Getting my feet wet...I mean, muddy

Right off the bat let me suggest that the smartest thing a girl could do when she moves to the Middle East is to get a map. Lesson learned. I have been in East Jerusalem for a week so far and I have yet to make a run for it; although truth be told, days one and two tested me a bit. Then again, if I don’t have a map, where the hell am I going to run? The transition is getting easier. Just when I'm about to say "what the $!#@& am I doing here..." I catch sight of the Dome of the Rock, or another landmark triggers a memory of my younger days, and I just squeak with excitement. What a place this is.

I am living on the highest point in East Jerusalem, so I can see all of Jerusalem from my vantage point. You know what I can't see? A road to get down there…Or one to get back up for that matter…Or any buses that could solve this mystery once and for all…Instead, I've been walking along the perimeter of the place via the new main road, no doubt adding a good 45 minutes to my commute--and probably making me look like a jackass in the process. I figured I would just follow the signs to “City Center” and that would eventually drop me in the center of something.

On my third day, I was attempting to get back up to the house from the Old City. (See picture: house is located near the tower on the hill) I figured as long as I could still see the house from the road that I was on, I would keep walking toward it. Next thing you know, I am way lost in the middle of an Arab neighborhood with a mob of small boys running around me yelling "Hello, how are you?...Are you American?” That in itself was not disconcerting. It was the fact that they were shooting me in the face with their toy machine guns while they were asking that stimulated the icy grip sensation on my lower intestine. At least they weren't hurling rocks through slingshots this time. Things have apparently changed since I was here 10 years ago. Inshallah.

Anywho, the encounter was slightly harrowing seeing I had no idea how to get out of there. Perhaps I have read Lord of the Flies too many times, but there is nothing more uncomfortable than to be surrounded by children who descend on you en masse. Under normal circumstances, kids reign themselves in out of fear that you might know their parents. Not having that edge, I just responded, in what in my head sounds like Arabic, and kept walking with an air of "I totally know where I'm going." That was a brilliant strategy…until the road ended. So, the choices were to walk ALL the way back up the hill (despite the obvious rejection of the laws of physics, everything is uphill) through the neighborhood with the wee little freedom fighters or to cut through the olive grove. After a millisecond of deliberation, the olive grove it was. Fortunately, after coating my new shoes thoroughly with clay-like mud, the grove path led me straight to the road that led up to the house. Unfortunately, the road was practically a vertical angle. Oy. In all fairness, I vaguely recall making a New Year’s resolution that had something to do with transforming my doughy physique into something considerably firmer, so from this point forward I will consider my Stairmaster neighborhood a blessing.

To be completely truthful, I'm definitely feeling a little culture shock. Everyone speaks English so I don't know why I morph into a deaf mute every time someone asks me a question. I would have starved yesterday (or just gone to McDonalds) if some sweet old man hadn't stopped to help me when he saw me salivating outside of a shwarma shop. On the upside, after being jostled by these pushy little bastards and ripped off by my taxi driver and his fruit market cousin, I met some very nice pregnant ultra orthodox women who, after I helped them carry their baby carriages up the stairs, offered hospitality and asked if I was all alone. (I said I wasn't) and some very hot soldiers who asked me the same question. (I said that I was)

To assuage this newfound culture shock I ventured out to meet up with a long-lost girlfriend. I figured that, in Jerusalem of all places, the wine must be blessed, so we promptly got spiritually loaded…Then, to cap off the night, I got ripped off by another taxi driver. The driver said that he wouldn’t turn on the meter because “after 9pm the fare is twice as much. I’m doing you a favor.” To emphasize his point, he pointed to the number two on the idle meter—as if that meant anything to me. I thought about it briefly, was certain he was scamming me and finally said “oh, OK”—not before giving him a master stink-eye. There was no way in hell I was negotiating that steep hill in the dark-- powered only by half a bottle of Merlot. I later found out he charged me 15 NIS more than the meter would have charged. *sigh* I need to stop being a rookie. I know better than this. So, I guess the second thing a “smart girl” does before moving to the Middle East is to pick up a travel guide or two.