. . . So then I ended up in Jerusalem, Israel. The end.

Oh, wait. I guess I forgot to tell about the beginning part. Let's see . . . I was born at a very early age and lived in . . . Okay, maybe not quite that beginning. How about several days ago I embarked upon a journey that would take me east across the Atlantic to the land flowing with milk and honey. That's more like it (although, I have yet to see very much in the way of milk and honey "flowing", as it were).

The first part of the trip went quite smoothly -- at least, the part of getting to the airport. And checking in. And going through security. I mean, there was hardly anyone else going through. But alas, I would be destined to have my bag searched, and in the bag they would find a very threatening substance . . . BEANS (oh, and salsa and horseradish sauce)! And then security officer would kindly allow me to return to my checked in luggage and pack it there. Which they did, by the way. Nevertheless, this would necessitate using the less than desirable option of eating the rest of my food "plain". Which turned to be no big deal anyway.

Our flights were early, and fortunately we ended up in Frankfurt 30 minutes early. This allowed me even more time to wander around in aimless confusion. The Frankfurt airport is not the least confusing place I've ever been. So as I wandered forth in search of Gate C-13 and listened to the bits and pieces of German being "sproched", I pondered upon the comments of a Holland bus driver who enjoyed making fun of the Deutsch language. Apparently he thought there were so many "sp" and "ch" sounds that caused enough, well, spit to fly, that he would often find himself in need of a shower after only a few of these conversations.

So I meditated upon this as I searched for my gate. After all, it was 7:30 in the morning -- 1:30 my time, not exactly the time of day that lends itself to deep and profound thought. It appeared that I needed to go through security to get to C-13, but they didn't look like they were open. However, there appeared to be another checkpoint that was open and I could see signs for C-13 on the other side. So I went through (without anything threatening in my pack), only to discover that I couldn't get to C-13 from there either. But it was no big deal because my flight wasn't 'til 10:15 anyway, and I learned that security for that gate didn't open 'til 8. So after locating a "toiletenn", I found a quite spot and laid me down to sleep. Or more accurately "laid me down to close my eyes whilst tossing and turning to find a more comfortable position every 10 minutes". But I was tired. I hadn't gotten much sleep on the flight to Frankfurt, seeing as how I've never been really skillful at sleeping in various contorted positions not unlike the shape of a pretzel.

When I finally made my way back to C-13, I found a nice long line of people awaiting their chance to get frisked by security. After running the wand over me and my shoes and socks, he discovered a suspicious substance in my water bottle known as "water". So out I went to dispose of it (never mind that I had gotten it at the airport), and back in line I stood in order to prove that this time I was appropriately nonthreatening. When the same guy ran the wand over me again later, he said, "Hey, you were through here before!" That's right. Maybe that's why he didn't check my feet this time.

I ended up in a row of four seats on a 747. I was between two French ladies, and there was a French guy two seats over on the end. So I heard plenty of French on that flight, but they did know some English. For instance, when the flight attendant presented the lady on my left with a cup of red wine, she responded with, "Oh that's too much. If I drink all that I'll start singing." Which caused the flight attendant to say something about having free entertainment on this flight. This exchange caused me almost as much amusement as witnessing a rushing flight attendant collide with an ultra orthodox Jew earlier.

But my turn was coming. After my meal, one flight attendant asked if I wanted what sounded a lot like "bailey and onions". I said, "What is that in English?" After another unintelligiable line, I offered a clueless, "I'm sorry?"

"Maybe you don't understand English either?" She offered not without a small amount of ridicule. After guessing that it was likely something alcoholic, I decided to decline this generous offer of "bailey and onions".

Finally arriving at our destination of Tel Aviv, the lady on my right opened the overhead compartment where she extracted both her pack and mine. No sooner had I thanked her, then the bag containing my laptop computer fell out the same compartment thus unceremoniously bonking one of the ultra orthodox Jews on the head. After expressing my regrets and condolences, he said he was glad it wasn't heavier, "Thank God." To which I heartily concurred.

Since my friend, Daniel was in a language class when I arrived he had instructed on how to get a taxi to Notre Dame (a hotel) where he would meet me later. It was a van that held 10, and we were on the road for about an hour and a half. It didn't take me long to figure out that "Mr. Benhur" the driver didn't enjoy people that lounged around in the left lane for no apparent reason. And indeed he communicated his displeasure quite freely on one occassion. Was the offending driver American? I don't know, maybe.

We made the first stop at Notre Dame de Sion to drop off some of the others, and since I had told him I wanted Notre Dame, I thought this must be it. Where was I going, he wondered? This isn't where you get off. "It's not? Okay, glad you said something," as I got back in. So we dropped off more people, while I wondered how many Notre Dames there are in this city.

Finally there was only me and another lady. Since her contact was waiting for her and the traffic was bad, could he drop me off 20 meters from Notre Dame, he wondered? It would save him 15 minutes. Fine with me. No problem. So he pointed the building out to me as he dropped off at an intersection. After walking up to the entrance and seeing the sign that said "St. Someone-or-other Hospital", I realized that this is not it. I wandered up and down the streets for awhile. I even went so far as to -- gasp! -- ask for directions! He said he didn't know English, so that didn't work. My bag (without wheels) was beginning to feel as though I had packed it full of lead weights, and I was beginning to perspire in a profuse manner. Finally I came upon a group of Christians that were singing and passing out tracts. After being evangelized to, I asked where the elusive Notre Dame might be. After wondering if I was Catholic and enquiring as to what I was, he gave me directions (that still seemed vaguely vague for a guy carrying a bunch of lead weights in his suitcase).

After talking to a guy there that was from Oregon, I headed back from whence I came in the direction of Notre Dame (hopefully). (It was a lot more than 20 meters from where I was dropped off.) I finally found it after experiencing the required sore shoulders from carrying my bag, and I waited. Fortunately, I was still a half hour early, even after all that rigamarole. I reclined my weary bones on top of a low retaining wall, and after some time was rudely interrupted by an ankle grab. It was Daniel! And we could go to the house where we would find supper, a shower, and last but not least, a bed.

. . . So then I ended up in Jerusalem, Israel. The end. Oh, wait. I guess we did that already.