Sleepy(less)ness and spots

On this trip I realized something very important about the way my body responds to world travel--my jet lag happens in the manner of a time-release tablet. Initially, I can't feel anything other than, of course, the residual stress from airport "security". Or, as I like to call it, "harassment". Then I keep going along, feeling a bit sleepy but fine, provided I incorporate a nap on day 2. By day 3, the tablet has fully released, and the coma kicks in.

Suddenly, I'm hit by the combined forces of narcolepsy and gravity, and my head WILL NOT come off the desk.

Unfortunately, it WILL come off the pillow every hour, on the hour, while I'm trying to sleep at night.

To make matters worse, the combination of 12-hour flights and menstruation means teenage-style spots. Let's just say I'm trying to avoid all mirrors.

Eggs and escapism

I was reading this website and thinking, wow, if I could be a mom like that, a mom who's the epitome of cool, I would totally commence reproducing RIGHT NOW!

Don't worry mom. I don't think I'd be cool enough to warrant immediate donor solicitation. In fact, I even realize that I should be worrying about paying jobs before I worry about procreation. Rest assured, I do worry about paying jobs...unfortunately, that doesn't make them magically appear. Go figure.

Today was boring and tiring and demoralizing. Not necessarily in that order. I need to be better at writing diplomatic yet manipulative emails (though, come to think of it, mightn't those be synonyms?). Adopting this stylistic approach would make my life exponentially easier and probably no more unhappy.

On the upside, I hear that my grandmother not only survived the process of getting her new knee, but that she should be showing it off to the rest of the hospital ward very, very soon. I'm proud to come from such sturdy, kickass stock.

Everyone's from Cork

Sunday was my first mass back at St. George’s. I’d forgotten how much I love that cathedral – the stone and wood and arches, the balcony below the bell tower, and the Stations of the Cross in Palestinian ceramic tiles.

At coffee hour I met a group of English pilgrims from Salisbury. One woman, in particular, was very stereotypically (and wonderfully) British: sun hat, slightly wonky teeth, and dry, almost ironic accent. When I complained about my experience of singledom profiling during airport security, she responded, “well, twelve years ago when I was leaving, it was just after Rabin had been assassinated, I was neither young nor single, but I was traveling alone. They interrogated me for three-quarters of an hour, and then…they didn’t even apologize.” She shook her head and pursed her lips in a way that I imagine only British women can.

On Saturday I met an EAPPI volunteer from Northern Ireland. We were sitting in a friend’s tourist shop, and the friend, Marwan, was saying, “Oh, Stephanie’s mother or grandmother is from Ireland.”

“No, it’s actually much farther back than that.”

“And do you know where in Ireland they were from?” he asked politely.

“Cork.”

“Ah,” he nodded, “everyone’s from Cork.”

As I descended the bus from Jerusalem to Bethlehem, a young man caught up with me and said, “You’re not from here either, are you?”

The thing was, he sort of looked like he was from here, and I felt very confused. “No, I’m American,” and I went through the 30-second spiel of what I’m doing here.

Meeting a friend later, I asked him what I could do to stop being recognized as a foreigner before I’d even opened my mouth.

He just laughed.

Same time next year

My mom used to rave about this movie. It’s a romance between two married and otherwise faithful people whose decades-long affair consisted of an annual weekend tryst. The moralist in me has a hard time seeing the romance in this arrangement, but I digress. Anyway, my mom and I finally rented the movie one weekend, and I’m pretty sure we both fell asleep. Some things aren’t as good as we remember…. I was a little afraid that would be the case with Palestine.

Happily, it isn’t. In fact, some things are even better (the Arabic coffee, for instance, or the weather).

I can write this now, having slept off my intense disappointment and anxiety following my arrival. Israeli security interrogations…still no fun, and I wasn’t prepared for them on the way in. Also, Ben Gurion is one of the few places I’ve encountered in which being a young, waspy woman traveling alone is looked upon with suspicion, rather than vague concern. Thank goodness I didn’t have an ISM affiliation to hide, or I really might have wet myself. And I’m only kind of kidding.

No matter how innocent you are, it’s enough to produce a panic attack, if not a screaming fit, when a security madame absconds with one’s passport.

After a long Nesher ride and what I’m pretty sure was an exploitative cab fare, I arrived…to living quarters sans phone or internet.

That was when the crying started.

A few machinations later, I had a phone, but I’m still working on the internet.

On the upside, I awoke (around noon) to turtles and chickens and filtered water and real coffee. Some things are better after a year.