Limbo

I've been a bad wife this week. No, not in the sexy naughty way. Like in the unfun bitchy way. I don't know what's gotten into me. Maybe it's a combination of PMS and just general life stress? I feel so dumb even calling it that. Yeah, life stress from the girl who's bumming around in Southern California (75 degress today) and needs to do a couple returns at Nordstrom tomorrow while her iPad 2 is being repaired. Ugggghhhh I suck I suck I suck.

I've been a bad wife this week, and it's because we're in limbo. That lovely graduated-but-jobless limbo. It would be a lot less daunting if we had any leads or connections, but we don't. We're going about things the old-fashioned way. None of this graduate-and-work-for-your-dad-slash-spouse's-dad business. If I have this conversation one more time, I'm going to go postal:

"You just came back from . . . Israel, right?"

"Well, we were only there for twelve days. We spent four months in Jordan."

"Oh! That must have been a great experience. Were you ever scared being there?"

"No."

"Oh, good. I've heard all those Muslims just want to kill you. Did you pick up a little bit of the language or anything?"

"Um, that's why I went there."

"Wow! Can you like read and write in Arabic, too?"

"Yeah." [In my head: I sure hope so! I only learned how to do that two years ago.]

"That's great, great. Sooooo what's your next step?"

"Not a clue."

"Huh?"

"We don't know."

"What do you mean?"

[In my head: Right now Plan A is to bum around at my parents' house in Colorado until we find something somewhere. Scratch that: Anything, anywhere. Because despite 6+ years of college each, we have NO IDEA WHAT WE WANT. Plan B is to get on "The Amazing Race" and kick adult responsibilities down the road even further. There is no Plan C. We'd love to spend more time in school waiting out this recession with Master's degrees, but neither of us know what we'd want to study in the first place. And you know what's making all this even better? Getting asked this question for the 300th time. So thank you, person, for reminding me that in spite of all the hard work my husband and I did in college to NOT have the job prospects of art history majors, we have the job prospects of art history majors. Now, please excuse me while I go drown my sorrows in the pint of Baskin Robbins ice cream that my mother-in-law bought for me today after I accidentally snarfed down half of Brock's double-double at In-N-Out before realizing the extra patty in there. Which, of course, will only add to the eight pounds I gained in the Middle East eating !#$*&% falafel and lamb 24/7 in an effort to hone language skills that would set me apart in a workforce that BLOWS because your generation bought mortgages they couldn't afford. Maybe if they hadn't, I wouldn't have felt inclined to drag my husband across two continents over the course of eight months to improve my job now-non-existent job prospects. So yeah, I've got a bigger ass, a smaller bank account, and a guest bedroom at my parents' house. Any other questions, Curious George?]

You know what all this feels like? It feels like a Mormon wedding night. You've been so good and followed all the rules, so the payoff should come easy and be awesome. But in reality, you finally get to the hotel room and are confused as hell.

We speak foreign languages. We did internships. We were involved in extra-curricular activities. We are both good writers. We're gregarious. We're honest. We carefully crafted our time in college--majors, minors, everything--to make us competitive in the work force. We did everything right.

Didn't we?

The worst thing about having no idea what you want is worrying that you're missing opportunities. Brock comes at me with all these great ideas of what to do with his life and I just shoot them down because, for some reason, they don't fall in line with what I think he should be doing. And don't ask me what that is, because I don't know. Remember that episode of Modern Family when Phil accuses Claire of crushing his creativity and squandering his life's potential as a result? I'm so worried that I am that wife. I'm worried because sometimes I look at myself and all that Brock has to deal with and I legitimately think that he would be better off without me. DANG IT whyyyy does that have to sound so melodramatic when I mean it so much???? (Not like quadruple y's and !'s helped my cause there.)

The hard thing about marriage--or at least a marriage where neither partner has a defined career path--is that you're not just worrying about yourself finding work. You're not just worrying about your spouse finding work. You worry about how your actions, choices, and behaviors are affecting two destinies.

Why can't somebody just give me the answers so I can go back to being a nice wife again? So we can figure out where to move and I can end my eight-month streak of living out of a suitcase? So I can buy a gym membership? So we can actually think about when to start having kids instead of it being some amorphous box on a future to-do list? So we can know which church ward to cut our tithing checks to? So we can be us again?

Jet Lag

Wide awake at 4am. Too early and dark to go for a run, so I figure now is as good a time as any to catch up on blogging! I have so many posts planned out for the next couple weeks-- I'll probably end up doing two per day: one for Jordan/Israel, one for current Huntington Beach holiday happenings. And then I figure that it's been about a year since we went to Ecuador, and I still haven't written anything about that--maybe that'll be next up on my blogging list. Along with plenty of political and social commentary, as the Iowa caucuses are just around the corner.

...is it obvious that I'm desperately trying to find things to write about to occupy my time now that I have NO SCHOOL and NO JOB and NO BABIES??? :)

Since I am jet-lagged, I dedicate this post to the jets who got me here. After a day in Sderot and Jaffa (more on that in a future post!), we arrived at Ben Gurion International Airport in Tel Aviv at around 8pm. We were SO excited to be heading home!

Our flight didn't leave until 5:30am the next day, but we got there at 8pm because everybody's flights left at different times (and it was just logistically easier for us all to dropped off at once). Right from the get-go, we decided to pull an all-nighter so as to ease jet-lag upon arrival in the States. Luckily, that isn't hard to do when you're surrounded by dozens of friends! We stayed up late making up superlatives ("Best Hair", "Best Laugh", etc) for every person on the study abroad--over 60 people. Brock and I won the "Old Married Couple Award."

Some may say that was based on our bickering, I say it was based on love.

That took a good two hours, and in the process we made friends with the female Israeli IDF soldier sitting next to us. After high school, every Israeli citizen must complete mandatory military service. I think it's generally two years for girls, three for guys, but it varies depending on the job you do in the military. The girl we met was 20 years old and worked for the Israeli public radio station. Apparently, an Israeli had just won the world surfing championship, so she was at the airport welcoming celebration to get a sound bite.

We all got to talking and it wasn't long before she was whooping our butts in Texas Hold 'Em. Little did she know that one of the players at the table--a guy from the study abroad named Sami--was a Palestinian! Sami said it was surreal to be playing a round of poker with an IDF soldier. That'll make for a great story to tell his kids.

We had such a fun conversation with her that ranged from politics (she was a socialist) to nature (she was an environmentalist) to cows (she was a vegetarian) to how--and I quote--"every source of evil in the world can be traced back to McDonalds." She spoke good English and even taught us a little Hebrew and Yiddish. When we told her we spoke Arabic, she informed us that despite four years of the language in high school, the only Arabic phrase she knew was "Stop! Stop or I'm going to shoot you!" And people wonder why there's so little understanding between these two groups!

At 2am Brock and I left the group to go check-in for our flight. It was interesting to get a taste for Israeli airport security--it's way more mentally intrusive than physically intrusive. (Then again, we were lucky with how easily we got through it. Some members of our group--just regular causcasian American kids--took a full THREE HOURS with security and one even missed their flight because of it!) Instead of naked body scanners, Israeli security focuses on what is essentially racial profiling. They ask you a lot of questions--where are you going? who are you with? did you buy gifts for people? what gifts? are you carrying an item in your suitcase that you accepted from someone you didn't know? They do this to both hear your answers and watch your reactions.

What I thought was interesting was their scanning of every carry-on item and every checked bag. Your checked bags are scanned before you get to the check-in counter, and your carry-ons after. There's also probably about six or seven different checkpoints en route to the terminal where they ask to see your passport and boarding ticket. 

Prior to my trip to Israel, I had read so much about how amazing and efficient Israeli airport security was. But in general, I would say that it's as time-consuming (or more so) than American airport security. Where they do have a one-up is with the people who run security. TSA in America doesn't exactly have a reputation for hiring the cream of the crop, but the security personnel in Ben Gurion was comprised of mostly young people who were bright, personable, courteous, and respectful. 

Anyway, we finally boarded our flight to Zurich and slept the entire way despite the annoying group of hungover "Birthright Kids" sitting around us. Israel offers each young non-Israeli Jews around the world an all-expense paid trip--a "Birthright Tour"--to Israel in order for them to get in touch their "roots." Some may call this an opportunity to promote Zionism and imbue life-long, blind pro-Israel fervor in young Jews worldwide.

From the looks of it, it seems to be a two-week vacation/bar-hopping extravaganza that young Jews around the world feel entitled to. 

Brock and I were not impressed at all with the Birthright kids we interacted with. It was easy to see why local Israelis view them as a necessary inconvenience. They have a reputation for being immature, disrespectul, and of just not "getting it." Most of them aren't religious or interested in politics--they're just looking for a free vacation and stamp in their passport.

Then again, if the government of some country--any country--offered me a free vacation, I'd be loyal to them for life, too. So even if Birthright Tours do little to connect Jews with their heritage (as they claim is their primary objective), they do help garner life-long devotees to the Israeli cause. In that light, these tours are a good investment for the government.

Despite their hangovers ("OMG, I need some drugs. I'm going to take soooo many pills on this plane so I can sleep. Adderal, Oxycotin, I don't even know what I have in my bag. But I'm going to take it allllllll.") and Zionist blabbering ("Jamie, giiiiiirl, did you know like, like some study has been done and Jews literally have better brains than other people?") we managed to get some shut-eye all the way to Zurich.

Our four-hour layover in Zurich made us want to move there. Every Swiss employee we talked to was so nice and went out of their way to see if we could be helped--it felt like we were at a hotel, not an aiport! They always left with a smille and a "Merry Christmas!" Merry Christmas! I don't know what it was, but there was some about hearing that rather than "Happy Holidays" that made gave me warm fuzzies :) I read a book once called The Geography of Happiness that had a whole chapter dealing with Swiss culture--how they like things (airports, cities, service, etc) clean, efficient, and flawless. I saw much of this manifested in just the little time we were there--from an advertisement for Swiss Air reading "Perfection is not relative" to the modern, minimalistic, and spotless terminal we waited in. 

At that point, the only thing standing between us and home was a 12-hour flight to LAX. Yeah, that sucker was long. But it was less tortuous thanks to the awesome entertainment system (a huge selection of on-demand movies, TV shows, music, and games) and little luxuries like Movenpick ice cream, Swiss chocolate, and warm towels :)

It feels so good to be back in the States--the first thing we did was grab some Mexican food at Chronic Taco :) And my sweet Brock even arranged for family to surprise me with a huge box of oatmeal creme pies! With Kraft Macaroni and Cheese and a box of 48 Fruit Roll-Ups waiting for me in the pantry when we got home.


I wish I was pregnant so I could have an excuse for that last paragraph, but I've got nothin'.

Haters Gonna Hate

Adventure Mom in action.

It all started at Wadi Rum, when Gregg Lines told me "Kristi, if I were to name your outfit today, it would be called Adventure Mom."

Easy for the guys to criticize when they didn't have to change their wardrobe AT ALL for this trip. There's only so much a gal can do with mom pants, long-sleeved shirts, and crew neck tees! 

I can't tell you how many times somebody has asked me--with a slight squint of the left eye--"OMG, where did you get that??? Goodwill??" 

"YUP."

And I didn't even buy it because I was desperate for halal clothes. I BOUGHT IT 'CAUSE I LIKED IT.

So while I only slightly resent the fact that my ensembles were relentlessly made fun of for the past few months (and I am the first to admit that I erred on grandma side of grandma chic!) I can't say that I didn't have fun with it all. I'll proudly rock the mom look any day because y'know what? I work that ish.

And for the record, I'm definitely celebrating my leaving the Middle East by wearing a low-cut shirt (read: below the collar bone) in Ben Gurion International Airport. AMMMEEEERICA!!!!!!!!!!

***

For your viewing pleasure, here is a gallery of my classmates' favorite ensembles:

The look that started it all: Adventure Mom.

Retirement Mom.

European Coffee Shop Mom.

Safari Mom.

Tea-and-Crumpits Mom.

60's Mom.

Roman Holiday/Sightseeing Mom.

***

And the icing on the cake . . .

I'm here at the airport in Tel Aviv writing this with Tom Nance sitting next to me. The following conversation actually happened.

"Kristi, you blogging over there?"

"Mmmm hmmm."

"You're such a Blogger Mom."

Wow

After having visited Jericho, Nazareth, Haifa, Akko, and Galilee, it's no wonder Palestinians are so ardent on the right of return. (And we haven't even been to Jerusalem yet.)

I wish I could post pictures so badly, but our internent connection here in Ein Gev is really weak. Just trust me when I say that this land is gorgeous and we've already learned so much while here (for a tidbit, check out Brock's blog). What an amazing cap to our time in the Middle East. We feel very blessed.

It's doubtful that our internet in Jerusalem will be much better, so forgive the lack of pictures and posts. Rest assured that I'll spend plenty of time catching up when I get home! :)

The Way to Qasid

Notes/Corrections:

(because it would've taken too long to re-record the voice track)

• Sabaah al-kheir and massa al-kheir are how you say "good morning" and "good evening." Translated literally, they mean "morning/evening of goodness."
• Queen Rania street isn't one of the major byways in Jordan (that would be an exaggeration), but it is one of the bigger roads in Amman.
• Our issues and presentation classes weren't at 9:00 and 10:00, but 10:00 and 11:00.
• Fadi doesn't sing the Qur'an for us, he recites it. Although the recitation is beautiful and has an amazing cadence that sounds musical (I'll post a sound file of it sometime), a Muslim would never refer to it as a song. Qur'an literally means "recitation.
• These past few weeks, we haven't been translating ten intensive articles every day like I said--I meant ten extensive articles (alhamdulillah!).

So...What's Brock Been Doing This Whole Time?

False Summits

I just took the test that concludes my journey into Arabic.

I still have other finals to take this week (writing, reading, and the dreaded OPI), but this translation test was the big kahuna: Four hours of deciphering newspaper articles that I'd never seen before. I so vividly remember my very first day of Arabic classes when Ustaaz Doug taught us the words for "he," she," "you," and "hi."

You know what it feels like? It feels like I've been climbing in the Himalayas this whole time, and I've been going and going and going and working like crazy to bag a foreboding peak.

And here I am. Looking out over everything below me thinking I DID that?!? And although I'm proud of myself, I'm also very humbled because now, from this vantage point, I realize that the goal I'd been reaching for this whole time was a false summit. It's not over for me. Life does not end at this study abroad.

The thing is though, I get a buzz off this. I love false summits. I am the World's Most Annoying Hiker (ask Brock) because I never want to turn back. Just one more corner! There might be something really cool around there! Just this one last hill! What if it opens up into a sweeping valley with deer eating wildflowers and scratching their antlers on aspen trees?!?

I enjoy false summits because they psyche me out. They make me push past the exhaustion and dig deep so I can finally get where I'm gettin'. And digging deep has a way of teaching you about life and God and all the uglies and pretties about yourself.

This is a good gauge of whether you studied the right thing in college (learning about the uglies and pretties of yourself, I mean) It's important to not confuse a good major with a difficult major--just because a major challenged you doesn't mean it challenged you.  Did your major make you re-evaluate yourself? Not your opinions or interests. You. You as a soul. Studying what you love is important, and I did that with political science. But I'm grateful for my Arabic minor because the lessons I've learned from it--particularly this last semester--have been life-altering. Between political science and Arabic, I feel like I got the perfect mix of learning about my interests and learning about my character.

It's been the year of false summits for me. I left BYU behind for good in April, but still had more credits to finish.Then came August, when I completed my internship in DC (and a B.A. in Political Science along with it). But again, there was still more to do. And now here I am in December: wrapping up my two-and-a-half year journey into Arabic and my entire college experience in general. It feels like I've finally reached the top, but I've been on the trail long enough to know that's not true.

The only thing that's weird now is not seeing the next summit--false or otherwise--in the distance. It's a white-out and I can barely see three feet in front of me, let alone three years. (Or hell, even three weeks!) Come January, I'll hit the trail again toward whatever and wherever it is, but it's nerve-wracking not knowing which direction to take to get to . . . someplace.

The call to prayer is happening outside my window right now.

Maybe I should start there.

Google Translate

Google Translate: simultaneously the bane of my existence and the reason for my living. I can't tell you how many times I've turned to it to plug in that one word I can't figure out in a sentence from the newspaper. Sadly, G-Tizzle is far from accurate. I really only use it to help remind myself of words I've forgotten--not words that I want to know.

For this reason, I've started cheating on G-Tizzle with Hans Wehr (pronounced vehr...sexy, right?). Even though turning to H-Dub is slower (flipping through pages UGGGGH), I always know the translation is legit and it gives me verb prepositions and IPA pronunciation.

In that sense, GT is like the One Ring: A powerful tool if you're aware of its limitations, but complete reliance on it will consume your life and turn you (or at least your translations) into this nasty little half-naked quasi-human with a raspy voice and patchy hair and bulbous eyes.

A perfect example of said peril is highlighted in the following email, sent to me by my professor today:

***

A student brought me a menu today he had lifted from a restaurant. It had the whole thing in Arabic on one side and in English on the other. Some of the dishes listed in English are:

Power Hot Hot
Park Cheese (4 beads)
Fried Kubba (pill)
Pope Ghannouj
Turkish Authority Lane
The Authority of Watercress
Arab Authority
The Authority of Rough
Baltahinah Authority
The option of milk
Feathers (1 kg)
Arais meat, Municipal
Blades with potatoes and tomatoes

We have a special section The day before Toasi Ozzie pleased concerts in your home BBQ

We were racking our brains trying to figure out how they could have come up with this stuff. There were a couple of Arabic words we didn't know so I looked them up on Google Translate, and the translation was too close, so we typed everything in, and found that the entire thing was simply mindlessly lifted from Google Translate. 

There are too many funny misinterpretations to list them all, but here are some:

• Baba means Father or Pope, so baba ghannoush (the name of traditional dish made with eggplants) got translated Pope Ghannoush.
• The word salata (salad) is spelled with the same letters as the word sulta (power, authority) even though they are completely different words, since Arabic is written without short vowels. So all the "power" and "authority" entries are types of salad. 
• The word for spicy, harra, is spelled the same in Arabic as the word for alley or lane: haara. So Turkish Authority Lane is Spicy Turkish Salad. 
• Additionally, harra can refer to "hot" as in temperature. So "Spicy Hot Salad" becomes "Power Hot Hot." 
• The word for "cucumber", khijaar, is the same as the word for "choice." And the word for "milk" in standard Arabic is used for "yoghurt" in colloquial Arabic, so "option of milk" is really "cucumbers and yoghurt." 
• Ozzie is from ouzy, a rice dish, which was part of a former sentence. 
• The word for "party" is also used for "concert", so that last sentence means they can cater parties in your home. 

Anyway, I'm going to be using this in class to demonstrate the dangers of relying on Google Translate, or any dictionary, for writing or translating exercises, if you don't pay attention to the context.

***

See what I've had to deal with all semester???