Memories of la Taverna:

A staff banquet where three long tables overflowed with generous portions of some of the best food I’ve ever eaten in this city.

Dozens of nights spent delighting in the company of friends, sipping the spicy chicken soup and fighting over the last spring roll, laughing wildly, comfortable in such a safe space.

The generous owner who, after realizing we were coming from a Christmas service, sent out one of his wait staff to get a doll for our principal’s youngest daughter.

Free chocolate cake with every meal and fun, experimental appetizers on the house.

Walking in and feeling transported to a different place, a safe place, by the twinkling lights, ornamental rugs, comfortable seats and friendly people. 

A conversation, my last conversation, with the owner of this retreat; he said his family wanted him to move to America to open a restaurant there. I thanked him for being here, and giving us such a wonderful place to fellowship and enjoy good food and good company. He said he loved this city and the job he was doing.

“Thank you, have a good night.”

Last night, a su1cide b0mber and two gunm3n infiltrated this place and attacked unarmed civilians.  Kamal, the owner, always surrounded by a haze of cigarette smoke, big black-rimmed glasses, and an easy way about him…the owner who had once fired upon his own guards in an attempt to protect his patrons…was among at least 21 dead. 

I learned of all of this as I was getting ready for bed last night.  I was met by uneasy dreams through a night of restless sleep.  I thought of how I had friends who had been there early this weekend. I thought of the three doors you have to get through to enter the restaurant and the young men who always greeted us with a quiet “Salam”.  I thought of the other places, like this one, in this city. Places that have been an escape, a retreat, and a reminder of home.  I thought about working up the courage to go out again, out past our big gates and walls and careful guards.  I realized how hard that would be for me, and I felt like a coward.  Knowing that there are men who do not just see me as an innocent bystander, or in the wrong place at the wrong time, or an unarmed civilian, but as the target?  Yes, I felt the cowardice creeping on. 

Is it okay to be afraid? Do I have to keep on a brave face? Or do I have some kind of responsibility to hold myself together and pretend that this didn’t affect me? 

I would say a lot more if I had the freedom to speak the words that my heart has been given as an answer to these questions.  But I can’t speak freely about the Love that I know and the Father who pours out that Love endlessly, even if He does it in ways that I don’t always understand. But because of that great Love, I am not afraid.

I know who the true cowards are. The ones who creep in the night, and kill out of hate and fear. Fear of truth, fear of being exposed for who they really are.

I have peace knowing that my death would not expose contempt or a hateful heart. My life, my death and everything after will always be pleasing to Him.  He will conquer all of me, including my fears, big and small. 

Because of Him, I am not afraid of the darkness, but a man who kills for fear of the light, that’s the greatest coward of them all. 

A lot can happen in two months.  Apparently not a lot of blog posts, but a lot of other neat stuff has happened.  It’s been a challenging time of the year, and life has just been lesson after lesson, some harder to learn than others. 

Here’s the short list of some of the things I’ve learned since October:

If my dog gets out of the house, I know I’m either going to find her in the biggest mud puddle on the compound, or chasing our neighbor’s pigeons.   

While my stories of the woes of living in a warzone are limited to occasional explosions and some road closures, it’s a totally different story for my students, and keeping that in perspective is incredibly important. 

Never say pumpkin or pigeon (or really any kind of bird) around students, because Afghan kids have a very strange vocabulary when it comes to insulting nicknames. 

You’re only one bad kebab away from your ideal body weight (thank you, Lauren). 

If I have awesome plans for the weekend, we’re going to end up on Orange and I’m going to end up watching 6 episodes of the office in a row while eating leftovers from the community fridge. 

When vacationing in a Musl*m country, anticipate supreme awkwardness if you plan on visiting a waterpark…but once you toss on a t-shirt and/or shorts, you should be ready to get wet and wild with everyone from the burkini wearers to the scantily clad Europeans.

We don’t have the luxury of trusting strangers here and part of my heart really aches over that.  I’ve learned to reach out as far as I can without getting into trouble. Whether it’s just saying hello to the guy scanning my items at the grocery or talking about living here with a friendly stranger at dinner, I’ve realized how important it is for me to feel like I’m making an effort. I never realized how much I’d miss the ability to sit down and strike up a conversation with a stranger. Take advantage of that while you can.   

There are about 5,000 uses for a chador besides covering your head.  Cleaning up a quick spill, makeshift apron, bandage, umbrella, skirt, tablecloth…seriously, it’s never-ending. 

If you’re some place that you don’t know you’ll ever be again and you want to do something, do it.  Grab the board and surf the sand. Take the road you don’t know. Climb the mountain just for the view. As someone who lives each day with very limited options, I’ve learned to take advantage of every adventure when it comes my way. 

I now know about myself that if I ever lose the lid to a Pringles can, you can pretty much count on me eating the entire can in one sitting. 

If you ask a class of fourth graders to choose a word to describe you…don’t be surprised when the first word you hear is an enthusiastic “Fat!” I tell you, I love these kids and teaching them, but little buddy made me want to curl up in a corner and cry.  Lesson: avoid asking elementary schoolers to describe you (especially the morning after eating an entire can of Pringles).

Buying plane tickets is and will always be the absolute greatest stress in my life. 

I almost always have the best intentions, I promise, but I almost always have the worst follow through. I love projects, but I’m just very bad at finishing them (example: this blog…I’m back to starting blogs that I never end up posting). 

Christmas and Country music can rocket me into an emotional, nostalgic stupor of American memories.  This is to be avoided at inconvenient times like…during class.

Wii dance is a perfectly acceptable way to work out.

The hardest part of living in a warzone: Living with six other grown women.  Love them to death, but on the day to day, we have more to fear in the kitchen sink than we do outside our compound walls.

Razor wire is incredibly beautiful to me.  Sometimes the things that protect us seem like an ugly challenge, but in reality, it's their purpose makes them beautiful.  

I’ve never been a fan of videogames, but I am bizarrely intrigued/obsessed with this car game the boys just got. Call me a late bloomer or just incredibly bored, but I’m oddly happy to be able to add “able to operate a joystick” to my list of accomplishments. 

Living in a place where your movement outside the compound is limited will drive you insane if you don’t find a hobby. This semester, I started taking piano lessons and running (no really, I ran my first 9 miler this weekend). 

Laughter is in fact the best medicine. 

Feeling the pain of standing around three full tables of Thanksgiving food while waiting for 50-some dinner guests to each say what they’re thankful for is all made worth it when the last one to go is a four year-old girl who says “I’m thankful for J*sus”. 

Being a good teacher is stinking hard.  Anyone who says otherwise is either a wizard or a liar.  Every day I am reminded of my inadequacies as a teacher, and every day my students demonstrate grace and patience as we work together to learn more.

Just a few life lessons from A-stan. 

Every morning when I wake up in my little room on the third floor and I get up to walk downstairs, I look out my windows and I see the mountains.  Well, that’s what I did see, until recently when I realized that I was placing a memory over what I was really seeing.  In reality, I haven’t looked through that window and seen the mountains clearly in more than a month.  It hasn’t rained since my first days here. The valley is choking in dense smog that’s only made worse by the unrelenting heat.

Yesterday was a dismal day.  My little ones were like little, wordless creatures running around…just making noise. My high school students were raging balls of hormones and defiance.  Despite the character theme of the day being obedience, by the end of the day we were dealing with students smoking on campus and a big brawl right outside our gate. Today, I was missing four students due to these events.

Sometimes it’s hard to see through the haze.  Sometimes it’s really easy to forget why I’m here.  Sometimes covering my head is too much. Hearing shots in the night too scary.  Masking my faith too painful. Facing my students too distressing. Hearing stories of suffering, death, and sacrifice more than I can handle.

When I look out through my dusty windows every morning, it’s true, I can’t see the mountains anymore. But when I look down and I look closer, I can see this school clearly.  I can see the vibrant murals, I can see the bobbing heads of excited students waiting for class, and I can see buildings standing, doors open, ready for our students. 

Sometimes it’s hard to feel like you’re making a difference here, in a country lost in the haze, but I know that our school stands out.  We are vibrant, teeming with life and hope and desire.  We aren’t perfect, and we certainly have our hazy days, but I know that when I look out my window, all I need to do is look down to see clearly.

I don’t know my shadow.

This is a thought that’s been running through my mind over the past month.  Amidst the first weeks of school, getting to know my students, meeting all of the new staff, and the general chaotic nature of the beginning of a new school year, I’ve realized something:  I am having an identity crisis. 

I’ve always called myself a “closet introvert” or a “functioning introvert”, but every test I’ve taken paints me as a social butterfly.  Weird, considering I feel like a caterpillar, awkwarding my way through life.  Sure I love people, but it’s great if they’ll just love me first. 

I dyed my hair over the summer, got a hoop for my nose and got big geeky glasses.  I think that was my brain’s cry for help.  Hello, heart! Do something! 

I want to be around people, but I have a crippling desire to just sit in my room and listen to the same song on repeat on youtube.  I never buy the song, because I don’t trust that I’ll like it tomorrow, but still, I listen to it. And I’ve been on the same song for two weeks now.

My boss came to me today to tell me he’d noticed that I was getting back to my normal self because I’ve been smiling more.  I’ve always known I wear my heart on my sleeve, but I didn’t realize it was to the point that the people around me seem to know my mood better than I do. 

I’ve never had a desire to travel.  I didn’t even consider studying abroad in college and haven’t even been to Mexico or Canada.  I’d been to Panama and Kenya before this, for a cumulative time of about three weeks.  Now I live here.

And I don’t know my shadow.

There isn’t much to look at when I see my shadow gliding along in front of me.  It’s shrouded by the additional fabric needed to mask the fact that I’ve got lady curves.  My shoulders are covered by the sweep of my chador, my skirt covers my hips and the bulk of fabric disguises me so completely, my shadow could be anyone’s. 

Just not an Afgh*n woman’s. 

I’m dealing with this minor emotional catastrophe, and I’m doing it in a country that has a pretty clear idea of what a woman should be.  But that woman isn’t me.  I don’t mean I can’t fit in that mold…and it isn’t a defiant statement of independence as a strong woman rebelling against “the man”.  I mean I’m literally not that woman.  I’m not Afgh*n.  Here I am, trying to figure out who I am for me…while there are women here struggling to figure out who they are for their country.  And once I do figure out who I am, will they care?  Should they? 

It’s hard for expat women to not struggle with their identity while living here.  What we were and how we portray ourselves outwardly is something we think about literally every single day.  (Not trying to be a martyr, just statin’ the facts.)

In our school, we face a daily battle of trying to get our high school girls to wear appropriate clothes.  The weird thing is, we’re Amer*can women, dressed like Afgh*ns, trying to tell Afgh*ns not to dress like Amer*cans. 

Maybe now you’re getting a better picture of my dilemma. 

We had to have a meeting after the second or third day of school to address how the female teachers were dressing.  For the most part, we’d had compliments on our modesty and professionalism, but there were a few parents who were upset about tightness and form.  It was dealt with patiently and correctly, but somewhere in this conversation, my defiant side just leapt forward.  How I dress this year is twice as modest as I ignorantly dressed most of last year, and still it’s not right.  I couldn’t help but make the connection in my mind…imagining what I’ve seen Afgh*n women wearing around in K-town, skinny jeans and whatnot and what I wear is more modest than that.  Then, like she read my mind, a coworker said:  Afgh*n women can dress this way because it’s their country, so let them change it. It isn’t our job to change how women are seen in this country. 

It’s simple, and it should be obvious, but I found that statement absolutely profound.

I am not defined by the country I live in, how others see me (or how I think they see me), I am defined by my intentions and my heart.  I don’t know my shadow because I am choosing to honor a culture that isn’t my own, not because I’m trying to become a part of this culture.  I am honorable. I am respectable. I am someone who is willing to sacrifice my own personal freedoms to gain respect for my country, my mission and my school. 

I don’t know if I’ll ever figure out who I am, but I’ll always remember who I want to be and the character qualities that can begin to define me. In the mean time, I’ll enjoy being pleasantly awkward in social situations, I’ll deal with my mood swings, I’ll surprise myself, I’ll push myself to grow and I’ll be thankful that I’m living in this place with people who care enough to help me grow.

And I’ll continue to look down at my shadow and wonder who that woman is and who she’s going to be. 

The question of the week: Are you ready to go back?  
My answer:  (A very tentative) Somewhat...?  

I swear, my answer to that question could range from "heck yes!!" to "Dear goodness, no." within a matter of minutes.  Year two is just a few days away and this roller coaster just won't stop rollin'.  One minute I'm itching to get there, the next I just want to curl up in my mom's lap and pretend I'm seven years-old again. But it's coming and that's inevitable and exciting!  So am I ready to go back? 

Yes: I'm beyond excited for this year of teaching.  I feel like I've got my first year weirdness behind me. I've lived and I've learned and I've been preparing all summer for my second year.  I've got a 450 slide Art History unit presentation with an 80 page course guide to go with it.  A 21-page schedule for Art 1 with every lesson plan and Art 2 is well on it's way.  And a general layout for all of K-4 lessons through the whole year.  I don't know where all of this uncharacteristic organization has come from...but hey, I'm going with it.  

No: I've got course guides, presentations and lesson plans coming out of my ears...and yet I feel woefully unprepared.  

Yes: I've got a sweet dog waiting for me to pick her up from summer camp and lots of new toys and treats to try to earn her love back after leaving her for two months. 

No:  I left my dog in A-land for two months... 

Yes:  I'm just ready for A-land life. I'm so ready for the harem pants, blouses that cover my bum, pretty chaddors, kabobs, our wonderful drivers (!!), our sweet little compound, working out in the basement, mountain views,  big blooming roses, random holidays and days off, living within walking distance of friends, food that sustains me but doesn't make me what to eat to the point of obesity, TV show watching parties, hangouts on the roof, mountain valley breezes, constantly having paint on my hands, working on my own art inspired by this place, and seeing all of the little people who come to my room to learn about and make art everyday. 

No:  I'm not ready to leave this life.  I love my family and friends and hate leaving them  and feeling like I'm missing life happening.  If there isn't some secret lab out there somewhere where there's a team of scientists working on making teleportation a real deal thing, there should be.  Because I'd come back for every birthday, wedding, and baby arrival...and then get you all to come over here and see how awesome it is here. 

Yes:  Leaving family and friends in the states means coming back to my ISK family in A-land.  What a wonderfully supportive community.  PLUS we have 15 or so awesome new staff members to adopt into our quirky little family. Of my housemates last year, only two of us will still be in big ol' Marble Mansion...that means we get five (FIVE) new roommates.  I can't wait to get to know everyone...what a blessing and a joy! 

No:  If any of you know me at all, you know how much I hate being in transit.  I'm not ready to go back because I'm not ready to spend 30-some hours traveling.  Again, the teleporting thing, let's get on that boys.  

Yes:  I'm looking forward to the weird things about life there like:  Living, working, eating, sleeping, and breathing with the same people all of the time, everyday, nonstop.  Sounds weird, but I like it.  The work week starting on a Saturday and ending on Wednesday.  Call to Pr*yer at all kinds of odd hours of the day (and my dog's quizzical reaction to the man yelling on the loudspeaker...every time).  Basing my daily activities around a color posted on a bulletin board on the street.  Ignoring usually important things like expiration dates, travel alerts...things like that.  Life in K-town is wonderfully weird, and I can't wait to start another year. 

So, am I ready to go back to K-town?  Am I ready to step back into the war zone I call home?  Am I ready to put my personal freedoms aside to teach my beautiful, talented, deserving students?  Whether or not I think I am ready for all of that...I know in my heart that I am ready to be obedient, ready to answering a calling, ready to serve and ready to love without condition.  

I'm looking forward to sharing this year with you.  The good, the bad, and the ugly.  Hope you're ready.  

First off, I want to defend myself a little bit here…I have written about 8 blog posts since my last update.  Where are they, you ask?  Well it turns out I can’t tell a good story without being a security threat and have been censoring myself quite a bit.  By the time I edit it down to its bare bones, the story doesn’t seem interesting enough to post anymore. 

Here’s what I’ve decided to do to rectify the situation. Here are a whole bunch of mini-blogs, giving you insight into life here and prove that there are upsides to life on lockdown. 

So here we go …

As most of you know, we got quite a bit of excitement over in this part of the world over a very unfortunate film that resulted in us being on full lockdown for two weeks.  Surprisingly, I don’t have many stories to share from that time (or maybe I do, it’s been a while and I tend to block out negative memories).  I do, however, have a few stories about how we celebrated getting off lockdown. We were starved for something to do, so we did anything and everything we could think of that first weekend of freedom:

The weekend started early with a trip this beautiful hotel for ice cream. Getting into the place was pretty interesting…you wouldn’t know from the outside that something so beautiful was only a 25-foot wall away.  Once we passed through security and gates that made the T-rex enclosure on Jurassic Park look like a picket fence, I literally lost my breath when I saw where we were going.    Went with a small group, lounged around enjoying the workers’ familiarity with expats (which equals much less staring than normal).  Everything was beautiful, from the floor to ceiling, it was uniquely A-landish and just lovely. The trip ended with a trip past the gift store where one of my friends bought a “Barbie Burqa”, which is apparently meant for wine bottles. Ironic. Hilarious. Best purchase ever. 

The next day, the school day flew by and I soon found myself getting ready to go to a “bar” for an evening out.  It was a long and bumpy ride in a secure taxi and when we finally arrived, I wanted to tell the driver to just turn around and go home.  It was the sketchiest looking place we’d been yet, but once we got into the security check, I realized it was legit…just incognito.  We handed over our IDs and bought $20 drink vouchers.  The place was pretty and once we got inside, I really felt like I was in CJ’s or Circle Bar in Oxford.  I paid $10 for a beer and it was the best $10 I’ve spent here. 

Well, it was the best money I’d spent…until the following day.  The next day we went to a bazar at the university.  I won’t tell you everything I bought, because there are some gifts, but I will tell you that I bought a mink rug.  Mornings have gotten incredibly cold here and, although the circular rug is only about 4 feet in diameter, I shuffle around on it as I attempt to get through my morning routine, not wanting to step off onto the cold floor.  Good thing my room is small, I don’t have to reach far and can keep my feet firmly planted on warm, furry goodness. 

Later that afternoon was probably one of the strangest/worst/exciting outings since I’ve been here.  We went to a mall.  It was five or six of us girls and our head of security (who had never been there).  We’re driving and passing all of these people selling things in the street and spilling in and out of this big open-air three-story building when our driver announces that we’d arrived. The panic in our head of security’s eyes was only there for a second, but I saw it.  He counted us over and over again as we cautiously walked through this strange “mall”, not going for the returning staffer’s suggestion that we “split up to become less conspicuous”. Yeah, he gave a big heck no to that one.  We finally left when Jason wasn’t the only one counting us anymore…apparently we’d drawn quite a crowd and some men were trying to figure out just how many vulnerable, unarmed expats had wandered into this place with no security.  Mind you-everywhere else I’ve been in this country requires a thorough frisking and passing through multiple security checks/doors.  We literally walked through an open doorway into this place.  We’re not allowed to go there anymore. 

This wonderful weekend of adventure and little trips was immediately followed by three days of not eating, throwing up everything I did eat and lots of sleep as I battled my first A-stan bug.  So glad it held off until all of the adventures were over.

I’ve realized that I have a tremendously difficult time telling the difference between sulky teenage boy mumbling with an accent and an actual different language.  Which is unfortunate since we’re supposed to report students who aren’t using English.

Children aren’t as excited about bunting and pinterest inspired decorations as grown women are. 

I have only had one child have an “accident” in my class. Score. Unfortunately it was one of those “You can wait to go to the bathroom, ask me again in five minutes” situations.  I was wrong.

The other day I locked myself into the faculty bathroom up on the third floor of my building.  Just as I was beginning to contemplate how climbing through the window and scaling the building would go, I drew the attention of German class (which included too many of my high school students for me to have any hope that this will stay a secret).  The teacher had to come out and tell me how to free myself. 

I had parent-teacher conferences on the roof of a building, over looking mountains on one of the last beautiful days before cold weather-beat that. 

All of the bathrooms here are outfitted with hoses that are used by many of the people here for cleaning up after bathroom time…it’s a cultural thing…Well kindergarten found another use for the hose in the boys bathroom: Water wars. 

A lot of the teachers here use basketball or soccer days in their rewards system for secondary students. I don’t think you all understand how big soccer is outside of the states.  It’s an obsession.  They play soccer constantly, but basketball, not so much. They’re really bad at basketball. So I decided that might be a fun thing to see and had my Art 1 students head to the big basketball court for class on Tuesday since the soccer field was taken.  I’ve never seen so many head butts, kicks and other random body parts used in a game of basketball.  It was hilarious.  Just imagine soccer, but with a basketball and you have to dribble occasionally. I’ll have to take some video and show you all what I’m talking about. 

Yesterday, I had a kindergartener who had never spoken a word in my class use my name and ask me a question in perfect English.  He then smiled, another thing he had never done in my class. 

I got to pet a dog last night.  His name was Wolverine and he was an old German Shepherd guard dog at a friend’s parents house.  That was the best.

Grades were due a week ago and to prepare, my roommates and I built a fort in our living room.  We sat in it literally all weekend and have yet to take it down. 

So I leave for our fall break trip to Nepal very soon.  I’m traveling with two other teachers and I am incredibly excited. I looked up the weather and it’s going to be in the high 70s all week.  I was ecstatic, until I found out that this is another “conservative” culture… so I unpacked my shorts, added a few chadors and pouted for a little while…But I’m still excited about nice weather, and honestly would probably feel like I was walking around in my underwear if I went out in public in shorts anyways.  While we’re there…we’re not sure where we’re staying or what we’re doing…except for one thing. I have booked us reservations at The Last Resort, a resort designed specifically for adventure sports…where we will be…bungee jumping.  I can’t believe it was my idea.  We did some research, there’s only one bungee jumping fatality per year and I’m assuming it’s some yahoo who ties rubber bands together and tries to bungee off of his house…but still.  We’re not sure if this year has had a fatality yet, but as it’s October, our odds look good. 

Well I hope you enjoyed my ramblings….I apologize for any spelling/grammatical errors…I just really wanted to get this thing out before I leave and come back with Nepal stories. See you next week!

Goodbyes are hard for me.  Even more so, I think, than the average person.  Please don’t be offended if I didn’t say goodbye to you before I left.  Even as I stood in the security line, I was shooing my family away so I wouldn’t cry…but I did cry.  In the body scanner.  Waiting for my plane.  Right after the woman in the seat next to me thanked me for not being a crying baby.  As I contemplated what to eat in the airport.  And then, surprisingly, not again until Istanbul.  And I’m happy to say, not since then either. 

I’m gone, but in the words of the monty python boys, “I’m not dead yet!”  

As I started saying my goodbyes over the past month, I didn’t notice anything weird at first.  A few tears, extra long hugs, random text messages just to say hello.  But, like I said before, I’m bad at goodbyes, so I probably had my fingers in my ears and failed to notice at first just how pessimistic some of my friends are.  I started hearing things like… “I regret not spending more time with you before you were gone.” That’s all right, I’ve just been eating taco bell and packing my suitcases, you didn’t miss much.  “At least we have eternity together in heaven!” Um, yes…but you know I’ll be home for Christmas, right?  “You’ll be gone, but your spirit will be us.” What? No. My spirit will be with me…I need that! I’m not dead yet! 

Honestly, this made saying goodbye a little less painful and a little more entertaining.  But I had to say goodbye to more than just my wonderful (albeit, sometimes morbid) family and friends, like…

Doing dishes regularly…we have the sweetest lady who the school pays to come in and do housekeeping.  So great. 

Deodorant at ready and easy availability

Milk….I’m sorry, but the never-quite-cold-enough-to-taste-safe boxed milk is just not going to happen.

Haircuts

A healthy digestive system…Not only is bathroom talk acceptable at the dinner table here, it’s necessary.  If the salad gave anyone the runs last night…I need to know.

Fresh air

The ability to work out…  I was in bad enough shape down near sea level, add 5,000 feet to that and I’m winded walking up the six steps to our house!  But not to worry, there’s yoga tonight in the dance studio and I am ready to thoroughly embarrass myself! 

Driving…which if any of you know me, you’ll know that this is the happiest goodbye I’ll face.

Brushing my teeth in less than 10 minutes.  Using a water bottle and constantly resisting the urge to run my brush under the sink takes a lot of mind power and juggling skills. 

Cooking…because soaking fruits/vegetables in iodine, needing to use a new knife after every item and lighting stovetops and ovens with a match doesn’t sound like a challenge I’m up to tackling quite yet.

Seeing my ankles. 

So I’m saying goodbye to the good life and hello to a new adventure….which is getting better and better each day.  Thank you all for joining me and I can’t wait to share more with you soon! 

 I arrived home last night after two weeks at PFO. My family picked me up and we jetted off to a K-town cafe they found near campus.  My old world, my family, was about to step into my new world...a world I haven't even been to yet. Needless to say, it was delicious and now I'm more ready than ever to hop on a plane and start this adventure.  You all know how much I love food, but believe it or not, that's not the only reason I'm going.

So anyways, PFO...Day 1. I walked in, got my name tag and room assignment and made my way to the dining hall for the first of many snacks.  It was there that it hit me, I'm about to meet the people I'll be spending the next year of my life with.  It happened when a darling southern couple I sat down with asked me where I was going to be teaching next year.  Oh yeah, these people are going around the world and only a few of them are coming with me.  I got frantic.  Who the heck are they?  I found myself, less than subtly, staring down peoples name tags, looking for the tiny little name of the school...the tiny little word that would mean this was one of the people who would change my life forever. 

Much to my dismay, I had to wait a while to meet everyone.  At dinner the second night, we were to sit with our school groups.  I walked into the room, bypassed the food (for fear of accidentally spilling it all over myself) and weaved my way through the tables as gracefully as I could manage.  I get to the table and what do I find?  Two twenty-something guys.  Guys?  What?  I guarantee you the presence of FOUR single men on our team will make for some interesting blog updates.  Anyways, thankfully some ladies showed up. And I'll tell you what...they're stinking awesome. 

The next two weeks were filled with doodle wars, star spinning, sonic runs, dinosaur rides and nose piercings.  On the second day, I woke up to a bit of a weird situation.  My hair was matted and my pillow stained red.  My ear was bleeding.  What the what??  I headed to the doctor with one of my teammates and about an hour and half, and one confused doctor later, I was picking up a prescription for a sinus infection.  A prescription that would have me waking up at 5:45 AM for the rest of PFO.  Daggonit.  So to add to the insanity of a two week download of a ridiculous amount of new information, I was severely sleep deprived. This might have had something to do with the fact that on the last day, I willingly let a man named Jay stab a hollow needle into my face.  I now have the constant feeling of a booger in my nose, but at least my nose sparkles. 

I don't think you understand how many stories I could tell you about my first two weeks with these amazing people.  Stories about our innocent Chelsea dancing her face off on Beale Street, Jason sitting stoically on a purple dinosaur while children played around him, Maggie's propensity to start one-sided food fights...just you all wait.  This year is going to be real.