Hot in Herrrrre

While it's really quite nice that the dorms office turned on the heat, it is not entirely appropriate to have it on, full blast, when we are in the middle of a heat wave.
That is, once the temperature reaches 30 degrees celcius, like it has been for the past week, the heater should be turned off until further notice.

I'm thinking of having my heater and my fan fight it out.

Taking bets at table five,
Jess

Soup Wars, Episode Three: The Revenge of the Boiling Broth

Tonight, at 6 pm, I set about to make that elusive archnemesis of mine, Pumpkin-Carrot Soup.

And I succeeded, y'all.

That is, after the soup attacked me.

Pumpkin-Carrot Soup (for a small/medium sized pot)
-1/2 onion, diced
-3-4 carrots (regular size), chopped
-2 kg of pumpkin, chopped
-1/2-1 tbsp chicken soup mix

Do the following: Fry the onion at the bottom of the pot until crispy. Fill pot 1/2 of the way with water, then add the chicken soup mix. Bring to a boil, then add pumpkin and carrot. Season to taste, and allow soup to simmer for about half an hour-1 hr, until carrots go mushy and soup tastes good.

Do not do the following: After frying the onion, overfill the pot with water to the point where once you add the carrots/pumpkins, the water level is nearly overflowing. Then, once it starts splashing onto the burner, transfer the pot to the sink without the help of oven mitts. Once the boiling water has splashed over your hands, drop the pot into the sink to the effect of emptying the water level to the correct level (2 thirds-5 sixths) and breaking everything in the sink, spraying you and your housemate with boiling hot soup.

After I put the pot back on the burner, and waited half an hour, the soup is ready and tastes amazing.

Though my fingers hurt like nothing else....Does anyone have some ice?

ברוך אתא אדוני, אלוקינו מלך העולם, שלא עשני אינדיאנית ...Thanksgiving in the Holy Land

This past Thursday, the Overseas Department threw an American-style Thanksgiving dinner for it's students, which meant free food, which was great.
Even greater was when they decided to explain the holiday to the 70% of the students who are not American.

"Thanksgiving is the holiday in which Americans give thanks for..."

(I actually don't know what Americans give thanks for, because I was busy saying:)

"...in which Americans give thanks for slaughtering the Indians and stealing their land"

Because lets be honest, shall we? Thanksgiving is a very nice American tradition in which we're thankful that we're not the ones who were forcibly marched out of our homes to contract syphilis and small pox and die over the next few centuries. So, hey! Let's shecht a turkey, smear on some cranberries, and whoop it up!

Whoot.

Also, can we discuss how Israelis don't actually know how to carve a turkey? They kind of flay at it, like it's shawarma, which I have to say, is a very different cut of meat. But the point is that they tried. Also, that the food cost nothing. The intention was there to make everyone a nice "homecooked" family meal. And while that came at the expense of the entire First Nations people (as well as the Metis, the Inuit, and the Innu), it's definitely the thought that counts.

Editor's Note: For the curious, the Hebrew part of the title comes from a prayer said in the morning upon awakening thanking God for, among many things, not having made the speaker a woman. So I edited it a bit to suit my purpose, which you can discover for yourself if you befriend someone who reads Hebrew, because it's possible that I crossed some 'appropriateness' boundary in writing it, but whatever.

Potty Ponderings

First, shout out to my little brother, who just turned 19 today (the 21st), and would like me to bring him back "Hot Israeli Girlies".
Okay, first of all: Happy Birthday Alex
Second of all: no, suckah.

On a totally unrelated note, let's discuss how women in Israel don't know how to use the goddamn public toilet.

When I walk into a public washroom stall, how the hell do they get all that pee on the seat? I mean, that takes sheer talent. Unless they stash three year olds in their purses, pee, then let the three year olds pee on the seat, and refuse to wipe it up.
Also, when a woman leaves the stall, and I go into use it, and the seat is up, what the hell is up with that? Did she think that she was being helpful? Did she touch the disease-ridden seat to put it up, or did she find it that way and leave it? Also, and more seriously, am I expected to touch the disease-ridden seat myself to put it back down again?

Yuck yuck yuck yuck yuck.


In other, less grotesque news:
I have been asked, in reference to my last post, what the real answer to the barrista's question was.
FYI: between 1-3 cups a day, times five days, so between 5-15 cups a week. Too damn much caffeine and too damn expensive. I think I'll start working for the company in order to pay all of it off.

I mean, I guess plain stopping could work too, but where's the fun in that?

Yay, dance! I *heart* dance class. That is all.

I also *heart* my roommates, who let me watch their tv's and who make (read: fix my pathetic attempts at trying to make) me carrot-pumpkin soup in exchange for translating their (law) homework.

Also, can we discuss how hard it is to translate law homework from Hebrew to English? I don't even want to think about from English to Hebrew. I'd tweak out.

Hebrew test went well. I also *heart* my teacher Mina, who brings us chocolate in all situations, but especially during test times.

Another big shout out to Alex, but I'm tired and therefore

Going to bed,
Jess

Death of a Dla'at

Dla'at: a) Hebrew for pumpkin, b)the poor vegetable that I mercilessly violated, twice, in order to make my dinner.

My roommate Adi makes an amazing pumpkin-carrot soup.

I do not.

My other roommate Kelly and I tried making it tonight, twice, and it was only barely passable the second time, but still no where near as good as Adi's. It was kind of more like a stew that had once, but only very briefly, been friends with a pumpkin. And not really friends so much as acquaintances. And not really acquaintances so much as "Pumpkin? Oh, I think that's my friend's neighbor's second cousin twice removed." So I'm saving the last piece of pumpkin and the last few carrots for when Adi gets home so she can make me the soup.

More Elite Cafe Adventures: After I ordered, and was recognized by no less than three of the staff instantly (no one else asks for extra foam, apparently), one of them asked me: "Just how much coffee do you drink in a day?"
The answer: You know you need to cut back when the barrista criticizes your drinking habit...

hello from rivka

Here's a post from Rivka, a girl I met at Bet Sefer Ofakim. She would like to say hello, so here goes:

hi i'm rivka i'm 15

Ziv part 2.1

In answer to the inevitable question, "Just how often do you frequent Elite Coffee", the answer is
a) At least once, if not twice or three times, every day, between mondays and thursdays, if not also on sundays. And sometimes fridays, if I'm lonely or on campus.
b) Enough to have three copies and counting of their punch-cards which i continually forget at home, which is stupid, because I should have had at least 4 free coffees by now, which says a lot.
c) So I'm at the library now on the computer? And about to do homework (yeah right...)? With a stop in between (a rest stop, if you will, to gather my strength for the 30 pages of hilighting)....at Elite Coffee.

Ziv, Part Two

God, I am so congested.

I of course decided to resolve this matter with a large cup of coffee, hafuch (cappucino sans sucre), with extra foam, at Elite Coffee, which is in the University, at which the barrista calls me by name.
By my fake name.
By my fake Hebrew name to which I have begun responding in non-fake-name situations.

Oh dear.
And then, not only did she say "Ziv, right? Hafuch with foam?" (I love her, by the way, even if it is a relationship based on lies, vicious vicious lies) , but then the other two barristas/barristos/guys behind the coffee counter start saying stuff like
"Hey Ziv! Boker Tov!"
"Ziv, it's short for Zivah, right?"
"No dumbass! She said it's just Ziv last week, weren't you listening?"

Okay.
Now.
This could mean one of two things, or possibly both:
a) I go to Elite Cafe Way Too Damn Often, as is demonstrated by the candour with which i relate to it's employees, and by the fact that they recognize me by both face and drink, enough to comment on the fact that my hair is just as nice curly (I've gone there after ironing my hair, and naturally after any important life event, like going to the bathroom or finishing class...I'll probably go there after the birth of my first born, and they'll probably still recognize me by fake name and drink even after 9 months of caffeine-denial...)
b)My three new best friends are going to go through life calling me Ziv, and my other real-life friends will constantly be looking over their shoulders trying to figure out what the hell is going on.

I am such a circus sometimes....

Dance!

Wheeeeee!
Just had my first of what hopefully promises to be many dance classes, right here at the university, twice a week, so i don't actually have to go anywhere.
Which is excellent. (i feel like the person who drives to get to the gym when they live right across the street....counterproductive, and yet...)
Except I haven't danced in about two years.
So I'm really out of shape.
Like, really really out of shape
Like, trying-to-get-down-the-stairs-and-nearly-falling-on-my-face-with-every-step out of shape.
One and a half hours of non-stop moving, and get this:
I'm going to be in a Dance Battle against the Technion.
Like as in "You Got Served".

Swear to god, i thought that kind of thing only happened in movies.

Anyways, it's 45 minutes of "Learn what the teacher teaches so you can warm up with an abusively hard combination", and then 45 minutes of "pretend like you can choreograph so we can be in the Dance Battle"
(I mean, can you help but giggle each time you hear that? Of course you can't)

What's good is that I feel all good about my dancing ability for the first 45 minutes.
And then I feel like an idiot for the rest of it, because I can't choreograph for shit.

Which is why we're going to "get help" choreographing, Hila and I (Hila being the other girl I dance with from Overseas), and download choreography from the internet.

Because we're going to win that Dance Battle, y'all.

*giggle*

Swelling with pride

Today, while surfing Haaretz.com, i came across a rather peculiar article.
Peculiar because my cousin Ittai was in it.

Also, more peculiar because they call him Oren (his last name) and say that he's 24 (he just turned 23) so, way to suck at life, Haaretz.com
But I know it's Ittai because
a)He lives in Akko
b)at that apartment
c)two floors below that rooftop and
d)that's his pretty little head on the left
I swell with pride because not only is my family, and therefore my genes, in the news, but also, whenever you see a member of your family in the news spouting Bolshevik-Socialist ideals and propaganda in the 21st century, can you help feel anything but proud?

Of course not. Which is why I immediately called Safta with the news and forwarded the article to my daddy.

Can we discuss how this means that Haaretz, a national newspaper with leftist tendencies, is glorifying the fact that my cousin has put himself into a box with the other "commie-red" crayons and is living in a converted soldier's hostel with minimal water/electricity hook up with other young and virile members of his peer group in the name of "contributing to society"?
And that this is so totally awesome, I can't even put it into words, so it's a good thing that Haaretz.com did it for me?

In conclusion: Communism+the extended Moraff Clan=can't end well, but we'll sure as hell have a blast trying.

Because Haaretz will probably take down the article at some point, here it is in all of it's glory:


It's Acre, not India, for these young idealists
By Eli Ashkenazi
"This is my India," 24 (he's 23, you dumbasses)-year-old Oren (THIS WOULD BE ITTAI) said, comparing his decision to move to the new urban kibbutz in Acre to the trip many young Israelis embark on after military service. Indeed, the lifestyle he has chosen is different than that of most Israelis his age. Oren (ITTAI AGAIN) and 30 other graduates of the leftist Noar Haoved Vehalomed youth movement, aged 23 to 24, have decided to dedicate their lives to making a contribution to society, as they put it.On Monday, they declared the establishment of the "Acre Urban Educators Kibbutz."

"We will develop a rich, independent and cultural social life based on the [socialist] principle `from each according to his means to each according to his needs.' Our lives will be based on equality, mutual responsibility and cooperation. Cooperation with the community [beyond the kibbutz], in the form of educational projects we initiate and implement, will be one of our guiding principles," they said.There are now several educational communes in Israel - some are urban and some are located in kibbutzim founded in the 1980s that failed to expand. According to Ori Metuki, coordinator of the kibbutz in Acre, "There are already hundreds of [kibbutz] members living this way."I have lived in Eshbol, next to Sakhnin, for 10 years and intend to do so for the rest of my life. When I was 22, they told me I was naive. When I was 25, they told me the same thing. Now I am 30 and I still believe in the idea. I have a family now in Eshbol."There are 60 educators living in Eshbol; there is also a group of students in the Eshbol Beit Hanoar boarding school for youth at risk. Eshbol members direct a number of educational projects throughout Israel and they are in daily contact with about 3,000 youngsters. In addition to the boarding school, Eshbol members run a Jewish-Arab coexistence center and a seminar center.According to them, Eshbol members are active in every sector of the population residing in the Western Galilee region - Jews, Arabs, kibbutznikim and Druze.The educational kibbutz, in its urban and rural sites, is only one of a number of experiments aimed at creating a new model of the kibbutz concept. Founded 20 years ago, the urban kibbutzim, including Reshit (founded in the `70s), Beit Yisrael in Jerusalem, Migvan in Sderot and Tamuz in Beit Shemesh, were pioneers in this experiment.The central concept in the urban kibbutz is the establishment of a collaborative, communal framework in the city. As a result, all these kibbutzim share the desire to be involved in the community in which they reside. They also strive to live a communal lifestyle, without production of material goods, while promoting close relations between members. Two new communal groups were established in the Migdal Ha'emek area in 2000 - Bustan and Tishrei - which maintain an "education-based economy," as they define it."The whole idea is not to live in a detached bubble. We are part of the city," Metuki says. According to him, "If the realization of a movement graduate's values was once life on a traditional kibbutz, realization now lies with Israeli society in the field of education, and graduates strive to be part of a pioneering force."Acre mayor Shimon Lankri and his staff welcomed the young adults on Monday and lavished praise on the group that arrived in their city. Arieh Fishbein, head of the Acre branch of the Association for Soldiers in Israel, which contributed the use of its buildings to the project, invoked the National Soccer League standings as another sign of the good things happening to the city. Acre is, of course, in the lead. "Israeli society is a society in crisis looking for a direction. These youngsters are pointing the way," Lankri said.Yoel Marshak, head of the United Kibbutz Movement's Special Assignments Division, said that the common denominator among these 21st Century communes is "a sense of mission and cooperation. Anyone who believes there is no such thing as true cooperation is free to say thank you and good-bye."According to Marshak, skepticism regarding these new kibbutz models is unwarranted. "People always say these kibbutzim have yet to experience a complete life cycle. But Tamuz in Beit Shemesh and Migvan in Sderot have existed for 20 years."Yisrael Ben-Ezra, assistant to the mayor of Acre, compares the new kibbutz members to Israel's founding pioneers. "They work and sing. They came to us with a desire to reside here permanently. They will influence our youth to also remain in the city."

Who is Ziv?

So at the coffee shops that ask you for your name when you order so that they can call you up once it's ready, namely Aroma and Elite, I give my name as "Ziv".
I used to give out "Jess", but because there is no "J" sound in hebrew, and because the barista's don't bother putting in the apostrophe that would turn the "g" into a "j", my name shows up on the bill as: גס (gahs). Which means "rude" (masc. sing). Which is not a name I would like to appear on my receipt, especially since I go to both those coffee shops on a largely regular basis.
Also, I figure that no one under the age of 70 is named Tzvia, let alone Tzivia (my hebrew name), so I picked the modern Israeli name that most closely resembles it, in sound if not in meaning: Ziv.
This has worked rather well for me; i can confuse the crap out of the cafe workers who hear me speak to my friends and on the cellphone in english when I'm in line, and who can tell that something is not quite right with my accent, and yet I seem to have a surprisingly modern Israeli name, instead of something old-world, like Tzivia/Gitl/Bracha/Leah/Sarah/Rachel/etc... (in fact, Ziv is such a modern name in Israel for girls, that it is usually considered a boy's name, since very few girls my age are called Ziv. Usually, it's a name that will be on a five year old or younger, since it has just recently come to be more popular for girls. ). I can also maintain my anonymity and use it as my name to give out to the creepy israeli guys who seem to be everywhere, so that they won't actually call me.

However, it has recently become a problem, especially at the Elite Cafe at school. I go there so often, between nearly every class on mondays and thursdays, that the girl working at the counter recognizes me.
By name.
By my fake name, rather.
So that when I went last week with a friend from class, the girl behind the counter said "Ziv, right? You like cafe hafuch (like a cappucino, minus the sugar), extra foam, right?". And before I can smile and tell her that it's perfect, my friend said "who the hell is Ziv? (I'm Jess, and she is Reem. let me restate that very few girls in this country who are of university age are named Ziv. Also, again, it is not actually my fake name).", and then starts looking behind us.

The coffee girl is rather confused, as is Reem, as is the security guard and the coffee guy both of Aroma Cafe in the Carmel Centre, who are encouraging me to get a job there once I set up my work permit (what work permit?). Also, if I got a job at Aroma, at some point, I need to tell them that my real name isn't Ziv, otherwise the bank is never going to let me cash my paycheque. And I can't go around with a nametag that says "Jess/Ziv/זיו\גס" . And this work permit...I really need to get on that.

Oh, coffee beans...

To your left, a pile of rocks. And to your right, another pile of rocks.

After almost not making it to the bus, I spent the better part of the weekend in the Negev Desert.
Thursday night, I stayed out late with a friend, and got home at three in the morning.
What I have learned: That when I'm told "we're going to a party at Kibbutz Yagur", we're not actually going to sit around and chill out, like most post-adolescent-on-a-kibbutz-parties I know of, we are in fact going to Ultrasound Dance Club
What else I have learned: No matter how much I enjoy dance clubs, I will not go to one wearing a sweater. Also, not at two thirty in the morning on a day where I have to be up and packed by 6:45.

Instead, I made them drive me back home, where I threw what I thought I needed for the Negev Trip, organized by the Overseas Office, into a small duffel, fell into bed at 3:30, and was rudely awoken by my alarm at 5:45. Quick shower and dress, and then to make food for the trip.
At which I am apparently inept, because I burned my hand, rather severly in fact, on the toaster oven.

Whatever. Finally got on the bus, and slept the whole way to Be'er Sheva, where we shopped for a bit more food in the open Bedouin Market, and I bought my first ever pear, because I am sheltered and also didn't think I liked pears until this weekend, when I decided to try New Things, which I generally don't do. But, yay pears.

We then went to this very interesting vineyard called Kerem Avda(t?), run entirely by a single family. It's part of a privately run project where they set up thirty families with vineyards across the Negev desert along the ancient Nabatean Spice Route, because surprise! The Nabateans actually grew grapes and made wine along their Spice Route, and the project has relocated the terraces upon which the Nabateans actually grew their grapes, and upon which modern Israeli families are now growing their grapes, using a mix of ancient Nabatean water-gathering technology (the vineyards are planted at the bottom of 'valleys', so water can collect during the rainy season), and modern drip-irrigation. It's all very interesting. The visit was concluded by a wine tasting of red merlot and a red cabernet sauvignon.

I couldn't tell the difference. But very nice.

The group separated into English-speaking tours and Hebrew-speaking tours for the rest of the day, and I am proud to say that not only did I attend both Hebrew-speaking sessions, I understood them both perfectly. Though, it should be noted, that the level of Hebrew was aimed at the non-israelis, but I'm still a bit proud of myself.
Back on the bus, we were taken to Kever Ben Gurion (Ben Gurion's Grave), just outside Kibbutz Sdeh Boker. While we listened to the tour guide speak about the importance of the fact that Ben Gurion, the first Prime Minister of Israel, was buried in the Negev Desert and not on Har Hertzel with all the other dignitaries (okay, fun fact: The answer is not "because he was the first so he could be buried wherever because they hadn't started the tradition yet", as I suggested. It was in fact because he wanted to underline the importance of living in the Negev and "making the desert bloom". Also, he spent the last few years of his life on Sdeh Boker. But whatever), a family of ibexes (ibices?) trotted through the area. Of course I ran to photograph them, leaving the tour guide, but so did a few other people, so it wasn't like I was completely rude. Or if I was, at least I wasn't the only one.

We spent friday night at a touristy camping ground disguised as a Bedouin camp, though of course you know that a) they're not real Bedouin running the camp and b) oh my, what a tourist trap.

And it gets you to thinking: If a bear suddenly storms the tent in search of the food that we all had packed in our bags for the next day, is it really a bear, or is it a bear pretending to be a bedouin? Thoughts? Comments?
(Disclaimer: okay, this sounded better in my head than on paper. I in no way intended that a bear will steal my food "just like a bedouin". It was supposed to be an allusion to the fact that we were in a camp "pretending to be a bedouin camp", and therefore whatever we met at that camp that was not in our group was perhaps "pretending to be a bedouin" just like the good folks running the place. Though they were probably of the real-live-bedouin persuasion, I assure you, their camp most definitely was not. I hope I cleared that up.)

But it was still fun.

Saturday, the group split into two eight hour hikes around Makhtesh Ramon. A makhtesh is a geographical formation unique to Israel, and there is apparently no english equivalent for the word. It is a "crater" of sorts, but in fact, the crater used to be a mountain, that was eventually eroded away, to create a bowl-formation called a makhtesh. There are three in Israel, named the "Little Makhtesh" and the "Big Makhtesh", and then the third, "Makhtesh Ramon", which is in fact larger than the Big Makhtesh, so they gave it it's own name instead. Kind of like an "oops....let's just hope no one really notices..."
I went on the hardest one, even though I have never hiked before and even though I had never worn my hiking shoes before that (bad idea. Very bad. Breaking them in before the hike is a much better way to go.), I didn't complain or whine even once. Except maybe just a very little bit right before we got back to the camp, but only because my feet hurt a whole lot. But on the whole, I was very good.

On the way back, we dropped some people off in Tel Aviv for the Rabin Memorial Peace Rally, which we listened to on the radio (those of us who hadn't gotten off the bus), and it was really very interesting. Except the musical interludes between the speeches were terrible, surprisingly so, because they were actually very famous singers (Aviv Gefen, David Broza, Miri/Mimi Agnon), but they all sang really bad and off key. Oh well. You can't win them all.

I MUST sleep, mainly because I'm exhausted and haven't slept more than ten hours in the last three days, but also because I have to be all awake for my speech-therapy volunteering. When I have more time and more alertness, I will write all about that, but for now,

Lilah Tov (goodnight)
-J

There's no way that's actually safe...

Before I write a ridiculously long post, I would like to mention that there is a group of soldiers here at the university, presumably studying some program or other as part of their army service.

I was made ever aware of this when I heard shouting outside, and lo and behold, there is a small gathering of young soldiers, probably younger than me, just chilling four flights down in the back parking lot, situated directly below me, within view from the window.

In fact, they are not just chilling.

They are lighting fires.

Fires fueled by gasoline.

Gasoline which liberally spills outside the so-called boundary made out of what appears to have the shape of a garbage-can lid.

(the spilling bothers no one.)

And then putting them out with a fire extinguisher.

36 times.

I am very happy that the army is teaching its new recruits how to use a fire extinguisher, but I would prefer that such an occurence
a)was operated under mildly stricter safety standards
b)did not take place 3 feet from a rather dense set of bushes
c)did not send plumes of gasoline-fueled smoke into my room
d)did not take place anywhere near the university in which all my personal belongings are located.

Also, I would like it if the 18 year olds didn't make macho cat-calls when the fires were lit. I would rather they do so when the fires are put out, so as to indicate to me that it is the putting out that excites them, rather than the lighting.

Moving right along:

My classes are going rather well. I dropped one of them (writing systems) because it was so unbelievably boring I clawed the walls. Also, it doesn't really count for any credit. At all. So I dropped it like third period french. Or more precisely, like fourth period writing systems.
Also, I would appreciate it if when the teacher verbally singles me out as the only native english speaker in the class, that s/he not try to correct my english. I am a highly educated and literate individual, and so if I try to say that X is a word, X is a bloody word. I am not making it up; it is not in my interest to fool the 20 other arab/russian/israeli students who I would like to befriend. So stop second guessing me. If I say "sketchball" is a word, akin to "slimeball" or "dirtball", and that it is "current slang for a shady character who is prone to lurking in the shadows, doing questionable acts, etc", then that is what it means.

Goddamn.

It was worth it, though, when I heard immediate mutterings and discussions, in Arabic and Russian, with the word "ahsketchaball", and "sketchyballu", as soon as I explained what it was. Even cuter when they all meticulously copied it into their notebooks, and asked me how to spell it.

Awwwww....ESL.....

Other than that, I spent the evening teaching my ethiopian tutor kid how to properly pronounce words in an Usher song (Caught up), though considering that he uses words like "brotha", "gon'" ("going to", in case you were wondering), and "nekked", i then had to explain to the 12 year old with a vocabulary of perhaps 35 words, total, a)what those words actually meant and b)how to properly pronounce/spell/inflect them.
However, I am now officially the coolest tutor, since we were basically busking on the streetcorner with her best friend, singing Usher and Destiny's Child at the top of our lungs.
Sweet.

Also, after doing a friend's French homework in one of my classes today (English Lexicology, by the way. Nothing remotely related to french), she has decided that I am now her French tutor. No monetary involvement, but I can handle it. The fact that it is not my mother tongue, and that I currently have a firmer grasp on Hebrew than I do french, does not seem to bother anyone in this arrangement. Which is nice.

Do you know where the stupidest place to spend a Sunday in this country is?
Nazareth.
Even the churches are closed.
I went on the most boring daytrip, where I was clearly promised a trip to the market place, which was of course, closed on sunday. And it was not boring because of the closed market, a fact to which I can attest by the 40 pictures I took of the lovely scenery and mosaics of Zippori and Nazareth, but because we had the most boring tour guide, ever. She is one of the professors here, and it was a class trip that the rest of Overseas was invited on, and I'm sure she would be an amazing tour guide in her native language, Hebrew. But she hemmed and hawed so damn much that I swear, she was talking for hours, but I didn't remember anything specific about what she said at any given point, even thirty seconds after she finished. All of us spaced off. Thank god for commemorative plaques and information centres with the same information, in a more user-friendly format.

My chicken is defrosting and I need to make sure that there are no gasoline-induced threats to my lovely curtains.

That is all for now
-Jessie

Wormy Blankets, Part Two

I have a wormy blanket! And it's so pretty and uninfested that I thought I'd share.
Also, it happens to match my brand new curtains, partially because the bedspread that I tacked over the wormy blanket was half of the brand new curtains.

So a week ago, our advisor Eliad sent out an email inviting us all to pick up "worm blankets" from the overseas office, and I suppose that enough people teased him about it that it's now like an Overseas inside joke, which is cute, cause we're otherwise unfunny people as a group. We're kind of like the nerds on campus, only now we have our own little nerdy jokes.
Awwwwwwwww...

Also appearing on campus, thanks to it being the first week of school (hah! Also, scroll down and read about when I did my homework on the beach. I reiterate: hah!), there's a bunch of vendors with their fun vendor-y things*. And my roommates were pressuring me to acquire new curtains like they did, because in all honesty, the ButtUglyOrange was doing nothing for my room's complexion. Also, there were these gorgeous purple-blue-green-organza-curtain-things-with-elegant-yet-ethereal-embroidery screaming my name. Like, actually 8-year-old-girl-at-a-Hillary-Duff-concert screaming for me.

Of course I bought them, so don't even ask. For a really good price, too.

In fact, such a good price, that only one of the two that came in the package was needed.
And after acquiring the wormy bedspread from Eliad, it turns out that the other curtain perfectly fits the bedspread (the wormy blanket, by the way, is actually a duvet/quilt stuffer kind of a blanket). So i pinned it on top, and now I have a curtain that matches my bedspread and complements the druzi-embroidered pillows that I bought in Dalyat Al-Karmel a month ago. As opposed to clashing with my craptabulous comforter circa 1976. Think big gaudy flowers. But you control my life no more, craptabulous comforter!

Now that I have my Purple-blue-green-organza-curtain-things-with-elegant-yet-ethereal-embroidery Bedroom Set, I finally have a cozy-bedroom-sense in which I will still not get any of my work done.

Also, my room looks like a tornado hit it.
...(contemplating whether to clean it or just leave it in a state of utter disaster)...

Meh.

(a wise decision)

-Jess

PS: My classes rock. Details to follow

*NB: If any North Americans would like me to pick them up fun vendor-y things, like "Israeli-Hippie-Clothes" that are wildly popular here, let me know, and I'll hook you up. Limited offer, good probably until the end of this week, but maybe not. Like, if you would like any shanty items and you know that you're probably on my gift list marked "people to buy fun shit for", then send me a note.