Or, up there, as wherever you are, you're probably not any lower than where I now am, Israel. Israel is at the lowest elevation of any country in the world. Now, you may be reading this from the bottom of the Dead Sea, which is in Israel and is the lowest point in the Earth's crust. If this is the case, I applaud you on two counts. First, I applaud you for finding Wi-Fi down there. Second, I applaud you for not dying under the thousands of pounds of water pressure.
Stepping awkwardly away from the people at the bottom of the sea, I welcome you, Mrs. Dominick, to my blog, entitled, as you can see in that lovely blue font up there, "Trip to Israel." My first posts for this blog will be the journal about Israel you assigned me for English class. I'll get started on that.
After a chicken dinner cooked up by my mom, my family (my sisters aged 21 and 23, and my parents whose ages I won't disclose out of fear) and I boarded a cab at 8:00 P.M on Sunday night, bound for the always lovely Newark Airport. Unusually, everything went smoothly at the airport, and as we got on the plane, I watched some TV on the monitor on the seat in front of me. Then it started. That is, the baby sitting directly in front of me began screaming and crying. It was excruciatingly loud. (Ah, excruciatingly, what a beautiful word.) My sisters and I debated whether or not to yell at the parents, who were doing nothing to shut their child up, but we ended up also doing nothing, a decision I still regret.
An hour into the flight, at about midnight in New Jersey and 7:00 A.M. Israel time, the flight attendants served a mediocre chicken dinner. Aside from the question of why my Caesar Salad dressing was so gelatinous, what puzzled me about this was the timing. My guess is that by completely messing up the schedule of the day's meals, they were trying to reverse the effects of jet lag.
After eating, I went to sleep, periodically woken by the baby, and finally by an egg breakfast I deigned not to finish. At 4:30 P.M, we walked off the plane, with seven hours of our lives gone, never spent, and never to return.
We got our baggage, and went to the apartment we're renting, where I now sit writing this. The apartment is in Tel Aviv, Israel's biggest city. After sitting around and doing nothing for a bit, we went out for a walk. On the walk, I noticed that most signs in the city were written in Hebrew and English, and it reminded me that most Israelis who had helped us on the trip spoke English in order to help American tourists, a very annoying group of people I'm happy to be part of. ("Of which I'm happy to be part." Sorry, Mrs. Dominick.)
After the familiar experience of eating dinner at a Mexican restaurant, we walked back to the apartment, watched a year-old episode of Ellen, and went to sleep. As I write this blog the following morning, we're about to go to the beach, so as they say in Hebrew, "¡vamos a la plia!"
Oh. That would be Spanish.
Stepping awkwardly away from the people at the bottom of the sea, I welcome you, Mrs. Dominick, to my blog, entitled, as you can see in that lovely blue font up there, "Trip to Israel." My first posts for this blog will be the journal about Israel you assigned me for English class. I'll get started on that.
After a chicken dinner cooked up by my mom, my family (my sisters aged 21 and 23, and my parents whose ages I won't disclose out of fear) and I boarded a cab at 8:00 P.M on Sunday night, bound for the always lovely Newark Airport. Unusually, everything went smoothly at the airport, and as we got on the plane, I watched some TV on the monitor on the seat in front of me. Then it started. That is, the baby sitting directly in front of me began screaming and crying. It was excruciatingly loud. (Ah, excruciatingly, what a beautiful word.) My sisters and I debated whether or not to yell at the parents, who were doing nothing to shut their child up, but we ended up also doing nothing, a decision I still regret.
An hour into the flight, at about midnight in New Jersey and 7:00 A.M. Israel time, the flight attendants served a mediocre chicken dinner. Aside from the question of why my Caesar Salad dressing was so gelatinous, what puzzled me about this was the timing. My guess is that by completely messing up the schedule of the day's meals, they were trying to reverse the effects of jet lag.
After eating, I went to sleep, periodically woken by the baby, and finally by an egg breakfast I deigned not to finish. At 4:30 P.M, we walked off the plane, with seven hours of our lives gone, never spent, and never to return.
We got our baggage, and went to the apartment we're renting, where I now sit writing this. The apartment is in Tel Aviv, Israel's biggest city. After sitting around and doing nothing for a bit, we went out for a walk. On the walk, I noticed that most signs in the city were written in Hebrew and English, and it reminded me that most Israelis who had helped us on the trip spoke English in order to help American tourists, a very annoying group of people I'm happy to be part of. ("Of which I'm happy to be part." Sorry, Mrs. Dominick.)
After the familiar experience of eating dinner at a Mexican restaurant, we walked back to the apartment, watched a year-old episode of Ellen, and went to sleep. As I write this blog the following morning, we're about to go to the beach, so as they say in Hebrew, "¡vamos a la plia!"
Oh. That would be Spanish.
hey studly
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