The Road Not Taken for a Reason

I am going to attempt to tell this as well as I can. My mind is still kind of jumbled over this morning's events - I'll get it put in place eventually, but my brain needs a rest.

Last night I finally finished being upset and then decided that the Jordanian hotel room was too gross to deal with. I slept in my clothes and used my inflatable air plane pillow. I woke up every hour. I slept with my glasses on. I couldn't wait to get out of there.

I was up and downstairs 30 minutes before the taxi driver was to arrive. As I checked out, he walked in the door. I jumped in the car and we were off. He didn't say a word - fine with me, Mr. Screw-Everything-Up.

We arrived at the Jordanian/Israeli border at 7:45 a.m. and I'm mad because if he had listened to me, making it last night would not have been a problem. C'est la vie.

I got out of that taxi, paid him and had to ask three armed soldiers where to go. They pointed to a dumpy building and I said, "Lord, I hope you are with me." And I went in. I guess being blonde-haired and blue-eyed in a Middle-Eastern country actually means I have "Help! I don't know where to go!" tatooed on my forehead. And that's exactly what I had on!

I went in and was told by Jordanian police to provide my passport, have my luggage scanned, and have a seat. I did it.

And I sat and sat and sat... time's a wastin'. Luckily an American from Colorado came in and I watched his luggage, and he watched over me and gave me fabulous advice along our journey through the border.

He instructed me to get up, get my luggage, and purchase passage aboard a transport bus. I was lucky enough to be joined by a guy from California and four friends hiking around from Canada - North American insulation is what God sends me and it was exactly what I needed when I was truly lost.

We went through 6 to 8 check points to get to Israel. I can't remember exactly how many - it was to check passports, scan luggage, scan the bus, force us out and check passports again. I'm not easily intimidated, but this one had me.

At ever check point... a motif ... machine guns - fingers on the trigger. Talk about "GULP!" - all Jordanian and Israeli soldiers are under 25 years old... police too.

At the last check point, we got off and got herded into a luggage and passport check point... final destination.

We got off, formed a line, and waited. Slowly we went through and slowly we were sorted. I noticed a pattern - blonde-haired, light skins to the left, Muslim in the center, and all others on the right.

The one thing the immigration officer wanted to know was if I was planning to go to Gaza. I said, "Oh, heavens NO!" She wanted my itinerary, stamped my passport and I was out.

Thank you, Lord. I had arrived.