Checkpoints

I'm sure that my faithful blog readers have been dying to know what it's like for me to pass through a military checkpoint every day. What, exactly, does one do when passing through a military checkpoint? (And why would someone ever choose to do it every day?) I am quite aware that this could turn into a controversial political conversation about the need for checkpoints or the need for a separation barrier or the suffering of the Palestinians, etc. etc. Personally, checkpoints are not my favorite place in the world to hang out, and some days I feel that each checkpoint crossing takes another 6 months off of my life. Some days I get so angry that it takes me several hours to recover from the crossing. But, let's try to keep this post light, shall we? You don't all need to know about my anger problems or anything else. This, hopefully, will be an educational post to give you an idea of what checkpoints are like. And while there are many checkpoints between the West Bank and Israeli territory, as well as within the West Bank itself, I will focus on the Bethlehem 300 (Rachel's Tomb) checkpoint.

This is a (very) rough sketch of the Bethlehem checkpoint. I know, my Paint skills are incredible. I kept it this unprofessional just in case I really am being spied on. There's no way that anyone could accuse me of passing along dangerous information with this drawing. :) (Just for reference, the dark boxes are soldier's booths, the x's are turnstiles, and the arrows are directions of traffic. The numbered areas are different smaller checkpoints within the checkpoint.)

When approaching the checkpoint from the Bethlehem side, this is what you see:

There is a big wall and a long line stretching about 100 meters. I'm not really sure how to describe the path that you walk down--I always call it "the cattle stalls" because I feel a bit like an animal being contained in a holding pen until I can cross checkpoint #1 (labeled on my drawing).


Here is a view of the inside of the middle "stall." I thought the smoke made for a dramatic touch photographically, and it also adds a nice picture of reality. When you're stuck in line here and 40% of the men are smoking, or even just one person who is standing in your close vicinity, there's no way to escape. Many days I have arrived to the university smelling like I, myself, smoked 6 packs just that morning.

There are three "lanes" or stalls or whatever leading up to the checkpoint #1. I have labelled them with arrows that signify which direction they go: the one closest to the wall is for those coming in to Bethlehem, while the two outer ones are for those leaving to go into Jerusalem.

When the checkpoint is crowded (mostly early in the morning), the men use the middle lane and women, children, old people, sick people on their way to the hospital, and tourists use the "express" lane. Many mornings when I have crossed I have seen the line of men (2-3 across within the lane) stretching all the way back to the taxi area. On those days, I'm so glad that I can use the lane for women.

Of course, there are no signs telling you if the middle lane is crowded with men or is open (it's impossible to see all the way in from the entrance by the taxis) and there is also no sign at the bottom telling you if the women/elderly/tourist lane is open or not. There are turnstiles at the top (the x's on the diagram), and if they aren't open (they are controlled by the soldiers who sit in the blue boxes on the diagram--every dark box is a station where soldiers sit), you have to wait until the soldier unlocks it for you. Some days, for reasons beyond my imagination, they decide not to open the women/elderly/tourist checkpoint. Which is always frustrating because I usually find that out after walking all the way up. As there is no way to cross from the tourist lane into the middle lane at the top, I have to walk all the way back down to the bottom and then back up through the middle lane. On rainy days this inspires less than happy thoughts from me.

On days that the women/elderly lane (I will call this lane #3) is closed because the middle lane is open and free, you just walk up the middle lane, pass through checkpoint #1, and continue to the next one. However, some days lane #3 is closed but there are still lots and lots of men filling lane #2. Thankfully, it doesn't happen that often, but when it does there is a "rule of chivalry" that states that women get to pass through to the front of the line. Although I'm sure not every man is thrilled with this "rule," if there are women standing at the back of the line the sea of men will part and allow the women to pass through. If some men don't see (or don't want to move) and the women (there are usually only 1-4 at a time) have to stop, a man standing by will always shout, "Clear the way, guys, we have some women coming through." It is always incredibly embarrassing and incredibly gratifying at the same time. I will be the first to admit that there are a lot of problems regarding the treatment of women in the Middle East. But this idea that women should not have to wait in line with hundreds of men but instead should cut to the front is an awesome one, in my opinion. And although I was terrified the first time I had to pass through a narrow space surrounded by hundreds of men, knowing how vulnerable I was, they always press themselves against the side and try to give us as much space as possible so we can pass through without touching anyone or being touched.

When you get to checkpoint #1, there is a soldier sitting in a booth (don't worry, it's completely enclosed and bullet-proof, giving as little contact as possible with those passing through) to whom you show your id/passport. This is more of a "just checking to make sure you have it before you go through to the next stations" kind of checkpoint. And if it's possible to have a favorite checkpoint soldier, there is a soldier who is often at this checkpoint in the morning that is my favorite. He speaks Arabic (most of the soldiers don't) and stands outside of the booth checking ids. He greets the people coming through (in Arabic) and is usually smiling. And whenever I go through he says "morning," in English, all nice and pleasant like. 

After checkpoint number one, you walk across an empty parking lot and enter building #2.

You walk down some more lanes and enter the area of checkpoint #2. Checkpoint #2's area is divided into three different checkpoints, all of which lead to the same place. Here, again, when there are lots of men in the morning, the women duck through separator bars and cut to the front of the lines. The men step back and clear the way for the women (usually just one or two in each line at a time--mostly men cross early in the morning), which, again, is great and saves me so much time and frustration.

Usually, the wait time at the turnstile at checkpoint #2 is short and predictable. The soldiers (who can't be seen from the line waiting outside the turnstile, as they sit in the booths inside; don't worry, they can see everything going on because there are cameras everywhere) open the turnstile, let three people through, and then lock it while they put their stuff on a conveyor belt scanner and pass through a metal detector, grab their stuff, and proceed to checkpoint #3. If there are any problems, the soldiers get on the loudspeaker from inside the booth and tell the person to go through again, take the belt off, it's the shoes, etc. Sometimes they even do it in Arabic, although I think most of them only know a few key phrases ("one at a time!" seems to be the most popular Arabic phrase spoken here).

Sometimes, however, for reasons that none of us are made aware of, there is a wait at checkpoint #2. Maybe the soldiers are switching posts. Maybe they need a bathroom break. Maybe they are just tired of sitting there and need to walk around. But whatever the reasoning, they don't say anything. They just keep the turnstile locked, and all of us outside the turnstile get more and more restless. If this were a customer service situation, I would suggest that they announce over the loudspeaker that there will be a delay of about 10 minutes and they apologize for the inconvenience. But it's not a customer service situation, it's a military checkpoint, so I guess such a suggestion is unnecessary.

Once you get through checkpoint #2, you proceed to checkpoint #3. This checkpoint has the least delays. The Palestinians have a magnetic id and a paper permit that shows that they are allowed to cross into Jerusalem. They put their id on the magnetic strip, hold up their paper to the window (the soldiers are sitting in booths), and sometimes have to put their hand on the fingerprint reader. The magnetic card reader allows all of the information and picture of the person to show up on the soldier's computer screen, and if everything is ok they are cleared to go through. Foreigners show their passport and visa stamp and are then also allowed to pass through.

Some mornings go smoothly and I get through in less than 10 minutes. But some mornings, by the time I get through I'm ready to go to bed and wish the day was over already!

Has anyone else ever been through checkpoints (besides airport security)? And what was it like?

Noelle's Visit

In March my friend Noelle came to stay with me. 

As usual, there were a lot of crazy and bizarre things that happened. Here's just a small sampling:

*We spent some time up at the Sea of Galilee. One day we stopped by the "Baptism of Jesus" site (the one on the Israeli side--the Jordanians have one too) where pilgrims often visit to be "reborn" and baptized, even if they have already been baptized. They put on these (incredibly see-through) long white t-shirts, all get down into the water, sing and pray, and then do some sort of immersion in the water. Just make sure you look away when they get out.

I was taking advantage of Noelle's willingness to be a subject for a photo shoot, because the lighting was perfect and, well, she's stunning and much more photogenic than me.

And then, we saw beavers swimming in the water. BEAVERS! They became the new subject of the photo shoot.

I think they liked getting their picture taken, because they came up out of the water and came right up to Noelle to play with her!

It was crazy! They played with Noelle for several minutes, but we quickly attracted a large crowd of curious tourists and so the beavers left (or maybe they just realized that we didn't have any food!).

*We stayed at this very cheap hotel in Tiberias. I'm pretty sure we were the only guests that night. We made the booking while we were at the "free wi-fi" national park of Caesaria, and we just picked the cheapest hotel we could find while searching the internet on our phones. At about 6 pm, I got a call from the hotel. "Hey," they said, "what time are you guys planning on coming by tonight? We've got your room all made up and ready for you!"

It was only a little creepy. When we got to the hotel, the two hotel managers were sitting at the front desk. Before they showed us to our room, they were telling us about the attractions around town and, as it always does in conversations with me, the fact came up that we're Mormon. These guys were just floored and super curious as to what we do to "have fun" if we don't drink coffee, tea, or alcohol. One of them asked, "So what do Mormons do when they just want to lose all control?" I thought it was a rather odd way to ask such a question, so I answered with some snarky remark about ice cream and barbeques. They were pretty hilarious, though, and definitely added to the culture of the rather ghetto hotel.

They gave us the "best room in the hotel"--one of only two with a balcony overlooking the street (and a few blocks away, the sea of Galilee!). And the back of the hotel was full of character--just go up those creepy metal stairs and you're in the lobby!

Like I said, Noelle is much more photogenic than me. While a jumping picture of her turns into an excited, "look I'm on the shore of the Mediterranean!", mine just turns into "I love disco."

I introduced her to the finer Middle Eastern cuisine. And by that I mean pita and hummus. :) My coworker Rakheli met us for dinner one night, where Noelle could finally eat real food: tuna steak.

I wanted to take Noelle to see the Dead Sea, but I didn't want to drive all the way to the beaches by Masada. As a poor student, I am opposed to paying much for anything, but I am especially opposed to paying Israeli institutions for things in the West Bank on moral grounds. You might disagree, and that's fine. The fact of the matter is, we stopped by this beach on the Northern edge of the Dead Sea. I really just wanted to be able to walk down to the shore so Noelle could see it, so when I saw a security guard walking by, I asked him (in Hebrew), "Can we just walk down and see the sea from around here?" He looked me up and down, glanced over at Noelle, and then said, "Come with me."

He walked into the beach area and we followed, where he pointed us down to the water. It was an awesome beach, with delightful mud and old people who were definitely not averse to changing out of their swimming suits right there on the beach. The whole time I kept telling Noelle, "I can't believe this beach is free! I totally would have brought my sister here if I had known!"

After several minutes, we were ready to be done. As we were walking out, I happened to glance over at the sign hanging on the wall of the reception desk. The normal admittance price was 50 shekels per person!!! I told Noelle the security guard let us in for free because she's Asian, because I never get freebies like that!

And of course, no visit to see me would be complete without deep discussions of and visits to controversial areas, like the Kidron Valley and the Herodian.

I can see the Herodian from my house, but I've never actually been. It was freezing cold and super windy when we went, which might explain for the lack of visitors. While Noelle was distracted by the rock piles, I was distracted by the settlements.

*I've always wanted to go shopping with someone that spoke another language besides English, Arabic, or Hebrew (meaning Chinese, since that is the only other language I speak), so I could bargain with the shopkeepers in Arabic and speak Chinese to my friend and we would NEVER have to speak English. And we would get a super cheap deal. (Everything is more expensive in English.) Well, when Noelle was here, I finally had my chance. And it was AWESOME. We went shopping in the Old City and I would bargain with the shopkeepers in Arabic and then tell Noelle in Chinese that it was way too much and she should shake her head no. And it totally worked, too. One guy dropped the price of a silk scarf from 200 shekels down to 65, so Noelle decided to buy it. He totally had his son chase after us with the scarf when we walked away because the price was too high and offer us a better deal.

It was great fun, Noelle, and I'm so glad you had a chance to come and visit!

Love at First Sight

Wednesday afternoon I was sitting in the cafeteria at Hebrew University. I had just gotten out of a class about early Protestant texts in Europe, and I had, as usual, fallen asleep. It's hard to listen to Hebrew for 90 minutes straight! I am understanding more and more, but I still get to the "overload" point before class is over and my mind just checks out. Plus, I hadn't eaten much all day, and I knew I had to get a sandwich or something or else I wasn't going to make it through 6 more hours of Arabic.

So I bought an avocado, lettuce, and tomato sandwich on a wheat hoagie. The thing cost me 13 shekels. 13!! I'm pretty sure that one tomato, 1/2 an avocado, the hoagie bun, and the 3 pieces of lettuce probably cost about 4 or 5 shekels. They are really making a killing off of those things.

Anyway, I went and sat down at a table and started wolfing down the sandwich so I could go to the library and meet with my Arabic tutor. A man dressed in an army officer uniform approaches my table, sets a folded note down in front of me, and starts talking rapidly in Hebrew. I understand nothing of what he's saying, but I smile politely and nod a couple of times, thinking he's passing out invitations to some event or something. And the "I live in the West Bank" part of me feels a little nervous, wondering if he's accusing me of something (he is, after all, wearing an army uniform). After a minute or two, he asks in Hebrew, "Is everything ok?"

"Yes," I answer, "but..." I stare at him and wonder if I should tell him that I have no idea what he just said, or if I should just leave it alone because I don't really care. "You don't speak Hebrew!" he says in English.

"Well, yes," I answer, not wanting to explain that I do speak Hebrew, but not when people talk that quickly.

"I was just sitting over there and I saw you. You are the most beautiful girl I've ever seen. I've really never seen anything like it. Here is my number (and he gestured at the note). I know we don't really know each other, but I would love it if we could go out for coffee or something. I'm sorry to interrupt your sandwich."

I sat there shocked. Really. What am I supposed to do in this sort of situation? I probably smiled or nodded or said, "No, it's not a problem that you disturbed my sandwich," or something, but I'm really not sure. What I do know is that after delivering his message in both Hebrew and English, he walked away quickly, and I finished my avocado sandwich and went to the library.

Later that evening, after my Arabic class in Jerusalem (another 3 hours in a different language--but this one was actually enjoyable), I was walking the 2 blocks home from the store. It was about 9 pm and, as usual at this hour, the streets were deserted. Suddenly I heard someone walking behind me, playing music on his phone. (Palestinian shabab have this weird habit of turning music on their phones and blasting it out of the little phone speakers when they want to look cool or impress someone.) Uh-oh, here comes trouble. Luckily I was almost home and hopefully, if I ignored him and let him get in front of me, I could walk in peace.

No such luck. I heard him approach. I slowed down to let him pass. As he passed, he turned around and said "Hello" in Arabic. "Hello," I responded in Arabic, knowing from previous experience that when I say something in Arabic, people leave me alone and just assume I'm native.

No such luck with this one. "Are you a foreigner or an Arab?" he asked in Arabic. "Foreigner," I said, looked away and kept walking, hoping he would get the hint that I wasn't giving him the time of day.

"Are you married?" Oh no. It's another one. How many of these people skip straight to the marriage question? "Yes." "No you aren't." "Yes, I am." "No. You aren't." Excuse me sir? Why are you calling me out on my marriage? I knew he didn't think I was married because I was walking alone at night, so I conceded. "I'm engaged, but I'm getting married next month." That should get him to leave me alone.

"Is he Arab or a foreigner?" "A foreigner." I didn't want this guy to think that I just up and marry Arab men.

"Do you want to exchange your fiance for me?" Excuse me? Did you just ask me what I thought you asked me? No, I do not want to exchange my fiance for you. This was not flattery. This was straight up harassment. Luckily, I was a few paces away from the store across from my house. I pretended not to understand the man and kept walking.

"Walk with me," he said, reminding me of Kohor on The Testaments (you know the creeper who employs Jacob as a stonecutter). The feminist in me gets fired up. Excuse me? Don't order me around. Don't tell me what to do, and don't think you're getting some action tonight. The only action you'll get is three slaps to the face if you keep talking to me.

I walk toward the store. "Where are you going?" "I have to buy something. Bye." "Bye," he says, and turns away. Wow, that was easy. I stayed in the store for several minutes to give him time to walk away. After buying my stuff, I checked to see if he was outside. Safe. I couldn't see anyone. I opened the door and walked out. And THERE HE WAS, skulking in the shadows.

"What?!" I said in Arabic. "Walk with me," he said. "No," I stated emphatically, looking disgusted. His shoulders drooped and he turned to walk away. I stormed into my apartment building. No such luck tonight, buddy. I certainly wasn't born yesterday.

That's two in one day, people. And I didn't even change perfume or laundry detergent brands...

Stranger on the Train

Ready for another story from my trip to Spain and Morocco? Most of my time in Morocco, sadly, was spent on the train. I rode from Tangier to Rabat on Saturday, from Rabat to Assilah on Sunday, and from Asilah to Tangier on Monday. If I did it again, I would definitely try to spend less time on the train and more time in Morocco.

The problems with the trains in Morocco, as in the rest of the Middle East, is you never know when they are going to come. You can be positive that they aren't going to be early, but they might arrive up to 5 hours late if it is a long-distance train, and that's totally normal and just something you have to plan for.

Looking out the train window

On the ride from Rabat to Assilah, I was feeling great. I had just gone to church and had a beautiful experience in the teeny congregation in Rabat with just a few expat families. I had ridden the train before, and this time I could actually see out the windows. What could go wrong?

After about an hour a man got on at one of the stops and, stopping by the empty seat next to me, said something to me in French. "I don't speak French," I said in Arabic. "Oh," he said in Arabic. "Is anyone sitting in this seat?" "No," I answered, which was good because he had already sat down.

"You don't speak French but you speak Arabic?" It was the same question I got all over Morocco. Why in the world would this foreigner speak Arabic but not French? "What do you do? Are you working here?" He was wearing a suit and seemed educated, so I assumed that this was harmless getting-to-know-your-seatmate small talk. I answered in short, simple sentences--I didn't want to be stuck talking to this guy for several hours--and started pulling my ipod toward me.

He didn't get the hint. He was friendly enough, but I have a hard enough time understanding Moroccan Arabic--and he kept flipping into French, which made him impossible to understand.

After several minutes, in which I learned that he was going to medical school in Casablanca or something like that and had studied in France, he asked me where I was getting off. "Assilah," I said. "Oh, I'm getting off at the stop right before that! I have a car there. If you want, we can get off together and I can give you a tour of the area before taking you to Assilah!"

No. No, no, no. I don't care if you are wearing a business suit and have business cards. I don't get off the train with strange men to get in their car alone with them. Not in Morocco, not in Egypt, not in Jordan, not in the West Bank. No.

I politely refused. Perhaps it was too polite. I turned to look out the window, feeling superbly uncomfortable. How to get this man to leave? 5 minutes later he nudged me with his knee. "What are you thinking about?" he asked. What?! Are we dating now? What I'm thinking about is none of your business! Unfortunately, I wasn't brave enough to say that (I really didn't want to cause a scene and I felt safe enough on the public train), so I said instead, "I'm looking at the green fields. We don't have a  lot of green where I live." And I pointedly turned and looked out the window again.

 

5 minutes later he was at it again. The food cart came around, and he asked if I wanted anything. "No." I certainly didn't want this strange man to start buying me food and drinks and think he was going to get a half-day date with me. "Coffee and a water," he said to the food cart guy, and handed me the water bottle. "Thanks," I said, wanting to put the water back on the food cart. "It's nothing," he said, which is true, because water costs like 20 cents. But still. I didn't want to be accepting favors from this man.

10 minutes later, after trying to start a few conversations with me, he asked, "Do you mind if I go out and smoke?" No, of course I don't mind, since I won't have to talk to you, but since when did you need your seatmate's permission to go out and smoke? (I guess you can smoke in the closed area between cars on trains in Morocco. At least you can't smoke in the cabins!)

While he was gone I thought about what I should do. Should I get up, grab my luggage, and move to another cart? But what if he saw me leaving? What if I couldn't get another seat? I wasn't worried, since we were on a public train and I speak Arabic, but I didn't want to deal with him any longer. Finally I decided to stay, realizing that he should know straight up that foreign girls don't get off the train with random strangers.

When he came back, he started talking to me again. "We're getting close to my stop. It'll be about another 30 minutes. (Oh no, I thought, do I have to sit by you for that long?) So, you're getting off the train with me, right? I'm excited to be giving you a tour."

"No." I said it firmly and unapologetically. "I'm sorry, but I can't." "Why not?" he asked. "Is it because you don't know who I am? Look," he said as he pulled out his id and medical school card. "This is me. Now you know who I am. I'm a safe person."

What the heck? How does showing me your id suddenly make me think that it would be a good idea to get off the train and ride in your car with you through a strange town? "No, it's not appropriate. I'm engaged," I said, trying the oldest trick in the book.

"I'm engaged too!" he said. Liar. "She lives in France." Liar. I don't believe you for one minute. "Ah, so you understand. I can't go out with strange men because I'm engaged." "No, no, it's ok! We're just going as friends!" "No, we aren't friends. I just met you on the train."

It went on like this for several more minutes. Finally, he said, "Are you rejecting me because you're afraid for safety reasons?" If I'm straight up with him, maybe he will leave me alone. "Yes. I don't know you. I don't care if you are trustworthy or not. I don't go out with strange men anywhere."

At this point he started getting mad. "I'm offended! This is my honor you're talking about! I can't believe you don't trust my honor. You are passing up a great opportunity. I can't believe you would say no to me." What, are we having a breakup fight now? "Well, I don't care about your honor. I care more about my safety. And the answer is no."

We argued back and forth for about 10 more minutes. I grew more and more astonished as the time went on. Does this man really think I'm going to change my mind? He finally threw in a last-ditch attempt at convincing me: "True, you shouldn't get off the train with any strange man. But you should trust your feelings. And I'm a trustworthy guy." And any man that gets mad and starts arguing when I won't get off the train and ride with him in his car definitely doesn't give me warm-fuzzy feelings. I said no a final time and turned to look out the window. I could feel him seething beside me. After a few minutes, I heard him get up angrily and walk away. Safe. He's gone for good. I quickly put my earphones in and left them there the rest of the ride. I didn't want anyone else to try and talk to me.

And what did I notice after the strange man left? I was sitting next to this sign on the window.

I know now that it says "emergency exit" in French (thanks google translate!) but to my limited French, it told me that the alarm bells in my head were correct. "Issue of Security," it seemed to say, as in "going out with a strange man in Morocco is a definite security issue."

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?