When Saving Pennies Nets You a “Crap Copper Package”

My cousin Karla and I usually stick to a careful travel budget and save our pennies for more interesting things than balconies, room service, and fancy hotel linens. So when we planned our trip to Israel with a tour group, we opted for the “moderate package.” We had no idea just how less traveled that particular road would be…

We have traveled on our own to other places without a tour group, preferring to make our own arrangements to visit interesting sites and stay in various reserved hotels along the way. Finding a tour group was one of my stipulations for this trip, because we’d never been to Israel and I was nervous about us being two women alone in this part of the world. I wanted to enjoy the experience, not accidentally run afoul of unfamiliar cultural rules and laws and checkpoints. So we selected a relatively conservative tour group that shared our values and religious beliefs.  

Touring the various sites with our group was genuinely everything I hoped I would be and more. Like, an exhausting amount of more because we crammed so many experiences into such a short time, with no room to really savor and process the individual sites, so it almost became a blur…but I don’t really regret that since I can take my time to savor the memories of the experiences as long and as often as I like.

I gazed—and gazed—but little thought

What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils.

~William Wordsworth, I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud

But. There were consequences that came with the “moderate package” I was not anticipating.

Socio-economic Comfort Zone

A little socio-economic background on expectations is perhaps appropriate to set the stage, since we’re not all the same. When I travel on my own, depending on where I’m headed, I’m typically a two- or three-star hotel kind of traveler; it depends on my perception of safety and what’s in my bank account. When I travel for work, some of the hotels I enter inspire wide-eyed awe and wonder of the four- and five-star variety. There’s definitely something to be said for a king-sized bathtub with a foot-wide faucet that pours out water like a gentle waterfall, 400-threadcount bedsheets, and thick fluffy white bathrobes that make me want to lounge around in my decadent hotel room instead of attending all-day conferences full of strangers… as long as that privilege is not sucking money out of my own bank account. I tend to think of the hotel quality more in terms of shampoo than stars: I always end up taking the half-used travel-size bottles of shampoo and conditioner from the expensive hotels home with me, because, wow, not all shampoos are the same.

Also, I’ve been in many situations in life where I haven’t fit in for one reason or another, where others have gone out of their way to be cruel and unkind to make sure I know I’m unwelcome or not up to their standards. As one small example, I was accepted as an intern after my first year of law school at a mid-size law firm in Phoenix. I was excited and nervous to work there, not sure I was really capable of doing the work of a lawyer (as though it was on some other plane of existence), but at the same time so eager to learn more about the particular kinds of law I hoped would be interesting to me. Going into debt for law school was one of the more terrifying experiences of my life, and beyond tuition, books, and the required laptop, I just couldn’t stomach any further reasons for debt if I could possibly avoid it. So my attire—which was nicer than usual for me (I’m a jeans and t-shirt kind of girl)—was still only simple slacks and blouses from Walmart. 

My first day (after I rode up in an intimidating elevator that talked and told me what floor I was on and wished me a good day), one of the attorneys stopped in the open office area where I sat working among paralegals, and he drew back and demanded to know who I was, with a tone that clearly said I didn’t belong there. One of them quickly responded that I was the new law student intern for the summer. He looked me over with obvious disdain and said, “Well, she doesn’t *look* like a law student,” then left the office for some meeting. I didn’t say or do anything in response, just went back to my work, but on the inside my feelings were unexpectedly stung, particularly because I knew he was right. I was neat and clean, but I knew I wasn’t wearing the crisp suits and fancy shoes and salon hair I’d seen my classmates wear. Aside from the fact I couldn’t really afford it, I kind of dreaded the pressure to conform to that ideal, because suffering through that sort of thing didn’t appeal to me at all. The paralegal next to me kindly whispered that he shouldn’t have said that, and I appreciated her words of solidarity. 

In retrospect, I’m grateful I had the opportunity to toughen up a little bit and learn to be a little less sensitive about the opinions of others (in this case, gruff lawyers), because there’s not a lot of room for sensitive feelings as a litigator, to be honest. I needed room to decide whether his opinion mattered to me, whether I wanted to meet his expectations (mostly as representative of the expectations I suspected I would encounter from others) or whether my own reasons for approaching life my own way mattered more to me. Better to wrestle with that conundrum during an internship than later in my career.

The point of all that nonsense is simply to illustrate that I’m not really much of a prima donna when it comes to fancy things, or quick to take offense at people who look down their nose at me. Not that I’m impervious, just that I tend to internalize things rather than feel entitled to react and make demands. Some of that is simply personality, of course, but most of that is the range of circumstances that feel normal to me. 

When I travel, I think of myself as fairly laid back and adaptable to my room accommodations, as long as I feel reasonably safe and can get some sleep. I’m definitely not one to demand the hospitality and service industry revolve around any “high class” whims or needs, partly just because it wouldn’t even occur to me. And partly because I consider most people as being on the same social level as me (much to the consternation of those who consider themselves above me)… and I wouldn’t want to be treated with disrespect when I’m only trying to do my job, so I try not to do that to others, and give them the benefit of the doubt whenever I can. 

Moderate Package

My flight arrived in Israel several hours ahead of my cousin’s, and the tour group had arranged ahead of time to pick us up separately and convey us and our luggage from the airport to the hotel. On the ride over I got to know a handful of other members from my tour group, occasionally contributing to the conversations they started. Not that I would likely remember their names and faces, but somehow the stories of new people always stick around inside my head. 

We arrived at the hotel quite late (around 11:00 pm) and were travel weary, but there was a small line at the front desk standing between us and our respective hotel rooms. When it was my turn, the people at the front desk had no record of me or my reservations. That was a little disconcerting, but after several minutes of looking, they promised to keep sorting out the misunderstanding while they assisted others in line. Another uniformed person arrived behind the desk, and quiet conversations in Hebrew were punctuated by glances in my direction and typing on a computer keyboard. The new person called me over and asked if perhaps I had made reservations at the other hotel. That was momentarily alarming, because it was quite possible, and I worried that the driver hadn’t known where to deliver me… and worse, how I would find my way to another hotel? But the guy merely pointed to the stairs and hallway to the right, because the sister hotel was connected, and I didn’t have to go far at all. 

At least not far in terms of walking, maybe only half a block, and all of it indoors. I passed cozy sitting areas and boutique stores that were closed for the night, so I was surprised at the definite change in atmosphere as I stepped down into the lobby of the sister hotel. I hadn’t really considered just how nice the first hotel was, since everything was new to me in this country. But this felt more like the ugly step-sister hotel. There was a feeling of age and neglect, although it was clean enough. The decor was much more austere, full of dull browns and grays, and there wasn’t much in the way of furniture or lighting for waiting guests. It wasn’t very welcoming, and neither were the staff on duty. I figured it was late, though, and I’m sure they were as tired as I felt, so I didn’t take it personally that I encountered impatience from the get go. (Honestly, it usually takes a while of getting to know me before I create that level of impatience.)

They had no record of my reservation, either. They sent me back to the nicer hotel.

The staff at the more elegant hotel looked again, through their overstuffed envelope full of reservations and key cards that I imagined were for our tour group, and on the computer. They seemed flummoxed, but not necessarily eager to shove me out the door and onto the street, so I was still hopeful. I sat off to the side waiting in the quiet lobby, honestly grateful to rest even though I’d been sitting on an airplane for many hours. Since my cousin and I had opted to share a room, I typed a brief message to let her know what was going on, knowing she wouldn’t see it until her plane landed. I also wrote an email to the American-based tour company, since it was already morning on that side of the world, just letting them know what was going on in case they could resolve the mistake on their end. My cousin and I had paid our tour fees months in advance, so I knew it wasn’t a matter of last minute decisions on our part causing the problem.

While I continued to wait, a woman from the tour company emailed me back, explaining that I should be in the ugly step-sister hotel. Which was fine. I appreciated the clarity, since it hadn’t actually been in any of the travel materials they had mailed to me. I’d had plenty of time to double and triple check everything, in case I’d missed seeing the information. She made sure to emphasize that I would need to eat breakfast in my designated hotel, not the nicer one, and told me that from now on I needed to pay attention to what the tour guide said so that I would be in the right place when I needed to be. Probably wise advice, although I hadn’t even met him yet, so I felt a little unduly scolded, as though not knowing my correct hotel (…and them not having any record of me…) was the result of not paying close attention as I should have. I almost laughed when she said: “There will be an additional fee that will need to be collected from you when you get home if you are staying in a Superior or Premium room tonight because you have only paid for Moderate.” Ha! At the moment I wasn’t staying in any room at all. I was beginning to wonder about that passage of scripture about not having room at the inn from a whole new perspective. 

My cousin finally landed, and my world felt like it shifted back onto solid ground just knowing that I wasn’t facing this madness alone. Not that circumstances really improved, but now I could *laugh* about it, because that’s what we do. We defy life’s relentless efforts to grind us into defeat by exchanging witty commentary and opting for laughter over tears. I think we’ve inherited this indomitable trait from generations of ancestral women who domesticated the wild west with grit and humor and sheer stubborn willpower.

Karla was almost through the airport customs line (which was far more crowded than mine had been) when a member of the hotel staff finally approached and let me know that my room was ready. I made my way back over to the “Moderate” hotel with my room key card and luggage. It was about 2:00 am by this time, and even though my internal clock said it was afternoon, I was beyond tired. I made my way back to the ugly step-sister lobby, which was completely deserted at this hour, and had no idea how to get to my room. I found four large pillars that turned out to be elevators, but the buttons and floor numbers somehow weren’t what I was expecting. Maybe I was just tired, but I felt inexplicably lost. I wandered back over to the desk because I thought I heard someone make some noise in the back room. I waited a few moments in case the person was coming right back (no need to be rude and interrupt), but when I ventured a quiet, “Hello?” a couple of times, I felt like I’d awakened a grumpy dragon. She definitely did not want to stop to help me. Still, the woman did give me directions, which were not as straightforward as I might have hoped, and I felt like I was in a maze to get to my hotel room.

The hallways were covered with that thick visqueen plastic sheeting, and I felt like I was in a construction site or a morgue. I exited the elevator and hallways branched off in different directions, with a couple of hallways completely blocked off by the plastic. I’m not gonna lie, it was a little creepy, enough that my senses were on high alert and I was braced for any sounds or movement. There weren’t any, initially. The carpet was old and worn. The doors I passed didn’t seem particularly sturdy. My destination was at the end of the hallway, and the door wouldn’t unlock at first, but maybe that’s just because I was tired and key cards can be tricky. I could hear discontented sounds of an argument from my temporary neighbors, so I knew I wasn’t alone in the hotel. I wasn’t sure if that made me feel better or worse. I finally got inside. It wasn’t the nicest room I’d ever stayed in, but it wasn’t terrible. Nothing was visibly crawling around inside, so I was pretty happy about that, for starters. Cold air seeped in from the window, through the heavy drapes that didn’t quite close. I found the thermostat and tried to turn up the heat a little to offset the cold. Thankfully Israel was a good 20+ degrees Fahrenheit warmer than the snow-covered ground I’d left at home. 

I took a hot shower while I waited for my cousin to arrive, and the water genuinely was hot, so I was grateful. I could tell from the quality of the little shampoo bottle that I was going to be much better off using my own shampoo. Karla sent me a message when she got to the hotel, and had her own run-in with Ms. Crankypants, who wasn’t any more inclined to help my cousin than she had been to help me. I told her how to find our hotel room, and was delighted when she arrived. It had been a while since I’d last seen her, and every time we get together there’s a flurry of talking over each other to share and listen and laugh and catch up, regardless of how tired we may be.

Karla is much more chatty and personable with strangers than I am, and she and the driver had quite the lively conversation from the airport to the hotel. She was telling me what she’d learned about him, which was fascinating, while we unpacked a little and rearranged our clothes and gear to prepare for what we needed to take with us on the bus the next morning (water bottles, key cards, guide books, scriptures, cash, snacks, headphones, portable recharger for our phones that doubled as cameras, that sort of thing). She mentioned that the driver told her there would be a nice tray of cold cuts waiting for her when she arrived, and she laughed, because we didn’t have any cold cuts, but we certainly had the cold. There was nothing realistic we could do about the tall window, which seemed to be lacking a tight seal around the edges, so we slept in extra layers of clothes for about four hours. It was uncomfortably chilly, but not unbearable, and before long the cocoon of blankets and clothes trapped enough body heat to make it easier to fall asleep.

Jet lag is not my favorite feeling in the world, but anticipation for seeing a new country and experiencing new things tends to offset the dragging feeling of a dislocated internal clock. It helped that my clothes were already set out, so there was no frustration from hunting through my things or decision-making while my brain was still foggy and my emotions temporarily resented my idea of fun. All I had to do after a trip to the bathroom was pull on my clothes and grab my backpack. Which was good, because we only had about fifteen minutes to scrounge up some food before our bus was scheduled to leave, and we weren’t entirely sure which bus would be ours. Finding the correct floor of our hotel for breakfast was an adventure, but thankfully we could hear the sounds of cutlery and ceramic dishes and people in muted early-morning conversation once we got back down to the lobby. We only needed to go back up one floor, which was a small open area with several round tables covered in tablecloths, visible to the lobby below. The modest selection of food was different and interesting, and we tried small bites of unfamiliar things to discover new flavors. We each took a piece of whole fruit (an apple or orange or something) because you never know when you are reliant on others whether they will feed you when your stomach is ready to be fed.

When we got on the correct bus and met our tour guide and fellow travelers, we discovered that everyone else had been given an upgrade in their hotel accommodations. Most people were delighted by the unexpected boon, and apparently nothing was mentioned to any of them about having to pay the difference for the improved sleeping arrangements (not that I asked, but it seemed obvious they were getting more than what they’d paid for and that put them in an especially good mood). Several of them enjoyed their tray of cold cuts on arrival, and found their circumstances quite agreeable. There were a few grumbling complaints about everything not being ideal with the service or the quality of towels in the Superior and Premium rooms, and I wryly wondered how they would have dealt with our Moderate room. One woman was most displeased with the quality of the hair dryer in her room and made sure everyone knew it, and I looked over at Karla—did we even have a hair dryer in our bathroom? To be fair, our traveling companions had paid more for their accommodations and perhaps truly were a bit entitled to expect more. My cousin and I seemed to be the only two people who had chosen the Moderate Package and were staying in the ugly step-sister hotel, but we didn’t say anything about it, just listened.

Moderating Expectations

Our first day was jam packed with new experiences, and despite exhaustion dragging my feet by the end of the day, I sincerely enjoyed visiting places that had only ever existed in my imagination when I read the Bible. We arrived back at the hotel with about an hour before dinner, so we planned to relax a little from the steady sightseeing pace of the day. Turned out that we were welcome (and expected) to join the rest of our group for meals at the nicer hotel next door, contrary to the snippy email I’d received from the tour company emphasizing my “moderate” status, so we were planning to spend more time with those we’d gotten to know throughout the day. And I needed some down time if I was going to have the energy to be social again.

Unfortunately, we couldn’t even get into the room, because neither of our key cards would work. I made my way back down to the lobby to sort out the problem, and stood in line behind a handful of large and colorful Nigerians that had just arrived. And by large, I mean they were tall and plump and had boisterous personalities that were larger than life. They were utterly delightful, and there were over a hundred people in their group, milling around the drab empty space of the lobby. The bright bold colors of their tunics and dresses moved and danced and turned it into a warm and welcoming room, full of laughter and smiles and sparkling eyes and very little respect for personal space, because there wasn’t much personal space to be had with so many of them. I suspect they didn’t mind the lack of personal space, that they would be just as close and jovial no matter the size of the space they were in. 

The staff at the front desk still weren’t what I would call cheerful or welcoming, but the mood in the room was overwhelmingly positive. Had I been a little less tired, I think I would have been content to stay in that line forever and just absorb the unusual experience. As it was, I was slightly appalled by their disorderly queue conduct (not that I’m British or anything, but the description seems apt.) As far as I could tell, the small number of people at the front desk were handling the room arrangements for the whole group, but it was taking a long time, and so people from the group were curious, perhaps impatient (but not unpleasantly so), and they repeatedly cut into the line to see what was going on. Some stayed as if to somehow help move things along with their added presence and suggestions, while others came and went. I found myself stepping back out of the way several times as they moved around me, and I wondered occasionally if I was even in a line at all. 

Sometimes I am assertive enough to shoulder my way in and pleasantly interrupt and get what I need and get back out again, leaving folks to handle things at their leisurely pace once I’ve gotten my minor situation taken care of. I debated whether this was one of those times after long minutes of waiting passed, but I considered how well things had gone the night before, and I was reasonably certain this was one of those times that being assertive wasn’t going to get me anywhere.

Eventually the hotel staff gave me a new room key that did work. We didn’t have more than a few minutes to rest before dinner, but we did discover that the two used bath towels had been taken from the bathroom, and the missing towels had not been replaced. We decided to deal with that after dinner, on our way back to the room. 

Dinner was downright decadent compared to the simple offerings at breakfast. What a difference between the two connected hotels! The dining room was spacious and warm and colorful, staff were pleasant and helpful and present in abundant numbers, and the variety of artfully displayed food was almost overwhelming in comparison. We felt more comfortable heaping generous portions onto our plates here, and took our time to really savor the wonderful flavors and filling portions of the meal. We weren’t particularly chummy with anyone in our group yet, but it was still nice to be around familiar faces and relax into the conversations that flowed around us, joining in or simply listening as we chose.

On our way back to the other side of the tracks, as it were, we decided to see if we could do something about the leaky window as well as the towels. The person at the front desk told us to dial a number on our room phone to reach housekeeping, and they would bring us more towels. And they arranged for a maintenance guy to come look at our window. That made me feel more kindly toward the hotel staff. Unfortunately, our hotel room phone had no plug at all to connect to the wall jack, so we couldn’t call housekeeping. Karla went back downstairs to work on getting us some towels, and I stayed to show the maintenance guy the problem with the window. It took him a while to get there, and he seemed to agree that the cold air seeping in wasn’t an ideal situation for a hotel room. He wasn’t very talkative to me, but he did come back with some wide sticky tape (perhaps a variation on duct tape) and started to tape around the edges of the window. Partway through he got a call on his cell phone, and he became talkative then, so much so that he left the room to continue his conversation. Which I didn’t really mind… but he took the tape with him, and he wasn’t done yet. I wished he had left the tape so I could finish the job, because I wasn’t sure he would come back. And for a long time he didn’t. In the meantime our towels finally arrived, and eventually the window taping was completed, and our room was downright toasty in comparison. 

Karla reflected on our “moderate” choice in pricing and quipped, “I think we got the Crap Copper Package,” referring to the cut-rate Austenland experience for poor relations. This became the running joke, trading moments of stumbling irritation for tears of laughter.

Upgrade: Eleventh Floor

Our tour guide assumed we had all received the same gold star treatment from the hotel, so the next day when he asked my cousin and I how we liked our upgraded rooms, he was surprised when we laughed and told him what our room was really like.

He wasn’t the only person in our group making assumptions. For the first couple of days several members of our group gave us sideline glances trying to figure us out. It wasn’t hard for us to leap to the conclusion that they thought we were a lesbian couple. If we were, it would have been an odd fit with such a conservative religious group, and so their puzzled glances made sense. They were trying to piece together clues about the way we interacted without coming right out and asking us, which would have come across as rude rather than curious, which I think is what most of them were. None of them were ever unkind to us even while they were mulling over how we were connected to each other. Since we hadn’t actually been asked, we let them stew over it for a while longer until Karla found a way to casually let it drop that we are cousins. The collective surprise and relief and dawning understanding were both palpable and comical. Some of them even mentioned that they were wondering because we looked so much alike. I snorted, because I don’t think we look anything alike (we are both practically carbon copies of our respective mothers, who were only related by marriage), but I’m hardly an objective outside observer. 

We weren’t offended that they made the assumption, because we had done a similar thing on a cruise several years previously. The cruise line set up our table for two as cousins right next to another table of two for guys. If any of the four of us had been the gregarious outgoing sort, I’m sure the four of us would have struck up an immediate conversation the first day, but we were all relatively quiet. Er, well, self-contained, maybe? Karla and I are never quiet when we are together, but we are pretty content to enjoy our own company, so we don’t always reach out to include others. Karla does that more adeptly than I, and I don’t mind when she broadens our circle of friendship. 

After a couple of days of eating next to them, she wondered aloud (in the privacy of our cabin) whether they were gay or are related like us, or are just friends. I laughed, because I had wondered the same thing, but they didn’t seem to have any of the outward affectations of being a gay couple. Although I’m sure plenty of gay couples are comfortable in their own skin and don’t have such affectations, the presence of those signs tends to easily resolve the question, while the absence of them does not. Which surely meant I had been giving them sidelong glances of curiosity, not unlike our later traveling companions in Israel had been giving us. (Karla eventually broke the ice the next night of our cruise, and during the course of our conversation it came out that they’d been best friends their whole lives and decided to go on a cruise together because they’d been busy with their respective lives for some time. This captured my imagination, and eventually formed the beginning ideas for a new story, although my characters were brothers with different military careers instead of friends.)

When we returned to the ugly step-sister hotel that evening, our key cards didn’t work, again. This time, though, it was because they were upgrading us to a room in the other hotel. Color me surprised. I didn’t even ask anyone if we would be charged for the difference. But the thought did briefly cross my mind, half genuine question, half sarcastic commentary. 

We moved our belongings to the nicer hotel, where we had a room on the eleventh floor.

The elevator spoke English, and told us in soft feminine cultured tones that we had reached the eleventh floor. Karla giggled. She was trying to tell me about some YouTube video about two Scottish dudes on an elevator, but it took me a while to get into the mood to watch it. I was internalizing emotional upheaval. Sulking, if you like. As long as we were stuck in the ugly step-sister hotel, I was shaking my head and rolling my eyes with the punches. Being abruptly offered the upgrade like everyone else put things into a different perspective, raising feelings of unfairness and discontent about the way we’d been treated up until now. I wasn’t ready to see our circumstances in a different emotional light. So, I was shutting the emotions down and processing things logically, from point to point to point. Which, honestly, takes a lot of internal energy, and humor derails that effort. I wanted the emotional crap settled and out of the way as quickly as possible. So I was sulking. I took a shower and didn’t even try their shampoo, probably because I was miffed about the whole situation and didn’t want to know if it was nice shampoo or not.

I did finally settle down enough to watch the video, and laughter went a long way toward restoring my equilibrium. 

After that, every time we got onto the elevator to go upstairs (which was maybe only two or three times), we found ourselves calling up to the ceiling of the elevator, “Eleven!” Two American chicks impersonating two Scottish dudes attempting to get to the eleventh floor of an Israeli hotel with Scottish-dredged American accents. We had tears leaking out of our eyes, we were laughing so hard. But at least we made it to the eleventh floor. (To be fair to the Scottish dudes, we also had a button to push.)

Back to the Moderate Package

We went to a different part of Israel for a couple of days before returning to our original hotel. On the bus ride back to our “home away from home” the tour guide handed out everyone’s new room key cards, so that we wouldn’t need to stand in line at the front desk waiting. Meanwhile, several of us had made plans with one of the drivers to visit a holocaust museum not far from our hotel before it closed. This was a deeply significant opportunity for Karla, and she was excited to be able to go. 

Unfortunately, our names weren’t included with the overstuffed envelope of key cards and room reservations. Our tour guide was baffled, and he didn’t have any explanation. When we arrived at the hotel, I promised to take care of our luggage stored under the bus, and Karla quickly went inside to try to resolve what had happened to our reservations. I had hoped I could carry all of our luggage at least to the inside of the hotel, but it was too many awkward pieces to juggle for just one person, and I didn’t have any way to securely tie everything together to make the trek across the parking lot. I was also coming down with the cold several members of our group had brought with them on the trip, and my energy levels and lung capacity were pretty low at that point. So I stood there alone as I watched the bus pull away, then as I anxiously watched other members of our group climb aboard the van to go to the holocaust museum… and my heart broke for Karla as I watched them pull away. It was many long minutes more of standing in my island of luggage before Karla came back, and her expression was so full of frustration and disappointment and hurt and ire that she didn’t even have words. 

We gathered up our respective things and silently made our way to the ugly step-sister hotel, and up to our new room for the remainder of our stay. The first thing we noticed was that the only bed in the room was smaller than twin, quite possible smaller than a single. It was practically a cot with a mattress on top. At this point I was too numb to even know what to do. I’d been dealing with the worsening cold, and a reverse block impairing my hearing from traveling below sea level and back up again, and a headache from wearing my glasses full time because my contacts had dried out on the flight over, and for the moment I didn’t even have the presence of mind to know what to do next. The “couch” was out of the question, because it was barely larger than an armchair and looked supremely uncomfortable besides, and there were no extra blankets and pillows to make a comfortable bedroll on the floor. I had just reached the end of my upbeat resilience and felt defeated. It wouldn’t have lasted for long, of course, but Karla was furious and marched back downstairs to set the hotel staff straight on our need for two beds. She told me later that she’d let them know we’re cousins, not lovers, and we couldn’t possibly both fit onto a bed that size. I laughed, wondering if even two enamored lovers could find that small of a bed comfortable for actual sleeping.

It was a tight fit getting the second cot-sized bed into the room (not that the room was tiny, really, just that with the large round table and couch and other furniture in the room, it didn’t seem to be set up to serve as a bedroom at all.) The second cot was set up along a wall next to the dining table. I asked Karla if she would mind me taking the first bed, which was set up perpendicular to the wall, enabling the wall to serve as a headboard. I was worried about being able to prop the pillow up a bit so it would be a little easier for me to breath that night. She was pretty darn maternal to me right then, making sure I was taken care of, and it broke my heart all over again for the trip to the museum she had missed due to…. what, incompetence? Poor planning? Poor communication? Prejudice? Neglect? I wasn’t sure the motivations or misunderstandings behind the rough sailing on this trip, mostly surrounding our accommodations at this hotel.

Life is a Contact Sport: Bring it On

When my cousin and I were roommates in college, we used to talk a lot about how life is a contact sport, and that social bumps and bruises are inevitable. Sometimes we’re on the giving end, sometimes on the receiving end. While struggling to heal from some of those “receiving end” moments, we tried to keep a perspective that would allow us to offer the same kind of grace for imperfections of others as we hoped for ourselves. Easier said than done, but meaningful just the same, and reflective of who I want to be (even if that’s not always who I am.)

After I returned home from this trip to Israel, I spent more than a year kind of “recovering” from the experience. I didn’t feel as excited to share everything I learned and experienced as I thought I would. Part of me genuinely looks back on everything and shrugs, because it doesn’t seem like anything really bad happened. I was proud of my cousin and I for being able to “rough it” a little bit, and not complain or make anyone miserable about it. It all worked out, and I came home in one piece. Except…. I kind of didn’t. I couldn’t bring myself to fill out the survey/review for the the tour company, and I would never go back to that hotel. I never have to see them again, but there was still this persistent weight that interfered with my ability to look back on the trip with unrestrained happiness. I think the experience took a long-lasting toll, and that’s been tougher to sort out. 

I can’t think of anything I would have done differently. I’ve had times in my life when I was tongue-tied and wished I could have said just the right thing at just the right time, and I’d go over the conversation again and again in my mind, considering what I could have said and imagining how things might have turned out instead. But not this time. I’m sure there are things I could have done differently, but there was no pent up need to revisit conversations and wish for a different outcome.

I find that this sort of long-term discomfort can be a catalyst for change. Not to change others, of course, but to reassess how I approach life and consider whether I want to make some adjustments.

A while back one of my friends was talking to me about “owning the ground” next to the protective walls I build up, instead of simply building them and walking away (which I’m totally guilty of doing.) We were talking about an entirely different situation, but as I’ve gone back to write about these experiences in Israel, I realize that his advice is applicable here, too. I’ve been puzzling through what that looks like in every day interactions–to “own the ground”–and I think the lesson I’m struggling to grasp is that respecting others and protecting myself isn’t about my absence from participation in the complexities of life.

I prefer to let people be who they are, and to avoid ruffling feathers and rocking boats. I end up reserving my contrary thoughts and feelings–a bit like saving pennies–instead of entering into the fray and remembering that I exist, too, and that I don’t have to be so accommodating that I disappear altogether. Maybe instead of retreating when it’s obvious my thoughts and opinions will be unwelcome, I can learn to give people a chance to encounter something different. Differences can enrich life, even when (especially when?) there are conflicts involved.

Maybe… instead of settling for the “Crap Copper Package” in life—because it’s the quieter, simpler route; the “road less taken” only because there are fewer people, and thus fewer bumps and bruises along the way—I might make incremental changes and reach for the Superior or Premium sort of package, the kind that makes me feel a bit more entitled to be open about my hurts and hopes and frustrations and expectations, even if it ruffles some feathers and rocks some boats along the way.

Robert Frost had a sneaking suspicion that he would never return to take a different path in life, and felt that taking the road less traveled by made all the difference in his life. Maybe it is possible to take another path, though, and one that is more traveled. Just for a little while, to see if it makes a difference.

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

~Robert Frost, The Road Not Taken