Chocolate for breakfast

What should I be doing right now? Probably finishing up some job applications. What was I doing? Failblog.org.
Feeling a little bit like a fail myself, I decided to strike a happy medium by writing a blog post.

Today I did laundry, washed dishes, sorted out kids' clothes, organized boxes of random household things, dusted bookshelves. As you can imagine, these kinds of tasks give me some time to think about things. What kind of things? Oh, you know, just the normal things, like my ever-present task of adjusting to and trying to understand and fit into whatever cultural practices are currently around me.

(My favorite find in the kids' clothes so far:


David wore this shirt today and came out of his room beaming to show it to me.)

Certain differences stand out very starkly, and since I have spent a lot of my time around kitchens, preparing and talking about food, and eating, something that has become representative of cultural differences to me is.... food.

I spent the last three months adjusting my stomach to the Israeli schedule of a light breakfast around 11, a light lunch at around 2, and then a heavy supper between 8 and 11 pm. Sometimes American tour groups came through who wanted lunch (and a chicken lunch, at that!!) at 11:30 am. There were always gasps of suprise and disgust. How could people be so barbaric, so unnatural? I was often asked to defend this practice, and I found that in that context there didn't seem to be a logical explanation for why we would do things so differently, since the system at hand seemed to be working out pretty well. One conversations went something like this...
"So, if you're already eating supper at 5 or 6, don't you get hungry later?"
"Well, yeah, I guess so, sometimes."
"So you get hungry and eat again later in the evening again? You eat four meals in the day! HA! THAT's why Americans are so fat!"

Here in Germany the eating schedule is a little bit more like what I grew up with: Breakfast before starting the day, lunch at noon, and supper at 6-7 pm. The food itself bears zero resemblance to meals eaten in Nazareth, or at home in the states, for that matter. In this family, at least, lunch is the hot meal of the day, while supper is "Abendbrot": evening bread, very simple sandwiches in fairly small portions.

And breakfast... well, Nutella plays a big role, which is great because Nutella has played an important role in my life as well.

I first became acquainted with Nutella by the name of Nuss Nougat, when Harald and Claudia (yes, the very same ones I am staying with now) visited my family in Porcupine, South Dakota. The introduction of that jar of Nuss Nougat marked a turning point in my life. I remember the reverence with which I thought of that little white plastic canister with round brown lettering. Even though we must have rationed out it's creamy chocolate nuttiness very carefully, I knew the Nuss Nougat era would be a special and short-lived time in my life, and I treasured every moment. My six-year-old eyes had been opened to the bigger world, specifically the bigger world of chocolate eating.

And that world was more amazing than I had been capable of imagining.

At that stage in my life, there were many things that I liked which only were available on very rare or one-time-only occasions--we were on a voluntary service budget, and our main grocery store was a 2.5 hour drive away. So I accepted it at face value that my relationship with Nuss Nougat was bound to be a fleeting albeit sweet affair. And there was a few years lag between when Harald and Claudia imported that much-treasured bread spread, and when my mom discovered Nutella on the grocery-store shelves. One day it reappeared on our table. There was much rejoicing.

But this was still an expensive and rare item in our house, not to be spread on too thick (you had to have just enough to enjoy the taste, without any wasted). And, as my father once sternly pointed out to my sister Rachel, it was not a breakfast food. We had recently been in Germany as a family, and as seems that every German knows, breakfast is not breakfast without Nutella. My dad had to concede that point, but we were not in Germany, we were at home. So for us, Nutella maintained its status as a special food, with the extra distinction of being in the "dessert" category, and therefore (mostly) banished from the pre-afternoon consumables.

In this household, however, these children might have ceased to exist by now if it weren't for the attraction that Nutella gave them to eat at meal-time. I think it might be a main staple of their diet. It's not that Harald and Claudia are just easy going and let the kids eat whatever they want--believe me, there are rules dictating what foods are appropriate for what meals, just like their are rules for what time you eat, and what kind of meal each meal will be. Nutella at breakfast is just one of those rules.

Having experienced a few different styles of eating recently, I've seen how each of the cuisines can represent a balanced diet when treated with the proper respect, cultural wisdom, eating traditions. Let me insert here a little of my one of my favorite authors:

"Once upon a time Americans had a culture of food to guide us through the increasingly treacherous landscape of food choices: fat vs. carbs, organic vs. conventional, vegetarian vs. carnivorous. Culture in this case is just a fancy way of saying ''your mom.'' She taught us what to eat, when to eat it, how much of it to eat, even the order in which to eat it... How you eat is as important as what you eat... The lesson of the "French paradox" is you can eat all kinds of supposedly toxic substances (triple crème cheese, foie gras) as long as you follow your culture's (i.e., mother's) rules: eat moderate portions, don't go for seconds or snacks between meals, never eat alone." Michael Pollan, "Six Rules for Eating Wisely"

With that in mind, and a little bit of caution and moderation, I might feel comfortable letting the dangerously delicious delicacy of chocolate hazlenut spread onto my breakfast table sometimes. (In addition, I might every once in a while also be incorporating breakfasts of Arabic bread, cheese, fresh vegetables, and laban with olive oil).

But at some point you have to draw the line. One thing that I still don't feel the need to have at breakfast is this product:



I thought it was a joke when I first looked at it, or at least that there had to be something special that made this chocolate particularly breakfastey. Nope. It's just chocolate, in very thin slices. It's little chocolate bars to lay upon your bread and call it breakfast.

Logically, is there really any difference between spreading your chocolate on your bread, and laying it on your bread? Not really. I love chocolate, but there is something in me that instinctively rebels against the idea of this as a breakfast food. My Mom (and Dad!) taught me that breakfast is for eggs and toast, healthy cereals, maybe some fruit. Something tells me that for the most part, that's what I'll end up sticking with...

Voll Cool, baby!

My current situation for the next couple weeks is as a guest at the home of Harald and Claudia Funck, who have a strawberry farm in Eastern Germany. I spend most of my days trying to pitch in help wherever I can around the house and farm, in exchange for room and board, and the opportunity to speak a little German. That is, a lot of German. My German is improving in leaps and bounds, especially with the help of the three kids. It took them a little while to understand how it was possible that I could speak to them, but I didn't always understand them, and I just sounded so funny. They now take their jobs as my German teachers very seriously.

I spent much of today with 7-year-old David at the Freizeitpark Plohn, a theme park that has been around since the DDR era. This park rocks. It's got animatronic dinosaurs, self-service soft service ice cream machines (I had a Waldmeister flavor ice cream, David held out for chocolate, which was in another part of the park), a Wild West area, and a story book land that tells the classic German fairy tales through creepy dioramas with moving parts.

David confided to many of the workers and other kids around that it was my first time at Plohn, and that, although I know some words in German, it was his job to teach me more words. The words I learned today were grueselig (ghoulish/ghostly), Achterbahn (rollercoaster), Schien (tracks), Rutsche (slide), and Volcan (volcano). David also took it upon himself to narrate each of the sites we saw, and made sure that I got to ride all of the rides at the park, just to make sure I got a really good introduction to the place. David's sole grasp of English language, on the other hand, seems to be his tendency to add the word "baby" (with the requisite sassy attitude) unexpectedly at the end of some of his sentences. "Let's ride the roller coaster, baby!" David can't count the number of times we rode his favorite spinning cow ride today, and I can't count the number of times today I just burst into laughter at his antics.

...I have had a little bit of a difficult time finding my bearings here, knowing where I fit into the family, and also struggling to relate to and interact with people in a language that still leaves me tongue-tied and awkward most of the time. But things are looking up.

Besides, it only took one ride on the roller coaster with a 7-year-old to restore my belief in life's excitement and awesomeness.

Detour: Ireland

Last week I was so fortunate to be able to take a vacation with my dear friend and college mod-mate Kate Larson, who is living in Germany for a year as an au pair. After meeting up in Bordesholm, Germany, to celebrate Kate's birthday, we did some "final" planning (that is, the only thing we had planned before was to buy our plane tickets) and flew off to Ireland.

Day 1 & 2: Dublin
It seems that the main things to do in Dublin are eat and drink, and oh yeah, spend money. Kate and I wandered the city, getting lost a couple of times, taking pictures of lots of pretty buildings, and chatting up art gallery owners, but mostly counting down the time until we got our rental car.

Day 3: Giddy first day with the car
Kate turned 23 two days before we came to Ireland, which allowed us to rent a car! At the time we planned to do this, it seemed like a good idea, since public transportation in Ireland is not very widespread and, being the uppity tourist we are, we wanted to get off the beaten path. But by the morning we were to pick up the car we were a little nervous about it, especially Kate because she was the one who got to drive her first rental car for the first time on the left side of the road. The first challenge was getting out of Dublin, which we survived through 5 wrong turns, a little hyperventilating, and maybe some cursing as well.
Once we got out on the open road, though, we were super excited. We were instantly seeing beautiful countryside, and I, on the left side of the car, had a map. I love maps. I'll be citing lots of names in this summary because for some reason I think that other people love maps just as much as me and might want to follow along.



Soon Kate settled into driving, and did a beautiful job of it the whole trip. I directed Kate towards Belfast via the green stripes of "scenic drives" marked on the map. We stopped for the first of many roadside picnics in Greenore. It became clear that scenic drives were what we had come to Ireland for. We made our way up the coast, stopping where and when we pleased, oohing and aahing at cute bounding baby sheep and incredibly picturesque roadside views. We made it to Giant's Causeway for a beautiful sunset, and to a couch-surfer's house in Limavady to stay overnight.





Day 4: Mind the Sheep
Natalie, our couch-surfing host, suggested that we explore Donegal before we left the north. We decided that we could get an early start and take the first part of our day to do so. We obviously hadn't learned about the roads yet. The Irish translation of "really tiny road with pot-holes and hairpin curves and lots of beautiful distracting scenery, which by the way you have to share with semis and sheep" is "scenic drive." We decided to take those roads reeeeal slow, and we spent all day driving through the mountains of Donegal. Along the way we made stops in Letterkenny (to check out a restaurant recommended by our guide book), Garton Lough (for a museum on St. Columcille and illuminated manuscripts, which was closed but a nice lady let us in for free), Meenaneery (to refill the air in our tire in the middle of nowhere) and Glencolumbcille (to slog through a rain-soaked field to look for St. Columcille's well). Need I say... gorgeous.



As we didn't have any music to listen to (and our choices on the radio were American pop music or Gaelic talk radio) singing became a very important part of our trip. Along the way we taught each other songs and did some sweet harmonizing as we took in the lovely Irish landscapes. Kate complied a list of the songs that we sang at some point in our trip.

We stayed in Sligo overnight at a hostel where we managed to arrange for the last two beds. One of our roommates was Nadia, a girl from Switzerland. The three of us stumbled upon a pub with live music, and it ended up being just a bunch of people sitting around playing, which was exactly what we were hoping for. Nadia ended up joining us the next day.

Day 5: Connemara to Doolin
Nadia joined us and we drove south out of Sligo and skipped part of the West coast in favor of spending the day a little further south. We met up with our favorite scenic roads in Westport. From there we followed the coast, did some hiking in Connemara National Park, collected seashells at Coral Beach in Carraroe, mildly panicked when our car pooped out on us for a few minutes in Spiddle. Just some battery issues, we got it worked out... or at least figured out how to work with it.



We left Nadia in Galway and headed further south to the tiny tourist village of Doolin. To save money, we had decided to camp in our car that night. "This," as Kate put it the next morning (after a miserable and sleepless and COLD night), "was maybe not the best idea we've ever had."

Day 6: Cliffs of Insanity!!!
We were obviously the first ones awake in the region. Apparently tourists like to sleep in or something. But we had noticed signs for a craft fair in a neighboring town, so we headed that direction, had an amazing breakfast when restaurants finally opened up at 9:30, and checked into our hostel for the night as soon as we possibly could.

I have to say that the Ailee River Hostel in Doolin is the best hostel I've ever stayed at. The owner gave us a personal tour of the facilities, which included free laundry, free internet access, super clean sunny rooms, and a really nice kitchen. He also drew us a map of a special not-so-heavily-travelled hiking path along the Cliffs of Moher. We embarked on a 5-hour adventure with perfect weather. We absolutely loved it, and felt a little smug when we got to the other end and found that the other tourists were not even seeing a fraction of the sights that we had just taken in... and clambered over.




Day 7: Happy Easter!
Our rental car was due back in Dublin at noon, so we headed back East to Dublin, where we stayed with a couch surfing host Conor, who by now we considered a friend (he also hosted us while we were in Dublin the first time). Since we didn't have any other way to celebrate Easter that day, we sang classic Easter hymns to each other along the way, and ate the Cadbury eggs provided by Karl the friendly hostel owner. After dropping off the car, we invaded the deserted University College Dublin campus where we napped and had a patchwork picnic of the odds and ends left in our backpacks.

After so much wonderful weather, our last day was rainy and dreary, but Conor showed us some beautiful spots in the Wicklow Mountains anyway.


Before we left Germany, Kate's hostparents scoffed at our plans to make a road trip of the entire country. "That is such an American thing to do. Ireland in 8 days. Boh..." Well, what can we say, we're American. In the end we didn't make it around the entire coastline and we heard that the parts we missed were the best parts, but I think I can speak for both of us when I say we couldn't have cared less. I have to say that this trip to Ireland was one of the most memorable weeks and amazing times of my life.

In Wuppertal

Yesterday morning at 2 am, after a very long day of travel, I arrived at the very cold bus station in Wuppertal-Barmen. Shortly afterwards my good friend Tobias Ruhle arrived on his bike from his nearby apartment. Toby is always a welcome sight, but especially when one is cold, a little panicky about not having anyone to contact if this plan falls through, and exhausted.

It was a long day for several reasons. The day started with tears and goodbyes to my coworkers at Nazareth Village, and then a quick clean of my apartment. It was hard to say goodbye to both the friends and the apartment. I didn't realize I would get attached to Nazareth so quickly, and I had very mixed feelings about leaving.

To get to the airport I caught a bus to Haifa, and then the train to Tel Aviv. I got through security in Tel Aviv in only two hours! Airport security didn't ask me many questions, but I somehow scored myself a #6--you can only get numbers 1-6, with 1 being the lowest risk, and 6 being probably a terrorist. I asked Morag, my personal security guard (I mean, this is all for my own safety, right?) if she knew what I might have done to deserve a 6, but she said it was a security secret. We were friends by that point, now that she had completed an exhaustive examination of the contents of my bags, and patted me down in a back room. I spent the whole time chatting as if this were a normal way for people to get to know each other, but all the questions I was most curious about, she wasn't allowed to answer.

After the flight I still had two trains to catch between Frankfurt and Wuppertal, and I thought that German trains were always on time but this was the night that proved me wrong. My second train was an hour late, so I sat in the cold train station, and pondered my transition to a completely different world. Cultural differences were immediately apparent: the couples making out in the train station seemed shocking to me, and the other people standing around with bland expressions on their faces, as if they weren't offended by the blatant PDA, seemed even more strange.

Another strange thing: reliving all the memories I have of Wuppertal and this area. These memories aren't so old, but life has taken me in unexpected directions since then. I recognize it's cliche but I'm saying it anyway: I feel in some ways like a different person than the me who explored Wuppertal 14 months ago.

At the same time, I also feel overwhelmingly privileged to be able to visit friends so far away, so soon after the last time. Life has been good to me, too.

I'm staying at Toby's apartment for a couple of days and trying to catch as many other friends in the Wuppertal area as I can.
Then my schedule for the next few days is as follows:

Friday April 3rd--catch a ride to Kiel, where I will join in on my good friend Kate's birthday party, and relax in her Garden House for a few days. It will be SO good to see a modmate, and I can't wait to see what Kate has been up to this past year.
Mon April 6--Kate and I fly from Luebeck to Dublin, where we will do as much exploring as we can in 8 days on a very low budget. (Kate and I wanted to study together in Ireland sophomore year but life got in the way. Now we actually get to take an Ireland trip together!)
Tuesday April 14--fly back from Dublin, catch a ride to Berlin?? This part is a little fuzzy still...
Thursday April 16--arrive in Zwickau, where I will spend the rest of my time here with Harald and Claudia Funck, who own a strawberry farm.
Friday May 8--fly home.

A world not quite fatal

“Have we fallen into a mesmerized state that makes us accept as inevitable that which is inferior or detrimental, as though having lost the will or the vision to demand that which is good?”

On Tuesday I sat in the shop owned by Raghida, one of the Nazareth mamas who has taken me in, who regularly fills my social life with introductions to her children and acquaintances, and fills my plate with delicious food. I was gluing rhinestones onto the front of a dress Raghida was preparing for a customer, as Raghida finished sewing a shawl to match. Rhinestones are an essential part of fashion here, and Raghida discovered that I have a small weakness for shiny things as well.

As we worked, Raghida wheezed a huge sigh and looked at me, through eyes heavy with black eyeliner and lack of sleep. She nodded to the TV above her desk, and explained her worry over the news of the last couple of days. In the nearby Arab city of Umm Al Fahm, right-wing Israelis had been marching and “demanding loyalty to Israel,” resulting in counter-protests and violent clashes. I hadn’t heard about it. So I shared with her the news I had been following, about the celebration for Arab culture that had been banned this past weekend in Jerusalem, resulting in clashes, protests and arrests.

“I don’t want to live with this violence all the time,” Raghida said after a pause. I didn’t know how to respond. This is a successful and wealthy entrepreneur, with a strong role in the lives of her doting children, who travels all over the world for business. And yet, she feels powerless in this situation. Can you blame her for feeling frustrated? But life has to go on, what else can you do?

As I read the news every day, I find a few signs of hope, reconciliation, or moves toward a better future for Israel. But most things indicate exactly the opposite: steps if not leaps and sprints in the wrong direction. There are not words to express the increasing desperation and heartbreak.

But people just want a normal life as far as possible. Humans are remarkably adaptable—what is one more breach of human rights? What is one more violent clash in a city nearby? What is one more report of continuing violence in Gaza? The frustration is internalized and life goes on.

If it’s this easy to get used to close up, it’s no wonder we have trouble feeling moved by the stories far away, let alone standing up against it, and finding ways of standing with the people here.

“Have we fallen into a mesmerized state that makes us accept as inevitable that which is inferior or detrimental, as though having lost the will or the vision to demand that which is good? Such thinking, in the words of the ecologist Paul Shepard, ‘idealizes life with only its head out of water, inches above the limits of toleration of the corruption of its own environment… Why should we tolerate a diet of weak poisons, a home in insipid surroundings, a circle of acquaintances who are not quite our enemies, the noise of motors with just enough relief to prevent insanity? Who would want to live in a world which is just not quite fatal?’ ” Rachel Carson, Silent Spring

Pray for Rain; Act for Peace

Yesterday I had one of my tour groups look down into the cistern at Nazareth Village, which is almost empty of water. I was about to remark on the sad lack of rain this winter when the cloud above me dropped about five drops of water on my head, and then moved on.

I looked up and felt like this was a cruel thing for the sky to do, to ruin my bit about needing rain, without actually giving us any water to work with.

It has been a couple of weeks with no rain, during the season in which the region gets their entire moisture for the year, and this does not bode well for the coming months. The poppies in my back yard already hang their heads in exhaustion.

People have described to me how the land starts to dry out from green to brownish yellow, as soon as the winter rains end. But I had no idea it could happen so quickly. I am used to green, so I take the green of winter here for granted. Besides, I love blue sky and sunshine, and feel pretty down on dreary days. Last year studying in Wuppertal, Germany, I woke up every morning to rain, and groaned.

Rain means something different here. I spent last Tuesday hiking on Mt. Arbel, and ate lunch overlooking the Sea of Galilee (Lake Kinneret), which is Israel's main freshwater resource. My friend Mike pointed out the various pumping stations along the coast of the lake, whose water levels reached a record and dangerous low last fall.

It is difficult to find information on the water crisis here without an obvious political slant. "Middle Eastern rhetoric often portrays the issue of water as an existential, zero-sum conflict - casting either Israel as a malevolent sponge sucking up Arab water resources, or the implacably hostile Arabs as threatening Israel's very existence by denying life-giving water," explains a BBC article, which summarizes the complicated issue much better than I can.

What I can say I've personally observed, though, is that Israelis have much greater access to resources than Palestinians, whether that resource is land, roads, building permits, or municipal trash pick up. The imbalance holds true with water as well.

Water resources--even the aquifers under the West Bank--are used at a much higher rate by Israelis than Palestinians. And although access to land is a constant sore point, access to water is a matter of immediate survival. And every bit of rain is a blessing.

Last night I went to sleep to the sound of heavy, driving rain. I dreamed of running through the rain, and woke to thunder. It can rain all day if it likes.

In the long run, no matter the political conflict, what this land as a whole needs is solutions that increase the sustainability of life in a dry land. As the BBC article states, on the issue of water, "Israel and the Palestinians must work together, because they cannot survive as combatants."

Tuesdays are my day off...

Last Tuesday I went to Haifa. I caught the bus 331 in the morning and arrived successfully at the central bus station.
I should note here that I really love exploring places by myself. I like being able to stop and take pictures, people-watch, change my plans minute to minute, and talk to strangers. So far this has been more or less impossible in Nazareth, where it is strange to see women acting very independently, and there aren't many women on the street. I feel very conspicuous.
So Haifa--an Israeli college town--seemed a good choice for exploring last Tuesday. I set out with a map from an outdated tourist information book and an abstract plan that would hopefully lead to a jog on the beach at some point.

The first sight of the day was the Dagon Grain Elevators, which are pretty fancy for storing grain if you ask me. Maybe they felt the need to pretty them up because of the other close-by attraction, the Baha'i Shrine and Gardens. These perfectly manicured gardens are breathtaking, and take up an entire hillside. Or perhaps I should say mountainside, considering this is Mt. Carmel. To add to the centuries of conflicting religious claims on this region, the Baha'u'llah (who founded the Baha'i religion) pitched a tent at the base of Mt. Carmel in 1891 and claimed it as a holy site for the Baha'i faith.

I stopped by the tourist information office, and the woman at the counter took a break from her lunch to say "Today is Purim. There's a childrens festival in Carmel." She headed back to the break room, satisfied that my needs were met, and I had to call her back out to find out what bus to take.

I had a few misunderstandings with the bus system, but at the first incorrect bus stop, I met an American Jewish couple staying with relatives during a conference in Haifa. They helpfully gave me directions to the festival. As we waited for the bus together, the couple remarked what a new and exciting feeling it was for them to be in a place where the majority of people are celebrating the same holidays and traditions they are.

I can identify with that feeling to some extent, and I understand how great it feels. Growing up as a Mennonite I felt a bit like a minority in the surrounding culture, until I went to Bethel College, that precious little microcosm of Mennonite life... Suddenly everything in my life revolved around a Mennonite-friendly vocabularly and set of traditions. Not only did I not have to explain that, no, I don't drive a buggy, but I was surrounded by other people raised on peace, justice, and zwieback... It's certainly exciting and pleasant to have a place where you feel so at home and so understood.

But any community with a strong majority cultural identity faces the challenge of how to celebrate the culture without excluding or marginalizing the minorities cultures. I think back to the number of conversations I had with people frustrated that, as much as Bethel touts "community," that community didn't usually seem to include them.

I will assume that your thoughts are going in the same direction as mine, thinking about this within the context of Israel, and I don't want to belabor this point, but I will just say: as much as I can understand the good feeling that comes from that feeling of belonging, the majority culture always needs to be sensitive to the exclusion, separation, and frustration for the "outsiders" that can happen as a result.

Oops, tangent. Back to Haifa.

Eventually I figured out it was time to get off the bus when I started seeing parents carrying tired little kids in costume. Just a block off the main street, on the promenade overlooking the port of Haifa, was what appeared to be a giant Halloween party, but we're not in the US, we're in Israel, and this is Purim.

Purim is the Jewish holiday celebrating the story of Esther. Esther hid her Jewish identity from the evil Haman, and so today this is a festival when kids dress up in costume. There was face-painting, a circle of little kids banging on giant drums, a stage where a woman dressed up as a fairy encouraged kids to share their singing and breakdancing skills, carnival food, an inflatable castle with a ball pit, and lots of awesome costumes. I was jealous that I could only be an observer, not a participant.

I eventually made my way over to the churches on Mt. Carmel, where a 70 year old man named Odi adopted me and insisted on giving me a tour of the entire church, including a maze of different chapels with statues of Mary, Jesus, or St. Elias. Sometimes all three. He insisted that I take pictures of all of the statues, and I obliged, but I won't share them all with you here. Our only language in common was my little bit of Arabic, and it took me an hour to gracefully extricate myself from his attentiveness. It was only later that I realized that, with my limited understanding, I nodded and smiled to a question he repeated over and over, and I had accidentally agreed to visit Odi again...

I took a cable car down from Mt. Carmel. I still wanted to take a run on the beach in Haifa, but the sun was down and it was time to head home (so yes, the picture at the top of this post is a lie, that was from a different trip to Haifa)... I wandered around looking for the train station marked on my map, and finally asked a local where the train station was. "This I can tell you with certainty," she answered, which seemed like a hopeful sign.

Unfortunately, her directions didn't work out so well for me. I ended up joining forces with a group of Chinese tourists also lost and looking for the train station, and then taking the train the wrong direction, pleading with the railroad management to let me go the two stops in the opposite direction with my one-trip ticket, waiting at a dark bus stop for an hour, and finally boarding a bus back home. I was the only one on the bus since it was the very first stop on the route, and I used my five words of Arabic to break the ice with the bus driver. He was very friendly and helpful, and after finishing our conversation, I promptly fell asleep for the drive home.

...Tomorrow is Tuesday again. What adventures await?!