several pictures are from Nablus. I was so stoked to go to Nablus because I hadn't been...it is deep within the West Bank and therefore a place where few foreigners go. And even fewer foreign girls that speak Arabic that wander around acting like natives. We passed this one guy and I heard him mutter under his breath (in Arabic): "Arabs? Or foreigners? Arabs? Or foreigners?" I knew that if I was an Arab girl I wouldn't answer him, and if I was a foreigner I wouldn't understand him. So I just didn't answer. What can I say, I'm looking more and more Arab every day. :)

On our "reconnaissance" walk around downtown, Losaunne saw this delicious smoothie shop. We ran in to take a look, and I asked for "what the guy before us just got, because it looks amazing." What we got was a blend of fruit and ice cream, with strawberries sprinkled on top. When he asked which kind of ice cream we wanted (there were only two kinds), I hesitated. "Here," he offered, scooping up a spoonful and offering it to me. I stared at the ice cream scoop, wondering how to get the ice cream from the scoop to my mouth. Noticing my hesitation, he pushed his thumb into the ice cream to lift it up a little and give me a better grip. Wondering why I had never realized that ice cream was finger food before, I picked it up and ate it. Thankfully my "health code fears" disappeared long ago...

We finally found Facebook's headquarters. It's not in California, like everyone thinks. Nope, it's actually in Nablus, deep in the West Bank.

The church over Jacob's well in Nablus. Unfortunately we couldn't take pictures of the well, but it was deep. Very deep. This is where tradition holds that Jesus asked the Samaritan woman to draw some water so he could drink.

Despite the chilly weather, I convinced Losaunne to get in the Dead Sea, just to experience the crazy floating feeling. She was a little skeptical at first, but quickly became a believer. I LOVE the look on her face in the top middle picture. "I can't believe I'm floating!"

*We went through a quick jaunt through Hezekiah's tunnel (not without first discussing the political and societal impact of the City of David and its owners on the area, don't worry). We had a full day planned, so we got to Jerusalem at 7, ate breakfast, and waited for everything to open. We were at Hezekiah's tunnel at 8:08. The first ones in, we had to wait several minutes for them to open the lower gate (inside of the thigh-deep water). A man went down in front of us and, not wanting to get his pants wet, just pulled them off and waded into the water. We politely looked away as he emerged after unlocking the gate. It was a little awkward.

*It was FREEZING cold. Seriously. You wouldn't believe it by the amount of snow that we got in February (see the picture below), but it was SO COLD. And my apartment, by some engineering magic, is about 10 degrees colder than the outside temperature. Friday I had a full day of fun planned, including watching the Jews welcome Shabbat at the Western Wall. Instead, we spent the afternoon trying to stay warm and not get rained on inside of Dormition Abbey, a cathedral just outside of the Old City. We finally gave up and ran through the rain (and swam through the streets of the Old City) all the way back to the bus station. After a bus and taxi ride, we finally got home and peeled the wet clothes off. We donned dry clothes and ran over to stand by the space heater. Three minutes later the power went out. To stay warm, I lit my stove and Losaunne stood next to the fire. It worked about as well as it looks.

*Losaunne was privileged enough to celebrate her birthday with me while she was here! Always one to think ahead, I had a stash of pitas and nutella reserved for this very purpose. While she was showering, I was making her pita cake. Nutella frosting and a peanut-butter "L" finished the product. And a mask left over from my landlord's son's birthday a day or two before I moved in (and left in the cupboard) made the whole affair extra special. Best. Birthday cake. Ever.

At the monastery overlooking Jericho

Guys. These are the longest single-span cable cars below sea level IN THE WORLD.

Losaunne discovered the deliciousness of hummus and french fries. WAY better than ketchup.

Learning how to fly.

Doesn't it look like she's hanging on that string? It was a total accident (or maybe I'm just that awesome of a photographer).

*We went to the Bahai gardens. As we walked up to the security gate, Losaunne was, as usual, chewing a piece of gum. "No gum inside," they told us, and pointed at the garbage can. After an awkward pause, they looked at Losaunne and said, "Do you have gum?" "I swallowed it," she said, and laughed awkwardly. They stared for a minute, confused, and then stepped aside. I guess normal people spit their gum out?

*The day before we went up North to the Galilee region for two days, I was still looking for a cheap hotel. I was using the internet at my friend Sahar's house because it was down (for the third day in a row) at my house. "Why don't you stay at the Mazouwi's in Nazareth?" she asked. Not wanting to impose, Sahar called them and asked for recommendation for cheap hotels in the area. "Yes, we know of a place," they said. "OUR HOUSE." These people seriously live in a mansion with their three children. And they have an empty basement apartment. "Why don't you move here?" asked Losaunne as we explored the incredible features of the house, including indoor heating and warm water. "The best part of staying here," Losaunne told me, "is knowing that when I get out of bed I'm not going to freeze to death on the way to the bathroom." I don't think it was THAT bad at my apartment...

There was a sunroof over this little hallway-room and a painting of a garden on the wall. When I woke up and walked out of my room, this is what greeted me.

*Nazareth was an interesting place to stay. It is a town of both Arab-Israelis and Jewish-Israelis, and I look more Jewish-Israeli than Arab-Israeli. Naturally, everyone was shocked when I spoke to them in Arabic. When we walked into one restaurant, I couldn't tell off the bat what the owner spoke, so I asked him, "English? Arabic? Hebrew?" He looked at me for a second, sizing me up, and then said, "Hebrew." So I struggled through an order in Hebrew, suspecting the whole time that he was Arab. Sure enough, while we were waiting for our order I heard him speaking Arabic to some of the other customers. When they offered me coffee (which I politely refused), the owner said, "She speaks Arabic!" They were all so curious to know why I spoke Arabic and SHOCKED to hear that I live in the West Bank. Yep, I know. I'm a monster.

*The first day in Nazareth we were trying to find the Mazouwi's house. I ran into a bakery to buy some cookies and ask them if they knew where the street was. Apparently the two late-teens/early-twenties (affectionately called shabab) men at the front had been talking about us, because they got really embarrassed when I greeted them in Arabic. "Why do you speak Arabic?" asked one, shocked. "Because they're Arab!" the other one said, with his tone implying, dummy! Why else would they speak Arabic? They're clearly Arab!

I'm taking it as a compliment. Basically I'm Arab now, everyone and their dog wants to help me or be nice to me, and my sister knows how to fly. It was an awesome visit. Did I miss anything Losaunne?

Life as a Lone Traveller

A few weeks ago I took a trip to Spain and Morocco. Alone. The thought of travelling alone in two countries I had never been before was a bit terrifying at first. But then a week before I left I was talking to my mother on Skype, and I realized, "I live in the West Bank. ALONE. I always travel alone. I think I'll be ok."

However, travelling alone always brings with it the hilarious, the creepy, and the wow-these-people-are-so-nice-did-they-really-just-go-out-of-their-way-to-help-me. So here you are: life as a lone traveller in Spain and Morocco.

*First, you have to know that I speak very little Spanish. Very, very little. I can count to ten, nod my head yes or no, and say tu hable Ingles?" I think we've seen in a previous post, however, that my Spanish skills were unfortunately more useful than my English, Arabic, Chinese, or Hebrew skills in Spain. One day I was trying to find an internet cafe. I was planning on leaving for Morocco the next day and I wanted to compare flight and plane prices, connect with my friends in Casablanca about church on Sunday, and try and find a place to stay. Basically, I was desperate for internet. I was staying in the Madrid temple's patron housing, so I asked the person at the front desk (who, thankfully, spoke excellent English) where an internet cafe was. He looked up the closest ones on his phone, printed me off a map, and wished me luck. Unfortunately, I needed more than luck (I realized several hours later that he had given me the wrong map!)--I needed a miracle. After getting off at two different metro stops and consulting my map for at least 20 minutes to try and figure out where I was, I finally walked into a pharmacy. Surely pharmacists speak English, as the medical world converses in English, I thought to myself. "Tu hable Ingles?" I asked. No. Not at all. Not even enough to understand "What's the name of this street? Nombre? Calle?" The pharmacist wanted so badly to help that she kept speaking to me rapidly in Spanish and gesturing at the map while I looked at her helplessly. Finally she turned to one of the several customers that had accumulated since I had entered the store. "Excuse me," she asked in Spanish, "do any of you speak English?" One of them did and, as everyone in the store looked on encouragingly, translated the pharmacist's directions: "This is the wrong metro stop. You need to get back on the metro and go in the opposite direction." (It was at this point that I realized the map was wrong.) "Gracias," I said as I left the store. Thank you, thank you, thank you for wanting to help enough to ask your other customers to translate, I thought as I walked back toward the metro. (By the way, after another hour of searching, I discovered that the internet cafe had closed. Fail.)

*I took a day trip to Toledo to visit the Christian/Muslim/Jewish sites there and see a place where, at one time, all of them had lived together in a relative peace. While I was there I stopped in at the Santa Maria la Blanca synagogue, which was, according to my Triposo ipod app, "constructed under the Christian Kingdom of Castile by Islamic architects for Jewish use" and is owned and preserved by the Catholic church. I was a little overwhelmed at the mix of religion, architecture, and tradition, and stopped by the table of the nun who was selling some of the art on display in the former synagogue. "I live here," I said, pointing at a picture of Jerusalem. "You do?" she asked excitedly and then, in Hebrew, "Do you speak Hebrew?" Shocked, I asked her why a Catholic nun in Spain would speak Hebrew. "Our order's founder was born in Israel...he converted to Christianity and started this order. We want to be a bridge between the Jewish and Christian communities, so he is teaching us Hebrew and we celebrate all the Jewish holidays here, in celebrations that are open to the public." And this, my friends, is the odd story of a Mormon girl from Utah and a Catholic nun conversing in Hebrew in the middle of Spain.

 

*A little later in the day, I stopped by the mosque of Cristo de la Luz in Toledo, which is one of the oldest mosques in Europe (and which was later converted into a cathedral). After examining the Arabic graffiti on the walls, I sat in a corner to give my feet a rest for a minute. "I wonder what the Arabic graffiti says," I heard someone say IN ENGLISH. Finally, someone I could understand! "It says God is the merciful one," I offered. Turns out this family was from Toledo, Ohio, just visiting their daughter who was studying in Switzerland and taking a side trip to the other Toledo. OHIO. People, this family was from the very state that I am planning on moving to next year, and their daughter has some good friends at THE Ohio State University. The only people who speak English in the whole town, and they're from Ohio.

*A lot of my stories are from Toledo. I got on a bus to go back to the train station, and since the sun had gone down and it was dark I got a little disoriented. I was trying to figure out which stop to get off at, and I looked out the window and saw a train. But just as I was about to get off, I saw a bridge and remembered that we had passed over a bridge just after the train station, so I settled back in my seat, deciding that maybe the train was up the tracks a little way instead of sitting at the station. And then suddenly, before the bus driver could close the doors (we were 2 bus stops past where I had seen the train by now), a woman came up to me and started speaking excitedly in Spanish. Seeing that I understood nothing, she finally said, "Train?" When I said "si, si," she shouted to the bus driver to reopen the doors and, pointing back the way we had come, said, "Train, train." I got off and yep, sure enough, the train I had seen was indeed sitting at the station. I have no idea how that woman knew I wanted to go to the train station, but I thank her and divine intervention for helping me get off when I did.

*After several days in Spain, I attended one last temple session before going to Madrid. Spain was wonderful and the temple was spectacular, but I really missed speaking to people in English. Or even Arabic or Chinese or Hebrew. Basically I missed understanding and being understood by people. Friday evening, as I was at the temple, one of the workers started speaking to me in (native) English. Turns out she and her husband were from KAYSVILLE, Utah and were missionaries at the Madrid temple. People. My PARENTS live in Kaysville. It just happened that I ran into one of the only English speakers in the temple, and it just happened that she was from the same small city in Utah that my parents live in. It was a huge sign to me that God loves me and is very aware of me.

 

*I took a train from Madrid to Algeciras, where I wanted to catch a bus to Tarifa and then take a ferry to the port in Tangier. However, when I got to the bus station, no one could confirm my guidebook's directive that there was actually a port in Tarifa and ferries actually did depart from there to get to Tangier. When the bus came, I tried to ask the driver. "Tarifa? Ferry in Tarifa? Ferry to Tangier?" I tried. He finally nodded, and I knew that at least this bus was going to Tarifa, if nothing else! But then as I was walking to the back of the bus a Moroccan woman asked me, "Are you taking the ferry to Tangier from Tarifa? My husband and I are also taking the ferry...when we get to Tarifa maybe we can split a taxi to get to the port." And it was a good thing that I had them to follow, because the bus dropped us off almost a mile from the port and there were no taxis. Luckily I had them to follow, rolling our suitcases all the way!

*I have lived in the Middle East for more than 14 months now, and I have been all over Egypt, Jordan, and the West Bank. I thought I was used to the cat calls and harassment that girls with white skin, red hair, and blue eyes experience in the Middle East. But dang, the men in Morocco were like nothing I have ever encountered. I got in to Rabat around 10 at night and got off the train to try and find my hotel. Within seconds of leaving the train station, young shabab (young men between the ages of 14-28) surrounded me. Some of them offered to help me pull my one small piece of luggage, others of them told me I was beautiful in French, Arabic, and English, and one of them was so persistent that he followed me to my hotel (a mere block and a half away from the train station, thankfully!). "Excuse me," he said, "Have I seen you before?" "No," I stated emphatically. "No really, I think I know you. Didn't I meet you at..." he left it hanging and I waited, expectantly, to see where he thought he knew me from. "Nope," I stated, knowing full well that we had never met before. As I got to my hotel door, he said, "What I really mean is, will you go out for coffee with me?" Guys, I've never seen the men so over-the-top pushy. I probably could have gotten married within the hour if I wanted to! I'm pretty sure in 3 days in Morocco I was asked on more dates than I had in 6 years at BYU. And no, this is not a reflection on my pathetic social life in college. :)

*I stayed in this totally sketch hotel in Rabat. It was only 15 dollars a night for a private room with a shower in the room (although there were only two toilets per floor, in separate rooms in the hall). But hey, it was only a block and a half from the train station, it was super cheap, and I didn't have to go wandering far in the streets of Morocco to find a hotel (and be attacked by the shabab all along the way). I had absolutely no desire to touch anything on the bed or the floor, though, so I pulled out a sheet I had brought for this very purpose and rolled up in it before I got on the bed, moving the pillow out of the way and instead sleeping on my dirty laundry bag. It was freezing in the room, though, so I put on several shirts from my dirty clothes pile and tried not to die in my thin sheet. I woke up several times in the middle of the night, certain that I would freeze to death, but I finally got up at 6, grateful to have survived the night (and hopeful that I hadn't contracted any worms or diseases from the room). I realized that I had forgotten my flip flops, but there was no way I was going to stand barefoot on that shower floor. I put a plastic bag on the floor, turned on the water, and tried to step in. BAM. Naturally sloped shower floor + wet plastic bag + mid-calf-high step into the shower = big bruise on my calf from falling. Thankfully I didn't touch the floor and the water was even warm.

When I saw the room I thought to myself, "My father would die before staying at this hotel. But hey. $15 a night."

*The next morning, after my freezing night at the hotel, I was supposed to meet my friends Brooke and Max at the train station, where they would take me to church. I was super excited to go to church in Morocco, but even more I think I was excited to see someone I knew and speak English. Imagine my dismay when they didn't show up at the appointed time. 8:20 came and went. 8:30. 8:40. I'm pretty sure she said church starts at 9...did I miss them? Did they forget about me? Did they get in an accident? Did Brooke send me an email changing the plan and I just didn't get it? Before I panicked, I realized I had Brooke's number. But every pay phone was phone-card only, not cash. I finally walked up to a group of chatty girls. "Excuse me," I asked in Arabic. "Do you know where there are pay phones where you can use cash and not a card?" "Just use my phone," one of the girls said, in English. "Welcome to Morocco!" I called twice to no avail. And then the nice girl tried to call. "It says this is an invalid number," she said. Invalid number? Can I panic yet? I don't have the address of the church...I don't even have Max's number! I thought to myself. Trying not to cry (it had been a long night, ok?!), I walked back in the train station to try and find another phone. The most beautiful thing I have ever heard was someone shouting "Breanne!" as I wandered through the station. Turns out there are two train stations in Rabat, and Brooke and Max had been waiting at the other one. I almost kissed them, I was so happy to not be abandoned at a train station in Morocco! And church was wonderful.

*And finally, although I had many, many more adventures, I will end with this one (although my layover in Rome and a crazy experience on the train in Morocco deserve their own posts, which are forthcoming). The train stations in Morocco are kind of wild. Some of them are in the middle of big cities, and some of them are in the middle of nowhere. Literally. After my stint in Rabat, I took the train to Assilah. By the time we got there, it was after dark. I got off the train and saw everyone walking to the edge of the platform and disappearing into the darkness. My guidebook said that you had to walk a few kilometers from the train station to the town, so I grabbed my suitcase and walked off into the darkness. Wanting to make sure I was walking the right way, however, I turned back and asked an older woman (in Arabic), "Is this the way to get to Assilah?" And just like everyone else in Morocco, she responded to me in French. "Please, speak Arabic," I said. "I don't speak French." "Arabic? You speak Arabic? Come. Come with me. My son is waiting on the road. You can ride with us. Where do you need to go?" They drove me right to my hotel (which was much less sketch than my one the night before and only $10 a night, by the way) and, when I asked if I could pay, she just laughed and closed the door. Thank you, dear woman, for giving me a ride so I didn't have to walk down a dark highway alone! (But the next morning, when I was walking back to the train station and two shabab asked me if I wanted a ride, I politely said no. Don't worry, I only take rides if there is a woman in the car!)

The Assilah train station, situated in the middle of nowhere.

So that's it, my friends. Travelling alone certainly gave me some crazy stories, but above all, I realized that people are so willing to help. So, anybody want to join me on my next adventure?

*PS (can I put a PS on a blog post?): my sister just reminded me that I forgot to tell the story of when I pretended I could only speak Chinese. I was getting pretty sick of people harassing me in English, French, and Spanish. When I got to Assilah, I went for a walk around the town, but it was dark and as has been seen, the creepers come out in the dark. I was walking around the Old City, just heading back go my hotel, and suddenly I see this guy out of the corner of my eye making a beeline for me and speaking at me in English. I shook my head. "我不會將," I said in Chinese. I don't speak that language. He tried Spanish and French. I kept shaking my head and repeating in Chinese, "I don't speak that." BAM. Less than 15 seconds of refusing in Chinese, and he walked away. Success. I think I'm safe with Chinese as my "native" language all over the Middle East...

Stuck in Spain, Part II

Continued from this post.

I'm sure you have all been on the edge of your seats wondering how this story will end. And I'm sorry to keep you in suspense for so long, but I have learned a little secret about my life: I can barely live without internet. And another little secret? For some reason my internet at home seems to go down every weekend. I know. Talk about frustrating. I have almost gotten to the stage of wandering around with my ipod trying to find an open signal so I can check my email.

Anyway. When I left off last, I had just left Meribelle's information booth to walk over to the pay phones to call my sister. Just as I was about to sacrifice some of my remaining Euros to the cause (thankfully a few had fallen out of my wallet into my bag), Meribelle came running up with a handful of coins. "Here," she said. "Use these." I refused, telling her that I had several Euros that I could use. "Oh well," she said. "Take them anyway. If you don't use them you can bring them back."

This woman must be a saint. Or an angel. Or both. I hope her place is reserved in heaven. I put several Euros in and began the first of many 2 Euros/minute calls to the US. And wouldn't you know it? Just as my sister answered and I started frantically explaining to her what to do about the plane ticket, watching the seconds tick down and putting in another Euro every 30 seconds, some man comes up to me and starts speaking to me in Spanish. I shot him the can't you see I'm busy and I don't speak Spanish? look and kept talking to my sister. And then. AND THEN. He started asking me in Arabic for money. Or maybe it was English. Or maybe he was still speaking Spanish. I couldn't really tell at that point. I looked at him, incredulous that he would be asking me for money, and a little bit disgusted that he would interrupt this incredibly expensive phone call to beg. "I don't have any money. No. Not any," I told him, almost laughing at the ridiculousness of it all.

By this time it was getting late and I was getting desperate. "I think there is a Western Union nearby," I told my sister. "Let me run out and see when it closes and I'll call you back with the info." So I ran out of the station, across the huge parking lot, crossed three streets, and went into the Western Union. Unfortunately, that one was already closed, but the one down the street "stays open until 10," said the man at the counter. So I went to the one down the street. "Tu hables ingles?" I asked hopefully. When the man at the counter shook his head no and said, "Espanol? Francais?" I looked at him closely and said "Arabi?"

Success. He was Moroccan. After finding out that they close at midnight and I don't need a Western Union code or anything, yes my family could just send it online, yes it transfers immediately, and yes I'll be right back, I ran back to the station and called my sister again. "Ok, they have a Western Union and you can just transfer the money. I need 50 Euros. Thanksifitdoesn'tworkI'llcallyouagain" I said and hung up before I had to put in another Euro.

I checked with Meribelle to make sure my luggage was still ok in her information booth and then ran back to the Western Union. The time was 8:30. My bus left at 9:00. I still needed to get the money, run back to the station, pay for my ticket, and get on the bus. And maybe, I thought, the adrenaline pumping, just maybe, I'll make it.

I burst into the door of the Western Union and ran up to the counter, panting. The man was chatting with someone else. I started tapping my toes in impatience. He kept chatting (I'm assuming it was a customer). Then he looked up at me and said "Just a minute." "I'm sorry, but can you hurry?" I asked, my panic overruling my manners. "My bus leaves in 20 minutes."

When I had almost exploded from the pumping adrenaline, he turned to help me. "Do you have the confirmation number?" he asked. "What? What confirmation number? Can't I just give you my passport?" "Nope. I need the number," he said. Desperate, I saw the green phones lining the wall. Pay phones. The kind you pay after you call. I left the counter and ran into an open booth. Broken. I tried another booth. Also broken. I paced back and forth waiting for a working booth to become empty and then ran inside to call my sister and get the confirmation number. Busy. I called again. Busy. I called again. Still busy. I tried my mother's number. Busy. "They're on the phone with each other!" I thought frantically, as I dialed my father's number. "Dad. I need you to get ahold of mom and tell her to get off the phone with Jocilyn. I need the confirmation number!!! My bus leaves in 12 minutes!" I shouted into the phone. My father, ever the calm one, said, "Can I transfer you some money?" Yes. Yes. Transfer me some money and I'll call you back in exactly one minute.

I rocked back and forth in the booth for exactly 55 seconds and called him again. "What's the code," I asked. No time for pleasantries, my bus leaves in 11 minutes. "I'm still waiting for the page to load!" he said, exasperated. "Can't you get on the bus and pay them in Madrid when you arrive?" "I'll try that. If I don't call again that's what I did," I said and ran out of the booth, out of the store, and across two streets.

I forgot to pay for the phone call. Realizing that my honor was more important that making the bus, I ran across two streets and back into the store. Interrupting the customers at the counter, I said, "I forgot to pay" and shoved 20 dirhams at him (about 2.5 dollars), even though it only cost 4. As he was fishing in the cash register for change, I said "Never mind!" and ran out of the store, back across 3 streets, across the parking lot, and into the station to try and buy a bus ticket. Panting, sweating, and almost hyperventilating, I watched in horror as the bus tickets man, on the phone, started pulling at least a week's worth of receipts out of his drawer and setting them on the counter, all the while talking rapidly in Spanish on the telephone and occasionally glancing at the man who I assumed he was helping. 4 minutes left. 3 minutes left. The man is still on the phone, spreading out the receipts, and I am about to miss my bus. With 1 minute left before 9, Meribelle walked into the office. "Did you get the money?" she asked. "No," I panted. "I want to know if I can get on the bus and pay in Madrid." Finally the man hung up and Meribelle spoke to him. My rough translation: "Has the bus already left?" Checks his watch. "Yep." "Can she buy a bus ticket and pay in Madrid?" "What is her problem? She has been in here 5 times already and she doesn't speak any Spanish and I don't speak any English." "Her wallet was stolen!" At this point everyone in the office turns and looks at me and they mutter a collective sigh of pity. I nod pathetically. "No she can't. But there's a bus at 10 pm."

Meribelle turns to me. "There's a bus at 10." "There's a bus at 10?" I almost melted into a puddle of relief and sweat. "What am I running for? Will he reserve a place for me on the bus? I will run and get the money and come right back."

With a promise that he would hold a seat for me until 9:45, I ran back to the Western Union. Again. The man looked up as I burst into the store again. By this time I think he had gotten used to it. Once again I went to the green telephone booths and sat in one. I called my sister. "Mom is at the Western Union. They wouldn't let me do it online. She had to go in to the store. She should be there now."

Call #2, this time to my mother's cell phone, met with success. "Do you have the confirmation number?" I asked. "You don't need it," she said. No. No, I very much need it, thank you very much. Confirmation number in hand, I told my mother, "Tell Jocilyn to try and find the cheapest option for getting a new flight, please," hung up, and walked over to the counter. My new bill for the calls to America were still covered by that 20 dirham bill I had shoved at the owner, so he took my confirmation number, looked at my passport, and gave me the money. Thankfully I had a few dirham left (I had taken them out of my wallet when we reached Spain) and I had them changed to Euros (the Western Union/pay phone center/internet cafe also happened to be a money change place, conveniently). And then I walked back to the port (no need to run this time). And yes, throughout this whole process I thought about the horrific memory I have of that time my parents were visiting and we were stuck at the airport in Amman. Definitely not something I wanted to repeat in at least 3 lifetimes.

I got my bags from Meribelle (and asked for an evaluation form so I could tell her supervisor that she saved my life and needs a raise--she just laughed and shrugged like it was nothing), bought my bus ticket from the bus ticket man (he still couldn't speak any English, and I still couldn't speak any Spanish) and I walked out to find the bus. After getting back almost to the Western Union and sure I had missed it, I walked over to some people standing at a stoplight. "Tu hable ingles?" I started, but then stopped. Arabs. Great. They speak Arabic. Thank goodness for all of these Moroccans in this border town! They had no idea what bus I was talking about, but motioned to a bus station another block away.

Nope. I knew that wasn't the right one because that was the bus station I had used several days before. Panicking once again, afraid that I would miss the bus after all of this madness, I headed back to the station. Passing some guys on the way who asked me in Spanish if I needed help (they must have seen me walking back and forth), I just asked them in Arabic if they knew where the bus to Madrid was. I guessed right, they were Arabs, and they pointed me to the bus.

Phew. It was only 10 minutes late. At 10:12 I had loaded my luggage, sat in my seat, and we were on the way. I was exhausted and hadn't eaten since breakfast, but I was too worried about paying for another plane ticket and getting out of Madrid to be able to sleep much. I drifted off into a nightmarish sleep, dreaming of me running back and forth and never getting anything done (or was that reality?), until we pulled into Madrid.

5:50 am. NO WAY. I took the 10 pm bus and still made it to Madrid before 6 am (they told me the 9 pm bus gets to Madrid at 6). I grabbed my luggage and ran inside, found a pay phone, and called my sister. "I'm in Madrid. Did you buy a ticket? I think I'm going to make my plane." "Yes. I did. It leaves at noon."

"Ok. I'm going to the airport now. If I call you from there please try to cancel my ticket." And I ran outside to the taxis.

"Airport," I said, as one taxi driver motioned me over. "How much?" At this point, I was willing to pay anything, but I only had 30 Euro left. "27, 29 Euro," he said. I pulled my money out to make sure I had enough and jumped in.

Sure enough, it was an 8 minute ride to the airport, and sure enough, it cost 27 Euro. I will never pay that much for a taxi ride again in my life, but it was totally going to be worth it if I could make my plane and somehow get my money for the other ticket refunded.

I grabbed my suitcase and started running into the airport, naturally slipping and falling to the pavement (I had been on a bus all night, ok?) and getting a nice green bruise to show for my pain. The taxi driver looked worried, but I just got up and kept running into the airport.

I found my line and looked at the people. 6:10 am and 14 people in front of me. I turned to the man just in front of me. "Me. Flight. Siete," I said, trying to make him understand. I pointed in front of him. Thankfully, he understood, and told the rest of the people in line (after I struggled with the next four, who obviously didn't understand what I wanted at all) to let me cut in front of them. I have no shame in times like these.

I checked in, grabbed my ticket, and ran to the boarding area. When I got to my flight, there were still at least 50 people in line. Great. There's still time to find a pay phone and have Jocilyn cancel that flight. 5 minutes of searching later (and after asking an employee who thankfully spoke English), I found the phones and called my sister. "I made it. Please. If you can cancel the flight, please do. Thank you." Thanks for staying up until almost midnight to call Expedia for me. Thanks for not thinking I'm insane (although that thought apparently cropped up, as was mentioned in the comments in my previous post).

I walked over to the boarding area, got on the plane, sat down, and tried to dry the sweat off. The 12 hours of adrenaline rush was a little too much for me, and after I ate my hallal breakfast (I keep trying different special orders to find out which one is best, but I think it depends on the flight. Mostly I just like being served first, let's be honest, especially if I'm sitting at the back of the plane) I fell into an exhausted slumber.

When we landed in Rome, I found the next boarding area, sat down, and forked over the money to check my email. "Flight cancelled" jumped off the page at me. It was from my sister. "Dear Breanne, I'm sorry this was such a mess for you. I called Expedia and they said since it was booked within 24 hours, the ticket is 100% refundable. I cancelled it and got all the money back. Hope you have a nice flight. Jocilyn."

I love Expedia. And I love my sister. And I love Meribelle. And that German couple. And all of those nice people who helped me through those manic 12 hours.

Lessons learned? First of all, I need to learn Spanish. Second of all, don't miss the train. But third, I learned that people are good. It's something I don't always remember as I face ridiculous political situations every day. The past 6 months have been hard, very hard, and it is easy to think that everyone in the world is selfish and mean and only cares about land and money. But this experience, as crazy and expensive as it was, was, I think, God's way of telling me, "Breanne, people are good. They are so good. Look at all these people who helped you, went way out of their way to help you, just because they are good and you needed help."

So yes. I'm glad it happened. I went to Spain to decompress, to be reminded of my temple covenants, and to come back to a fresh start in Jerusalem. And you know what? It worked. Al-Hamdulillah.

Stuck in Spain and Other Mishaps

To my dear, faithful blog readers (all 3 of you), I must apologize for my long hiatus from the blogging world. 2 dreadful months of a lingering sickness and a freezing cold apartment (during which most days I was too cold to even wash my dishes and postponed the necessity of using the toilet until the morning because the toilet seat was too cold) are now over (al-hamdulillah!) and a 3-week stretch of internet-less travelling has passed, leaving me with about 100 blog posts to write.

And the topic that gets the honor of the "first post after the break" is, naturally, a story of terror and triumph in Spain and Morocco.

The rest of the stories about my awesome and crazy trip will come later, but suffice it to say, I took a trip to Madrid to go to the temple (and decompress from my stressful life of checkpoints and conflicts) and got back a little more than a week ago. One day after I got home, one of my sisters came and visited me (which was awesome, by the way), which is why I'm just posting this now.

Anyway.

I was in Spain for a week and thought, when am I ever going to have another chance to just zip on down to Morocco? I have been wanting to see how the North African/Moroccan-French Arabic is different than Egyptian, Jordanian, and Palestinian, and this was a perfect opportunity. So I bought a round-trip train ticket to Algeciras in Spain (unfortunately I missed the cheap flights because my trip was so last-minute, making for a lot of time on trains in Morocco and Spain!), took the ferry across to Tangier, spent two crazy days in Morocco, and then left from Assilah in northern Morocco early Monday morning to catch a train to Tangier, where I would then catch a ferry to Algeciras and make my 3 pm train back to Madrid, where I would spend the night at the airport and be on time for my 7:10 Tuesday morning flight.

It was a perfect plan. Unfortunately, it was too perfect, as obviously I still haven't learned my lesson about time in the Middle East. Time in my world is very rigid and structured...a bit like a wooden fence. It can bend a little in the wind, but if I think it's going to take me 15 minutes to do something or get somewhere, I only plan for 19 minutes (and sometimes, I only plan for 14 minutes).

Time in the Middle East isn't like a wooden fence at all. It's more like a pan of jello spilled out on the floor, or an open field of weeds, or maybe like an abandoned apartment. If your ticket says the train will come at 11:40, it just might not come until 12:30. Don't start worrying until it hasn't come at 3 pm. Or maybe 4. If it's going to take you 3 hours to get somewhere, plan for 8, just to be safe.

Naturally, my train from Assilah to Tangier was an hour late, putting me at the port station in Tangier just after 1:20. I had met a nice German couple travelling back to Spain at the Assilah train station, and since we were going to take the same ferry, I asked if they wanted to split a taxi to the new port station, about half an hour away from the train station (the ferries from Tangier take you to Tarifa, Spain, where you have to take a bus to Algeciras, or you can take a bus from Tangier port to the new port and go straight to Algeciras). I argued the driver down to a fair price and, only slightly panicking, jumped in with the German couple. We drove to the new port and I ran in to get a ticket on the hour-long ferry ride to Algeciras, thinking that the train station is right next to the port, the ferry trip might take 50 minutes instead of an hour, and I just might make my train. I rushed down to the ferry with the German couple, getting on right at 2 and expecting the ferry to leave immediately.

30 minutes later, we were still sitting at port, and I was almost over the edge. There was no way I was going to make my train. And then the German guy, seeing my agitation, said, "You know that Spain is an hour ahead of Morocco, right?"

Nope. I'd forgotten that vital fact. "Oh well, I guess I missed my train already!" I told him, feeling like my hopes and dreams had just been crushed by a wrecking ball. "What's the use of being stressed?"

It was great that he told me this because we waited another 30 minutes before the ferry left the port. Yep. What's the use of having hourly ferries if the one scheduled for 2 doesn't leave until 3?

Well, I clearly had nothing to stress about (except $50 wasted dollars and no train to Madrid until the next day, with the fear of missing my flight, paying an extra $2-300 for another ticket, and missing my sister's grand entrance at the airport where I was supposed to pick her up the next day), so I actually got to enjoy the ferry ride and the DOLPHINS. Yes, friends, I saw 4 dolphins. It almost made it worth the missed train.

When we landed in Spain, the German  couple kindly offered to ask several people what my options were, since they knew Spanish (and unfortunately, my Spanish was better than most peoples' English in Spain...which isn't saying much!). After talking to several different officials about train, bus, and rental car options, they told me that basically I was going to miss my flight in Madrid the next morning because the earliest bus got there at 6 am. And my flight left at 7:05.

After thanking them for their generosity (and trying not to despair), they left for their bus and I went back into the port station to try and use the internet to see if I could change my flight for as cheaply as possible. I walked up to the 2nd level to an "internet code machine," deciding that as poor as I was, I could fork over one Euro for an hour of internet. I dropped my coin in and waited for the slip of paper to print out with the internet code, but unfortunately it made the printing sound and no paper came out. I set everything down and rummaged in my bag to grab some tweezers to see if I could pull the paper out (because I was way too cheap to put another Euro in!), but to no avail. The paper was stuck.

And my friends, if I could go back in time and warn my past self about future events, I would say to myself at that moment, "WHERE IS YOUR WALLET? Did you leave it on top of the machine? Do you have it with you?"

Unfortunately, such a warning is not possible. I walked over to the other side of the building to try and use the internet code machine over there, tried to connect to the internet, walked downstairs to talk to the woman at information, and walked back upstairs to try again to use the 2nd internet code machine. As I reached into my purse to grab yet another Euro, wincing at the hit my pocketbook was taking, I realized the awful truth: MY WALLET WAS GONE. I must have left it on top of the machine. I ran back and checked the entire room, emptied everything out of my purse and backpack to check for it there, and ran downstairs to ask the information lady (seriously the only person in the whole port who spoke English) if I had left my wallet there.

"Nope."

At this point I was on the verge of panic. "Is it ok to cry now?" I asked myself, but held myself together. "What should I do if I think my wallet is stolen?" I asked her. "Go report it to the police," she suggested. After several unsuccessful minutes of trying to find the police (and just as unsuccessful communication with the shop owners near where the police office was supposed to be, as I had to say 'policio' at least 8 times and write it down before they knew what I was talking about), I found the office and walked in. "Tu hable ingles?" I asked, using the only Spanish phrase I know.

The officers looked uneasily at each other before saying, "Little." And then they said something in Spanish that I assumed meant, what do you need?

"My wallet was stolen." Blank stares. "My wallet," I said, motioning to my purse. "Stolen. Money. Gone. Visa card. Gone. Money. Money. Gone," I said, while motioning with my hands and willing them to understand.

More Spanish. My translation/guess: Your money was stolen? "Yes, yes," I said. "Si."

Ten more minutes of trying to communicate, and I left the office with a form in Spanish that I had no idea what to do with and more panic than I knew how to handle. Is it ok to cry yet? I asked myself again. Not knowing what to do and just trying to find someone who spoke English, I went back to the information booth.

"Hi again," I said. "I don't think you can help me, but I don't know what to do. My wallet was stolen, and I need to call my bank and cancel my credit cards. Also, I need to get to Madrid by tomorrow at 7, because my flight leaves then, and I don't have any money because it was all in my wallet..." At this point my voice cracked and tears started to stream down my face. "I'm sorry," I whispered as I turned away. "It's ok, it's ok!" she said as I took some deep breaths. "Is there anyone in Spain you can call?" As I sadly shook my head no, she said, "The American Embassy?"

YES!!! Why didn't I think of them before? I'm sure the American Embassy can somehow solve my problem. At the very least, they speak English! So she called the embassy from her phone and connected me with the duty officer on the emergency line, since it was after hours (and this was definitely an emergency!). After explaining the situation to him, he said, "I can connect you with your parents in America, if you want, and they can call your bank and cancel your Visa cards and send you money from Western Union."

Brilliant. After thanking him profusely, he connected me to my parents' home phone. It rang, And rang. And rang. And then, the worst sound ever: the answering machine. I hung up, took a deep breath, and asked the woman to call the embassy line again. "I'm so sorry," I said. "There was no answer. Can you connect me to another number?" This time, I used my dad's cell phone, because he always answers his phone. Always. Naturally, when I heard his answering machine message, I was on the verge of a breakdown. I hung up and turned to thank the information woman and instead broke down in tears. "Oh honey," she said, "Come inside and sit down." She opened up the door of her little booth (barely big enough for two chairs), had me sit down, and poured me a drink of water. "None of them answered!" I managed to say in between sobs. "We can call the embassy again," she said, "Don't worry."

This third time, I swore to myself, was the last. If no one answered I was just going to go and spend my last few Euros (that had fallen out of my wallet into my purse) to call from the pay phones. So when my sister answered, I started crying again. "Jocilyn," I managed to say. "I'm having a little bit of a problem." Deep breath. "My wallet got stolen, and I missed my train, and I'm going to miss my flight, and I'm stuck in Spain, and I need you to call the bank and cancel my cards and get me a new flight and wire me some money from Western Union." It all spilled out in a rush.

My sister, a little overwhelmed by it all, told me that she would call the bank and then I should call her right back to arrange the details of a new flight. I'm not calling the embassy again, and the pay phones cost two Euros a minute! I wanted to say, but I was so happy to have reached someone, I was willing to agree to anything.

Still sitting in the information booth, I thanked the woman profusely. "What's your name?" I asked. "Maribelle," she replied. Dear Lord, please reserve a spot in heaven for this woman for her kindness, I thought to myself and, leaving my suitcase and backpack in her tiny booth, I walked over to the pay phones to call my sister again.

[To Be Continued]

But What Will I Eat?

This question was a big one for me when I moved to Jerusalem. What in the world will I eat? With an incredibly limited budget (grad school, and life in Israel, is expensive!!) and a penchant for not cooking, I soon realized that you can only eat so many pitas and cucumbers a day without getting sick of them. Besides, with moving so much in the first few months (I lived in 5 different apartments in my first 3 months here!), I really couldn't buy much more than a week's worth of groceries at a time.

Thankfully, God moves in a mysterious way, and free food has come from unexpected sources and with perfect timing.

My Tuna Fish Fix

The tuna fish gift. This came at the very beginning of my time in Jerusalem. I was staying with some Mormon girls for a week who were also studying Hebrew at the university. The day I moved out, Mollie (the girl who so kindly offered to let me sleep on her floor while I found an apartment) was going through their stuff, looking for things they didn't need. Not only did she give me several plates, pans, knives, and a cup, she also gave me several packets of tuna "Neither of us here like tuna," she said. "Do you want to take it all?"

Guys. Getting this gift of tuna was just like opening up a box of Christmas. I had lunch for at least 20 days with this stash! And the best part was they were tuna fish packets, not cans, so I didn't even need a can opener! I just slipped one of these and a piece of bread into my purse, and then at lunch time I ripped it open, dumped it onto my bread, and ate it. No utensils required. It was amazing.

My Chinese Fix

One day I was sitting on the light rail in Jerusalem and I saw these Chinese/Taiwanese girls get on speaking Chinese. I was about to make a beeline for them, but I didn't have to because they came and sat right next to me! Of course I wasn't going to let an opportunity like this get away from me, so I asked them (in Chinese) "Where are you from?" They, naturally, were shocked that this white girl in Jerusalem could speak Chinese, and we became instant friends. By the time our 10-minute ride was over, we had exchanged emails and facebook information.

A few days later, I got a message from Trina, one of the girls: "Hello, Breanne. I will go to the post office and by the way want to give you some Chinese instant noodle and instant soup. Do you have time to get it?" I was naturally confused, but agreed to meet her to get the "Chinese instant noodle and instant soup."

When I met up with her, she had three bags of food to give to me: seaweed, instant noodles, plum powder, candy, instant soup, wasabi peas, and some other instant things that I can't quite decipher. I was astounded and overwhelmed. She told me that some of her friends had left a lot of food when they went back home to Taiwan or China (they come here with some sort of church organization, and many of them just stay for a week or so) and there was no way they could eat it all. So she wanted to share it with me! And now I eat the same instant noodles that I ate in Taiwan. It's awesome.

My Cereal Fix

As a college student, cereal was my comfort food. It was fortified with lots of vitamins and minerals that I didn't get from any other source and it was super easy and quick to make (read: pour it in the bowl and eat it). And if I didn't have any milk, I could still eat it!

However, when I saw the cereal prices in Jerusalem, I was disgusted. 25-30 shekels (about $7-$9) for a measly box of cheerios! There was no way I was paying that much, so I just decided that my cereal habit would have to wait until I got back to the States.

And then. My friend discovered an AMAZING store in Machane Yehuda market that had cereal for 10 shekels a box. And not just any cereal--HONEY BUNCHES OF OATS, my absolute favorite.

And yes, friends, I have picked my cereal habit back up. Not only did I find Honey Bunches of Oats for 10 shekels each, but I found cornflakes, 2 BOXES FOR 10 SHEKELS!! What a dream.

My "Real Food" Fix

Now that I have been living in Beit Sahour for a few weeks now, I have started to feel the desperate nature of my poverty-like situation. Although I am far from starving, I feel like I can't spend more than a few dollars a week on groceries when I don't have an income. It's a bit OCD of me, but I walk into stores, see the prices of everything, and turn around and walk out, buying a bag of pitas for 3 shekels on the way. The other day I found a package of like 48 hotdogs for 12 shekels (about $3.20) and I was so excited! Do you know how many meals I can eat with 48 hotdogs, pitas, and a gas stove (so I can roast the hot dogs over the flame)? Quite a few! But sometimes I feel the lameness of my situation, and I wish I had some more options for food. It's just so hard to stock a completely empty pantry on a budget!

And then Arlissa, one of the Foreign Service members of the branch here, sent me an email: "Are you a rice and/or pasta eater?  I'm trying to start reducing my food supply ahead of my departure in May/June.  In reviewing my supplies I have lots of rice and some pasta.  Would you be interested?  I probably have some lentils too and maybe some grains.  Let me know.  You'd be doing me a huge favor otherwise I just don't think I'll go through all my supplies before I leave. Thanks!"

This afternoon she brought me home from church and unloaded the boxes and bags. What was "some rice and pasta" turned into bags of pasta, beans, tunafish, cereal, sugar, flour, oreos, juice, chips, chocolate, and a few other things. As I started unpacking the food and saw how much there was, I literally started crying, I was so thankful! 

So what do I eat? Basically, whatever I can get for free! Let this be a record that I literally would not survive without such awesome friends here!

The Umbrella

Today was one of those days. I could write about 8 different blog posts on the many frustrations I encountered today, but it's late and I'm about to go to bed. Suffice it to say, by the time 5:30 rolled around, I was overly frustrated, stuck on an overcrowded bus (that smelled like wet bodies), and it was pouring rain. The bus driver missed my stop so I had to walk several blocks in the pouring rain to get to a night class I'm taking. I was late and muttering to myself about how awful everything was, and to top it off here I was soaking wet, caught in the rain without an umbrella.

And then, out of nowhere, this Italian woman (I think she was Italian) started talking to me in some language I didn't understand. She was gesturing for me to take her umbrella. Confused, I looked at her husband, who said, "It's for you! This one's big enough for me and for her--we don't need two!"

It made my day. And it restored my faith in humanity. And really, guys, God is watching out for us, even if just to prompt some stranger to give us an umbrella in the middle of pouring rain at the end of a really long day.

Travel Adventures

The journey from Washington DC to Jerusalem was quite an adventure, fraught with natural disasters, lost items, heat waves, and seven different stops along the way. And with that cryptic opening, here's the story:

First of all, it was a miracle that I was able to leave DC when I did. My original flight was scheduled for 5:40 pm the night of the 27, putting me in Salt Lake at 12:10 am on the 28th of August. I had a flight out of Salt Lake at 6:10 am on the 29th, and I was really hoping for more than 30 hours to see my family and put my affairs in order in Salt Lake.

Unfortunately, however, Delta has a $150 flight change fee. And paying $150 to change my flight by 8 hours is against my principles.

But guys, I just want to tell you that prayer works. I had been praying for weeks that I could get an earlier flight home without paying the fee. My plan was to go and sit at the airport early Saturday morning and ask every attendant to help me out until I got an earlier flight.

And then there was a hurricane. It was scheduled to come Saturday afternoon, and most airlines cancelled all flights.

And let passengers change their flights without a change fee.

You know what that means! I got an earlier flight home without a plane change fee.

Yep. Prayer works, even if it needs to be answered with a hurricane!

My first flight of the marathon was from DC to Minneapolis. As I sat down the man next to me started talking to me. And I'm just gonna say, I totally pegged his accent as Kenyan. And when I asked him where he was from, guess what? He was from Kenya.

I also guessed that I wouldn't have a minute of quiet the whole two hour flight, even though he was at the tail-end of 25 hours of travelling. And guess what? I was right.

Somewhere, though, in the midst of telling me about Kenya and intercultural tolerance, religion came up (the fact that I'm from Utah and went to BYU usually makes an easy segue into questions about Mormons) and I told him about prophets, the Book of Mormon, and revelation.

And guess what? He was super interested in learning more about the church. I gave him a pass along card with the website, he said he'd call for a free Book of Mormon, and we exchanged emails. I'll let you guys know if anything happens.

As we parted ways, I told him, "You know, I think God wanted us to meet today. Because I wasn't supposed to be on this flight! I only changed because of the hurricane." Good thing he didn't think it was an accident either!

My time in Salt Lake (kindly extended to 35 hours instead of only 30) was a flurry of activity. Somewhere in the middle of meeting my new niece, taking family pictures for my sister, repacking my bags and buying everything I needed, and seeing my family for the last time in a year (and the first time since April) I lost my jeans. Of the three pair I had, I lost two (and I just bought them before I went to DC!). That left me with--that's right--one pair of jeans. This was perhaps the most traumatic incident of my entire journey--and I later realized that I had left them in Washington DC!

Jeans or not, I had to fly out early morning to Houston to visit my sister. The second I walked out of the airport and walked to my sister's car, I asked her, "Do you mind if we go to Maurices so I can buy some jeans?"

And guess what, guys. Miracle of miracles, there was a Maurices close to the airport and they just happened to have the very jeans I needed (they have discontinued the line of jeans I wear, which was a huge part of my stress since they are the only jeans that fit me right) on the $10 rack. They only had one pair and they just happened to be the size I needed.

Yes, I do believe in miracles.

Houston was like a dream. A 108 degree fahrenheit dream. It was so hot. SO HOT. I thought DC was hot, and there was no relief in Salt Lake because they were having a 95 degree heat wave. But seriously. I thought I was going to die in Houston.

The air conditioning in my sister's car works about as well as a fan placed in front of a hot oven, which meant hours and hours of sweating misery for the both of us. For the last few hours before she dropped me off at the airport, we decided to go to an "old town Main Street" out near the airport.

We should have known what to expect from "old town Main Street" in Houston, but I think at the very least we were hoping for some air conditioning and relief from the heat.

We heard there was a Civil War museum, so after searching for 30 minutes in the 108 degree weather, we finally found it. Picture this: a tiny trailer with the paint peeling sitting on overgrown grass next to an empty lot with trucks parked on the grass in front of it. And the steps were sagging and almost rotted through.

Kaitlyn and I weren't looking for classy, though--we were just looking for air conditioning! We staggered inside the "museum" and were met by a very orange-show-like experience: the trailer was filled with piles of keepsakes from the Confederate side of the Civil War. They had little displays of armies shooting at each other, with the smoke from the guns made of q-tips or cotton all stretched out and glued in place. And guess what? Trailers, of course, don't have central air.

It was awesome.

I was over by the Confederate flag section, holding my nephew and trying not to die in the heat, when I see Kaitlyn motioning me over. She was standing right in front of the swamp cooler, pretending to be interested in the bullet collection, but really just trying to cool off. We both stood there as long as we dared and then snuck out before the other patrons, who were talking to the docents (? those guys who were sitting inside the trailer and watching the stuff) left. We didn't want to get stuck in there talking to the owners, as nice as I'm sure they were.

All in all, it was a very memorable way to leave the States!

London was awesome, but it will get its own post. The best part about my trip to London, though, was definitely my plane seat: the window seat on the exit row at the front of the section. I had at least 4 feet of leg room for the 7 hour flight. And it was awesome. It was the first pleasant overseas flight that I've had since, well, ever.

And guess what else? Since it was British Airways, among the many options for movies and music they had Adele's album 21. The whole thing. The soundtrack to my sleep on that red-eye flight was her spectacularly soulful voice.

The point of this post is to say that I do believe in miracles, air conditioning changes lives, and I love random experiences because they make awesome stories.