The Holy Land: Day Three – Places Jesus May or May Not Have Been

I technically missed a day of writing because the plane ride was, in a sense, two days. Based on the previous entry in my journal, I also may have been smoking crack prior to attempting to record my account of the day.

After deplaning and a (relatively) brief encounter with Israeli customs (that weeded out the terrorists in our church travel group), we boarded a bus and were taken to the Mount of Olives where we encountered a rabid camel (see photo above). Now, don’t get me wrong, I love rabid camels as much as the next person, but I politely declined when the camel’s owner (or co-worker – I am not sure what their working arrangement was) asked if I wanted a ride.

The thing about Israel is that, because there is so much history and clearly no one currently alive to collaborate the majority of it, it is impossible to determine whether or not the events said to have taken place at the various historical sites actually took place there at all. For instance, the Garden Tomb, a site we visited on Day Two, is one of two possible locations (that I know of at least) where Christ may have been laid to rest prior to performing his zombie act.

As I sit here, on Day Three, writing in my journal, I am in the lobby of our hotel. Through the window, I can see the Northern Wall, just a one hundred metres away. It seems strange to look out of a window and see something so old. I mean, I sometimes look at my grandparents through windows, but that is not quite the same thing.

Jerusalem appears to be a city of churches, which makes sense I suppose. I doubt you could throw a stone (which I have heard they used to do a lot of here) without hitting one – a church that is, not another stone.. although you probably could not throw a stone without hitting another stone as well. Another interesting bit of information about Jerusalem: it was not built for tall people. I spent the majority of our walking tour of the city ducking and dodging in order to avoid having a much closer encounter with the places we visited than I wanted to.

As it is Yom Kippur right now, the holiest of holy days for the Jewish people, out of respect and desire not to get lost in the masses, we avoided visiting the Western Wall today. Instead, we visited St. Anne’s Catherdral and a bunch of stations of the cross. The stations of the cross are, supposedly, the path that Jesus took on his journey to be crucified. At one point in time, during our tour, we noticed a gentleman in his mid-twenties had joined us. He was casually walking along with us and listening to our guides explanations at each of the sites we visited. He was smooth and, had we not been on a private tour, he probably would have blended in fairly well. However, because we were on a private tour, he stuck out like a sore thumb (or young adult on a group tour whose core population was composed of people ages 55 and up).

The Holy Land – Day Two: I Am Not Sure What That Means

Have you ever attempted to decipher something that you had written when you were only half coherent? It can be challenging, especially when you have difficulty deciphering most things you have written in general.

Lack of sleep and travel on Day Two of my voyage to the Middle East rendered me unable to adequately put my thoughts to paper, and these are the only few lines I was actually able to make out of my entry for that day.

“Sorry, I can’t help. I want to help you move the cars. I am falling asleep and don’t make sense.”

I am not sure whose cars I wanted to help move, but I am glad that I was smart enough to declare myself incapable of doing so because of tiredness.

The Holy Land: Day One – Departure From the Unholy Land

Today, I received my very first body scan. Sure, I have had X-Rays and ultrasounds before, but those are child’s play in comparison to the sheer awesomeness of the millimeter wave scanner. Often I have thought to myself, “If only there was some sort of way for strangers, in public, to scan my whole body in order to detect objects I may be concealing underneath my clothing.” So you can imagine my joy when I was chosen, at random, to be one of the few to undergo this honour.

But in all seriousness, I found the whole process entirely noninvasive. My only regret is that I had not chosen a more supportive bra to wear, though I am confident I can get over this in time.

Our plane is departed from Gate C30. Of all the gates in YYZ, I think C30 is my favourite. To be completely honest with you, I have relatively no recollection of my run-ins with other gates, but Gate C30 is located near both a bathroom and a on-the-go store, thus making it superior to all gates that are not.

The flight itself was rather uneventful. Most of the time, I sat in my seat and attempted to sleep.  I divided my conscious hours between reading Tina Fey’s biography, making notes in my journal (genius lines such as “cashews sure are overpriced at the airport!”) and trying to follow the in-flight movies. Let me tell you something, Internet, I am not sure that I would be able to follow the film Tree of Life at the best of times. Trying to figure out what is happening while you are drifting in and out of consciousness is nearly impossible.

But eventually we landed, in Israel even, and it was time to deplane. But, technically, that was day two and this entry is only about day one.

The Holy Land: An Introduction

One thing people never tell you about the Middle East is that, no matter where you are, when 4 am hits, you are, more often than not, greeted by the ubiquitous sound of prayer/chanting, echoed and amplified around the land through deftly hidden speakers.

A thing you probably hear more often, or at least I hope you do, is how incredibly beautiful the countries that make up this part of the world are.

It is hard to say what, of the Middle East’s public image, is legitimate and what is simply media-driven hype, but what I experienced was not at all what I had expected. There were fewer camels, more donkeys, a more diverse range of people and lots of salads. Oh, boy. Do they ever love salad in the Middle East.

Fancy Hats

I did not know it until just a few minutes ago, but I really like fancy hats.

Let’s clear something up first though: I do not like wearing fancy hats myself. I feel they are ridiculous. But I seriously enjoy looking at photos, and witnessing in real life, other people wearing fancy hats.

I did not watch the royal wedding. Things that do not directly involve me tend to hold very little interest for me. However, when surfing the Internet, I came across many photos of royal wedding guests – which is when I had my epiphany regarding fancy hats.

Just look at these hats:

They all appear as though they could poke somebody’s eye(s) out. And some of them are hugely disproportionate to the size of the wearer’s head.

Which leads me to ponder something else: tiny hats.

Tiny hats make me think of monkeys wearing hats. Monkeys wearing hats is such a silly notion because monkeys have no need to wear hats. Monkeys have no need to wear clothing of any sort, let alone fashionable accessories.

When I was in India, I saw a monkey who was wearing a hat. The monkey was also wearing a dress. Let me tell you something, Internet, the dress that monkey was wearing was hideous. I can not be sure whether or not the monkey picked out its own dress, but I hope it did. If not, I am pretty sure forcing a monkey to wear a dress that ugly qualifies as animal cruelty.

End of the World Paranoia

When I visited Mexico, I toured some of the Mayan ruins. I remember hearing over and over again how wise the Mayans were and how they were able to predict their own demise. It is for this reason, I am led to believe, that we are supposed to pay special attention to their calendar and take heed of their warning that the world will end in 2012. After all, 2012 is when the Mayan calendar ends.

But don’t you think that maybe, just maybe, it is possible that the Mayan calendar ends in 2012 because they felt like that was far enough in the future that they could stop for a bit before making more calendar?

My current calendar ends this December, but I do not think this is the printer’s way of trying to hint to me that on December 31, 2009, the world has a preordained date with a catastrophe. No, instead I recognize that a calendar has to stop at some point in time, so why not December?

Maybe the individuals who were making the Mayan calendar just got tired. One of them, whom I will hereon refer to as “Jim,” probably said to the others, “Dudes, we’ve already gone, like, 1,000 years into the future. Let’s take a break for a decade of so and then get back to this. To be honest, my hands are cramping, and I could really go for a refreshing glass of water.” Obviously, the others would have agreed with what Jim was saying because, after all, they were way ahead of the game. Besides that, Jim was super cool and everyone was always trying to impress him.

Dirty Dancing

I’m just going to put it out there: I don’t think it was such a big deal that they put Baby in the corner.

I  know, I know… Admitting this will probably only get me into trouble, but it is just how I feel. I mean, it seems to me that putting Baby in the corner was actually a very considerate thing to do. Baby’s seat is quite obviously the best seat at her table. She does not have to swivel or angle in order to view the stage. It is right there in front of her.

Whatever. I guess it doesn’t really matter in the end. Johnny needed something dramatic to say and it worked – or, at the very least, it stunned Baby’s parents enough to allow her to escape. Besides, we all know that Johnny doesn’t really have book smarts. This does not matter though because Johnny is one of those guys who isn’t afraid to break out into an elaborate dance routine if the situation requires it. And, really, when doesn’t the situation require it?

Kanye West Tweets

Imagine, if you will, genius in 140 characters.

It’s hard to imagine anything in 140 characters, let alone genius.

One hundred and forty characters is not many characters. In fact, this very sentence you are now reading is actually, if you can believe it, one hundred and forty four characters, including all spaces. Although, if I am being honest, I will admit that my previous sentence looks incredibly long, and I only actually even wrote it to illustrate one point: 140 characters is not a whole lot of characters.

My point is to truly be able to reach people, to touch them down deep in their souls, in 140 characters (or fewer) is an incredible feat… An incredibly feat that Kanye West has mastered.

A few examples of Kanye’s genius:

Fur pillows are hard to actually sleep on

I hate when people type LOL next to shit that is nooo way near LOL-able…

I make awesome decisions in bike stores!!!

Sometimes I get emotional over fonts

What’s better for devil worshipping Iphone or the Droid… Does lucifer return text… is he or she on Skype? Don’t wanna be sexist

I hate when I’m on a flight and I wake up with a water bottle next to me like oh great now I gotta be responsible for this water bottle

Man… whatever happened to my antique fish tank?

See what I mean? Genius.

Parents

The older you become, the more you realize that your parents are… well… your parents are crazy. They are downright clinically insane.

Sure, you also realize how they were right about many things, but this is all largely overshadowed by the whole crazy thing.

It is not their fault though. Truly, it isn’t. All good parents eventually become crazy. The vast majority of them did not start out this way; Their children have driven them to this.

By the time the craziness sets in, parents have spent 18 years fretting over the general well-being of their progeny. Sure, there are also times of immense joy and wonder, but it is all interlaced with ulcer-inducing worry. And, as if the anxiety were not enough to drive them crazy on its own, parents are forced to attempt to understand the logic of teenagers.

Have you ever had a conversation with a teenager? A logical teenager is an oxymoron, or, at the very best, a logical teenager is a paradox. Can you honestly tell me that you would be able to deal with a teenager day in and day out, for nearly a decade, and not go at least a little bit insane? Trust me, you would.

There was a reason boarding school was created.

Giving Blood

I sat in the chair, staring at my arm sceptically.

“Make a fist for me,” the nurse instructed as she prodded my elbow pit with her finger. “I am just going to take a look at the veins in your other arm now,” she informed me. Furrowing her brow, she continued to poke at various locations on my arms before muttering to herself, “I guess I will go with a side vein.” Words of confidence.

Donating blood is a paradox when it comes to stuff I like. On one hand, I strongly dislike needles and losing blood. On the other hand, when else can I hop up (after laying supine for 15 minutes or fewer of watching TV, reading, talking or listening to music) and say that I just helped save a life? Well, I suppose I could say that any time, but when else is it actually true?

Another positive that comes along with donating blood is the cookies and juice. After a donation, it is strongly encouraged that donors have a juice box and consume a couple of cookies. Never one to pass up apple juice (apple juice and puppies are my kryptonite), I like to use this break to happily sip my juice and peruse the Toronto Star.

As you may have guessed from the beginning of this entry, the nurse needling me probably could have done with a little more practice prior to handling the 16 gauge. During this most recent donation, my veins decided to be a little difficult, requiring some shifting of the needle in order to establish a decent flow.

“We’re so sorry. It looks like you’re going to have a bruise,” I was told by several of the blood bank staff members as they hovered around me, placing gauze over the insertion site and changing it every so often. Though, at the time, I gave the nurse who tapped me the benefit of the doubt, I was later informed by a coworker that “bruising of that nature is the result of poor technique.”

Regardless, I was proud of my bruise. “Do not worry about it at all,” I told the women at the blood bank, with a smile. “I am going to look so badass. I am going to wear short sleeves all week to work and try to garner sympathy. I am not sure that it will actually accomplish anything though because the majority of my coworkers are nurses and my bruises don’t really impress them the way I feel they should,” I explained. “The volunteers are a different story entirely,” I winked.

Additionally, I decided to photograph my evolving bruises so that I would be able to post photos to the Internet and further inspire oooohs and aaaahs of shock and awe at the physical evidence of my heroics.