Home in the Old City

Today, I was pressed and pushed. I was smirked and kissed at. I think the men may wrongly assume that all American girls perpetually blush or scold or just giggle nervously.

On our free days, or the hours in between classes, we rush to the Old City.

I just walk along the cobble step streets and try to remember every face and feature.

A round little seven year old boy walks around the Old City with a cig burning on the end of his pouting lip. You can tell he thinks he is all that and a bag of those crunchy BBQ puff chips. An older man sits at his shop, stooped over a hooka, taking long, big draughts. He reminds me of the caterpillar from Alice in Wonderland. A sickly sweet smoke billows around him and he closes his eyes, wraps his wrinkled hands around the nozzle, and seems to fall asleep in the clouds. Women in headscarves grasp their children's hands and walk brazenly forward. Tourists dawdle at the shops. The tourists in the bustling, matching color t-shirt groups fan themselves and then bow their heads, muttering prayers or singing hymns as they follow their guide.

I just realized I am talking about tourists and I am one.

But not really.

I have to admit, I feel like a natural now in the city.

I know, I know that is arrogant to say. To be honest, I still fit into the crowds of bustling tourists. But I feel more confident.

Growing up, I watched the cartoon movies of the scriptures. There is one with time travelers visiting Queen Esther. The time travelers are with Esther when she is chosen as queen, when she learns about Haman's plot against the Jews, and when she prepares the banquet. But my favorite part is when Queen Esther must go in to speak to the king. She knows she may die but she still walks forward, pushes aside the soldier's spears and, without looking down, says, "I am queen." Sometimes, when I am walking into places where I feel as though everyone is looking down on me, I compose my face, I look ahead and confidently walk forward. In the Old City, I was thinking about this.

I try to walk confidently.

I wear my genie pants, the ones with red and green and orange stripes as a belt. I munch away on the most delicious falafal, bursting with wedges of green cucumbers, fried chickpeas, and creamy humus wrapped up in pita bread that smells like yeast and warm earth.

I raise my eyebrows at the prices and tsk when I know the shopkeeper is trying to swindle me.

I know I have so much to learn. From the people. From the land. From the history somehow saved in every building and cobblestone.

But I still like to walk confidently and believe for a moment, that I belong here. Because, for right now, I do belong here.

Andrew, Katie, Me, Kaylie, Jeff, and Lauren

Me, Mary, and Kaylie

Anyone who knows me knows I am somewhat obsessed with the movie Ever After. I was a bit too loud in the holy church when I found this gem ... it's Leon Cre! As in, Nicole de Leon Cre.

I am doing pretty well on my goal to try every flavor of gelato ice cream. This day, double scoop of Ferro Rocher and Snickers. (from left to right-Mary, Me, Kaylie, and Scott).

While it wasn't the time of the year for the holiday, we had our own Seder dinner. That's the passover dinner with singing, crisp unleavened bread (tastes like saltine crackers ... yum) and, of course, our wonderful professor: Ophir.

Traditionally, Seder meals include wine. We feasted with grape juice.

An Adventure in the Kidron Valley. Me and a few of the Arabic students went to explore caves in the valley. There, we found millipedes, knats within the tombs and tethered ropes in Absalom's burial chamber. I felt like the female version of Indiana Jones.

Tragically, I died in the cave.

Then, I turned into a zombie with Egyptian dance moves. (Zombies from left to right: Whitney, Tyler, Robin (in back), Me (in front), Allyson, and Elise.

Our burial place. Or us planking. (Whitney, Me, Robin).

Kaylie (aka Popcorn) and I planned a night out on the town in West Jerusalem. We planned to go see a jazz concert and invited everyone we saw at the center. By the time we ordered the bus, more than forty people joined our group. The bus driver dropped us off on the side of the street and we tried to assemble a group of forty flirty students to find the concert. We searched and searched ... but never found it. We asked for directions. We listened for the whisper of some jazz note. We got lost in a food market. Eventually, we went to Ben Yuhada street and consoled ourselves with gelato. It was ... a wonderful night.

Outside of the JC, there are olive trees. I love the trees' large, gnarled roots and branches. The olives are like plump, hard green grapes and are so bitter they make my cheeks pinch. We each went out to fill bags full of these little olives. Later, we will press them into our own little flasks of Holy Land olive oil.

I reached the top of the tree branches on Cameron's shoulders (he kindly pretended like I wasn't hurting his shoulders). Before going on his shoulders, I did a nice job of getting so scratched up in the tree tops that I now am making good use of the Batman bandaids my Mom sent.

Elise, Me, Scott

Mary, Kaylie, Me, Mary

Falafels are the most delicious food since Betty Crocker brownies.

A Rose Garden in Jerusalem

Before I left for Israel, I read the book "The Little Prince." I had never read it before and wished after I finished the last page, that I could meet the little prince on his little planet.

Now, I feel like I am on a different planet.

Except, I feel at home here.

I was much too excited when I arrived in Jerusalem and found velvet pink, yellow and red roses at the BYU Center. It reminded me of the little prince.

In the book, the little prince talks to a rose garden about his own rose ...

"You're lovely, but you're empty ... One couldn't die for you. Of course an ordinary passerby would think my rose looked just like you. But my rose, all on her own, is more important than you altogether, since she's the one I've watered. Since she's the one I put under glass. Since she's the one I sheltered behind a screen. Since she's the one for whom I killed the caterpillars (except for two or three for butterflies). Since's she the one I listened to when she complained, or when she boasted, or even sometimes when she said nothing at all. Since she's my rose." (passage from Antoine de Saint-Exupéry's "The Little Prince")

Here in Jerusalem, I have fallen in love.

With the land.

With the people.

Jerusalem is a rose, to me.

Me and Popcorn. Ok, ok her name really isn't Popcorn. This is my roommate Kaylie. I call her Popcorn as an endearing pet nickname. I christened her "Popcorn" because she pops her knuckles and spine and sternum ... (I didn't even know you could pop your sternum). We have too much fun shopping, eating Magnum bars and procrastinating our homework together.

Me, Mary, Kaylie and Jessica at Tel Aviv. The Mediterranean water is oh so lush and warm. I only wondered for a moment if the fish that swallowed Jonah was nearby.

I graffitied my name at the Jerusalem Center. Ok, everyone was allowed to ... but I still feel immortalized.

Apparently, they know me in Jerusalem.

I found Eeyore in Jerusalem. I intend to ride him home and keep as a pet.

Our Modern Near Eastern teacher told us to try his favorite restaurant Lina. We searched the Old City until we found the place. We tried the warm pita with humus ... and ordered seconds. We tried the fresh squeezed lemonade and our eyes burned.

After two weeks of falling in love with Jerusalem, they then swept us away to a different land ... Turkey.

Ok, ok. I know. I know. It is not a good idea to touch potentially diseased, sneezing, lice-infested cats on the cobblestone streets of Turkey. But let me explain.

This little kitten with three legs ran up to me.

He nuzzled my leg.

He meowed so sweetly.

So I couldn't resist. I scratched his little ear.

And then the kitten sneezed into my hand.

I delighted in the Turkish delight.

Desiree and Me as Greek Goddesses at Assos.

Katherine, Mattie and Me at yet another unbelievably picturesque place of Turkey.

Perhaps the most wonderful memory so far was dancing on the beach, around a bon fire, and getting sand in between our toes while dancing to J.B.

No, these are not Greek Goddesses (it is easy to get confused) ... Me, Mary, Kaylie, Jessica, and Robin.

We are about to take over Troy in our own Trojan horse. (Where's Waldo? Hint: I'm the white bead in the middle window).

I ate this fish's eye ... on a dare. It was like a squishy white bead. But I am not allowed to talk about how the eye tasted like diseased liver because it grosses Jessica out.

Proof I ate said squishy fish eye.

We have Magnum ice cream bar addictions. I think it is a healthy addiction. Double chocolate feeds my soul.

Sigh.

The world is so, so beautiful.

Back at the Jerusalem Center, dressed and ready for Arab night.

Marahaba! That's Arabic for hello.

Yes, Jerusalem is my rose.

Here in Jerusalem

Now, I do not know where to begin. I have too many notes to scribble in this notebook. I have bitten off a month of experience and I can’t swallow it in one nice little gulp.

But rather than bore you with a long detail by detail version I think I will just post a few of the emails to my mom.

For about a month, I have been living here in Jerusalem.

Jerusalem is my Wonderland.

I just can’t help myself. I am like one of those fanatical girls who can’t stop gushing about their only beloved. Except, I seem to be in love with a place.

Yes, I love Jerusalem.

I love walking into the Old City. I love how I get lost in the bustle of people. I love how the little boys in kipas tussle around me. I love the smell of spices and warm pita bread.

Sometimes, I just sit at the center and look out at the city. There are so many buildings. Each of the stone structures are nestled close together until they all crowd one another and look like crushed precious sand stones.

The Golden Dome looks like a fat rising sun in the midst of it all.

I lose all my shekels to the shopkeepers. They tell me I have pretty eyes and once again, I can’t help myself.

100 shekels for a piece of tarnished jewelry? No, no I can’t. What? It will protect my blue eyes from envious eyes? Well, of course. I must have it.

I think my favorite place to go is the Garden Tomb. It’s just so quite there. Except for the tour groups prattling away in Arabic or Hebrew or some African language, it is so quiet.

Or sometimes, I just like to stay at the Center and sit outside. The Center has big, juicy pomegranates that droop on the tree limbs like round rubies.

We pluck them from the tree and let the rubies drip their sticky juices on our fingertips.

Then, I rush off for the classes, mumbling about the homework I have not finished, but still thinking about where to go after lunch: the Garden of Gethsemane, the Pools of Bethesda or the Church of the Holy Sepulcher perhaps.

I just can’t help myself. I have fallen in love with Jerusalem.

Phoneix and Jerusalem ... Both Hot ... But Not the Same

This morning, I was already awake when my mom opened the door.

"Time for Jerusalem!" she said, happily. Then, she rushed upstairs to make warm bran muffins. I knew she was trying, so hard, to get me excited, ready and rearing for this potentially nerve damaging trip.

No need.

I'll admit, there may have been a small swarm of monarch butterflies in my stomach when I considered meeting my group ... but I was (and I still am) ready to go to Jerusalem.

So when my mom came to wake me up, I popped out of the covers.

My light was already on. My hair was sticking out in 500 different directions. And my suitcase was packed upstairs (the product of a restless sleep. Hence, the hair).

A day later, I am not in Jerusalem.

My group and I arrived in Phoenix, AZ, at around 11:15 this morning and stayed there until about 7:00pm.

We spent the hours making first introductions-nervously approaching one another, then tossing customs to the wind and lying on the chairs/basking on the floor to talk and laugh.

But at 7:00, the news was final.

"Mechanical malfunctions," they said.

"We apologize," they said.

The airport tried to ease the creases in our foreheads with vouchers for one meal (the veggie pizza did help a little ...), a free water bottle, and setting us up at a rather charming conference hotel.

But, now, I may be at this charming hotel for a week.

Humph.

I am just ready. I am ready to get on a plane for 15 hours. I am ready to run around in Jerusalem. I suppose the anticipation will just make getting there even more wonderful.
(I am trying this new optimistic approach. I'll let you know how it goes. It is hard to have the glass half full when you are sitting in 110 degree weather ... I think I may just drink up my half full glass.)

Holding Beja: Back from an Annual Trip to Kenya

When he holds me close, I want to kiss his cheek.

When he looks up at me, I want to kiss his nose.

I love Beja.

No, Beja is not a boyfriend (who needs one of those?). Beja is one of the students at the school dedicated in memory of my brother in Mynzeni, Kenya: the Sean Michels School for Special Needs.

This past week, my family and I returned from Mynzeni, where we treated over three hundred Kenyans at our makeshift dental clinic.

(For pictures and a write-up of the trip, check out seanmichelsschool.blogspot.com. Warning: you will want to adopt every child in Africa if you so much as glance at any picture of an SMS child).

At Seany’s school, we have twenty-three beautiful, gorgeous, kind, grateful students (enough synonyms for you?).

This trip, I was in charge of taking pictures with my new handy-dandy camera.

It is a Sony.

With a microphone.

And I absolutely adore my new bit of technology.

As soon as I saw our children smile, my camera shutter went off. The flash bloomed a thousand times. The children thought my eye turned into a black, technical protrusion.

I love to take pictures of these special, beautiful children. They each walk so confidently. They do not hide their amputated arms or deformed feet. They smile for the picture.

But as I go through the pictures now, I must admit: most of my pictures are of Beja.

I know it is wrong to play favorites.

And I promise I do not have favorites.

I just love to hold Beja until my arms ache.

One day during the trip, Baba Bret came up while I was holding Beja. Beja had just gotten a cavity fixed. And I was feeling like a villain for holding Beja down while the dentist jabbed mosquito-like needles into his cheek.

"I’m sorry Beja," I said, murmuring apologies into his ear.

Beja tucked his head under my chin and looked up with puppy dog, hazelnut eyes. He jutted out his lip and motioned to the trash. He needed to spit again. I rushed him over to the trash bin and he sputtered up more spit and blood.

After wiping up his brown, puckered lip, I continued to walk around the Koins site.. Beja looked up and saw Baba Bret nearby. Baba Bret called out Beja's name and took him into his own arms.

My arms felt empty.

I can be quite possessive over Beja so I waited for Baba Bret to be done playing with Beja.

Bret showed Beja his camera and tickled him until he smiled, his brazen, devilish smile.

Then Bret looked at me.

"Beja, is this your other mama? Your white mama?" Bret said, playfully.

I just smiled sheepishly, hoping he would say yes. I want Beja to love me so bad, it hurts.

Beja just grinned wider. Then, he shifted away from Bret, towards me.

"He is leaning to you," Bret said, kindly.

I reached out and took Beja into my arms. I tucked his crumpled legs around my waist. And I walked around the Koins site, pretending to be an African mama. Regal. Strong. With a child wrapped around me like a sarong.