Chapter 3
Everything from your sunglasses to your suitcase should reflect your unique style and attitude.
With my designer sunglasses protecting my eyes, my backpack on my back, and a suitcase rolling in each hand, I'm walking slowly down the road. We're passing offices and off-white buildings made out of cement. I'm painfully aware of the many Israeli soldiers pointing to the three of us and snickering.
Yes, gawk at the American girls struggling with their luggage, I want to say, but don't. We must look totally out of place with our Abercrombie outfits and pimped-out suitcases. Listen, I don't blame them for laughing. I'm definitely out of my element.
I silently pray for Avi to come to my rescue and take my luggage to the barracks for me.
Sweat rolls down my forehead. Where is my boyfriend? And how big is this army base anyway?
"Come on, girls!" Ronit urges from far down the road.
Jess puts on a huge fake smile and waves to our leader. "We're coming!" she says, mimicking Ronit s cheery tone. Jess and I know she's making fun of Ronit, but I doubt anyone else does. "Don't they have a bellman?" She wipes her upper lip that's beading with sweat. "They better have air-conditioned rooms. I just got my lip waxed and don't have anything for the sweat to cling to."
"Ugh, TMI," I tell her.
"It's true, Amy. Do you have another portable fan with you, Miranda?"
She shakes her head.
I look left and right to see if I can catch a glimpse of my boyfriend. "Avi has got to be around here somewhere, right?"
Jess sighs. She misses Tarik, her boyfriend. He's Palestinian, and although he's not thrilled about her spending part of her summer on an Israeli military base, he understands her commitment to her religion because he feels the same about his.
Jessica is Jewish and Tarik is Muslim. You'd think they'd avoid each other like I avoid political debates, but ever since they met they've chosen to ignore the obvious obstacles in their relationship. So who am I to bring it up? I'm a huge fan of living in ignorant bliss.
I'm wondering when this lugging-luggage torture will be over. My suitcases are kicking up dust from the gravel road. Now I'm not only sweaty, but dirty too. I pull harder. Visions of a hot shower with my papaya-scented bath gel and a nice relaxing nap on a featherbed dance in my brain. Suddenly, I hear a snap and watch one of the wheels on my beautiful, designer, hot-pink suitcase roll away from me and bounce to the bottom of a ditch. I suck in a horrified breath.
Chapter 4
It boggles my mind that there's a direct correlation between lack of quality and bling.
At least in the suitcase department.
"Whoa, that sucks," Jess says slowly.
Miranda points to the offending wheel. "Amy, is that yours?"
"Yep." So now I have a broken piece of luggage and I'm still not at our barracks.
I swallow my ego and start walking toward the stupid broken wheel. I eye it in the ditch where it stopped. I'm wearing a pink tank and white jean shorts, and I know if I slip as I go down I'm going to have dirt all over me. Oh, don't go blaming me about wearing white shorts... climbing down into a ditch to retrieve a stupid wheel wasn't exactly one of the warnings in the Sababa brochure.
I take one step down. My foot slides a little, then stops.
I probably should tell you now that I'm wearing these really cute pink mules that aren't really made for traction--but they sure do match my tank perfectly. I'm not about to take out the gym shoes I bought for this trip, because they're at the bottom of one of my suitcases.
I take another step, and wobble because I'm walking on an angle.
"Be careful," Miranda warns.
Before I take another step, a boy in uniform walks up to us. "Mah karah? he asks. He's got short hair and beautiful olive skin without a trace of acne.
"Angleet, b'vakashah," I say. My dad taught me that phrase, which means "English, please."
"You need help?" He has a big Israeli accent along with a big Israeli smile (he's also got a big Israeli rifle slung on his back).
"Desperately," I admit, pointing to the wheel.
He scrambles down the bank as if he does it every day of his life, and picks up the wheel. On his way back up, he grabs my elbow and helps me back to the gravel road. Then attempts to reattach the wheel.
"This suitcase is a piece of sheet," he informs me. "It can't be fixed." He hands me the plastic wheel. I almost laugh at the word "sheet"--American profanity with an Israeli accent comes out really funny. But I'm sweaty and unhappy and cannot physically laugh right now.
I shove the wheel in the front pocket of my suitcase. "Well, thanks for trying."
"Yeah, thanks," Miranda chimes in.
The guy holds out his hand. "I'm Nimrod."
"No, really, what's your name?" I ask.
"Nimrod."
He did not just say Nimrod, did he? With the Israeli accent it sounds like Nim-road.
I put my sunglasses on top of my head, eyeing him suspiciously. "Nimrodi"
"Nimrod. I guess in America this is not a popular name, no?"
Jess is trying not to laugh. Miranda just looks confused. Some names in Israel do not translate to English well. Avi has friends named Doo-Doo, Moron, and O'dead. And my cousin's name is pronounced O'snot.
"I'm Amy. And this is Jessica and Miranda," I say, pointing to each of my friends.