Sixty five dinars (about 100 bucks) have left my pocket since the last post. That's more than half of the budget I planned for. Wow.
I can withdraw cash, of course. It's survivable. And Jordan, in fact, is a relaxing place so far. I'm in Aqaba now, and it's a bit like Eilat except it feels less like a shopping mall. It has many small chain stores (a Quiznos!) lining thin streets with islands of trees in the center. There are many fancy houses colored pinkish-tan with balconies overlooking curved swimming pools, which I believe are owned by rich Saudis. And the guys in the internet cafe are decent to be around. And the place is only 1 dinar an hour, which is slightly less than the Israeli price (in Israel it's about 4 bucks an hour, 1 dinar is under 2 dollars.), so I won't be an Arab peasant by the end of the day.
It all started when I got to the Jordanian border. I was told by many people that, from the border, it would be easy to find a taxi going to Petra with other tourists to share it with. Also, according to the Jordan Jubilee site, there was a bus from Aqaba to Wadi Rum ever day. So I went in figuring somehow it would work itself out.
I met nobody at the border besides two Canadian women. We walked across the empty border crossing and took each other's pictures. They both were picked up by a friendly Jordanian driver. He offered to take me to Wadi Rum for 30 dinar. I knew that was bad, but I felt lazy, so I did it, and I figured I could be stingy later on.
I'd heard that at the Wadi Rum visitor's center, it's easy to find a jeep tour to hop on, since Wadi Rum charges by the jeep, not by the passenger.
That's true, but the driver didn't drop me off at the visitor's center. He dropped me off at an office of some Bedouins and told me I had to get a jeep tour for 35 dinar. I argued with him until I was exhausted and gave in. I ordered the jeep tour. I got in the jeep and it took me to the visitors center, and, from there, to the rocks of Wadi Rum.
I felt like I was once again a victim of the notorious sleaziness of this region, but I let it slide. I focused on the Lawrence of Arabia vistas. Wadi Rum is only subtly different from the rest of the desert; it takes a little while before it hits you how cool it is. Like the Sinai desert, and the Jordanian desert between Wadi Rum and Aqaba, it consists of monochromatic, stark, jagged rocks. But Wadi Rum is different. It looks as if large pieces of the Sinai desert crumbled into orangey sand, leaving pieces of the rocky desert behind. In the rest of the desert, you can get tired of seeing stark rocks, but in Wadi Rum, it's different- the desert around the rocks makes them a lot more impressive. I think it's best described as a mutant child of a sandy desert and a rocky desert.
The interesting, but sometimes boring thing about a rocky desert is that the massive amount of jagged rocks can distort your spatial orientation. They all blur together into one big, intimidating moon of biblical rock. The Sinai always intrigued me because it's scary (because of how it looks and how the rocks are interrupted only by the occasional truckload of religious pilgrims, frequent checkpoints, and nice beach and diving resorts) but Wadi Rum has a majestic, sublime quality to it. The rock formations have smooth sides that help you to appreciate how tall they are.
Close to the visitor's center is the Seven Pillars of Wisdom, which looks a little bit like a hand or an oyster shell. More than those things, it looks like a giant, wide rock.
The driver took me farther into the desert until a formation called the canyon. It's not a canyon as much as a giant rock which you can walk into for a good distance. It has both Arabic and Nabatean inscriptions on the wall, which is cool as well.
In the canyon, I met two German guys. One was a diplomat in Israel and the other was visiting him. Winfrid and Tom were there names. Tom had a nice camera, and when I told him about the destruction of mine, he snapped a few pics of me in the canyon and said he'd send them to me. I asked them where they were going later, and they said Aqaba. I told them that if I didn't find a taxi or bus to Petra, I'd go with them.
I went back to the visitor's center before they did, and looked around for a taxi. I ate a few candy bars and got offered a few more jeep tours. I found out that you can stay in Wadi Rum for 3 dinars a night, but I realized that I really didn't want to spend that much time there. It was the kind of place that I knew could lose its magic if I stared at the Seven Pillars for the next five hours. It'd be cheap but really boring. So, when the Germans came back, I went with them to Aqaba.
Now, I have to decide if I'm going to stay here for the night and attempt to find fellow taxi riders to Petra tomorrow, or to spend the absurd 40 dinar to Petra tonight.
Showing posts with label Lawrence of Arabia. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Lawrence of Arabia. Show all posts
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Thursday, March 20, 2008
A bit of summary
It occurred to me that this blog hasn't quite succeeded as a travel blog up to this point. Nobody can quite keep track of where I am and where I've been based on reading it. I feel that, if I am to succeed from now on at updating it, it will become more of a memory blog. An impressionist blog.
It's always been hard for me to summarize. Actually, no- it's hard for me to get myself to summarize. Because it's just plain not my instinct to summarize. It's my instinct to dwell and expand upon little things. That, like many instinct, is both helpful and harmful.
Anyway, I'm going to try to summarize my trip.
With Birthright, I was in a group of about 40 people. I hope to keep in touch with them. I'm often uncomfortable in groups of that size. I can handle bigger groups and smaller ones, but a group of that size just takes me a long time to adjust to. Plus, when I travel in groups, it's harder for me to focus on where I am. Being constantly dropped and picked up sometimes makes me focus more on things like what time we're going to eat than the places we're at... but at the same time, when you're with a group, you're rarely alone and you rarely get lost and you're rarely anywhere long enough for it to get boring.
And we weren't anywhere long enough for it to get boring. We started off at a desert kibbutz called Masabai Sadeh. It had cute, tiny stucco-roof houses, bicycles, animals, gardens, and art made out of junk. I didn't get to meet any of the inhabitants, but they didn't seem too friendly.
In the Negev desert, we also saw the grave and house of David Ben-Gurion and went on a night time hike. The guide, Ran, told us to think about how Abraham walked through this same desert. I thought about that, and it was pretty awesome. I understood why people rave about the desert at night. Being totally in the dark is always cool, but being in the dark in the desert, where there are no trees for the moon to hide behind and no plants to rustle, is a different experience from anything I've known. There was also a unique dark blue in the sky. The dry wind is also pretty unique.
I thought about how people like Abrahah, Jacob, and Lawrence of Arabia may have found themselves in this very spot, and I felt more like them, while at the same time realizing just how different a life a person would lead living in the desert.
I had a conversation with Justin, a guy on the trip. He confessed that, since he lives in New Mexico, the Negev isn't much of a new thing to him. I told him I understood. I quoted Omar Sharif in Lawrence: "No Arab loves the desert. We like water and green trees." If that's true, then I'm a bit of an Arab myself. The desert has its thrills, but the potential for desolation, desperation, and poverty has always been very palpable to me.
We then moved on to Masada and Ein Gedi at the Dead Sea. It rained. Masada was cloudy, which gave the "sunrise" a dufferent quality to it. The cloudy view was nonetheless impressive. At the Dead Sea, more rain came. Some people floated in the cold muddy water but I chickened out. Mudfalls filled the mountains at Ein Gedi. Apparently some people died that day. I hope to go back to the Dead Sea on a better day.
After that, we spent a night in Tel Aviv. It was a Monday and it was cold. I went to an Irish pub- the first of several I would find in Israel. Irish pubs there are very much like Irish pubs in America- asymmetrical, wooden, and with lots of Guinness. Israeli ones just play up the Irish-ness a bit more. Pictures of James Joyce and bouzoukis line the walls, and that sort of thing.
Then I went to Mike's Place. It's owned by Canadians with dual citizenship. Then a friend named Josh and I lead a search for drunken felafel. Coming from America, where drunken pizza walks are possible in any small city, we expected this endeavour to be a cinch in the so-called party capital of Israel. But the search proved to be in vain. Josh and I hoped to go on more successful drunk walks together later on the trip, but it unfortunately never happened.
When I returned to Tel Aviv later on my own, I realized that this first incident was just another example of the city's horrible urban planning. Tel Aviv has several main drags, but none of them are parallel to each other or to the ocean. Some cities have main drags with smaller streets between them. In Tel Aviv, everything criss-crosses everything, like a plate of spaghetti that's suddenly cut off by the ocean.
The next day in Tel Aviv, we met some friendly soldiers in Rabin Square. I got my picture taken in front of the S'licha ("sorry") wall. It was one of the most moving memorials I've seen anywhere. Ran had us sing "Imagine." Later on, when Ran asked for feedback on his activities, several people said they felt weird singing the song because "Imagine there's no countries" runs contrary to the idea of Israel. I figured Ran just chose it because it's about peace, and that's the idea behind Rabin Square. I realized that I agree with John Lennon. Singing the song was indeed awkward, not because of its meaning, but because of the Israelis who walked by. I figured they must be used to this sort of thing, though.
I will continue later (hopeuflly not too much later) because right now I have to catch an overnight train from Luxor to Cairo. I'm not looking forward to it.
It's always been hard for me to summarize. Actually, no- it's hard for me to get myself to summarize. Because it's just plain not my instinct to summarize. It's my instinct to dwell and expand upon little things. That, like many instinct, is both helpful and harmful.
Anyway, I'm going to try to summarize my trip.
With Birthright, I was in a group of about 40 people. I hope to keep in touch with them. I'm often uncomfortable in groups of that size. I can handle bigger groups and smaller ones, but a group of that size just takes me a long time to adjust to. Plus, when I travel in groups, it's harder for me to focus on where I am. Being constantly dropped and picked up sometimes makes me focus more on things like what time we're going to eat than the places we're at... but at the same time, when you're with a group, you're rarely alone and you rarely get lost and you're rarely anywhere long enough for it to get boring.
And we weren't anywhere long enough for it to get boring. We started off at a desert kibbutz called Masabai Sadeh. It had cute, tiny stucco-roof houses, bicycles, animals, gardens, and art made out of junk. I didn't get to meet any of the inhabitants, but they didn't seem too friendly.
In the Negev desert, we also saw the grave and house of David Ben-Gurion and went on a night time hike. The guide, Ran, told us to think about how Abraham walked through this same desert. I thought about that, and it was pretty awesome. I understood why people rave about the desert at night. Being totally in the dark is always cool, but being in the dark in the desert, where there are no trees for the moon to hide behind and no plants to rustle, is a different experience from anything I've known. There was also a unique dark blue in the sky. The dry wind is also pretty unique.
I thought about how people like Abrahah, Jacob, and Lawrence of Arabia may have found themselves in this very spot, and I felt more like them, while at the same time realizing just how different a life a person would lead living in the desert.
I had a conversation with Justin, a guy on the trip. He confessed that, since he lives in New Mexico, the Negev isn't much of a new thing to him. I told him I understood. I quoted Omar Sharif in Lawrence: "No Arab loves the desert. We like water and green trees." If that's true, then I'm a bit of an Arab myself. The desert has its thrills, but the potential for desolation, desperation, and poverty has always been very palpable to me.
We then moved on to Masada and Ein Gedi at the Dead Sea. It rained. Masada was cloudy, which gave the "sunrise" a dufferent quality to it. The cloudy view was nonetheless impressive. At the Dead Sea, more rain came. Some people floated in the cold muddy water but I chickened out. Mudfalls filled the mountains at Ein Gedi. Apparently some people died that day. I hope to go back to the Dead Sea on a better day.
After that, we spent a night in Tel Aviv. It was a Monday and it was cold. I went to an Irish pub- the first of several I would find in Israel. Irish pubs there are very much like Irish pubs in America- asymmetrical, wooden, and with lots of Guinness. Israeli ones just play up the Irish-ness a bit more. Pictures of James Joyce and bouzoukis line the walls, and that sort of thing.
Then I went to Mike's Place. It's owned by Canadians with dual citizenship. Then a friend named Josh and I lead a search for drunken felafel. Coming from America, where drunken pizza walks are possible in any small city, we expected this endeavour to be a cinch in the so-called party capital of Israel. But the search proved to be in vain. Josh and I hoped to go on more successful drunk walks together later on the trip, but it unfortunately never happened.
When I returned to Tel Aviv later on my own, I realized that this first incident was just another example of the city's horrible urban planning. Tel Aviv has several main drags, but none of them are parallel to each other or to the ocean. Some cities have main drags with smaller streets between them. In Tel Aviv, everything criss-crosses everything, like a plate of spaghetti that's suddenly cut off by the ocean.
The next day in Tel Aviv, we met some friendly soldiers in Rabin Square. I got my picture taken in front of the S'licha ("sorry") wall. It was one of the most moving memorials I've seen anywhere. Ran had us sing "Imagine." Later on, when Ran asked for feedback on his activities, several people said they felt weird singing the song because "Imagine there's no countries" runs contrary to the idea of Israel. I figured Ran just chose it because it's about peace, and that's the idea behind Rabin Square. I realized that I agree with John Lennon. Singing the song was indeed awkward, not because of its meaning, but because of the Israelis who walked by. I figured they must be used to this sort of thing, though.
I will continue later (hopeuflly not too much later) because right now I have to catch an overnight train from Luxor to Cairo. I'm not looking forward to it.
Friday, March 7, 2008
Shots
Tonight, I'm staying with my friend Ido. He's a soldier who joined the Birthright group for several days of the tour. He's going for a run and I'm using his computer. My ancestors were Jewish shoemakers in the Ukraine and his ancestors were Jewish shoemakers in Morroco.
A few minutes before I started writing, I heard a sound that resembled a gun shot outside. Where I come from, that means somebody's playing with firecrackers or that there's a gang fight. In the Middle East, it can mean those things, but it can also be a bit more threatening. Yesterday, several students got shot in Jerusalem. Every day, somebody tells me there is going to be a war with Gaza and Hezbollah soon. The place doesn't feel any more dangerous than it did when I first arrived, and it didn't feel dangerous then.
My time ran out at the internet cafe in Haifa yesterday. I do like the abrupt way the last post ended, but I would like to continue what I was writing about. I was going to say that when I touched the Western Wall, I got why there was a war over Jerusalem, and how traumatic it was for Jews to be denied access to this site. I didn't understand it: "understand" is a much too definitive word. I didn't understand it- I just got it.
In the last post, I mentioned that I didn't feel any more at home here than in any other country in the world. The only reason that was worth mentioning is because I've been comparing myself to people I've met who get an overwhelming, enthusiastic sense that something is right when they get here. As a place, Israel is quite allright. If I were to look at it without the sense that I'm in someone else's living dream, I wouldn't even find it necessary to mention my lack of overwhelming attachment to it. I could see myself living here just as I could see myself living in many other places.
I stayed in Akko (Acre) three days ago with a British Jewish guy named Joe and a German girl named Maja. Joe, like me, is half Irish and half Ashkenazic Jew. Akko is a city that looks like it hasn't changed much since the Ottoman empire, except that now the people wear American sports Jerseys instead of robes and drive cars blaring Arabic pop music down the alleys instead of riding horses and camels. I felt like Lawrence of Arabia in Aqaba, except, unlike Lawrence/Peter O'Toole, I didn't have Omar Sharif with me, and I didn't have a sadomasochistic, homoerotic encounter with Turkish soldiers.
I did, however, find myself in a very cinematic moment that night as we entered the busy section of the old city. As the call to prayer blared from the mosque, a man stepped out of his shop to welcome us. "Welcome," he said. "Can I help you find anything?" "No, but thank you," I said. "Welcome to Phalestina," he said in a mellow tone of voice as we walked by.
Maja and I played foosball against some Arabs who spoke no English. One of them saw my Brazil soccer Jersey (bought for me buy my slightly lecherous "host mom") and smiled and said "Braziiiil!" I smiled back and said, "Yeah, football!" He kept smiling. I was glad that I packed the shirt- the same shirt that had helped make me a mugging target in Brazil.
The Arabs won the foosball game by many points. We, the Irish Jew and the German, shook their hands and said, "good game."
A few minutes before I started writing, I heard a sound that resembled a gun shot outside. Where I come from, that means somebody's playing with firecrackers or that there's a gang fight. In the Middle East, it can mean those things, but it can also be a bit more threatening. Yesterday, several students got shot in Jerusalem. Every day, somebody tells me there is going to be a war with Gaza and Hezbollah soon. The place doesn't feel any more dangerous than it did when I first arrived, and it didn't feel dangerous then.
My time ran out at the internet cafe in Haifa yesterday. I do like the abrupt way the last post ended, but I would like to continue what I was writing about. I was going to say that when I touched the Western Wall, I got why there was a war over Jerusalem, and how traumatic it was for Jews to be denied access to this site. I didn't understand it: "understand" is a much too definitive word. I didn't understand it- I just got it.
In the last post, I mentioned that I didn't feel any more at home here than in any other country in the world. The only reason that was worth mentioning is because I've been comparing myself to people I've met who get an overwhelming, enthusiastic sense that something is right when they get here. As a place, Israel is quite allright. If I were to look at it without the sense that I'm in someone else's living dream, I wouldn't even find it necessary to mention my lack of overwhelming attachment to it. I could see myself living here just as I could see myself living in many other places.
I stayed in Akko (Acre) three days ago with a British Jewish guy named Joe and a German girl named Maja. Joe, like me, is half Irish and half Ashkenazic Jew. Akko is a city that looks like it hasn't changed much since the Ottoman empire, except that now the people wear American sports Jerseys instead of robes and drive cars blaring Arabic pop music down the alleys instead of riding horses and camels. I felt like Lawrence of Arabia in Aqaba, except, unlike Lawrence/Peter O'Toole, I didn't have Omar Sharif with me, and I didn't have a sadomasochistic, homoerotic encounter with Turkish soldiers.
I did, however, find myself in a very cinematic moment that night as we entered the busy section of the old city. As the call to prayer blared from the mosque, a man stepped out of his shop to welcome us. "Welcome," he said. "Can I help you find anything?" "No, but thank you," I said. "Welcome to Phalestina," he said in a mellow tone of voice as we walked by.
Maja and I played foosball against some Arabs who spoke no English. One of them saw my Brazil soccer Jersey (bought for me buy my slightly lecherous "host mom") and smiled and said "Braziiiil!" I smiled back and said, "Yeah, football!" He kept smiling. I was glad that I packed the shirt- the same shirt that had helped make me a mugging target in Brazil.
The Arabs won the foosball game by many points. We, the Irish Jew and the German, shook their hands and said, "good game."
Monday, February 18, 2008
Midnight Thoughts Before Departure
On February 21st, I will ride El Al Israel Airlines from New York to Tel Aviv.
Actually, the airport is not in Tel Aviv. It's in Lod. I know that because I used to work for a travel agency. I also know that because I have a habit of knowing that sort of thing.
I want blog because I want people to know about what I've seen. Or, to be more accurate, I want the comfort of knowing that anyone in the world can read what I'm writing about, should they make the choice.
I was going to watch Lawrence of Arabia tonight to put myself in a different state of mind. It's been a while since I've seen Peter O'Toole trek across the desert. In fact, I haven't seen a single David Lean epic since high school. But I feel like David Lean epics have played a significant role in forming my personality. Bridge on the River Kwai, Dr. Zhivago, and Lawrence were some of my favorite things in the world when I was in high school. The rest of the world felt so accessible then; it didn't yet feel like something I needed to worry about missing out on.
I have a dentist appointment at 11:30 tomorrow. I still have a minor but palpable urge to watch that fantastic epic. When I finish typing this entry, I may in fact do that.
I, like many people, love writing. I also am afraid to do it sometimes. I always feel like some people have an ability to become focused as soon as they start writing. I always need limits before I start.
It's usually easier for me to write when I'm tired. When I'm not tired, my fingers are capable of typing about 80 words per minute. That should theoretically be able to get me a high-paying, boring job, although it's only succeeded at getting me a job with one of those qualities.
In any case, I often type as fast, if not faster, than I think. My sentences get incredibly long and I finish them before I have decided how I want them to end.
I want to be a good writer, but I don't think my style of writing has ever developed past an imitation of Kurt Vonnegut. I first read The Sirens of Titan when I was 14 and I first felt that the writer and I were kindred spirits in the English language when I was 16. I might have been even younger. I'm 23 now. In college, I majored in English. I feel like other writers should have turned me on and altered my brain in the last five years, but, ultimately, nobody's style has had quite the same effect on the way I see words and the way I write them.
When I was in elementary school at the Hebrew Academy of the Capital District, I was pretty sure I was going to be one of the smartest, hardest-working people I knew when I grew up. I also couldn't conceive of growing up. In the middle of fifth grade, I looked at the end of my "Spelling" textbook and wondered about the person I'd be when I reached the end of the book. I thought he'd probably be unrecognizable and would be into girls, or something else shameful like that.
I also thought that Israel was where I belonged. That was because I liked palm trees and old rocks and because I went to a school called the Hebrew Academy. The places I'm about to see are things that everyone has seen on postcards. Tel Aviv, Jerusalem, the Dead Sea, Masada, and Eilat are also places whose images were taped to the walls of every classroom I entered before high school.
It wasn't until recently that I even figured out what the Occupation was. And a brief period of time after I figured that out, I thought I hated Israel as much as much of the world does. But then I realized that I only hate Israel as much as I hate the United States of America, which is to say, there's not a whole lot of hatred there. In a similar manner, I also hate money, and I strongly dislike the way my feet feel when they sweat and there's no Dr. Scholl's pad in my shoes.
Since the Israelis in Ben-Gurion Airport will stamp my passport with a 90-day tourist visa and I don't currently have a job or any courses that are worth staying with, I'll be in the country until one of the following things runs out:
1) Money
2) Things to do with the money I have
3) My visa
I decided today that I will not be packing my computer. That will take some literal and figurative weight off my shoulders. Less weight. Less things to be robbed of. And less time to write. All of these things I look forward to, for different reasons.
If I watch Lawrence of Arabia now, I will get five hours of sleep before getting novocained up at the dentist. It's a tough call.
Actually, the airport is not in Tel Aviv. It's in Lod. I know that because I used to work for a travel agency. I also know that because I have a habit of knowing that sort of thing.
I want blog because I want people to know about what I've seen. Or, to be more accurate, I want the comfort of knowing that anyone in the world can read what I'm writing about, should they make the choice.
I was going to watch Lawrence of Arabia tonight to put myself in a different state of mind. It's been a while since I've seen Peter O'Toole trek across the desert. In fact, I haven't seen a single David Lean epic since high school. But I feel like David Lean epics have played a significant role in forming my personality. Bridge on the River Kwai, Dr. Zhivago, and Lawrence were some of my favorite things in the world when I was in high school. The rest of the world felt so accessible then; it didn't yet feel like something I needed to worry about missing out on.
I have a dentist appointment at 11:30 tomorrow. I still have a minor but palpable urge to watch that fantastic epic. When I finish typing this entry, I may in fact do that.
I, like many people, love writing. I also am afraid to do it sometimes. I always feel like some people have an ability to become focused as soon as they start writing. I always need limits before I start.
It's usually easier for me to write when I'm tired. When I'm not tired, my fingers are capable of typing about 80 words per minute. That should theoretically be able to get me a high-paying, boring job, although it's only succeeded at getting me a job with one of those qualities.
In any case, I often type as fast, if not faster, than I think. My sentences get incredibly long and I finish them before I have decided how I want them to end.
I want to be a good writer, but I don't think my style of writing has ever developed past an imitation of Kurt Vonnegut. I first read The Sirens of Titan when I was 14 and I first felt that the writer and I were kindred spirits in the English language when I was 16. I might have been even younger. I'm 23 now. In college, I majored in English. I feel like other writers should have turned me on and altered my brain in the last five years, but, ultimately, nobody's style has had quite the same effect on the way I see words and the way I write them.
When I was in elementary school at the Hebrew Academy of the Capital District, I was pretty sure I was going to be one of the smartest, hardest-working people I knew when I grew up. I also couldn't conceive of growing up. In the middle of fifth grade, I looked at the end of my "Spelling" textbook and wondered about the person I'd be when I reached the end of the book. I thought he'd probably be unrecognizable and would be into girls, or something else shameful like that.
I also thought that Israel was where I belonged. That was because I liked palm trees and old rocks and because I went to a school called the Hebrew Academy. The places I'm about to see are things that everyone has seen on postcards. Tel Aviv, Jerusalem, the Dead Sea, Masada, and Eilat are also places whose images were taped to the walls of every classroom I entered before high school.
It wasn't until recently that I even figured out what the Occupation was. And a brief period of time after I figured that out, I thought I hated Israel as much as much of the world does. But then I realized that I only hate Israel as much as I hate the United States of America, which is to say, there's not a whole lot of hatred there. In a similar manner, I also hate money, and I strongly dislike the way my feet feel when they sweat and there's no Dr. Scholl's pad in my shoes.
Since the Israelis in Ben-Gurion Airport will stamp my passport with a 90-day tourist visa and I don't currently have a job or any courses that are worth staying with, I'll be in the country until one of the following things runs out:
1) Money
2) Things to do with the money I have
3) My visa
I decided today that I will not be packing my computer. That will take some literal and figurative weight off my shoulders. Less weight. Less things to be robbed of. And less time to write. All of these things I look forward to, for different reasons.
If I watch Lawrence of Arabia now, I will get five hours of sleep before getting novocained up at the dentist. It's a tough call.
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