The City

'Bout time I started blogging about our recent jaunt to my favorite place! Brock had to fly out to NY for work training earlier this month and I was able to nab a cheap last-minute plane ticket. Paid hotel and a daily expense account for food? You don't say no to that, people.

I flew out a couple days early and crashed with my cousin Joy and her boyfriend Matt, who live in Bensonhurst. They've been living there for almost a year now and it was so wonderful to spend quality time with them (more on that later). My red-eye flight arrived bright and early at 5AM, but there ain't no rest for the wicked--I accepted the fact that I'd be running on two-ish hours of sleep and made my way over to Manhattan to meet up with my friend Alex.

In a serendipitous turn of events, Alex--a BYU friend who I hadn't seen since 2011--was in the city for just a couple days before flying out to London, where he now works (permission to hate him: GRANTED). We met up in Times Square and walked to Hell's Kitchen for grub. Can I just say that I have the best  friends? Alex and I picked up right where we left off in 2011, not missing a beat. Love that!

We ate Dominican food at Lali and thus began my self-directed NY eating tour ;) I had a simple plate of chicken with yellow rice and beans, but man was it good. Homemade comfort food, Latin style. Just what we needed after coming in from the drizzling rain. The ladies running the place were so warm and friendly. They let me wash up in their restroom which was LITERALLY the tiniest room I've ever been inside--rest- or otherwise!

Alex and I decided to work off those rice and beans with a long walk. We started at 10th Ave and 46th and wound our way to about Park and 70th.  Gave us lots of time to catch up! Alex had been studying at the London School of Economics for the past year-ish so I was woefully out of touch with him. He not so much with me, given my propensity for overshare on Facebook and his expert lurking skills ;) We capped off the day with hot chocolate and I made the trek back to Bensonhurst. Slept like a baby that night, tell you what.

The start of something beautiful.

These two stopped me in my tracks. I could've sworn I as them at about this exactly same time last year strolling in Gramercy Park. Check out the grainy photo below (from last year). In retrospect, it doesn't look like the, but you can see why my heart skipped a beat!

En route to catch the looong subway ride home.

Let's Be Honest: I Exploited A Fight With Brock For A Taco

I've had a long day. I woke up at 6:15, worked for an hour at my morning job, drove Mojo to the groomer's, went to work at my regular job, rushed to pick Mojo up  from the groomer's at lunch, finished work, grabbed dinner at the grocery store, stopped by the post office...

So you might  understand  my frustration when, at 6pm, I tried calling my husband only to find out that--despite multiple reminders from yours truly--he had not yet set up the voicemail on his new phone.

Carrying three bulging grocery bags up the stairs, I see him at the back door.

"SET UP YOUR FREAKING VOICEMAIL."

"Where have you been?! I've been locked out for twenty minutes!"

"I tried calling you!"

"My phone died!"

"You said you were 'walking now' when you called!"

"I said I was 'locked out'!"

Ah ha. The swallowed "ah" sound. The dipthongs. A simple misunderstanding . . . BUT NO. I'M JAVERTING THIS ISH. I WILL NEVER YIEEEELD. THIS I SWEAR BY THE STAAAAARS.

"It's not my fault that YOU DON'T KNOW HOW TO TALK . . . What are you doing? Why are you eating a cheese quesadilla?"

"I want a snack!"

"I just  went to to grocery store for dinner! You can't wait twenty minutes?!"

"I WANT A SNACK."

"FINE. MAKE YOUR OWN DAMN DINNER."

Every spousal fight needs a pièce de résistance, and mine is usually the E.L.E. (Expletive-Laced Exit). Weaker expletives (you know what they are) are used when I'm not really  mad, but fully committed to a fleeting sense of umbrage. Stronger expletives (you know what it is) are used when Brock has royally messed up. Which--let's be honest--is never, but sometimes you gotta shake things up, y'know?

This brings me to the second part of the E.L.E: The exit. As an immature and petty person, I enjoy the drama of putting on my coat, grabbing the keys, walking out the door, and--let's be honest--closing it a little more forcefully than normal. Oh yes, see how easy this is for me to do? I have it in me to leave you WHENEVER I WANT. And who knows? It might be FOR GOOD this time. So you'd better freaking set up your voicemail, because you never know when it might cost you THE BEST THING YOU EVER HAD. Oh, and by the way, I love you. I need you. I would die without you. BUT LOOK AT ME WALK OUT THIS DOOR! YOU'D BETTER WATCH IT, MISTER.

With but a single car between us, I'd effectively trapped Brock in our apartment . . . dinner-less. A coup de grâce  if there ever was one! Cold blood coursed through my veins! A surge of endorphins seized my central nervous system! Devil Kristi on my left shoulder danced a little jig.

There is, however, one unfortunate hiccup to the E.L.E., my friends.

What to do next?

No, really. You've just made this big dramatic exit with your proverbial (or sometimes not-so-proverbial) middle fingers in their air . . . where do you go now? Because--let's be honest--you can't just go back thirty seconds later and say what you want to, which is "HAHA JK I'M NOT REALLY MAD LET'S BE FRIENDS AND WATCH NETFLIX." No. You are mad!  He has to know it!  You have to show it!

This absence must last at least twenty minutes.

Solution? A grilled gourmet steak taco at Rubio's. AKA the best taco in history of ever. Steak, avocado, bacon, tomatillo salsa, toasted cheese, cilantro, onion, cotija, chipotle sauce, lime.  

Thirty minutes later, I returned home with two fish tacos and a half-eaten churro for Brock.

Because--let's be honest--I'm pretty much the best wife ever.

OH HAI THURRRR

Not like you noticed, but it's been almost three weeks since my last post. I had to turn in my beloved Sony Vaio over to Best Buy's Geek Squad for a tune-up. New battery, AC adapter, CPU fan . . . this baby's back in action. See 0:55 - 1:40 for a visual metaphor. Simba = laptop, Rafiki = me.

Anyway.

Highlights from the past little while:

• Greek Festival! Or as I like to call it, the Eat Festival . . . because that's pretty much all you do there. Unless you're five years old, in which case they have a giant inflatable sinking Titanic ship to slide down on. TOO SOON, GREEK FESTIVAL. The food was freaking delicious though. We tried a little bit of everything: Dolmathes, keftedes, spanakopitka, loukoumades, tyropita, melomakarona, kourambiedes, galotopita, and the best grilled chicken I have ever tasted. Check out pictures and recipes here!

• Shot the tube with friends! (For non-Utahns: See here.) Brock bought an old Samsonite suitcase at DI for $5, took it apart at the hinges and BOOM. We had two water sleds. I never would've thought of that myself, but I've got to give him credit. It was genius.

• Explored the Timpanogos Caves! It's a pretty gnarly hike up and down, but well worth it. Inside, we got to experience total  darkness for the first time, which was very cool. The kind that your eyes will not  adjust to no matter how hard you try. On our way back down, a little girl on the trail (probably three or four years old) grabbed Brock's hand thinking he was her dad. They walked together for probably five steps or so when Brock says "Um, I'm not your daddy. But you can still hold my hand!" She looked up at him and burst into surprised/scared/embarrased tears--poor thing! She started laughing as soon as she was in the arms of her real  daddy, though. Too cute!

• Watched my cousin Peter perform stand-up comedy at Wiseguys! He killed, as usual. Check out the group he performs stand-up with here. They are all so talented. As a woman has has tried--and bitterly failed at--stand-up before, I am acutely aware of how hard it actually is! Peter and his friends make it look effortless.

• Drove the Alpine Loop! Autumn reds, oranges, yellows, and pinks were on full display--I caught my breath more than once.

• Labor Day! We spent time with family up at Brock's grandparents' cabin (my favorite place in Utah) and wiled away the day in Park City going on hikes, visiting an art gallery, and stopping by Olympic Park.

• The Holy War. This was more of a lowlight rather than a highlight, but still. Do the final eight seconds of a football game get any crazier than this?!

A Soulful Palm Sunday

The moment I woke up last Sunday, I whipped out my NYC guidebook. Mother Nature had canceled my previous plans for the day (renting a gondola in Central Park . . . probably not as fun in freezing rain), so it was time to start from scratch. I turned to page 146.

"Brock. We're going to Harlem and we have to leave now."

"Huh?" His voice was groggy.

"There's a famous African-American church in Harlem called the Abyssinian Baptist Church. It was started in 1808 by a group protesting segregation within the Baptist church. They have an amazing gospel choir and services start at 11 . . . that gives us barely an hour to get there so we need to go now."

We were out the door within fifteen minutes and arrived at the church at 11:10. There was a long line of tourists wrapping around the building. Just as we walked up to the end of it, an usher came and announced that there was no more room inside--cutting off the line right  in front of us! It was the Supreme Court all over again!

Luckily, my dogged husband doesn't give up so easily. It took him roughly eight seconds of schmoozing to get another usher to let us in the front door. Instead of being led up to the rafters with all the other tourists, we took our places on the ground level, right smack dab in the middle of the action.

I don't think my spine stopped tingling for the entire two-hour service. It began with a processional hymn called "All Glory, Laud and Honor." As we were singing, the choir filed in down the two aisles surrounding the middle section Brock and  I sat in. You could hear each individual voice as it passed. It was like listening to ocean waves on a beach--retracted stillness; a pealing soprano vibrato; stillness again; a thundering bass line; stillness; an alto; stillness; a tenor; stillness.

Reverend Turman (click on the link to be surprised) proceeded to give a heartfelt prayer, with a whooooole lot of hand-raising, amens, and thank you Lords woven in from the congregation. An organist accompanied her words, decorating them with major and minor chords as needed. When the prayer concluded nearly ten minutes later, the United Voices of Abyssinian sang a choral response.

Oh, but they weren't done. Next on the program was a spiritual arranged by Roland Carter called "Ride On, Jesus." (Perfect for Palm Sunday--think about it.) With the first note, the skin on my arms swelled with goosebumps.

Ride on, Jesus
Ride on, King Jesus
Ride on, Conquering King
I wanna go to heaven in the morning

You can find a sample of the song's mp3 here, but the choir in that recording doesn't hold a candle to the United Voices of Abyssinian. I couldn't find an mp3 of UVA singing "Ride On, Jesus", but if you want a sampling of the energy they put into it, click here and listen to the ninth track.

Next on the program were announcements and scripture from Reverend Dr. Calvin O. Butts, III. This is where things got a little weird for me because whenever the bishop in a Mormon church reads announcements, that segment of the meeting is brief and to-the-point. Not so in the Abyssinian Baptist church! Reverend Butts went on for a good twenty minutes--it was 10% announcements, 90% tangents. It felt like he was just up there shooting the breeze with everyone, rambling on about whatever came to mind. He brought up the Travyvon Martin case, his disappointment with the local district attorney, the crookedness of law enforcement in the area, etc. As he went on, a woman in front of us kept raising her hand in positive affirmation of his words. When she did, I couldn't take my eyes off the bling  she was wearing! I'd spent the previous morning inside Tiffany & Co, so the sparkle of expensive diamonds was fresh in my memory.

A few minutes later, I got my answer when Reverend Butts welcomed the mother of Amar'e Stoudemire to the congregation. Somebody's  takin' care of his momma! Takin' care of her reallll  good.

Naturally, the Reverend doesn't just welcome visiting mothers of NBA players--next on his agenda was welcoming all  visitors. "If you are visiting this congregation, please stand up!" Everybody clapped as a throng of tourists rose on the second-level balcony. Brock and I followed suit on the ground floor, looking like two cotton balls in a coal heap. Immediately, everybody  within a four-foot radius of us turned to shake our hands and introduce themselves. I felt like royalty!

The choir followed with a number called "Let Us Go Into the House of the Lord" by Edwin Hawkins. They had a soprano soloist named Mae Carrington who hit notes that astounded me . . . not just in how high they were, but in how effortlessly she sang them. With each progressive measure, her words floated up, up, up, up to the ceiling, the clouds, the stars. It was like those words, that prayer, inside her really did want to go into the House of the Lord, and she was setting it free.

Then came the sermon. It was everything I expected and more: A whole lot of fist-pounding, prrraaaaaaaaaaaise Jesus, and unbridled holy passion from Reverend Butts who, judging by the decibel level of his voice, had forgotten about the microphone in front of him. His sermon centered on Christ and the people who laid palm fronds before Him on His triumphal entry into Jerusalem. (For great historical context on this, check out this Wikipedia page and read the section titled "Biblical basis and symbolism".) He said that laying down palm fronds was a way of thanking Jesus for all that He'd done for them--healing, feeding, serving, teaching, loving. On Palm Sunday, the reverend said, we  should proverbially lay our palm fronds before Jesus. It's a day for gratitude and adoration.

His Holiness Pope Benedict XVI gave a sermon in St. Peter's Square that same day that beautifully expounds upon the meaning of Palm Sunday:

Dear brothers and sisters, may these days call forth two sentiments in particular: praise, after the example of those who welcomed Jesus into Jerusalem with their “Hosanna!”, and thanksgiving, because in this Holy Week the Lord Jesus will renew the greatest gift we could possibly imagine: he will give us his life, his body and his blood, his love.  But we must respond worthily to so great a gift, that is to say, with the gift of ourselves, our time, our prayer, our entering into a profound communion of love with Christ who suffered, died and rose for us.  The early Church Fathers saw a symbol of all this in the gesture of the people who followed Jesus on his entry into Jerusalem, the gesture of spreading out their coats before the Lord.  Before Christ – the Fathers said – we must spread out our lives, ourselves, in an attitude of gratitude and adoration.

Isn't that perfect?

In closing, Reverend Butts issued a rousing call for us all to be saints in Caesar's palace (see Philippians 4:22). I left the Abyssinian Baptist Church with a new appreciation for Palm Sunday and a heart that swelled with gratitude for my Savior. Oh, and a palm frond. I left with a palm frond, too :)

By the time church got out at 1:30, we were ravenous. (In our rush to get there, we'd skipped breakfast.) I'd heard of a great restaurant in the area that, according to Yelp reviewers, served up good home-cookin' and "shivers-up-your-spine" BBQ.

Oh, baby. Those Yelp reviewers weren't kidding. That was the best BBQ I've ever had in my life. We started out with fried green tomatoes that came with a sauce that had  to have had cocaine in it. Our waitress told us their chicken wings were a best-seller, so we ordered a small plate of just three honey barbeque wings to taste. Again: Unreal. For entrees, we each ordered sampler plates: BBQ chicken, beef brisket, sausage, pulled pork, ribs . . . we had it all. Our waitress told us that they smoke all their meets for fourteen hours--FOURTEEN HOURS! There was so much other comfort food on the menu I wanted to try (mashed potatoes, key lime pie...), but we decided to quite while we were ahead. And by "ahead" I mean "approximately four pounds heavier than we were before."

We spent the rest of the day wandering through Harlem and Morningside Heights. We visited the Riverside Church (financed by John D. Rockerfeller, has the largest carillon in the world), the Ulysses S. Grant Memorial (AKA Grant's Tomb, the largest mausoleum in the world...guess who's buried there? NOBODY), the Cathedral Church of St. John the Divine (the largest cathedral in the world--600 feet long, 146 feet wide), and the beautiful campus of Columbia University. We came home exhausted and with aching feet, but that's nothing that hot cocoa and Mad Men can't fix ;)

Riverside Church

Grant's "Tomb"

Cathedral Church of St. John the Divine

Inside the above church; largest cathedral in the world. Reminds me of that hallway leading up to the Wizard of Oz!
Makes me giggle to think of a lion diving out of one of those beautiful stained glass windows :)

Slices

We kicked off the weekend with a fun date on Friday night that completely redeemed the bust of a day I'd had in Queens. The redemption actually started with a quick stop I made in Greenwich Village on the way home when I came across a shawarma shop. I got so  sick of shawarma in Jordan and will probably never eat it again of my own volition, but I had to stop in because I knew an Arab would be working behind the counter. And that's where I met Hussein from Lebanon! I shot the breeze with him for just a few minutes--it felt so nice to have that language rolling off my tongue again. I'm a little rusty, but I can tell it's all still there in my brain :)

Anyway. Our date. One thing Brock always makes fun of New Yorkers for is their obsession  with "slices." You do not  call a piece of pizza here "a piece of pizza." It's a slice. And whenever a New Yorker thinks about moving to another city, the first item on their Cons List is usually expressed with "Awwww man I could never do it--I can't get a good slice there!" (This is the trademark sentence that Brock uses to make fun of his slice-obsessed co-workers . . . he says it with the most terrible  New York accent you'll ever hear. Imitations are not his strong suit, but that's okay, because terrible imitations are almost funnier than good ones!)

I'd heard great things about Joe's Pizza in Greenwich Village. I mean, Kevin Bacon said a slice from there would be his last meal on Earth if he had a choice. KEVIN BACON. I don't know why I just typed his name again, but I guess that just speaks to the effect that KEVIN BACON can have on you.

Joe's was indeed good . . . but I just don't think New York slices are our cup of pizza tea. All the places that people rave about--Joe's, Lombardi's, Grimaldi's--are indeed delicious, but not in that knock-your-socks-off way that we think Chicago deep dish is.

However. Our pizza night didn't end with Joe's. Walking back to the PATH station, Brock decided he was still a little hungry, so we popped into the closest place near us for one last slice. It happened to be Bleeker Street Pizza, which apparently has won the Food Network's title of Best Pizza in New York for three years running now.

New York, you can thank Bleeker Street Pizza for single-handedly redeeming your obsession with thin-crust slices. I've never tasted a Tuscan style pizza better than that. The tomatoes used in the sauce tasted like they'd been plucked off the vine only hours before, and the crust could actually hold its own as fresh bread. Unlike the crust at Joe's, it wasn't just a flimsy mess of an afterthought. For a thin crust pizza it was a little  on the thicker side--stable enough to support the bite in your hand, light enough to not overwhelm it--and managed to hit the jackpot between fluffy and crispy (a subtle crunch in every bite, followed by an airy, melt-in-your-mouth center). Bravo, Bleeker!

Look near the bottom of the pizza . . . you can see  how perfect the crust is!

Right before heading into the PATH station, we came across this sign.

The store owner saw us looking at it and came out to greet us. He was a tall, wirey guy in his late 20s with shoulder-length hair and a Woodstock swagger. His store--at twelve feet long by four feet wide--was indeed small, and I saw no working lights inside (a problem which he remedied with a disco ball). He Kramered out the door and greeted us using a microphone.

"Heeeeey, guys! You two're lookin' fancy tonight."

"Just comin' back from date night, man!" said Brock. "We see you offer free advice. What advice can you give us?"

"Oh, dude. It doesn't work like that. You gotta think of something you want advice on first,  and then I give it to you."

"Ahhh, I see. What's your name?"

"Parks Are Zoos For Trees."

"My name's Brock."

"Oh, so, you don't like have a name that's a sentence?"

After more chit-chatting, we learned that his real name is Ivan and that he's an aspiring comedian. Parks Are Zoos for Trees is his stage name. Brock asked if he had any upcoming shows.

"Dude, I'm starting a mailing list so people can know when my events are. You wanna get on it? You'll be like the second person on the list. It's parksarezoosfortrees@gmail.com."

I don't know how much stand-up comedy Ivan does because I'm pretty sure he just smokes bongs all day in his small shop. He makes t-shirts for a living and they're basically amazing. We may have to buy a couple of them to, you know, support the arts. My personal favorite is one the reads "I am more humble than you" in puff paint with some unicorns stamped on it.

Overall, it was a great night in Greenwich Village and a great way to start the weekend. We topped it off with a pint of Chunky Monkey and two lottery tickets. 

The bad news is that we're not multi-millionaires. The good news is that you don't have to be one to afford Chunky Monkey.

Upper West Side: Sober Version

Like I was saying . . . I spent a good chunk of the day on Wednesday exploring the Upper West Side. Forgive me while I sound pretentious, but I'm a sucker for architecture. I feel so snobby saying that, but I used the word "chunk" in my first sentence and "sucker" in the next, so I think it evens out. Fart. (Threw that in for good measure.)

I've always loved tall buildings every since I was a kid. My family has pictures of me as a toddler craning my neck ninety degrees backward to look upward at the skyscrapers of San Francisco. Before moseying on over to the buildings of Central Park West, I went to a residential area: Riverside Drive and the West End Historic District.  AKA: Brownstone heaven. If you don't know what a brownstone is (HINT: NOT A STONE THAT IS BROWN) you will by the end of this post.

Pockets of side streets in the UWS are lined with rows of brownstone houses that were favored by New York's 19-century middle classes (ironic, considering that now they're only inhabited by the richest of the rich). They were built using cheap, local brown sandstone, are usually about three or four stories high, and have short stoops leading up to the front door.

As far as Manhattan goes, West 88th Street is brownstone Mecca (for Brooklyn, it's Park Slope--post forthcoming!). It's very cool to walk down 88th and see  the different time periods that certain segments of brownstones were built. There are stark differences. For example, the brownstones to the right of the above picture were built in 1896--you can tell by their bow fronts.

These brownstones--on the opposite side of 88th--were built earlier (in the early 1890s). You can tell by their Roman brick and stepped gables (AKA: stair-steppy triangle thingy at the top).

This is the Yeshiva Ketana School--built in 1901 by Herts and Tallant. It's one of only two surviving mansions that once lined Riverside Drive.

After the West End Historic District, I took the subway back down to Columbus Circle to begin a self-guided walking tour of all the famous apartment buildings along Central Park West. On the way down, I made a quick stop at 71st Street to see the Dorilton: One of the most famboyant examples of the Beaux Arts era.

Isn't that breathtaking?! The vast, varying architectural styles of the city speak to so much history. I always feel like I'm wandering through an outdoor art gallery.

On to Central Park West, I made stops at the Dakota, Irwin Chanin's Century and Majestic, and Emery Roth's San Remo and El Dorado.

The Dakota is famous as the site where John Lennon was shot. Back in 1884, when it was built, it was thought to be so far west in the city that it might was well be in Dakota! Hence the name.

This is the Majestic (the Century looks almost exactly the same). I'm not a huge fan of Irwin Chanin's Art Deco (I think it looks boring) but to each his own!

Emery Roth's San Remo, built in 1930. You can see that it has some Renaissance influences near the top. The twin towers were actually built to hide water tanks! I like this interpretation of Art Deco better than Chanin's, but the Chrysler Building will always be my favorite!

I want to live in that house.

Roth's El Dorado, up Central Park West on 91st Street. It looks very similar to San Remo.
Marilyn Monroe and Groucho Marx once lived here!

Are you thoroughly bored yet? Hopefully not, because I've got a second architecture-ridden blog post coming at you later. AREN'T YOU EXCITED?!?!?!?

Between Anderson Cooper and all my goo-goo ga-ga'ing over buildings, my heart was happy on Tuesday. It must have shown because I was smiling like a fool the whole day. I love smiling in a big city because people don't expect it. A few days ago I decided to make a conscious effort to do this. I didn't want to be that girl  on the subway who gets fidgety when someone weird or scary gets on the car. People come off those ways for a variety of reasons--their size, their smell, their clothes, whatever. But--and I know this sounds corny--if you just look at that person and think "He/she is a child of God" you almost can't help but smile. You're not looking at a man in a turban, you're looking at a brother. You're not looking at a gothic teenager, you're looking at a sister. Seeing people smile back at me humanizes them. This little social challenge I put myself up to has been rewarding. It makes the big city feel small-town.

On the way home to Jersey, I picked up some cupcakes at Magnolia Bakery. They were, in a word, OVERRATED. Now, I know what you're thinking. Hahaha, oh Kristi. You idiot. You spend $3.50 on a cupcake and expect it NOT to be??

To which I respond: FOOLS!!  Have you ever BEEN to Sprinkles?! $3.50 a pop and worth every penny. Brock and I have decided that we're never going to buy cupcakes from anywhere other than Sprinkles again. We've tried a LOT of cupcakeries--famous, mom-and-pop, indie (oh yes, there are indie cupcakeries), you name it. Nothing even comes close to Sprinkles. People don't like to admit that Sprinkles is the best because it's a chain. WELL TOO BAD. Go ahead and delude yourself and eat your sucky cupcakes, you counter-culture hipster wannabe. When you get over the Mumford and Sons background music playing at whatever vintage-couched cupcakery you patronize, come on over to Sprinkles with all the cool kids. You won't be served confectionery goodness by the frontman of a local alternative rock band, but what those peppy Sprinkles employees lack in tattoo sleeves they make up for in LEGITIMATE BAKING SKILLS.

And that's all I have to say about that. 

The White-Haired Fox

YUP. I'm talking about Anderson Cooper.

(What else  what "the white-haired fox" refer to?!)

I was so excited yesterday to go to a taping of Anderson Cooper's daytime talk show! I can't say anything about the show until it airs (I'll let you know when), but it was so fun. The studio is on Columbus Circle--a beautiful area located at the southwest corner of Central Park. You wouldn't believe the view! One wall of the studio is comprised entirely of glass windows that look out over Central Park, Columbus Circle, and the Upper East Side. Swoon. 

Anderson comes from a privileged background and it's funny to hear him say things like "when I was 17 and driving a truck across sub-Saharan Africa, I contracted malaria and had to be hospitalized in Kenya." I don't know how,  but he never comes off as pretentious in spite of this! I have a pretty fine-tuned radar for when somebody is a tool, so he must be really  down-to-earth in order to say things like that without me being annoyed. Or maybe it's just that hair of his. Or those eyes. Or EVERYTHING.

One of the best parts of the show is how much audience participation there is. Anderson is always walking around taking questions that audience members have for the guests, or just answering any question they throw at him during set transitions. He's very warm and personable, with a special knack for making the best of awkward situations--like when an elderly woman asks if he remembers her ("We met at such-and-such restaurant in Long Island in 2007!"), or when another woman asks if he's read the book she sent him, or when an audience member straight up asks him for a job and if they can exchange business cards! Anderson's reply: "Uh, I don't really have a business card," (translation: I'M EFFING ANDERSON COOPER) "but let me have one of my producers grab yours!"

I stayed a little longer after to the show to volunteer for a special segment on the next  day's show. It was me and about twenty other people. They only chose a handful to "use" for the segment, and I was not one of them (which, weirdly, I'm kinda proud of--again, I'll let you know when it airs!). I did,  however, get a free bag of Doritos and bottled water out of it, along with prime seating to the next day's taping. They had me at Doritos, but y'know, I'll take everything I can get.

I spent the rest of the day exploring the Upper West Side of Manhattan. I started with Pomander Walk--a double row of brick, stucco, and timbered Tudoresque townhouses tucked away on 94th Street. The develop of them, Thomas Healy, was inspired by set designs from a 1921 play called Pomander Walk. The Pomander Walk on 94th was his attempt to recreate the village atmosphere within the play. Gloria Swanson, Rosalind Russell, and Humphrey Bogart are among the past tenants there.

I then wandered down to Riverside Park--a woodsy stretch of green that curves along Riverside Drive for seventy blocks. Originally planned in 1873, it has since grown to include playgrounds, sports fields, a promenade, and monuments. It was a quiet refuge from the hustle-and-bustle of nearby Broadway Street: A few dog-walkers, squirrels scampering up tree trunks, children playing, and the muted rumble of Henry Hudson Parkway. I passed by a monument to Joan of Arc (aka SHE-BALLER) before running into the marble Soliders and Sailors Monument. Built in 1902 and dedicated to those who died to save the Union during the Civil War, it was modeled after the Monument of Lysicrates in Athens.

How gorgeous is Riverside Park?!

I was trying to snap a picture of the beautiful cherry tree near the monument (CAN YOU TELL I'M JUST A LITTLE OBSESSED WITH THOSE????) but the light wasn't cooperating with me. It was then that an older Jewish man--mid-fifties, rotund, and slightly disheveled--approached me. I smiled at him.

Smiles are hard to come by in the city, apparently, which is perhaps the reason why I spent the next ten minutes in conversation with him. His Yiddish accent was as thick as his waistline. I half-expected to hear a fiddler playing on a distant roof.

"Did jou know," he said, "zhere is a beautiful cherry tree just down zhe vay? Zhis von here doesn't smell, but zhe ozher von does. And zhis von's flowers are light pink--zhe flowers on zhe ozher tree are darker."

"Really?"

"Yes! It is maybe thrrree-minute walk from here." The r  tumbled down his tongue. "I'd show you, y'know, but I'm just heading to my home. But you must  visit it. Really. Before zhe next two, thrrree days, because zhen all zhe blossoms fall down. It smell so nice. You will see people grabbing the branches to smell zhe blossoms. And you will see ozher cherry trees, too! One with branches that touch zhe grrrround. I svear!" I couldn't stop smiling the whole time he spoke.

"So vhat do you do here in New Yorrrk? Are you actress? Model?"

I tried to repress a loud HA! and explained my being here.

"Oh, you know"--for a man seemingly in a rush to get home, he didn't mind chatting away--"zhere is a vonderful place downtown that you and your husband must go. It's for dancing. Sving dancing! You must do sving dancing. People are always smiling when they sving dance. In salsa, tango--no. No smiling. You must do the sving. They dance in eight counts, like zhis."

He took my hand and danced with me right there, counting the beats and twirling me around, bouncing from side to side.

"Yes, you must go. But I don't know if you vill like zhe place. Maybe it's not for people of your social class, just for schmucks like me."

**PAUSE** A Jewish man with a Yiddish accent used the word "schmuck" in conversation with me. Cross that off the bucket list.

Anyway, we continued on until he decided it was actually time to head home. He left me his business "card"--a thin strip of paper. ("I'm in zhe process of ordering real vons rrright now, with lines on zhe back for you to write down an appointment.") Apparently, the man has a PhD and has written an e-book called The Universal Meaning of Life and the Anatomy of Human Happiness. $2.99 on Amazon. His name is Alexander Jornitski--check out his website!

The business card reads: "Your fate has never put this kind of card into your hand before and will never do this again. Read the book; it is short, unique, and important."

This is the cherry tree he was talking about. He was right--it smelled amazing. (More than worth a three-minute walk.)

My final stop of the day was at Zabar's--a Jewish grocery store that is basically a foodie's paradise. Since 1934, its shelves have been stocked with every type of cheese you can imagine. From every country. A huge selection of oils, jams, jellies, vinegars, olives, sausages, exotic chocolates, and bakery breads. I'd never seen anything like it and could've easily spent hours  (and hundreds of dollars...) in there, but it was starting to get dark and Jersey is quite the commute from 80th Street. I grabbed a hunk of fresh Parmesan, a loaf of cinnamon bread from the bakery, and some chocolate chip cookies before heading home.

Yeah, I could definitely get used to the Upper West Side :)

Sakura

I remember playing this song on the piano when I was young. I would play it over and over (mostly because it was easy), thinking about what sakura--cherry blossoms--must look like. If someone took the time to write a song about them, they must be exquisite.

And that they are. Brock and I took the Bolt Bus down to DC this weekend to catch the last of the cherry blossoms. After navigating our way through an atheist rally (proper name: the "Reason Rally"), we meandered our way down with the masses toward the Tidal Basin (where we also saw the new Martin Luther King Jr. Monument--very cool!). It was the 100th anniversary of Japan's gift of 3,000 cherry trees to the United States, one hundred of which are still standing today.

There is something about cherry blossoms that makes you wax poetic; how delicate they are, how soft, how gracefully they hang from their branches, like ballerinas on a barre; how a small breeze is all it takes to wisk them away in flurry of fluttering pink snow. The life of a cherry blossom is rapturous--it isn't every day that millions flock to see anything, let alone a small pink flower--and, ultimately, tragic. How can something so timeless vanish so quickly? How can something so majestic be so fragile?

The cherry blossoms (or, as I like to call them, BL-AWESOMES!) weren't the only thing waiting for us in DC. Our dear friends Ryan and Tiffany were kind enough to let us crash at their place and we had such a fun time catching up with them. We ate way too much at Good Stuff Eatery (our beloved toasted marshmallow shake--how we've missed it!), moseyed around Eastern Market, poked around our favorite bookstore with our favorite crotchety old bookkeeper, enjoyed delicious sandwiches from Potbelly, had a fun movie night with All The President's Men,  gorged on Reubens at a Jewish deli, and sat around talking for hours (I'm pretty sure that's how you know you have good friends).

One of the highlights of the trip was a visit to the DC 3rd Ward on Sunday--where we went to church when we loved there. I can't even tell you how happy I was to see old friends there. It really felt like home. Halfway during Sacrament Meeting, Brock looked over at me and saw me crying. "I know why you're sad," he said, "because I feel the same way, too. You don't want to leave here, do you?" I was so choked up that all I could do was shake my head back and forth. I looked out the window and watched the wind carry cherry blossoms off the tree outside.

Once per month, Mormons fast on Sunday and donate the money they would  have spent on meals to the needy. It's a time for self-reflection and spiritual rejuvenation. On Fast Sunday, Sacrament Meeting takes a special form where--for most of the meeting--anyone  in the congregation is welcome to step up to the pulpit and bear their testimony of the gospel.

There is nothing like Fast and Testimony Meeting at the DC 3rd Ward. So many of the members come from storied pasts--many of them are new converts who come from immigrant families (many from West Africa) or have battled addictions to various substances. Having grown up in other churches, many of the nuances of Mormon culture are lost on them. And I love it! There is such a soulful, Southern evangelical feel to the DC 3rd Ward. Everybody who gets up to the pulpit greets the congregation with "Good Afternoon!" and everybody replies "Good Afternoon!" in return. Instead of the standard "I would like to bear my testimony..." opening that most members give, many say things like "Dear Lord, I would like to thank You for a beautiful day and for the beautiful opportunity to share my testimony with You."

You can always count on Sister Mack to be the first one up to bear her testimony every month. She's an old, short black woman with no teeth who always wears a hat to church. And she always says the same thing when she bears her testimony: I'm gon sing my testimony in a song, but I ain't very good at singin' and so you all need to sing along. And every month, we all sing the same song with Sister Mack:

You got to stand your test in judgement

You got to stand it for yourself

Ain't nobody else can stand it for you

You go to stand if for yourself

The testimonies you'll hear in that ward are simple, pure . . . filled with love and faith so strong you can feel their souls on fire. The speakers, many of them poorly educated, are not eloquent; their thoughts are jumbled and at times incoherent. Despite this, rarely am I not moved to tears by their words. Let me share one story that a sister in the ward recounted to us last Sunday. For context, know that this sister has overcome hard addiction in the past and has a very difficult time keeping her head above water financially.

Every week, I make tuna fish sandwiches for the homeless. But this past month was tight, so I couldn't buy the sandwich spread that I normally put on them. (She holds up a jar of Kraft Sandwich Spread and starts to get teary-eyed.) So I prayed to God that he would help me. Help me find money to buy the things I needed to make these sandwiches. Well, I go to church the next Sunday, and there's a family with a trunk full of that exact same sandwich spread. I couldn't believe it! And they were just giving it away, they had too much. I didn't want to be greedy, so I only took four. Each jar costs $2.65, so I figured I saved about $10 right there. So I used that $10 I saved to go buy five loaves of bread and some more tuna. From all of that, I was able to make about 25 sandwiches. And I just KNOW God is lookin' out for us because He helped me find a way to make those tuna fish sandwiches!

Can you see why I want to move back? :)

Brock left Sunday night so he could make it to work the next morning, but I decided to leave Monday afternoon so I could have time to visit old friends in Congressman Chaffetz' office! 

Early Monday morning, I bid adieu to Ryan and Tiffany and headed for the Tidal Basin again. I wanted more pictures of them since Saturday was overcast and rainy. When I got there, I couldn't believe how bare the trees were! Only a few blossoms left! I was happy have have them all to myself.

As it turns out, Monday also marked the opening debates of the Affordable Care Act at the Supreme Court!  I got in line about an hour before everything was set to start, hoping to get a front-row seat to the action. It was fun to be there and watch/listen to all the demonstrations outside--democracy is so freaking rad. I even got interviewed by NPR! Don't know that I made it on air, but it was still cool (and nerve-wracking!) to talk about my opinions with a major news source.

The time came to hand out red tickets--those going to the people in line who got a seat inside for the full 90-minute argument. There were 120 red tickets. I was the 121st person in line. Suuuuuuuck!!!!!!! I couldn't believe it! Such a bummer! If only I'd caught that one metro that pulled away from me at the last second . . . maybe I could've gotten there three minutes earlier and been #119. ARRRRGHHH. Oh, well. That's life.

As much of a drag as that was, it meant that I was the first person in line for a yellow ticket, which entitles you to a sit in on the case for 3-5 minutes. So I did get in! What an amazing mental picture I'll have for the rest of my life: All nine Supreme Court justices sitting on the bench, listening to the Solicitor General Donald Verrilli's opening statements. Amazing! There was even a funny moment when Justice Kagan asked Verrilli what exactly was being challenged: The constitutionality of the individual mandate or the sanction? To which he responded, "Well, I will not argue that this statute is a perfect model of clarity." The courtroom hummed with chuckles! 

After sitting in on history, I stepped back into my past: 1032 Longworth! I spent about fifteen minutes catching up with everyone there: Tanner, Troy, John, Fred, Justin . . . all the women in the office had left for motherhood! Things in the office had changed a lot, but personalities were the same. Just like old times, it wasn't long before conversation devolved into base humor :) Hey, it's not my fault that I happened to be holding giant rubber band balls and that someone in the office made a comment about it. (It is  my fault, however, that I couldn't refrain from a slew of raunchy innuendos thereafter.) MAN, I miss those guys! 

Not a bad weekend. Not bad at all.

A Balanchine Valentine's

Don't ask me how I know who George Balanchine is, I just do. And I'm pret-ty proud of that clever title up there because I'm pret-ty sure it means that the next step in my life involves polo, cigars, and Scotch.

We had a great Valentine's yesterday, even if it didn't exactly go off without a hitch. Brock surprised me with tickets to Ballet West's performance of Don Quixote at the beautiful Capitol Theatre in Salt Lake! I'd never been to a ballet and had always expressed my desire to go. Next on my list is an opera, and then probably a WWF match.

The evening began with dinner at a Greek restaurant in Salt Lake called Aristo's (short for Aristotle). We hadn't eaten good Greek food since Chicago, so this was a special treat. Starting the meal off was some saganaki--pan-seared Kefalograviera cheese flambéed in a Greek brandy. (Calories don't count on Valentine's Day.) Our waiter--a lovely older man named Mark--recommended this to us and oooooh baby was it good! Moving on the the main courses, Brock decided on yemista (tomato, bell pepper, and zucchini stuffed with rice, potato, mint, and crushed tomatoes--all cooked together in a clay pot). I went for brizola, which I guess is just the Greek way of saying "12-oz. ribeye steak."

In retrospect, it might've been a little strange that the man at the table was ordering the healthy vegetarian dish and the lady was intent on downing some cow, but no matter. My steak was cooked to perfection--I couldn't believe how flavorful it was given that it was only seasoned with sea salt and pepper. I guess simplicity is best :) I was slightly embarrassed when the waiter came by later and discovered that I'd eaten the whole thing and nothing more--my tabbouleh salad and rice pilaf sat completely untouched on the plate. "I like a girl with a healthy appetite," he said. Welp, YOU'RE WAITING ON THE RIGHT TABLE, KIND SIR.

We topped the meal off with a shared piece of karidopita (a Greek spice cake with walnuts) and then headed off to the Capitol Theatre. We had awesome seats on the ground floor, about ten rows back, and right smack-dab in the center! The ballet was fantastic--aside from the dancing, I couldn't take my eyes off the sets and costumes. So beautiful. Far from being the stuffy performance you  might be imagining, Don Quixote was actually quite funny! There were two characters in particular that had me cracking up the whole time: Quixote's sidekick named Sancho, and Gamache--a puffed-up nobleman seeking the beautful Kitri's affections.

Naturally, the dancing was exquisite. It kills me how they make it look so effortless! I was also surprised to see how sturdy the male dancers were built. I mean, I suppose they have to be in order to do all the partner work, but for some reason I associated "male ballet dancer" with scrawny, wirey guys.

Seeing a ballet in Utah really makes me want to see a ballet in New York City. I'd be interested to see if the quality of dancing in noticeably better, and if the audience is noticeably less, I don't know, down-to-earth? Normally that adjective has positive connotations, but for those of you unfamiliar with Utah/Mormon culture, allow me to enlighten you. There are people here who don't know the difference between a peewee football game and a ballet. As such, when at the ballet in Salt Lake, expect hoopin', hollerin', and wooooooo!!!s after every triple pirouette.

Also, many Mormons believe that the only events they need to dress up for are church-related. Moving a step up from that, most people will dress up for things like a ballet--but in church clothes. I'm not saying you need an expensive gown to go to these things (heck, I found my dress on sale for $35 at a JCPenney), but there should be a difference between churchwear and going-out-wear. For your husband's sake, if anything. Here's a quick guide for all you ladies. If you answer "yes" to any of following questions, step it up gurrrrrl!

1. Are you wearing a wrap dress? (NOTE: In general, wrap dresses are made of clingy synthetic material that does nothing for a girl's figure. However, the existence of Kate Middleton is proof that wrap dresses be chic--but c'mon, even she doesn't wear them out on date night.)
2. Do your shoes give off a plasticy sheen?
3. Are your heels less than two inches high?
4. Are you wearing a North Face jacket?
5. Is your hair in a ponytail?
6. Are your lips bare?

After the ballet, we grabbed some banana cream pie at Dodo's in Sugarhouse, and then headed back to our hotel room at the Little America for, well, y'know.

I never anticipated sharing my Valentine's night hotel room with a man named Dick Buck, but life is funny that way.

Upon completion of the y'know, Brock and I settled in for sleep. Unfortunately, the heater in our room was giving off a gurgling sound that made this entirely impossible. It was an old-school steam heater, and the water inside was having issues. I think it ateTaco Bell for lunch. Anyway, after a good forty-five minutes of trying to sleep in spite of it, we called up the front desk for solutions. Enter Dick Buck.

Dick Buck was the name of the maintenance man that knocked on our door at 1:00am. I am not making this up. He was a short, bald guy in his late-sixties with white scruff and he sounded like a lumberjack. His solutions included turning off the heater (already did that an hour and a half ago, thanks) and entering the problem in his logbook the next morning.

Fast forward one hour: We'd checked out of the hotel, gotten our money back, packed up, driven home, and were sleeping on my grandparents' couch.

It may not have been the sexiest Valentine's night ever, but one thing's for sure: Nobody heading south last night on 1-15 at 1:30am looked better than we did.

Baqa'a

Alright, I'm way behind on blogging about actual Jordan things. I'm such a procrastinator when it comes to blogging about events. Ideas and other random things are so much more fun to write about! Speaking of which, I think it'd be cool to do a weekly post centering on a certain political issue. See that little poll off to the right there? Vote on it, and then next week I'll write a post that analyzes all four options (and argues for one in particular). AREN'T YOU EXCITED?!?!!?

Also, I still gotta get crackin' on those posts about feminism. If my life wasn't a black hole of Arabic right now, this blog would be a lot more exciting, lemme tell ya.

Moving on. I got a call two Thursdays ago asking me to give a talk in church . . . which started in twelve hours. A little crazy, but I managed to pull something together! I spoke about how developing Christ-like attributes is the key to helping us develop our talents, focusing on five specific traits that I thought were important--patience, humility, courage, faith, and charity. The general outline went a little something like this (I know you guys don't care, but I want to jot this down so I remember):

• Patience
• Doctrine and Covenants 67:13
• Luke 21:19
• Example from the life of Christ: His amazing patience with Peter.
• Matthew 14: 29-31
• Matthew 26: 26-46
• John 18:10
• Matthew 26: 69-75
• Humility
• 1 Peter 5: 6-7
• Example from the life of Christ: John 5:30
• Courage
• Deuteronomy 31:6
• Example from the life of Christ: Matthew 27: 11-24
• Faith 
• Articles of Faith 1:4
• Example from the life of Christ:Matthew 27:54
• Charity
• Ether 12:35
• Example from the life of Christ: Mark 10: 46-52

After church on Friday (where our friends' 10-month old baby son took his first steps!) I went to work making my first batch of homemade cinnamon rolls. This was a big thing for me, because I hate using yeast (using yeast...say that five times fast usingyeastusingyeastusingyeastusingyeastusingyeast). Despite my best efforts, I always manage to kill it. There's nothing quite like the feeling of waiting anxiously for dough to rise, only to check on it hours later and see that you've failed. The puny lump of mush just sits there in the bottom of the bowl, cocking its little gelatinous eyebrows at the audacity you had to think that baking like grandma was within your realm of capability.

That's exactly what happened on my first attempt with these cinnamon rolls. I have no idea how the yeast died--the water was tepid and the recipe didn't call for any salt, so my best guess is that the flour and sugar staged a coups d'etat.

Me likey frosting.

Intrepid woman that I am, I gave the recipe another go and whaddaya know! The dough rose. I could've sworn I heard it cheering for me--Yeah, Kristi! You did it! You're a superstar!! You raise me uuuuuup, so I can stand on mooooountains--but I can't say for certain. Even if it had been, the cheers wouldn't have lasted long seeing as how I promptly drowned the entire mixture in two cups of melted butter.

Lemme tell ya, those babies turned out amazing (I got the recipe here, but used the frosting from here). I remember spending hours trying to make homemade cinnamon rolls for Brock during the first Christmas season of our marriage, only to fail miserably. Four years later, and look at me now, son. Look. at. me. now. I am very accomplished homemaking-wise. (Catch that tamyiiz, Arabic grammarians??? What whaaaaaaat, or, for all you Jordanians out there: شو شووووووووووووو)

Brock and a guy from my Arabic program,

BOOM, DAWGY.

Clayton, play volleyball with the University of Jordan team team (see pictures here). One of the guys on the team, Mostafa, invited us all over for dinner on Friday. He lives in a Palestinian refugee camp on the outskirts of Amman called Baqa'a. For context, here's a snippet from the Wikipedia article on Baqa'a:

The Baqa'a refugee camp (Arabic: البقعة‎), first created in 1968, lies 20 km north of the Jordanian capital Amman, and is home to around 80,100 Palestinians who are registered as such with the United Nations, making it the largest camp in Jordan.

Baqa'a was one of six camps set up in Jordan in 1968 to house the Palestinians who left the West Bank and Gaza Strip during the 1967 Arab-Israeli War. Between June 1967 and 1968, residents were housed in temporary camps in the Jordan Valley. When Baqa'a was set up it had 5,000 tents for 26,000 refugees on an area of about 1.4 sqaure kilometers. UNRWA replaced the tents with 8,048 prefabricated shelters between 1969-1971 with contributions from Germany. Most of the residents have since then replaced the original tents and prefabs with concrete shelters.

I love living in Amman because it is so multi-faceted. Amman is arguably the most Westernized city in the Middle East, and by far the most cosmopolitan seeing as how the vast majority of Jordan's population are refugees from somewhere (Palestine, Iraq, etc). A twenty-minute taxi ride can take you from Abdoun circle--buzzing with Mercedes Benz SUVs, posh restaurants, and swanky cafes--to this:

Main street in Baqa'a. (Photo Credit)

On the cab ride over, our driver put in a CD and cranked up the stereo. The bass started bumpin'. Mostafa, sitting in the passenger seat, turned back to look at us and smiled.

"You like this song?"

"Yeah!" we replied, our voices barely audible over the rattling car. "Who sings it?"

"اشر"

That's when I noticed the hook: http://youtu.be/22Uwe3H2oBk

As soon as I recognized the song, we crested over a huge hill down into the Jordan Valley--with the huge settlement of Baqa'a sprawled out before us. It was one of those moments when I asked myself How. did. I. get. here?

I specifically remember shaking my moneymaker to this song at RMHS's back-to-school dance my senior year. Standing on "The Rocks" with hundreds of my sweaty, horny [drunk] teenagers having the time of my life because I was single, with my girlfriends, and--lemme just come out and say it--a damn good dancer. Seriously. Somebody get me on the next Beyonce tour.

Usher's "Yeah!" always brings me back to that moment. And there I was, six years later: Same song, same nostalgia, heading into a Palestinian refugee camp for a dinner-date with a guy that my husband plays with on the University of Jordan volleyball team? Jolting, much? 

For whatever reason, this experience was bittersweet. It was sweet because it grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me saying "LOOK AT YOU! YOU ARE LISTENING TO USHER....IN JORDAN! YOU ARE IN JORDAN! YOU ARE FULFILLING A DREAM!"

At the same time, it reminded me of homehome--highlighting that fact that homehome is not Jordan, no matter how comfortable I feel here. Even though I love the States and miss my family, I will be so sad to leave the Middle East because life without Arabs will truly be dimmer.

Bar none, Arabs are the kindest, most welcoming, most generous people I've ever met. They make the Middle East for me. It may sound weird to describe a Muslim-majority group of people as Christ-like, but that's exactly what they are.

Mostafa and his family were no exception. There were so kind to us. Mostafa paid for the cabfare there and back (refusing to take no for an answer!) and his mother prepared so much food! Delicious tabbouleh salad, kubbeh, stuffed grape leaves, roasted chicken, fresh fruit. We brought some cinnamon rolls for dessert, but ended up making somewhat of a cultural faux pas. We knew it was customary to bring a small housewarming gift or dessert, but what we didn't know is that you should never expect to actually eat it there. You need to think of it as a gift that they will enjoy later once you've left--not something that actually adds to the meal itself.

The thing is, there is no such thing as an Arab potluck because by bringing food to share, you are implying that they will not be able to provide enough food for you--either they are too poor, or not generous enough (a greater offense, in their eyes).

Unfortunately, we did not catch this nuance. After dinner was over, we kept asking "Do you want to eat those cinnamon rolls now?" and they refused time and time again. We'd brought plenty for everyone, so we thought the explanation was that they just didn't want to try this foreign American food. Rude! Thinking they didn't want the cinnamon rolls at all, I took them home with me.

Oops.

Live and learn, right? :) It was still a really fun evening. Mostafa isn't very talkative at all, but his older brother, Malik, came up and joined us after a while--and he helped get the conversation rolling. We saw they had a deck of cards in the room, so we taught them how to play slapjack. They loved it! Brock also busted out his one-and-only card trick (which, to his credit, is actually pretty impressive) and just about blew Mostafa's mind with it. He kept yelling out the only exclamatory English phrase he knew: "OH MY, GOD!!!!!!!! OH MY, GOD!!!!!!!!!!"

Speaking of exclamatory phrases, HOW DID THIS POST GET SO FREAKING LONG?!?!?!?!