A God among Mortals

In my second grade class, my kids are each members of one of the "Groups of Doom" - the Zombies, Robots, Dinosaurs, and Pirates.  I would have enjoyed "Harbingers of the Apocalypse" more, but three-syllable words are still something of a challenge for them.

Today my group leaders were in class during break to help set things up.  As I wrote the warm-up on the board, I heard a loud smacking sound behind me.  I turn to see one of the boys crouched in a post-cartwheel landing position on the ground, a huge grin spread across his face.  Seeing that I was clearly pleased, the other boys took their turns showing off their mad cartwheeling skills.  I nodded in approval at each attempt.

After the three boys had each shown off their talents, I waved them to the side, opening the clearing in the front of the room for myself.  I took off my scarf and put it on the table, and tied up my cardigan so it wouldn't get hung up on anything.  The boys' eyes went wide.

I executed a perfect front handspring, complete with arms, hands, and legs in finishing position.  I turned back to the boys, whose jaws were all dropped.

"Alright.  Off to break, boys."

They hurried out of the class in a pack, frantically whispering to one another in Arabic as they scurried out the door.

I imagine word of my feat spread over the break field like wildfire.  By the fifth retelling, I'm sure I jumped ten feet in the air and flipped 17 times.

I swear, teaching little kids is like being a god among mortals.

Getting settled and fluffy cuteness

Hey, all.  I’m back.

I’d been holding off on any more updates until I had something solid to give you guys.  After a month of utter uncertainty as to the future of our school here, things have finally settled down.  We have a physical school in which to hold classes, and things should be back to normal in no time.  As normal as it gets, anyhow.

Furry highlights of the first month:

THE BUNNY

One evening while we were celebrating the birthday of a newly arrived staff member, I began getting calls via other people’s cell phones informing me that our regular taxi driver was trying to find me.  I had forgotten my phone at home.  

Finally the driver  himself reached me (via someone else’s phone).  

“Kelly, I need to see you.  Just one minute.   Two minutes.”

“Umm, is there a problem?”

“No, no problem.  Just see you and go.”  (We’ve agreed that on even days we speak only English and on odd days we speak only Arabic, in order to facilitate mutual language learning.  This was an even day.)

I try to imagine what offense could possibly have been committed by one of our staff members to have him looking for me all over Nablus.  I start running through the list in my head of who was missing from the gathering I was currently attending.  I grab Sean and we head upstairs.  

When we get up there, we see the driver parked across the street.  He spots us and quickly takes one last drag of his cigarette before throwing it down and going to the trunk of his car.  Opening it, he carefully pulls out a cardboard box and walks happily towards us.  

“Hello, Kelly.  Hello, Sean.”

“Hey there… what’s this?” 

The box has a red bow on top.  He hands it to me, carefully.  I notice that there are holes poked in the top of the box as well.

“It is… how do you say it… present?  Hadiya?  Present, yes?”

“What?  Yes, that’s the word…”

“Carefully, carefully,” he cautions, as I excitedly try to open it.  Sean looks confused. 

“It’s an animal, Sean, he got me a pet!”

I open the box and slowly tilt it down, and a white ball of fluff slides out.  I tenderly lift it from the box.

“IT’S A BUNNY!  THANK YOU SO MUCH!”  The baby rabbit looked almost identical to the baby bunny who was put in my care last year by a negligent first grader.  This man had picked Helen and me up after we buried that bunny one morning, and knew how sad I was at the loss.    I later found out that he had searched for ten days to find a bunny who met the exact specifications of that last, late bunny.  “White, with red eyes, small, but do not need the mother milk,” he later told some of my co-workers.

“You’re welcome.  Bye!”

He runs back to his car and takes off. 

We named her Salma after the school secretary.  It seemed only fitting, as my last bunny, Nourmeen, had been named after another teacher.  That night I happened to be wearing one of Nourmeen’s favorite scarves, and Salma quickly took to home in my scarf secured around my neck, napping in her little bunny sling. 

When we got home, I set her up in the hutch built last year for the host of bunnies taken on by the English staff, which I had brought into my room upon arrival thinking that Nourmeen would live there.  (Nourmeen was not the white rabbit of last year – she was my bunny, and was left in the care of another teacher over the summer.  She now lives in a nearby village on a farm… or so I’m told.)

Unfortunately, little Salma was only with us a few short weeks.  I’m not sure what did her in.  She lived a happy life with us in the short time that we had, and she brought us, and many kids, a great deal of joy.  She will be missed.

THE DOG

Soon after Salma’s passing, Sean discovered a lil pup.  This post’s already long enough, so I won’t go into detail… but he’s super cute and now living with one of our co-workers.  He was discovered on the birthday of one of last year’s teachers, and in his honor, we named the dog after him.  

This is all of the old staff members wearing clothes left by Delphino, the man, in a pyramid above Delphino, the pup.

Alive and well and pumpkin ghosts.

So I’m back in Nablus, safe and sound.  Most of you already know that from Facebook, although I know that not everyone uses social networking as a lifeline to the outside world.  Perhaps when you don’t feel like you’re inside, it’s not necessary.  That’s my deep thought for the day.

I’m rather tired after hearing a football match (soccer game) blasted outside my apartment into the early morning, complete with the requisite cheering and ruckus throughout, and the celebratory chanting and drag racing at the end.  Having watched my fair share of Scooby Doo growing up, and having seen Real Madrid flags flying above the screen outside, I’m going to assume that Real Madrid is the team that won.  I coulda sworn this whole town was Barca crazy, but I guess not.

Annnnnnddd, I’ve just lost any of my American readers with that last paragraph.  Kudos if you’re still with me.

Anyhow, life is good here.  It’s a bit odd the variety of emotions that come with such a move.  I’d say it’s like… if every wave in the ocean were a different flavor of jello, and you were sitting in the surf with the waves splashing your face as they rolled in… it’s like that.  I did mention how little sleep I’ve had, right?

There is logic behind it, though.  After passing through security at DFW airport, suddenly all of my worries, fears, and apprehension were swept away by the feeling that I was doing exactly what I was meant to be doing.  A sudden return of my sense of self – the self that loves every last detail of the life she’s chosen.  And upon exiting Ben Gurion, I sat waiting for the train to Tel Aviv, surrounded by people speaking a language I do not know and only vaguely certain of where I was going (I’d never taken the train from the airport)… and I felt like I’d finally reached home.  The sense of comfort remained as I watched the rocky hills covered in thinly trunked trees, white brick homes, and olive groves pass us in the train.  Then driving through Jerusalem and finally hearing and speaking Arabic, the feeling grew stronger.  Watching the familiar scenery pass on the ride from Ramallah to Nablus, knowing the turns, recognizing as we passed through Hiwara, then the Balata refugee camp, then the street by my old apartment. 

When I could finally text with my SIM cards from over here, I messaged the principal of my school to tell her of my arrival, and she responded, “Welcome home!”  I certainly do feel like I’m home.

That just sounds like one flavor of jello, right?  I didn’t mention that these feelings are spliced with the variety of pangs that come with the distance from my other home (a relative term, to be sure), the random fears of the unknown, the irritations that even the honeymoon feeling of coming back can’t wash over. 

Anyhow, that’s my alive and well post.  I’ll see if I can keep y’all updated with at least the frequency that I did last year. 

As always, much love.

View from the balcony of my new place.

Found this GIANT jar of pumpkin seeds in my dedicated kitchen cleaning yesterday.  It's the size of two large bowling balls and perhaps the equivalent weight.  None of the previous tenants from the last year had ever seen it, and I've never seen a pumpkin in Palestine.  Odd. 
I've been told that by opening it I've released a ghost.

PS – Gwen, glad that you enjoyed the updates last year.  Hope you’ll enjoy them this year as well.  :)

Off to see the wizard...

I can't decide which one really ought to be Oz in this metaphor - where I'm coming from or where I'm going.  Having just completed  my obra, my œuvre, last night, my brain is still thinking in Wizard of Oz terms.

The play went amazingly well, thanks to the 11th hour assistance of many a co-worker.  I'll have to write a post about that at some point... or perhaps just tell you in person, as the purpose of this blog was to keep folks updated while I was so far away. 

So today I leave Nablus.  I wanted to get out of here today to avoid dealing with any potential protests or checkpoint closures tomorrow, which is Nakba Day.  Today, Israel celebrates its independence, and tomorrow, Palestinians mourn their displacement.  All in all, bad timing for my own departure, I recognize.

So I sit in my room, bags packed, waiting for my wash to dry sufficiently to pack them away and head to Jerusalem.  It started pouring down just as I went to hang it on the line this morning, which is less than ideal for the drying, the leaving, and the wandering around Jerusalem I had intended to do today.  Mais ç'est la vie, non?  

I'll make my way to Tel Aviv by Sunday night, and I'll be heading out before the sun that morning.  My first two days back in the States, I'll be monumentally overwhelmed by NYC no doubt, with all of its things to do and buy and eat and see.  Then meeting up with whomsoever wishes to say wassup in Austin on Wednesday at the Aviary Lounge, then back in Dallas Thursday.  And then... who knows.  The summer is wide open.

I'm still not sure which Dorothy I am right now, whether I'm coming or going.  The easiest analogy is that I'm Dorothy in the last scene - "Oh, it's so hard to say goodbye!" - about to tap my heels.  But I really feel more like Dorothy in the beginning of the play, about to start her journey.  After all, soon enough I'll be tapping my heels and finding myself back here again.

Who knows.  Whatever analogy is suitable, I sure am gonna miss this place.  

I'll keep you all posted as I travel.  And once I land on the other end, I'll keep those of you still on this end posted with what's up over there.  

Much love to all.

Things currently in bed with me

1. my computer
2. two coffee mugs, one half-full
3. a Pringles can filled with cigarette butts
4. an empty tub of ice cream we use as tuperware filled with orange rinds, bread, and barbeque sauce
5. my phone
6. my purse
7. my 2010 W2
8. clothes
9. my backpack
10. my rabbit's stuffed lion
11. a wine glass
12. an airplane pillow I sleep on nightly because it keeps my neck and back from revolting against my nervous system (thanks, Melissa)

I've been working on a project all day (hence the dual coffee mugs, food bin, and ash tray).
I finally allowed myself to rest (hence the glass). 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

The lion's shirt says, in a less than native English fashion, "I love lion".
Who is it that loves lion?  Does the lion love himself? 
Are my thoughts being broadcast onto the lion's shirt? 
Why is there no article used?  Does my rabbit understand?
These are the questions I ask myself. 

Pillow pals.

The frothing rants of a school teacher

No, you can't rejoin the drama that you quit yesterday despite the fact that I told you that wasn't even an option.  Why would you even think to ask?


Why?  Why?  Why did you buy this rabbit?  Why did you buy a rabbit while on a school field trip and when your parents do not have the desire to own a rabbit nor the skills to keep it alive? 


Why was this allowed by your school chaperone? 


Now you bring the rabbit to me, asking me to care for your malnurished, disease ridden vampire rabbit from hell that looks like it's coming down off of a meth binge and needs a fix.  My rabbit finds it creepy, and I feel like a jerk for the fact that I do, too, and it's not the little bunny's fault. 


Do you have any idea how many hours I spent creating, printing, copying, and stapling that reading that you lost?  Are you aware of the full range of consequences created by your losing it?  I now have to waste my time, the school secretary's time, your time, and class time to go get an original and send someone off to get it copied.  We're wasting paper and toner as well, by the way... things that not only don't come cheap, but are slow to be replaced.  My patience is also dwindling, and that's bad for all of us.  All.  Of.  Us. 


How is it that you can be given the answers to a worksheet and STILL.  GET.  IT. WRONG.


Woman.  Is there honestly nothing that you can do to TRY, just TRY to make this class have some merit for your charge?  Yeah, he's going to be spacey.  He has a developmental disorder.  But - and correct me if I'm wrong - you do NOT have a developmental disorder, right?  So presumably you could try to get him engaged in the lesson in some way?  That is your ONLY job, yes?  Stop just doing his work yourself.  I think that you are missing the point of your presence here entirely.


*Sigh*


Just had to get that out.

Don't You Worry 'bout a Thing

Sitting in a hostel in Tel Aviv during a weekend that was meant to be relaxing, I've not quite achieved that goal.  I am writing this to let you guys in on where I am right now (in my head - not geographically), and to address concerns people have had regarding recent events in my neck of the woods.

Let me step back to Wednesday this week. 

After a particularly long day at work, I sat down at the computer and finally pressed the "purchase" button on the tickets home that I'd been looking at for the last week.  Having tickets with my name on them suddenly made the thought of home seem a bit more vivid.  I was imagining the little details of my return - what the looks would be on people's faces when I first saw them again, where I would meet people for music and drinks during my stayover in Austin.

My joy was interrupted by an odd attempt to scam me for money through a very clever use of Facebook, and that deserves its own post at some point, but not now.  I head home from school and sit down to eat some dinner and unwind.

Opening Facebook, I see a post by a friend of mine who had heard news while walking through the souq that a bomb had gone off somewhere - Tel Aviv, Jerusalem - the news was fresh and people were waiting for more.

I start looking around online to see what I can find.  I read that two hours earlier, a bomb had gone off in Jerusalem, near the central bus station.  This sort of thing was at one time common in Jerusalem.  That has not been the case, however, in many years. 

My co-worker walked in, and I told him about the news. 

"This is serious," he said.  "It seems like there's going to be another intifada."

I thought about it.  I told him that I didn't agree.  There just didn't seem to be a serious push for another intifada in my opinion... not in the West Bank, anyhow. 

The week had a variety of other stresses for many of us - wholly unrelated to regional tensions or politics.  I decided to head to Tel Aviv for the weekend with a girlfriend, while another friend - forever in the mindset of a photojournalist - headed to Jerusalem to find out what was going on and take photos. 

On the way to the bus stop outside of the Ariel settlement, our taxi driver asked that my friend sit in the front seat for the ride.  He had told me earlier this week that he was driving near a settlement and was almost attacked by settlers and had to speed off to get away from a large group of men intending to attack him.  He wanted an ajnabia sitting in front to deter such conflicts.  I'm only ever near a settlement on the few occasions that I am making the trip to or from Tel Aviv, so I don't know much about them, but I would understand if there were increased tensions after the massacre of the Fogel family.  To my knowledge, there has yet to be anyone implicated in the murder, but the sentiment of those in the pro-Israel camp tends to be that it was clearly the act of a Palestinian.  We stayed in back, but I could understand his apprehension.

Since we were entering Israel on a settler's bus, and because we are both white, I didn't think there would be an issue getting in, despite the increased security after the Jerusalem bombing.   This was indeed the case.  We booked a night at a hostel and proceeded to enjoy the freedom to walk around the city at night, not to recieve any hassel from people on the streets, to go dancing.  It was a fantastic release.

Less relaxing was my realization today that when we had hurried out of the bar, that I had neglected to close my tab.  I was now on a quest to reclaim my card from the place, and my plans to head home that morning were now shot. 

I trolled the internet while I sat in the hostel lobby, waiting for the place where my ATM card was trapped to re-open.  As I looked at my haven for passing time, I came across a Facebook page called "Third Palestinian Intifada".  Seemingly unable to see the page, I looked for information about it online.  I read a report that stated that the page advocated a new intifada, to begin on May 15.  The report stated that the site advocated the attacking of settlers on this day, which I found disturbing.  The advocacy of violence on a page that had been 'liked' by more than 200,000 Facebook members in only a few weeks disturbed me.  I asked a friend of mine if this was the case, and he assured me that it was not.  Now able to see the site, I, too, see no indication of this.  Regardless, simply using the word intifada immediately calls to mind the bloody intifadas of years past.  My conversation with my co-worker came back to me.

I continued to try to sort out the issue of my missing ATM card.  In the course of this, I found someone who spoke Hebrew at the hostel to help me talk to the manager of the establishment where I'd left the card.  After speaking to the manager on the phone, he saw my disappointment that they would not be able to help me until 10:30 tonight.  He asked where I was going next. I said Jerusalem.


Him - "Jerusalem? Don't go there. Now is a bad time to go there."

Me - "Why?"

Him - "There was just something bad that happenened there. The whole army's there. I'm enlisting tomorrow. We're going to attack."

Me - "Attack where? Gaza?"

Him - "Gaza and the West Bank. They're pulling all the tanks out. There's about to be a war. They're letting old men like me enlist. They don't let an old man like me enlist unless there's about to be something big."


I'd not before experienced the sort of feeling that hit me when he said this.  I felt anxious - on behalf of my new home, my friends, my students... I felt naked standing there, talking to this guy.  I had spoken to people plenty of times, using vagueries to avoid disclosing where I live and what I do... but I suddenly felt like it was a very significant omission.  I felt profoundly uncomfortable.

I had just been reassuring my step-dad on Skype who was passing along the concerns that my mother had regarding recent events in my area.  My words to him had been "I have no reason to believe that I am currently in a dangerous situation."  Now I was hearing this, I was realizing that the rockets that were fired from Gaza yesterday landed just 15 miles south of where I'd come to "relax", and I was reading about a push for a third intifada, which has made it to more than 300,000 supporters at the time I am now writing.  I was feeling a bit out of sorts myself.

After chatting with friends at home (this home, not my US home), I settled down a bit.  I recognized that the speculations of an enlistee do not qualify as military intelligence.  I realize that further retaliation against the rockets that have been fired from Gaza is likely, but I do not believe that there is currently any cause for military action in the West Bank.  There is nothing that I have read that supports the enlistee's opinion that military action was likely in the West Bank, despite plenty that support his assertion of future action in the Gaza Strip.

Family and friends, I write this not to raise your concerns.  Rather, I hope to address them.  I understand that there are those of you who may now be more worried than you would have been if you were to remain ignorant of these facts or these events.  However, I would prefer that you be informed, so as not to become overly concerned if you were to come across any of this on your own without having heard anything on this from me.  I understand that this is not likely to leave you feeling relaxed, either.  I hope that you will put your faith in whatever it is that you trust and recognize that I am doing exactly what I feel I should be doing in my life, and I am exactly were I feel I need to be.

I still feel quite safe in Nablus, where I stay.  I do intend to be even more cautious considering what has been happening of late.  Feel free to share your concerns as they come, and I will share my support and information as best I can. 

Sending my love from this end.

Now throw on some Stevie Wonder... and don't you worry bout a thang.  ;)

I have no power. I have only time.

This is not a metaphor. 

This is not political. 

This is the story of last weekend's journey to get electricity at my apartment.

Here is Nablus, you don't have to worry about not being able to pay for a giant electricity bill that you ran up unknowingly.  That is because here, electricity works like a pre-paid phone.  You put money on a card, you put the card into a box at your house, and you are credited the corresponding amount of electrical power. 

Unlike a pre-paid phone, however, you cannot credit your account by purchasing credit at any number of local "convenience store"-esque shops.  You have to go to the office of the electricity provider and give them your money directly.

"But what if you run out of electricity late at night, or on a weekend when the office is closed?"  (Certainly you asked yourself this, despite the fact that those who designed this system clearly did not.)

Well, my friend, that's what this story is about.

I started drawing the pictures below as I was writing in my journal.  Growing tired of the abundance of words on the page, I started to draw the story.

This is what happens when you have no power, but all the time in the world.



Translation: 
"Hi.  Are yall open today?" 
"Yeah.  Come in between 2 and 5." 
"Where?" 
"In the city center.  In the main building."



Translation:
"Where do I go for electricity?"
"Over there, but it's closed."

*There has been speculation as to the contents of the cup drawn to my left.  It is an icecream-fruit drink that I went and bought while waiting.  It happens to be called a cocktail, but I assure you there is no alcohol in it. 
That would've been nice, but, alas...



Here you see the two electricty boxes used to insert your card. 
One of them will debit our account.  One will debit the account of our upstairs neighbors.



This box sits just above our breaker box.  A red and green light indicate power.



After many, many hours, we got our electricity.  It would be days before we had working internet (an unrelated problem)


I hope that you have all enjoyed my tale of powerlessness.  If nothing else, it reminded me that I spend too much time plugged into things and not enough time creating and finding inspiration from the creations of others. 

And with that, I'm turning off my computer and reading a book.  Love to you all.

This life is brought to you by the mind of a small child.

Sometimes my life is just fantastically odd.  Take this last Monday for example.

After a full day of I teaching at an elementary school and an additional couple of hours working an after school program, the director of the program came by and asked if I wanted to head over to the class taught by my friend Helen at the Balata refugee camp. 

"Yeah, sure.  Can we stop at the produce guy on the way home?"

"Sure."

And so the evening began.  Knowing Sean, I should have realized that the agenda would entail far more than just a stop by the Balata class. 

Sean and I arrive at the site, directed in by an 8 year old boy waving us in and then holding up his hands as an indication to stop, as though we otherwise wouldn't think to stop before plowing down a pack of small children.  I doubt it occurred to him that the more prudent choice may have been to avoid standing in the middle of a roadway.  No matter.  I smile and wave.

Stepping into Helen's class, I see two of my students from my 5/6th grade class at my elementary school.  I had forgotten that they'd gone to help out.  Our elementary school caters to the wealthier echelon of Nablusi society.  Those kids don't run around without shoes on in the winter like these kids.  It was nice to see two of my girls helping out in the classroom. 

After a while I pulled my girls out to review what they had missed in my class that day.  I had adapted a reading from Al Jazeera English called "Women of the Revolution".  We read the stories of women who were involved in the protests in Egypt.  I was excited to teach them about women who stood up to the police, women who were on the front lines and took rubber bullet shots, women who lied to their parents* to participate in the protests, women with an interest in politics, women who are active and resourceful.  Strong qualities such as these are not typically encouraged among women here, so I enjoy exposing them to things like this.

*I would like to point out that the women to which I am referring are indeed adults.  The woman who lied to her parents to participate in the protest was Gigi Ibrahim, a 24 year old political activist.  I did not encourage my students to lie to their parents.  However, if they came away with the idea that a 24 year old woman ought to be able to make her own decisions, I wouldn't begrudge them that.

Soon after we finished reading, Helen's class was over and it was time to head home.  But first, a short stop at the Balata pet shop (unexpected stop #1).  My students were hauled into the shop to serve as translators for Sean, who was apparently in the market for an iguana.  Who knew.  After exchanging numbers, feeling confident that he would soon be the proud new parent of a four-legged scaly friend, we headed off.

But wait!  We need to pick up Mr. Jon from the boys' TFP site (unexpected stop #2).  Somewhere along the way it occurs to us that one of the girls lives dang near to the Mediterranean, and that not only will the hilly trip be a challenge for our humble coach, but we'll need more gas just to make it there.  So after picking up Jon, we stop for gas (unexpected stop #3).

Sean hands the guy a 20 shekel note to put in the tank. 

One of my girls looks at the 20 shekel note in shock.  "20 shekels!  My dad gives the man 200 shekels when he buys gas!"

"Well, maybe your dad should encourage the school to pay its teachers more money."

Incidentally, I gave my students the opportunity to write an essay for extra credit (actually, for up to 3 Jone$ies, my class currency) about what they would protest about and why... this student wrote a superb essay about how she wants to protest about the English teachers not being paid enough money.  She cited the gas incident, noting that if we can only pay 20 shekels for gas, how can we even buy fruits and vegetables?

Back on our journey to take the kids home, we realize that Jon needs to return to the boys' school briefly (unexpected stop #4). 

Yet again, back on our journey, we make our way to drop off our students.  Having been working for the last 11 hours straight, I am moaning in the back seat, demanding that we stop for hummus.  I bribe my students with Jone$ies, telling them that if they spot a hummus vender, and that leads to my eating hummus, that I will give them 4 Jone$ies. 

They got no Jone$ies, and I no hummus.  However, we were concerned that our trusty stead wouldn't make it up the hills to the second student's house and were ready to celebrate when it did.  My student just about broke her leg scurrying out of the car, desperate to get away from all of us crazy ijanib who were made even crazier by our lack of food and sleep.

We decided that the only thing to do then was to make a trip to the Samaritan Village.  The Samaritans are a very small ethnic community that lives on the top of one of the two mountains that are situated at either side of Nablus.  They practice a religion that has its roots in Judaism, although it is not precisely the same.  Their community is nonetheless protected by an Israeli checkpoint, and I generally have to surrender my passport to enter.  A number of our students are Samaritan.  The best thing about the Samaritans is that in their set of beliefs, alcohol is not haram.

But wait, yet again!  Jon has recieved a call that the electricity is out at his house.  We were going to stop by there for money anyhow, but now he has to stop and give some minor training in how to refill the pre-paid electricity card.  At least during this stop, I got to hop out and buy some hummus, making unexpected stop #5 a somewhat pleasant one.

So we make our way to the SV, parking just before the check point and jumping into the car of the alcohol runner - the guy who takes calls all day and night and delivers orders to the checkpoint for those who would not be allowed onto the other side (ie, non-Samaritan Arabs).  He lets us hop in and we surrender our passports at the checkpoint.  One of my coworkers was without a passport, so we were apparently let in with a 30 minute window to return.  We were not aware of this fact.  There is now a timer on unexpected stop #6.

He drives us to his store, telling us that we'll have to wait while he goes somewhere.  We agree, and mull around the shop attached to his store.   We grab some cold ones from the fridge, and I also grab a giant tub of ice cream, and we sit down at a table in the abandoned restaurant/shop.  As we tip our beverages back, I bust out the ice cream and grab some spoons, and we all sit there eating from the communal ice cream bucket. 

"Ummm... I think some students just ran past the window."

"What?"

"Well, I saw a small person looking, then pointing, then running."

Shit.  Shit, shit, shit.  I slide my bottle to let it hid near the leg of the table.  We all start going through the list of Samaritan students, each of us praying that it isn't one of our own.

A student walks in.

I lose.

It was one of my kids.  "My mom wants you to come for tea."  Aww, crap.  Unexpected stop #7 is officially the least expected of all the unexpected stops.  Of course we accept, telling him we'll be over shortly.  At this point, the driver returns to allow us to make our purchases, and informs us of the 30 minute time limit.  Perhaps after 30 minutes our passports would turn into pumpkins, I don't know.

Regardless, we go for tea at my students' house.  One of their sons is in my first grade class, and another in my 5th grade class.  I was quite relieved that of all the days that this could have happened, it was the exact day that the older boy had been returned to my class from the lower level of English.  I was also pleased that, despite the fact that I did not realize he'd be returning to my class that day, when he was ushered in by Mr. Sean, I immediately had my kids start singing the song I'd taught them when we returned to school this semester- the theme song to "Welcome Back, Kotter".

After enjoying some tea and seeming to terrify all three of the family's sons (two of which are my own students), our host was called by someone to remind him of our time limit.  I don't know if the guy from the store of the guy from the checkpoint was calling... that's just how it is around here.  Everybody knows everybody and everybody knows everybody else's business.  Despite our protests, my students' dad insists that he drive us back to the checkpoint. 

"I left some things at the store."

The car clinked all the way back to the checkpoint.

Piling back into our sadmobile, we finally head to the produce shop.  This is so far the only stop, other than Balata, that I had expected.  On the way, though, Sean gets a call from the guy at the pet store. 

"Hello? Umm, hold on.  I have a friend who speaks Arabic."

Sean hands me the phone.  We talk shop, getting the price and other terms settled.  The highlight for me was when I was asked to find out if he could also get a heat rock or a heat lamp.  I was rather disappointed that I was unable to communicate these concepts to the man on the other end of the phone.

Hours after we'd begun, I finally got my avocados, bell peppers, tomatoes and bananas. 

I must say that I enjoy the randomness that fills so many of my days.  Sometimes I feel like my life is what a life would be if a child were given permission to design the life of an adult.

Speaking of which, there's a baby bunny running across my floor who I must attend to.

Hope all is well with you and yours, where ever you all may be.

***


This is Nourmeen.  She'll get her own post at some point.

Negotiations successful.