Week One, part one. First blog post of my life.

Shalom from the Holy Land! It’s been a week since I first entered the barren yet fertile hills of Jerusalem. My initial description upon seeing Jerusalem would compose of rocky hills, dusty roads, treeless landscapes, stony buildings, empty skylines, and deserty air. But in just a week I’m awed by the richness of history, the thickness of religion, the numerous shades of brown, and a diverse people that all seem to represent generations of time.

The Jerusalem Center is incredible. Church services are held on Saturday (the real Sabbath) and everyone would agree that there is not a better sacrament room than here at the Jerusalem Center. The magnificent windows that dominate the sacrament room's back wall allow for a spectacular and often distracting view of the Old City. In fact, most of the center’s western walls are huge windows that make it so 90% of the center, including each student dormitory, has a view of the Old City. The Dome of the Rock’s dole glare is now as familiar as the Wasatch Mountains back home, and just as orientating.

My first reminder that I was in a new world (or old world?) came at 4:30 in the morning on my first night. I was sound asleep (I had been awake for 36 straight hours) when the Muslim call to prayer penetrated through my room with a soft, eery chant. There are large speakers situated on towers throughout the Palestinian area from which the prayer-chants glare five times a day. That was the first night, now the chants are as familiar as “Come Come Ye Saints” on campus from BYU’s bell tower.

There’s nothing like the Old City. Upon entering the towering walls, I am instantly overcome by my senses. Each corner brings a new smell, sometimes rotten sometimes pleasant; each shop keeper yells out to grab my attention, offering a special deal for “tha Mormons”; tightly packed shops are adorned with trinkets, olive wood carvings, jewelry, pictures, clothing (from Nike to Jesus-sandals), nuts and sweets—causing my eyes to jet back and forth, up and down, weary of tripping over the uneven ground; breaks involve tastes of foreign, bitter candy and delicious falafels; my hands extend to touch hanging bags, low ceilings, smooth stony walls, and the rough grainy hands of shopowners.

A 15 year old Palestinian boy named Peter quickly introduced himself to me outside one of the shops. He liked that I was big and tall, and even more that I was with 5 American girls. He stuck by my side for the next 3 hours, asking me questions like “What do you like to do? Do you drink? Why does Bush send weapons to Israel so they can kill us?” He showed us how to get around, he translated for us, and soon followed us home. He wanted to come into the Center so that he could show me the top of his roof which was visible from the center. But visitors aren’t allowed. I think he's used to that.