Bobbing in the Dead Sea and the Final Days

Our happy, touchy-feely, awkward, Christmas photo. Please note the reindeer sweaters. The only thing that is missing is a big plush red cotton ball to attach on one of the reindeer's noses as a button.
Of course, another doughnut.
Dead in the Tomb of the Kings.



Warm pita from the "pita factory." It turns out the factory is a tiny little store, with men munching on falafels inside. I love the smell of a warm, soft pita.

We became bobbing apples in the Dead Sea.
My skin felt oh-so smooth and supple after a leathery mud bath.

Dear Family,

Ugh. My heart hurts.

I don’t want to leave.

Mom, Dad, when you come to pick me up, you may be quite started to see the difference in your daughter: I turned into a gypsy.

Yes, I bought another gypsy hat, today.

I asked the boys if the guys back home would find my ensemble attractive? I thought I was looking quite sexy in my long curtain dress, gypsy hat tucked around my fluffed up hair-do, and pulled up thick socks, complete with "hole-y" sneakers.

Their blank stares and fish-gapped mouths said enough ... Next time, I will ask the men in the Old City. They always think I look like wonderful.

But I will wear my gypsy hat in the States, simply as that little bit of Israel always with me.

The only reason I am glad for the end is because with the end comes the end of finals. (Hooray a break from mental breakdowns!) When I returned from Galilee, I was determined: I would raise my grade in ANE. And then I would declare it a Christmas miracle.

So I locked myself within this Castle on a Hill (Oncoming: Mental Breakdown alert!), towed my heavy backpack up the Mt. Sinai-like flight of stairs, and basically lived in the cold, stuffy library.

Miracle of miracles, I think I passed the test.

While I was quite busy figuring out who in the world was King Ahuta-what’s-his-name was, don’t fret too much, I did still manage to have fun.

Our last field trip was on Monday.

And we went to the Dead Sea.

I am sure we went to other historically significant places and I’m pretty sure those places were on my field trip final (Masada, Qumran), but let’s get to the good stuff: I became a bobbing apple in the Dead Sea.

When we pulled up the Dead Sea, we grabbed our towels and swimsuits and ran for it. We all handed in our shekels and raced for the locker rooms. I tiptoed into the shower, shimmied into that sexy swimsuit Melissa gave me (modest is hottest), and then we rushed down to the sea. All around large barnacle-like salt stones fissured around the sea. The waves crashed and churned on the salty stone diamond crusts and I was, I’ll admit it, a little scared to jump in the water.

But all my friends had already become bobbing apples. So I carefully climbed over the fake, salty diamonds and jumped primly into the water.

My head didn’t go under.

I bobbed up.

I loved the feeling of just letting the waves curl around the salty brine buoy and me up. But then, my eyes started to feel like marching ants were doing the Macarena on my eyelashes.

Salt crusted in my hair and when I smeared mud all over my body, I became a human strip of beef jerky. Or actually, more like the Slim Jims, Melissa and I used to eat like licorice but they smell like a dog’s treat.

Yes, the sea salted me with enough salt to beat out Top Ramen.

I had more sodium in me than an Arby’s meal.

I smelled like rotting eggs for the rest of the day but it was so, so worth it.

After this field trip, began the week of stress, which I can’t really recall right now. It is just a blur of Byzantine, Persian, and Roman empires. Then, scripture passages that still echo in my mind. I still make Bible jokes all the time now. Yes, I am a nerd.

But, finally, I finished last night and today, we went back into the City.

I just wanted to grab each person’s face and hug each person close (not a good idea with some of the men out there…). But I just wanted to keep a mental picture of each person: Omar at the olive wood shop, the doughnut man, the woman who tried to scheme us on red-pea coats.

I will miss them all.

Now, it is time for me to blubber:

Life is so wonderful. I stepped off the plane, with an agenda. I told my Heavenly Father that I had many questions and here, in this place where Christ prayed, I wanted answers.

But Heavenly Father had other lessons for me to learn and other adventures for me to experience.

I wish I could peek at the heavenly schedule on my life, but I suppose that is cheating.

Our last Sabbath day, yesterday, we went to the Garden Tomb. Together, a big group of us sang hymns. The other groups there, from parts of Africa, Australia, and everywhere and from other churches, joined in, too.

It was windy and my hands felt chapped, and I probably looked like a purple urchin child, but it was so warm, just to be there.

We ended with “I Know that My Redeemer Lives.”

What I will miss about Jerusalem:

· I will miss getting lost in the Old City.

· I will miss passing by the people: the tacky senior tourists in their J-ru shirts, the children munching on falafel balls, the women with the babies cradled in the arms, the shopkeepers with their carvings.

· I will miss running on the rooftops and losing my shekels in the shops.

· I will miss the warm, gushy doughnuts outside of the shuk and the doughnut man who gave us chocolate hearts.

· I will miss waking up on Sabbath mornings, looking like a little bit of bukra fel mesh mesh, clipping a cow plop of rumpled curls atop my head, and going to breakfast with 81 friends looking every bit as bukra fel mesh meshish as me.

· I will miss Dr. Chapman calling me “Frenchie” when he sees me in my gypsy hat.

· I will miss waiting in the pita line after dinner, for my warm milk.

· I will miss the Sabbath day question: Where to today, Gethsemane or the Garden Tomb?

· I will miss scooping the diseased cats up onto my lap and wondering what strange diseases they are sneezing on me.

· I will miss the impromptu Justin Beiber dance parties.

· I will miss my 81 friends.

· I will miss singing hymns at the Garden Tomb.

· I will miss feeling like a gypsy as I get lost and wind around the cobblestone streets.

So Mom, Dad, you can come pick me up now. It’s time to go home. As much as I will furiously protest, it is time to go home. I am trusting Heavenly Father from now on. I know I was supposed to come to Jerusalem and now, I know it is time to go home. So hurry and come get me. We have a date with the doughnut man.

I will be the gypsy girl waiting under the olive tree.

Olive you,

Kimberly

“I Know that My Redeemer Lives”

“He lives to bless me with His love … He lives my hungry soul to feed … He lives to help in time of need.”

A Jelly-Filled Day in Jerusalem

My family is not a Martha Stewart family. I do not understand the purpose of doilies and I cannot fathom why anyone would spend hours making cookie dough when Nestle already cooked up a batch.

My family is a Betty Crocker quick mix family. For Christmas dinner, we order Chinese take out. I love it. Kyle shovels out the sticky white rice. Melissa makes a “salad” out of crunched up fortune cookies and squiggly lo mein noodles. Sheila stabs her fork into the carton with meat. I savor the sweet and sour chicken.

Christmas dinner with our Chinese take out is blissfully perfect.

But then, we tie on our apron strings, sneeze out flour, and for Christmas, we become Martha Stewarts as we make homemade doughnuts.

It is the one time of year our culinary ambitions come to life in the form of rising warm bread and spitting hot oil.

The Family Doughnut rules:

· You are only allowed to make homemade doughnuts on Christmas Eve.

· You must stuff your face with the doughnuts until you put Santa’s own appetite to shame.

· If Dear Jolly Old Saint Nick takes more than his allotted two doughnuts we leave on a plate for him, he is on our own kind of list.

We spend Christmas Eve rolling out the dough until the warm, yeasty smell fills the kitchen. The kitchen smells like a hearth with dry cracking oats and sweet syrup. We savor our doughnuts because this is the only time of the year, with no exception, that we make our homemade dougnuts.

Today, I may have broken this rule.

I did not want to go out into the Old City. I spent the morning helping paint a mural at a special needs school My feelings about that are simply too long to put into this blog post, so that will be for another day. But simply: I loved the morning. I loved being at that school. It was where I needed to be. But I needed to study. I still need to study. Desperately. So after lunch, Kaylie promised: we would just go out for doughnuts at the shuk (aka the open market) and then go home to study. So I agreed.

Off we went.

I wrapped myself up in all my sweaters, because I just can’t stand the cold wind on my chicken skin. Kaylie, Suzy, and I brought our pink and green baggie lunches out to the terrace and ate out on the lawn. We finished our pitas and sandwiches then munched on the chocolate muffins (aka cupcakes) we smuggled from the cafeteria this morning, and the sun came out.

By the time we walked the hill to the Old City, the curls on my head were starting to stick to my forehead.

So I started to take off my big hoodie sweater in the middle of a crowd.

Bad idea.

A boy behind me called out, “Ahhhh!” and other boys started yelling.

I quickly shoved my sweater back down past my belly.

Lesson learned: Do not partially undress in the middle of the street in Israel.

We dawdled along the streets of West Jerusalem. Suzy saw a ruby red pea coat, with pomegranate red buttons, and a licorice red belt hanging in a store window. Of course, we stopped. And, of course, we each tried on the bright red pea coat. We admired and cooed at our fashionable reflections in the mirror, but the price tag was just too much. The woman at the store chased us down the street, jabbing a finger in our direction and ordered us into a dark alley to re-negotiate the price…so we had to run.

We dawdled some more down the street. I found another hat. But this one is like a gypsy hat with bits of fabric trailing behind the tag. Of course, I bought it.

Finally, with my gypsy hat tucking my hair all around ears and shoulders, we made it to the open market for our doughnuts.

It smelled like warm, rising yeast. And sugar crumbs. And soft, doughy moist bread.

We had a large order: 17 doughnuts. No, no we already get these doughnuts for ourselves every day so these 17 weren’t all for us. I needed to get some for the girls I visit and teach. Suzy did too. And Kaylie needed to get enough for her entire family home evening group. And other people who heard we were going asked us to pick some up for them (we are all obsessed with the shuk’s doughnuts).

When the shop owner heard our order, he just grinned, and invited us into the place. He tossed a few more grapefruit sized balls of dough into a vat of oil and then invited us to help. I took over the job of flipping the balls of dough in the oil. The liquid hissed and sizzled as I tried to maneuver the wooden spoon under the fleshy dough balls. Kaylie and Suzy busily pumped a few of the cooked doughnuts full of sticky strawberry jelly. The shop owner dusted our order with a snowfall of powder sugar.

He seemed to take a sense of pride in his little shop. I kept trying to flip over a glob of dough in the oil and it wouldn’t budge. He stepped over as I tried to maneuver the wooden spoon.

“Faster, faster,” he said, “bloop, bloop.”

I kept trying to “bloop” the dough balls and eventually I turned over the white blobs to their dark moon sides.

Next time, maybe I will just powder the doughnuts.

The shopkeepers helped us take all of our pictures. I think they were having just as fun as we were.

We walked away from the store with a box full of seventeen doughnuts. Then, with the doughnuts in our arms, we continued our search for ruby red pea coats. I still felt like a gypsy, wandering the streets of Israel, licking the sugar and strawberry goo off my fingers.

Today was the kind of day I treasure.

I want to wrap up today.

I want to bake today inside of a jelly-filled doughnut.

Then, on days, which are not so jelly-filled, I will unwrap my doughnut, take a bite, and remember a jelly-filled day.

Me helping cook the doughnuts at the open market.

The shopkeeper dusted our 17 doughnuts and then wrote us a special message in strawberry jelly: "wlcom"

Our good friend, the doughnut maker. No, that is not blood on the ceiling. It is sweet strawberry jelly.

Just a wonderful, wonderful day.

Gazing at Galilee

At the Sea of Galilee

I will say it again: Sigh. So, so beautiful

On the Sea of Galilee

Shalom/Marhaba Family!

I am sitting on the bus and my computer is about to die but I thought I would try and write up this email. Sometimes, it feels like the only time I have to sit down and write you is on the bus. It is Thanksgiving Day (hooray!) and we are driving home from Galilee. Our bus reminds me of the magic school bus: it is daffodil yellow, with dolphins and little sea creatures all over it. I keep waiting for a teacher with frizzy red hair to come sauntering down the aisle, announcing we will be shrinking ourselves today so we can fly with butterflies or drive into some student’s mouth.

Instead, Professor Huntsman shuffles us around Galilee in our magic school bus. I think Galilee may be better than any adventure from the cartoon shows.

We arrived in Galilee ten days ago. Everyone else in my group got aboard the bus with plump, fully packed suitcases. I came with my little duffel bag. Bad idea.

After ten days of living out of my little duffel bag, I now smell. Like campfire ash, muddy feet, mixed with manure. But I can’t complain.

I smell like a campfire because I snuggled up around a bonfire three times on the seashore.

I smell like dirt because we hiked to waterfalls and jumped around on rocks where Christ may have spoken to another rock, Peter.

I smell like the sea because I swam in the Sea of Galilee. Yes, in my professor’s words, “We swam where Jesus walked, today.”

We stayed at a kibbutz right on the sea shore of Galilee. The Sea of Galilee is so, so clear. When I went up to the water, I put my toes in the tide and looked down. I could see every pink-pearled seashell and every pale pebble. I understand why Christ chose to walk in this sea instead of Bear Lake (no offense, Grandpa-I still love Bear Lake for fishing).

We lugged rocks in the water and each took our turn “walking on water.” But I kept begging someone to accidently push me into the water.

For the first few days, the teachers told us we could not go swimming and I was just itching to get into the water (one, to cover up my smell and two, because it is the Sea of Galilee). But, no, we needed a lifeguard.

I didn’t have too much time to complain. Every day, we went on a field trip or we went to class. I think our teachers want us to become as wise as Christ’s disciples with the amount of studying they expect from us. I tried to hush my mental breakdowns, because Galilee already has a history of women possessed with devils. I took the readings on the bus and carried my scriptures around like a baby, trying to squeeze in time to read and study.

The day of our midterm came and I basically stitched myself to my study guide. After lunch, and cramming for another hour, I went to take the test. Right before then, my teacher told us-miracle of miracles-they found a lifeguard for us. But we had to be to the water by 4:30.

I grabbed my test, sat down in one of the seats without a desk, and nearly choked on a hysterical laugh when I looked at the test.

I am a slow test taker. And I knew this test would take me a while. But I dove in. Question after question, I ached to rest my hand. I kept looking at my watch. I tried to scribble in the tiniest hand writing my every tiny bit of knowledge on every term.

I only had a few more questions left and I looked down at my watch: four o’clock. There was no way I was going to make it to the beach. I sighed and consigned myself to a sad fate: I would never swim in the Sea of Galilee. But then, I read the last question. It was about Mary and Martha.

I knew this answer.

Martha was always so troubled … about everything.

And I know I am always so troubled … about everything.

At that moment, I made a decision. I did something I don’t normally do. I did not look over my test five thousand times before I turned it in. I wrote in my last response, stood up, handed in my paper and then … I ran.

I ran outside, slipped off my shoes, and I ran to my little cottage near the end of the kibbutz. My backpack sloshed around on my back and my tailbone still hurt from basketball, but I continued to run. At my kibbutz cottage, I slammed the door and grabbed my swimsuit off the bathroom hook.

Then, clad in a damp, mildew-smelling, ultra-modest, there is no cleavage anyways, swimsuit, I ran down to the shoreline.

Everyone else was already at the water’s edge. There were some people “walking” on water. Other people were wading out past their ankles. And other people were throwing clumps of mud at each other. I turned to the closest person and asked, “did I make it?”

No.

The lifeguard had just left.

I wanted to sit down and cry.

I felt like one of the ten foolish virgins, who was not allowed into the wedding.

I felt like I did when Sheila left for Seminary without me, because I was too busy dabbling on my tube of mascara.

But then, Scott and Thomas grabbed my arms and while I protested, they threw me into the water.

I wasn’t allowed to go in past my waist without a lifeguard, but I still floated around and got fully soaked in the Sea of Galilee.

You remember the part in Ever After where Danielle floats in the pond? I felt like that. The sun decided to join me in the water and slowly sunk down at the edge of the horizon. I am getting gushy again but, really, Galilee is beautiful.

There is so, so much I need to tell you. But I am afraid I am just blubbering now so we’ll keep the rest of this short (I promise Sheila!-This will not be another high school sized, Kimberly essay).

We sang gospel songs on boat rides. I lifted my hands and sang, “My God is an Awesome God!” until my throat hurt. I still have that song stuck in my head.

I think I may have experienced the first stages of hypothermia on our hike. But we found a waterfall so I stopped complaining about my yellow, molten purple looking-skin.

We ate at another fish restaurant. There were options: fish, pizza, or pasta. Everyone was so happy to get the plump rolls and bread everywhere we ate in Galilee. But I was not surprised—of course, the land where Christ fed bread and fish to the five thousands would have delicious, doughy warm pitas. Plus humus. So, I ordered the fish because I wanted the full experience: bread and fish, please. I felt like one in the crowd of five thousand. But when my fish came, it looked like one Peter had just caught in the net. Except a little fried. So I ate some of Jessica’s pizza, too. This time, I stayed away from the fish’s eye.

….

My computer died on the Bus

…

And now I am back at the Center!

…

When we trudged off the busses, and got back into the center, we all almost started to cry.

They decorated the Center for Christmas.

It is so beautiful.

There are pine trees and gold twinkling lights.

I really do live in a castle on a hill.

Our teachers told us to go wash-up for dinner (yes, they knew I smelled). By this time, I smelled like fish paste mixed with humus.

I got in one of Kaylie’s dresses and tried to scrub off the dirt on my face.

Then, we went outside the Oasis.

Achman made Thanksgiving dinner. I like to compliment Achman whenever he makes fudgy brownies or anything I like because I know he will make it again soon, if I do (I like to believe that is why we have potatoes at almost every meal).

But this Thanksgiving dinner Achman outdid himself.

We walked into the Oasis and the cooks were just grinning, as if they had big ears of corn stuck under their lips. We did not disappoint them with how excited we acted. I think I squealed. The cooks stood along the buffet line with two grizzled turkeys slicing thick tender pieces for each plate. They gave out dollops of stuffing with the softest pieces of bread and crispiest pieces of celery (and some olives but we all picked those out). Royal purple cranberry sauce. Fruit salad with whipped cream and gold, sugared pecans. Then they presented the pies. The pies were sugared with crumbled doughy tops and warm sugared apples. I feasted like a happy queen.

But, Grandma Allen, your Thanksgiving dinners will always have my heart.

And I wish I could have been there at the Michels' home with everyone. I miss you all!

Today, we are still in recovery from our Turkey comas. I am too deliriously happy to have another mental breakdown about my grades. I think later I may just go into the Old City.

The shopkeepers will be waiting for me.

Love you all so much,

Kimberly

P.S. Sorry Sheila, this turned into a rambling email…per usual…just imagine what headaches I give my teachers with the essays I sneeze out.

We (Kind of) Walked Where Jesus Walked

(Please note the gapping holes in my right shoe. I know understand why Christ wore sandals)

This time, I did not eat the fish's eye.

On Mount Tabor, where Christ may have looked out from.

We went on so many field trips the places are now jumbled around inside my head. We had a pig race where the devil possessed swine ran into the sea. We saw John's home (at the place pictured above). But my favorite, still, was probably going on the boat ride.

Robin and Me at Nimrod's Castle. Our friendship is defined by the sunbeam.

I wish I could live in Galilee forever.

A Manger Scene, A Basketball Bump, and Everything Else in the Cobblestone Scene

Hi Family!

Everyone is singing Christmas songs. Someone next to me is belting out "Winter Wonderland." A person in the next room is practicing, "Silver Bells." I think BYU chose who gets to go to Jerusalem based on musical talent and I somehow slipped through the cracks. But I adore Christmas so I am singing along. Everywhere around the JC people are humming, mumbling, and whistling Christmas. The Christmas movies are stacking up, too. So I am in heaven.

I always said that if I could have any job in the world it would be to be Santa's wife.

So, I knew I would love going to Bethlehem.

We went to Bethlehem on Sunday. Bethlehem was everything I hoped. In fact, it was better.

There were cobblestone streets. And little doors tucked around every corner.

Since it is the West Bank, all of the JC went to Bethlehem with our security guys right behind us. I think we all held our breath going through the security checkpoint, clutching our passports, and hoping we wouldn't be stopped. But the men at the checkpoint just sauntered right onto our bus, walked down the aisle, and were off the bus again in a matter of moments. I don't think they saw a bunch of twittering college students as much of a threat.

When we got off the bus and started walking along the cobblestone streets, I felt like I was in Candyland. The streets were quiet. The homes were nestled one against the other. The red doors and green doors and wooden doors are all so small, they look like a child's playroom.

We went to the Church of the Nativity, where they believe Christ was born. When we ducked under another too-small door, we entered a dimly lit cathedral. Some people held candles that smelled sickly sweet, like cherry syrup mixed with ground up hyssop.

There was no laughing allowed inside the church.

And the priests strictly enforced that rule.

In their black dress and curly beards, the priests looked so fervent. Their eyebrows scrunched up and they kind of "gah-ed" anytime someone let a smothered giggle escape their lips.

At first, I was taken back by they way they acted. But, then, I understood that the place was special, to them.

We waited in line to go down to the place where they believe Christ was actually born. It took an hour to get through the line and I felt like I was being pushed and shoved in every which way. I wonder if that is how a passerby felt when Christ came into the city and the people thronged about him. I would have been the person that the crowds stampeded under and the donkey trampled.

While it did not look like the manger I hoped for and no little manger rested inside, it was still so nice to think that somewhere, somewhere very close, the first Christmas happened there.

Life at the JC was, in one word, stressful this past week. I have had too many mental breakdowns to count. Sigh. But finals for three of my classes are almost over. Thank goodness.

But we still manage to have fun even when we are studying about King So and So wiping out the So and So tribe.

For Halloween, me and three of my friends here dressed up as the "Mean Girls." (It's a Lindsay Lohan movie. Dad, Sheila may have forced you to see this one with her right after Legally Blonde).

It was a bit unsettling when people came up to us and told us they couldn't tell we were dressed up until they saw us all together--with too much makeup gunked on our faces and powdered in every shade of pink. And, at the last moment, we made a "Burn Book." In a movie, the Mean Girls make a Burn Book and put gossip in about everyone at their school. You can see a few of the pictures of the gossip we came up with (refer to blog)...mwahaha.

For more fun, we also take looong breakfast, lunch, and dinner breaks. I sip my warm milk, munch on my peanut butter smothered piece of toast, and procrastinate having to learn yet another King with everyone else. One night, a boy was doing the "cinnamon challenge." The challenge is you take an entire spoon of cinnamon, shove it in your mouth, and swallow.

I saw the guy doing and I thought, "pshh that's easy." After my fish eye experience, I was ready to sample the cow blood they serve in Kenya. Yup, I was a bit cocky. So I made the mistake of saying, "pshh that's easy," to everyone around me. So one of the boys jumps up and got me my own spoonful of cinnamon. After everyone started chanting, I shoved the spoon in my mouth.

My eyes burned.

It felt like a pine tree was shoved up my nose.

Granules of sugar and spice and everything nice burned in my throat.

I tried to swallow but the powder had turned into sludge.

I stood up and by then, everyone in the cafeteria was watching.

I waved my hands in my face and tried to tuck more of the cinnamon into my cheeks but, now, it was cement.

Then, I looked around and saw everyone laughing so I chuckled.

A big puff of cinnamon billowed out in front of my face.

So I ran for the nearest trash and nearly threw up as I spit the sludge out. It was sooo attractive.

Perhaps my favorite, and much less disgusting way, of taking a break from studying is playing basketball. Yup, I said it. I know, it's strange. Me? Basketball? Bukra fel mesh mesh (that means 'tomorrow an apricot' or 'when hell freezes over.'). But a bunch of the girls formed several powderpuff basketball teams and I couldn't resist joining one. Our team name is "The Gold diggers" (like my future career) and we are tough stuff. We practice. We have a coach (he is one of the students and always comes to our games wearing slacks, a button-up shirt, and toting around a clipboard...he's so proud).

After several pep talks, we had our first game. At that game, one girl got stitches. My teammate's teeth accidentally gnawed at her forehead and the blood spilt everywhere. The girl grabbed her forehead and everyone thought she lost an eye. A puddle of red formed underneath her by the time the doctor came. But we wiped up the floor, and still won the game (the girl is ok-five stitches later).

At the second game, I was determined to not be the little wimp that is shoved around the court. So I laced up my shoes and set out to at least get the ball ... at least once.

I got it.

And I even defended a few shots.

There was one point where I got in the way and hit a wall of bodies. I slammed to the ground-tailbone first and ended on my head.

The way my skull hit the floor there was an audible "thud."

The game stopped.

And I even got the crowd saying, "oooh."

My professor's wife was so sweet and came running from the sideline. She held my head and kept asking me if I was ok.

You know in the movies where the cartoon character gets an anvil on his head and starts seeing stars? Well, I didn't see stars but I definitely retreated into my own little Lala Land. So I just held onto my professor's wife and kept saying, "I'm ok, I'm ok." Eventually, I blinked out of my Lala land and insisted I could still play (I want to be considered tough).

But I will now blame my inability to play basketball and my not-so-beautiful ANE grades on a possible concussion.

Honestly though, my head didn't hurt the next day. It is my tailbone. I shuffled around the center looking like I had a permanent wedgie.

We still find time (or at least we make time) to go into the City. Yesterday, we went out for ice cream. We found old flowers in a trash bin and carried them home, too. I took a bouquet of limp lilies. The way the men on the streets started hooting when they saw us with flowers, you would think they thought we were going off to our wedding day.

Today, we went to the Garden Tomb. I love it there. It is always so crowded on the sabbath with tour groups. But they have their guitars out, strumming along, and singing their praises as if Christ just came out of the tomb. So, I love it.

I decided I also love the Bible. I don't mean to sound preachy here but the Bible is now one of my favorite books. I always rolled my eyes at people who said if they could only have one book on a desert island, they would bring the Bible. But the Bible is really so interesting. The stories are amazing. And they are scandalous! C'mon you have harlots saving the day, a man marrying sisters (can you imagine, Melissa?), and barren women going to any means for a child--these stories are scandalous. I am not doing justice to my thoughts right now and I maybe should delete this paragraph but I love the stories. I want to meet Rachel and compliment her on the way she hide those statues from her father (read it--it's hilarious). I wish I had been there to see how Hannah looked nearly drunk in the church as she prayed. I wish I had been there to tell Samson not to fall for a pair of pretty eyes or swinging hips. I suppose I can settle for living where they once lived.

It's amazing, too, how well the stories are connected. I spent all my high school life revering Shakespeare, but the best metaphors are in the book I used as a pillow during seminary. Everything makes sense! Everything is related! All the metaphors work so perfectly! I just didn't read the words carefully before. Ok, now I am sounding preachy. It's a hallelujah moment. You can't help but have those moments here.

This upcoming week, we are going to Galilee. They told us in our orientation that we will be "swimming where Jesus walked."

I am thrilled.

Everyone hopes there will be a storm when we are in the boats in the middle of the sea.

I'll bring my laptop so I can hopefully email you during the next two weeks.

I love you all and miss you all.

Love,

your daughter who may potentially bring the Bible with her if she was ever stuck on a desert island ... or Harry Potter ... or Jane Eyre ... ok, I''ll be righteous and bring the Bible.

Kimberly

P.S. I was reading the Bible one night and Kaylie sneezed. Without looking up, I said, "Bless Thou." Yup, I may be more awkward than Sheila when she first came home from her mission and didn't hug me :)

Oh, and Good news!!--If you search "Where to find Magnum Bars in Jerusalem" my blog is the first thing to pop up on google! I have never been more proud. And yes, a friend and I were searching that phrase in google...

For Halloween, we were the "Mean Girls." But I like to think that we are actually the nice version of the Mean Girls.

Scandalous gossip whispered through the Bible.

Oh, little town of Bethlehem. Sigh.

Playing Indiana in Jordan

An Email Home ...

Shalom/Marhaba Mom!

Once again, in the matter of days, it feels like I have lived 500 lives. This past week, the Jerusalem Center took a sojourn to Jordan. We drove to the border, got pretty new stamps in our passports, then chugged along in a different, tacky tourist bus. Before we left, our Jordanian tour guide, Mohammad, stepped all aboard and joined us. I have never seen so many pockets on one tour guide. I counted more then seven. He wore every shade of olive green, looking himself like a kind, round olive. But Mohammad was in no way as bitter as an olive. He tolerated our twittering tourist behavior and every time we dawdled at the shops he called out, "Ready Tigers?"We happily growled or pawed at the air, then followed along.

The first day, Mohammad took us to Mt. Nebo where Moses looked out and saw the promised land.

We stood atop the Tel and wondered what Moses saw when he saw the promise land. We saw a wide blue sky and dusty, gold sand hills that looked like giant camel lumps atop the world.

I have to admit, it was hard to squint out at the sight and say, "oh yes, what a land of milk and honey."

That night, we drove into our hotel far past dinnertime, rushed to the buffet, cheered for the delicious swarmas and then ...because we are college students who simply do not sleep at night, we went swimming. The hotel had a pool in-doors ... and it was heated. Cha-ching.

So we do not wither from dehydration, our professors give us these tree-size water bottles each day. Filled with pool water, one of these bottles becomes a perfect water-polo "ball" in the pool. We divided into two teams. The rules: girls go on the boys' shoulders, get the water bottle, return it to your side, and... then there are no other rules. Hair-pulling is allowed (ouch).

I got on one of the boy's shoulders (at this point, I realized maybe it would be a good idea to shave sometime while on this trip ... oh well) ... the ref. called out start and the game began! The boys strutted forward with the girls barring their nails at each other. We grabbed at each other's wrists, ankles, thighs, hair, etc.

When one girl grabbed the water bottle-bobbing somewhere in the middle of the pool, we became a tangle of bodies. The boys were squished under thighs, but I didn't even bother to see if mine was still taking in oxygen. I grabbed the water bottle at one point and nails gripped around my wrists. Five pairs of hands pushed me into the water. More bodies fell on top of me and I pushed my way through the masses, looking for air, wondering if this would be the way I would die in Jordan.

My group didn't win.

I ran back to my room, dripping wet, cold with chicken-skin all over, wishing for a re-match.

But I had so, so much fun.

On Tuesday, we went to the land of Indiana Jones. At least, that's what I keep calling it in my head. It's Petra--the very place where Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade was filmed (Namadeon people lived there too, apparently...).

I took a thousand pictures.

Mostly because I was excited to wear my new hat (shallowness alert).

It's the hat you and Dad got me--the wide brim, chestnut brown, complete and utterly tacky tourist collection hat. Before we left for Jordan, we watched the Indiana Jones movie and I knew I had to bring that hat with me. I put the hat on and we followed Mohammad down dusty roads into dark and beautiful chocolate trie-cake like sikhs. I brushed my fingers along the hat's brim and felt like a sassy female version of the rugged Harrison Ford (go ahead and roll your eyes).

Mohammad told us about the carvings in the stone. He explained how we could see depictions of camels and soldiers in the chocolate-brown rock. But by the time we got to the site where Indiana was, my friend Katherine and I were just not listening. We started to sing the theme song (duh-duh da da) and galloped past Mohammad on our imaginary horses (yes, I am a Junior in college).

The site was beautiful. And while I had far too much fun riding a camel, lifting my hat into the air, and pretending to be Indiana, it was amazing to look at the carvings and imagine the hands that smoothed the stone.

The rest of the day in Petra, we explored like Indiana Jones. Except, my hat got me into some trouble.

My Arabic teacher told me I am too small to be desired by the Arab men (but no worries, he comforted me by saying--"you are a piece of cake, Kimburlee!")

Apparently, when I wear that hat the men do not mind if I am a small and mousy brunette.

Throughout the day, men called out, "I like the one in the hat!" or "cowgirl!"

Another asked, "I like your hat. Can I have it?"

Nervous giggle. Umm, no?

"I like you. Can I have you?"

More nervous giggling and my face turns the shade of Egypt's Nile after God turned it into blood.

Sure, it was nice for the brunette to get some attention once instead of the blondes. But it was a bit creepy ...

I was not about to take off my Indiana Jones hat during our horse ride. They gave us three dollars to ride a horse back to the bus and I was more excited than a child. However, they warned the girls not to go alone and to make sure, if the man who led your horse, led you on a different course, to make a loud, loud fuss.

I found a man with a horse, struck the three-dollar deal and saddled on top of the brown, nutella-colored horse.

The man who led my horse seemed a bit cranky. I pulled myself up on the horse, patted the animal's head and said, "What's his name?"

Cranky man didn't even look at me. He took the reigns and grumbled a reply.

"He doesn't have a name."

"Can I name him?"

Then, cranky man turned around, slowly, and with the creepiest sneer on his lips said, "sure."

I named the horse Chestnut.

Chestnut did not like to go fast. I swear that horse was dragging its hooves and making decorative designs in the dust.

My friends were ahead on the trail and I was with lazy Chestnut and cranky horse man. The horse man let me ride Chestnut alone and I think he enjoyed smacking Chestnut's bum so the horse would start running with me wide-eyed and bouncing around on back. But, Chestnut was too lazy and after a fast trot, slowed down to once again make designs in the dust.

Cranky horse man then got a horse from another man on the road and rode along beside me.

Cranky horse man then looked at me and said, "You look so cute right now. Like a cowgirl. This is the first time I am jealous of my horse. I wish you were riding me."

Nervous giggle.

Nervous smacking Chestnut's head.

Nervous muttering little prayers that Chestnut would hurry it up.

Cranky horse man and I talked some more. I tried to change the subject (Does your family live in Jordan? Do you like Jordan? Let's talk about Jordan.)

Then, cranky horse man took my horse's reigns and started to lead me up the hill and away from the group.

All the spit dried up in my mouth.

I started to panic. I told him not to go that way. I imagined Chestnut would be the last to see me alive. I looked ahead, trying to find someone in my group. I saw Kaylie and started calling out her name.

Thankfully, as a true friend, Kaylie was already looking for me.

"What are you doing over there?" she called out.

"I don't know," I said with a very raspy, choked out voice.

"She needs to come over here," Kaylie said to cranky horse man.

Cranky horse man brought me back to Kaylie and I stepped down, shaking, from the horse.

I still love my Indiana hat.

But I do not think I will ever wear my Indiana hat in Jordan, again.

On Wednesday, we went to a Mosque. Unfortunately, that morning I woke up with a bit of a cold. I spent the night before, suffering the first stages of hypothermia in our freezing hotel room. (I was under the tissue-thin covers, blowing heat into my hands all night). Once again, the Nile River was coming out of my nose. So I took two Benadryl with breakfast. Bad decision.

I honestly cannot recall most of Wednesday.

I remember losing the feeling in my arms and legs at the Mosque. I remember walking around, feeling like the world was blurring into watercolors. I didn't faint though. It was just like I was walking along in a dream. When I asked the person I was sitting next to on the bus if I acted strange he said, "you were in your own little world." But the Mosque, from what I remember, was beautiful.

We put on headscarves and black robes. Then, we quietly tiptoed (I swayed) into the Mosque. We learned about the prayer and admired the Arabic gold lettering on the walls.

I think if I had been fully conscious, the mosque would have been one of my favorite memories.

But there were more favorite memories I was more awake for. We met up with the BYU Jordan travel abroad students. I knew one of the girls from freshman year and she took me and some other of my JC friends to get falafels from a hole-in-the wall restaurant. It was in an dark, dank alleyway. With plastic chairs and tables. I sat there munching on my oversized, fried chickpea ball, stuffed with onions, and warm pita with humus and I kept wondering, if I would soon be the mother to parasites.

Then, we went and got the traditional desert. It's a sweet kind of gloppy cheese I can't name. I had to force myself to swallow it but it wasn't half bad.

On our adventure for more delicious Jordanian delicacies we got nutella fruit cocktails. That, I could stomach.

Other JC people who went out with the Arabic kids had a few stomach problems. Honestly, we've gotten to the point where it's as normal to ask a friend about their bowel movements as it is to ask about the weather.

Our adventure in Jordan continued with improv concerts in old ruined theaters, lunch at KFC take-out (more aching bellies), and hikes to monasteries.

The last day, we went to the River Jordan. The water looked olive-green. I dipped my feet in the sun-warmed water and let the moss squish up in between my toes. As one of my friends observed, Christ chose a humble place to be baptized. But the River Jordan really is so, so beautiful.

Now, I am back at the Jerusalem Center, with my hot milk and toast, only feeling nauseous because I have so, so much homework to do.

But, as always, I love life here.

Love you and Miss you!!!!

Love,

Kimberly

Petra: The Place of the Nabateans and, of course, Indiana Jones

Me and Katherine playing Indiana

Me as Indiana all over Jordan ...

Me and Robin

Professor Huntsman and Me

Me, Chestnut the horse, and Kaylie. This is the moment where Kaylie made sure I made it back to the group safely.I learned something about myself at this site: I am slightly terrified of heights. Kaylie had to hold my hand.

The background is real.

Amazing.

In the River Jordan.

Where Christ was baptized.

Amazing.