Those who forget the past...

Our brains are disturbingly malleable, as psychology experiments through the years have shown. In the most famous, suburbanites turn into vicious sadists when given the power to administer lethal electric shocks to people they've never seen. College students morph into cruel prison guards, and blue eyed children discriminate against friends with brown eyes simply because the Blue Eyes came to school one morning and were told they were superior.

We read about these studies and can't help imagining ourselves as participants. Surely, we would be the exceptions to the rule. After all, we could never be fooled into torture and oppression. We are sophisticated and educated, empathetic and savvy. Someone else might be a psychology student's dream guinea pig, but we would not be fooled.

Or would we? I'm not so sure.

Last year, I wrote about a powerful social studies lesson that involved using access to junk food to illustrate the class conflict between the patricians and plebeians in ancient Rome. In this lesson, a small, arbitrarily selected group of students (the Pats) are given the privilege of bossing around their classmates, then relaxing with a can of Pringles while the rest of the kids struggle to complete a mind-numbing task. (See January 2009 "Friends, Romans, Pringles" entry for a full explanation of the lesson.) It's a brilliant way of bringing the frustrations of the plebeians home to pre-teens (who have a strong developmental bias toward fair play), but it is also a genuine, if temporary, mind-fuck. The entire lesson is designed to drive students crazy with real outrage, incite a rebellion born of actual frustration and force negotiations with the Pats, just like the real plebeians did in ancient Rome.

And the kids get it. Boy, do they get it. The first time I taught this lesson, I was frankly awed by its effectiveness and power. For better or worse, I have come across very few lessons that teach a complex issues as...viscerally. I wish I could take credit, but it's included our history curriculum.

I taught it again this week. Its effectiveness hasn't faded, but its psychological aspects were much more noticeable this year. This might be because I've been reading Naomi Klein, who writes powerfully about economic injustice and the way the world's wealthy (whether they be people, corporations or nations) are able to dominate, rob and oppress the world's poorer groups, often with their implied consent. Or rather with all of our implied consent, since the planet isn't burning like a Hollywood armageddon movie, which it should be, given the depth and violence of injustice going on out there. Last week, I finished Klein's book No Logo (recommended by K), which traces the exploitation of sweatshop labor to Western corporations' obsession with creating brands as opposed to products; amorphous "lifestyle choices" rather than objects made by real people to be used in the real world. Money spent on pumping up brands with advertising and market research leave corporations little money for (or interest in) actual workers, factories and products. Better to outsource those old-fashioned little issues in order to focus more closely on what really matters: copyrighting Michael Jordan's jump shot or designing Barbie's dream world.

Or rather, what really matters is messing with people's minds until they believe that they're not buying Nike shoes, but athletic prowess, success and stardom. Starbucks might sell coffee, but it actually spends money on the idea of cuddling up to a $3.00 latte with a loved one on a lazy Saturday afternoon.

And it works. Boy, does it work. Our minds, being what they are, fall for it. Willingly. Happily. It's as easy as giving thoughtful, well-meaning children a can of Pringles and watching them--in the space of 10 minutes--become power-hungry patricians who refuse to give up any of their power

At the end of the day, that's what it comes down to: power. A concept that is disturbingly hard to deconstruct. As Klein points out, it's hard for people (savvy, well-educated people) to analyze the ways they are being manipulated by the media. It's perhaps even more difficult for the poor and oppressed to envision a world where they could have a say in their own lives.

In ancient Rome, it all turned out OK, and least from the perspective of a fair-minded 12 year old. The real patricians were forced to share power. The plebs staged a walk out, perhaps the first non-violent collective action in history, camped on a hill outside of the city and compelled the Pats to pay attention to their demands. In other words, justice triumphed, more or less, even if it did take over 200 years to iron out the power-sharing details of the Roman Republic.

Real life is a little more complex, but still contains meaningful lessons, as my students and I discovered this week--and as Klein reminds us on every page of her book.

This year, in one class, the Plebs refused to rebel at all. I set the exercise in motion, and no one moved. They were too "afraid" of the Pats (their friends and classmates) and were nervous about the risks involved in rebellion. They spent the time blaming themselves for not making it into the arbitrary group ("I should have worn a darker colored shirt today!") and accepting their lot in life. Two boys tried to start a movement, but backed down when no one followed them.

Now, one of my roles as teachers is to set the scene with the Pats in charge, but another role involves giving the Plebs tacit permission to rebel. As contradictory as it sounds, it works with 6th graders. But it didn't work this time. By the time I started muttering things like "There're more of you than there are of them" and "You guys shouldn't take this from those Pats," the Plebs had absorbed the mentality of the oppressed. It took about seven minutes.

When questioned about it later, kids were surprised, then chagrined. They are typically not a group of shrinking violets. When asked why they didn't rebel they said things like, "Well, the Pats were in charge./They were above us." When asked why the Pats were above them, they answered,"They got to sit on the cushions./They didn't have to work." Everyone agreed it wasn't fair. Everyone understood why the Roman plebeians rebelled. We also understood--in a very real way--why it took them so long to get up the courage to walk out and voice their demands.

The kids also may have learned (though, unfortunately, I was not on my toes enough to draw this comparison explicitly) that just because people aren't actively protesting doesn't mean injustice has been eradicated. That, of course, is Klein's point exactly. Just because Nike offers 15% more than the going wage in Indonesia, doesn't mean it's OK for a multibillion dollar corporation to pay human beings 25 cents an hour. Just because Starbucks spends a small portion of its budget on Fair Trade coffee, doesn't mean it's not also paying the environmentally disastrous megafarms throughout South America and Africa.

In my other class, the Plebs staged a classic rebellion. One kid led the charge and others followed (though, as always, a few kids kept on working). In response, the Pats in this class starting shoving chips into their mouths in anticipation of coming reforms. If they weren't going to get the Pringles, no one was going to get the Pringles. After we had settled the labor dispute (equal work, equal access to what was left of the Pringles), and I'd come clean on the point of the lesson, the kids who had been the Pats felt more than a little guilty. "I don't know what got into me," said a girl, who is normally so approachable and friendly that she is chosen to orient new students to the school. "It was like I became a different person."

We talked about how hard it is for people in power to give it up. If even Guilty Girl could morph into a Pringle-hogging Pat, we could all imagine how the real patricians might have reacted when the plebeians first voiced their demands.

Although the two classes acted very differently this time around (and very differently than last year's students), my refrain was the same to both sets of kids: Yes, you may have done things you're not proud of, but next time you are confronted by a situation like this, what will you do differently?

Teacher, instruct thyself! Klein's book and both classes this year taught me how powerful an exercise like this is, and how many different lessons it has for 12 year olds studying history, but also for all of us in the world today. What I will do differently the next time I teach this lesson (and I will teach it again--it is way too good), is attempt to draw more explicit parallels to our modern lives. History can provide us all, even 6th graders, with such useful tools. Rather than having a class discussion and moving on (as we did this week), there are ways of making this lesson sink in beyond the Pringle level.

And before anyone thinks I'm pushing an agenda on kids (my own or Klein's) let me say that not drawing these parallels is also pushing an agenda, one that the Gap and, sadly, most Western governments would prefer not be made. Because it's glaringly obvious once the emotions calm down and the extra can of Pringles appears that everyone can share: justice can be achieved, but that it takes a concerted effort, a lot of time, a 12 year old's sense of fair play and unwavering understanding that power always, always, always corrupts--even the nicest girl in class.

History provides us with such useful tools. These are lessons we all need to keep in mind.

Linguistically hoping

As many of you know, I am deeply geeky. I put up a good front most of the time, but, in my heart, I happily roll with the Trekkies and the grammar nerds. I genuinely enjoy sci-fi. I like knowing useless bits of information, the more esoteric the better. I understand that admitting this throws my mainstream credentials as a literary person into question. A friend of my mom's, a former university president, visibly winces when I mention the unique and valuable lens sci-fi provides to society today. He'd rather talk about the other books I've read. You know, the normal ones.

So with this disclaimer, I want to tell you about a book I read recently that set my geeky heart singing. It's a normal book about a truly nerdy subject. See, something for everyone!

If you haven't read In the Land of Invented Languages by linguist Arika Okrent, go out and get it this minute. It is a fascinating overview of the concept, history and reasons behind the world's invented languages. You've probably heard of Esperanto, but did you know that medieval nun Hildegard of Bingen was the first to invent her own language back in the 12th century? Since then, people (mostly really geeky guys) have been giving it a go for a wealth of reasons. During the Enlightenment, it was about controlling the illogical, irregular beast of language, taming it into a more orderly, scientific creature. In the 19th century, Esperanto and many other less famous attempts were meant to heal the violent rifts caused by the rise of nationalism. Today, language inventing is as popular as ever, but folks do it for artistic reasons. They craft languages in the shape of their own worldviews or for worlds of their own creation. JRR Tolkein, who essentially wrote Lord of the Rings to provide a home for his several invented Elvish languages, is considered the founding father of this era.

But what brings language inventors of all eras together is an abiding desire to change the world through one of its most fundamental mediums. These are people who think big. They understand that language shapes thought, expression, reason and emotion, along with culture, so they want to shape the ultimate shaper. And all of them seek to do so for exclusively constructive reasons: they want to improve clarity of thought; they want to bring peace; they want to express themselves more fully; they want to create community; they think it's incredibly fun. And they do it on the level of grammar, syntax, even phonemes. The work involves total submersion into language as a concept and a concrete tool. The fact that most of these people are amateurs doesn't stop them from professional-level study of what makes communication work at its most basic level.

So what, you might be saying. Why bother? Who actually speaks an invented language? Who has even heard of someone who does? (Actually, I took Esperanto lessons in the summer between 6th and 7th grade, not that I remember any of it.) But that is another cool thing about Okrent's book. She opens the doors of the invented language subcultures and invites us in. We get to meet the people, quirky and quixotic, who insist on doing this work despite raised eyebrows and open ridicule.

We meet the small but passionate Esperanto culture that exists to this day, and which includes its own rock music, literature, poetry and a very small number of native speakers (children raised by Esperantists). We hang out with speakers of Klingon, uber geeks even by Trekkie standards, who have translated Hamlet into a language invented for a TV show about an alien race that doesn't exist. (At least not in the way the writers of Star Trek envisioned.) We see how a pictographic language called Blissymbols changed the lives of children living with celebral palsy. We witness real people engaging in a kind of escapism, yes, but a kind of escapism that results in actual transformation. The invented becomes concrete through the actions of real people in the real world.

In this way, it's not fantasy; it's the opposite of fantasy. Fantasy is looking at a Vogue cover model or that cherry-red Ferrari in the window. Though these two "ideals" are real, they will never enter your reality. Klingons don't exist, but their language does because people have brought it into being. I will never walk the red carpet at the Oscars in the latest by Chanel. But I can speak Klingon, if I care to learn. (I don't, but I love that some people do.) I can change the real world by making something invented my own. In this way, something as "normal" as the contents of People magazine becomes the true exercise in bizarre wish fulfillment. At least learning Klingon is possible.

This is also exactly the reason I'm a geek. I love it when people go against the grain to create alternative realities because the one we're living in leaves much to be desired. It's weird, but it's hopeful. It's creative in the strictest sense of the word. (NB: In most invented languages, I would not have to draw your attention, as I just did, to the shades of meaning in the word creative. There would be a separate word for creative meaning original and innovative, and creative meaning relating to the process of creation.) It's not that I long for an alternative to the languages we have. After all, they were invented, too, by all of us over the centuries, and they get the job done, more or less. It's just that there is something so fascinating about striking new ground in a realm we take for granted, for having the will to break out of the mold in such a fundamental way. Some of the most interesting conversations I've had in the past year have been with K about what it's like to walk the rocky road to fluency in a second or third language, as they have. It is not a road I've traveled very far along, despite my best efforts over the years (starting with Esperanto and moving on from there). But there is no doubt about the power of the experience. From what I can tell, it becomes impossible to look at meaning and self expression in quite the same way. Imagine, then, attempting to express your world view as an invented language, where the goal is not the journey to fluency but the creation of a whole new expressive realm.

Unsurprisingly, as Okrent writes, it becomes the life work of most who attempt it. You could argue there are more important tasks to spend time and energy on. Or you could be thankful, as I am, there still is a small space in the world for linguistic Don Quixotes and their dictionary-sized dreams.

Chaperoning wonderland

Last week, I chaperoned my first middle school dance. You might be wondering how I could have taught this age group for nine years and only just found myself standing, arms folded, in a dimly-lit cafeteria full of blaring music and runaway hormones. Well, two of those years I was in Cameroon, which has a cute youth day once a year (sort of a talent show on steroids), but no dances. Then I taught at a school with a lot on its mind, but busting a move did not rank high. We did have a dance at one point, but I somehow escaped monitoring duties. I recall being incredibly relieved. Even last year here in Abu Dhabi, I managed to elude the call when the dance I was scheduled to watch was canceled. Not this year. This year, I was stationed on the sidelines for Winter Wonderland 2009.

It was in the cafeteria, which is a windowless cavern-like room underneath the gym. The student council had hung strings of lights and gotten their hands on some stand-alone strobes that flashed different colors at irregular intervals. The kids were instructed to wear all white, snowflakes being a universal cause for celebration (as opposed to any one religion's winter colors). It made them easy to see. My fellow chaperones and I took our places along the edges of the dance floor. The principal and student council adviser guarded the door. A gaggle of parents sold food coupons while others distributed KFC Twisters, ice cream sandwiches and tiny cans of Sprite

Middle school dances haven't changed much since you were 13, in case you're wondering. There was lots of giggling, running around, the casting of meaningful looks (that may or may not have been noticed) and more giggling. In addition to separating by gender, the kids divided by grade level. Imagine the rectangular, low-ceiled cafeteria divided into thirds (8th on the left, 6th in the middle, 7th on the right). Each third was, of course, split into a boy huddle and a girl huddle. The 8th graders mixed the most; the 6th graders the least. In fact, the 6th grade boys soon took refuge behind the speakers while the 6th grade girls joined hands and spun around together, ring-around-the-rosy style, to most songs. The 7th graders at one point looked like they were playing an unintentional game of Red Rover. They stood in two lines facing each other (one made up of girls, one of boys). Though they kept strictly to their third of the cafeteria, occasionally one girl or one boy would "come on over" to the opposite 7th grade line, have what looked like a drive-by conversation, and scoot on back.

We chaperones spent a lot of time talking about how glad we were to be decades distant from our middle school years, especially during the one slow song where a total of two 8th grade couples danced (along with the twirling 6th grade girls). What we didn't do was spend a lot of time worrying about sex and drugs amid the rock n roll (or Euro-style techno and R&B). Senorita C, one of the chaperones, talked about patrolling the darkest corners at her former school, breaking up make-out sessions and discouraging bootie shaking on the dance floor. The closest we came to that was when the PE teacher (a hilarious Brit) started making faces over the shoulders of the two slow-dancing duos, surely scarring them for life.

At 9 p.m. sharp, we turned on the lights, cleared the floor (mostly of the 6th grade Energizer bunnies, who could have gone for another three hours) and sent the kids into the cars of their waiting parents.

My middle school dances took place in the Boys and Girls Club of the small beach town where I grew up. This was fortunate because it meant I could attend, even though I didn't go to the local junior high, which hosted the events. The dances weren't held in the gym (which was large and roomy). Rather, they cleared the floor of the "club" area, normally home to pool, air hockey and Foozball tables. It was packed with kids (boys on one side, girls on other other). The year was 1987. I remember wearing my first miniskirt, white pantyhoes and an Espirt top, and hanging close to the girls from my street. I slow-danced with BrianB to "Crazy for You" by Madonna, and all I could think about were all the people who were looking at me. The horror. I wish I had enjoyed it more. And I'm relieved (to this day) that the PE teacher wasn't making faces over my shoulder.

Aren't you glad you're not in middle school anymore?

Breaking news: it is #@&$ pouring here

I think of this blog as more Harper's than CNN, but I have to interrupt this in-depth feature vibe with some breaking news: it has been raining here for the last 48 hours! (This street looks a lot like the one right outside my window!)

The streets are flooded. The ceilings are leaking. The kids practically had to wade to their lockers in several hallways today. The gutters sent sheets of water onto the pavement and yards. The fields are drowning and the server room (of all places) shorted out. As of right now (7:30 p.m., Sunday, Dec. 13) the parking lot outside my building is a lake, and the clouds still haven't cleared.

No one expects rain here. Which explains the lack of street drainage and the pitiful state of the roofs. And you can't really point any fingers when 365 days of the year for years on end, there might be an inch or two of precipitation. The heaviest recorded rainfall in UAE history is 77 mm in one day back in 1967. I wouldn't be surprised if we broke that today. Stay tuned... (A classic Abu Dhabi taxi--not slowing down for anything...)

Blowin' by the wind

There is a Polish expression that roughly translates as: look where the wind has blown us. K and her mom used it with smiles on their faces during a recent road trip to Oman. It's handy phrase for moments like that, when you look around and think, 'Wow. Here we are--imagine that!' The nearest English equivalent I can think of is, 'We're not in Kansas anymore.' But the Polish phrase implies much more amazement, even gratitude. Look where the wind has blown us! Isn't it cool?

I thought of the phrase last night at the annual school choir concert. It was impressive and well done, as these things often are. The last number was a beautiful medley sung by the high school, middle school and elementary choirs about peace on earth. As the kids stood up in the soft glow of the spotlights, they represented about 45 different countries and half as many languages. It was a poignant moment that made me feel the sheer chance of being in Abu Dhabi at this moment in time with this particular group of students singing so sweetly.

I have been trying to characterize the community at my school for over a year now. It has proven elusive. Students and teachers are friendly and seem comfortable and well adjusted. There is very little tension or other strong emotions. On the surface, it appears stable, healthy and secure. Yet there is not a particular sense of closeness or deep bonds. The congeniality is not false--it's just not deeply rooted. But why should this be with so many genuine people gathered in one place?

Then it came to me. Almost every single person in Abu Dhabi, from grocery store clerk to CEO, is windblown, swept into town by choice or by chance. We live in a city of leaves, not trees, despite the emirate's attempt to green the desert. People arrive, they work, they look around, perhaps amazed and grateful for the opportunity, and then after awhile, they blow away. Back to where they came from or onto the next adventure. The school is the same. The choirs that sung last night will never sing together again (several students are leaving at the end of December, and more will be arriving). The same could be said for almost every quarter of the school at every level. The wind blows in, the wind blows out, and the community sways, swirls, reconfigures and moves on.

This week I officially decided to catch the wind back to the States this June. At the end of the day, my decision to leave Abu Dhabi after two years is related, in part, to the ephemeral nature of the place. I have a need to sink roots into a school where colleagues and students are committed to a common mission. For me, that mission needs to involve serving students who need it most, standing side by side with colleagues who feel the same way. I knew how important the first part was to me before I left. I didn't realize until I came here that the second part is just as crucial. As I've mentioned before in this blog (see several of the June 2009 entries), uniting with the adults in the community to care for children is one of the most powerful functions of education (and human experience, really). Being anchored by a common goal helps create this dynamic. Being windblown doesn't, especially when the children involved are grounded instead in families that can happily provide for their needs.

I will always be grateful for blowing over here for so many reasons (which I will write about in subsequent posts). And I always knew I'd leave eventually (as should be obvious from reading the paragraph above). In the meantime, I'm looking forward to swirling around for a few more months in the city of leaves.

Sheikh Zayed on a keychain

The end of November is a special time in the UAE. The date palms sway in the breeze, the sun smiles gently from the sky, and the workers of Abu Dhabi begin weaving long tubes of twinkly lights into decorative shapes and displaying them at regular intervals along the roadside. The shops fill with celebratory items, and most houses and cars are awash in red, green--and black. Yes, black. It's not Christmas being celebrated with such enthusiasm. It's the UAE national days on Dec. 2 and 3.

I was going to name this post "Pimp My Emirate" but I thought it'd be a little much. It would also be descriptive. The UAE goes crazy with national pride as the beginning of December approaches. This year our favorite federation of Gulfside city-states turns 38. If it's not a number to be proud of, don't tell that to my neighbor whose car is festooned with Emerati flags and plastered with stickers of Sheikh Zayed and sons. The aforementioned roadside light displays proclaim the birthday number every 10 feet or so, alongside the magic number seven, representing the seven emirates that make up the nation. In my favorite grocery store, one can buy Sheikh Zayed posters, tea towels, mouse pads, buttons and key chains, along with UAE-themed sweat bands, sundresses, scarves, bracelets, necklaces and several varieties of hat, including those super-tall baseball caps like they wear at Hotdog on a Stick. Only in red, green and black, of course.

Buildings get in on the act as well. My gym has the UAE flag in lights along the outer wall, and twinkly strands snaking up the palm trees in the parking lot. The skyscrapers downtown turn their floodlights to green and red. One enterprising organization projects a slideshow of UAE history 15 stories high. Featured prominently is everyone's favorite sheikh and photos of the fishing villages of Dubai and Abu Dhabi in the goat-hair-hut days of yore.

Or 38 years ago, whichever you prefer. Happy birthday, UAE!

Rain, rain, come and stay...

As most of you know, I just spent a week with the whole 6th grade touring the ancient Greek and Roman ruins near Selcuk, Turkey. It is a fantastic experience by any standards and meshes perfectly with the social studies curriculum. Kids learn the history and then they see it first hand. They even do in-depth research on a particular site, be it a temple, amphitheater, fountain, triumphal arch or stadium.

This year, however, the desert flowers of Abu Dhabi experienced a lot more than the wonders of the ancient world. They lived through a week of honest-to-goodness weather. And it was hard to tell which excited them more.

It all started back at school when we were preparing for the trip.

"It might rain," I said, in the tone of voice teachers use when delivering bad news.

"Yeeeeeessssss!" they all replied, to a kid, sounding like a nest of enthusiastic snakes and making the Jim Carrey fist pump.

I was a bit surprised. Rainy field trips, as both a teacher and a student, have all the appeal of a soggy sandwich.

"It may also get cold," I continued.

"Yeeessssssssssssss." More fist pumps. Some kids even slapped each other high fives.

"Will it snow?" piped up a kid from Norway.

Haven't you had enough snow? I wondered. "Probably not in Selcuk," I admitted.

"Awwwwwwwwwww."

"So, you want it to rain," I said, finally getting a clue, but not quite believing it.

"Totally/oh my gosh/how can you even ask?/yes/of course/duh," replied the kids. I heard a few whisper to each other about umbrellas and ponchos.

"It never rains here," a Korean kid explained. "So when it rains, it's special."

"It's wet," I pointed out. "And damp."

"Yeeesssssssssss."

Then we got to Turkey, and the first few days it was perfect. Sunny, warm, at least 80 degrees. We went to the beach. We frolicked among columns, Doric, Ionic and Corinthian. One of the drama classes did their play under the dome of the sky, like the ancient Greeks intended. We got back to the hotel every night, hot and sweaty.

What did we hear from the kids? Whine, whine, whine.

"I thought you said it was going to rain?" "When am I going to be able to wear my jacket?" "Isn't it autumn here?" "Why isn't it cold?"

Be careful what you wish for, kids.

The next day it poured. Buckets. It thundered and lightning. It wasn't that cold, but, boy, was it wet. And no one was prepared because when we left the hotel, it looked like another sunny day. I had left my rain jacket in my room. So had almost everyone else.

No sooner had the bus pulled into the parking lot, then it started.

"Ms. R, can we go outside?" "Can we play in the rain?" "Can I splash in the puddles." "Do you want to share my umbrella?" One kid even had one of those umbrella hats, honest to god, and his classmates thought it was the coolest thing they had ever seen in their entire lives. The kid looked like a grandpa at a golf tournament, but everyone was green with envy over his umbrella hat. He couldn't wait to try it out.

We stomped around the site in the pouring rain. It got colder. It got damper. The kids had enough of the water-from-the-sky thing after their shoes soaked through and their hair started to drip down their backs. But they were troopers, and didn't complain at all. Not like they had about the brilliant sunshine and balmy Mediterranean breeze of the day before.

"At least we're experiencing the rain," Umbrella Hat said solemnly, in the same tone you or I would say, 'At least we're experiencing these ancient monuments, which we may never see again.' It amounted to much the same thing.

The next day, it rained again, but got much colder. This time, the kids were prepared. Out came the hats, mittens, scarves and boots--clothes that spend months in the back of the closet until a ski holiday or perhaps a trip north for Christmas finally saw the light of day. We had a bright orange poncho, the kind for camping ("Don't you have a raincoat?" "No, why would I?") and a panda bear-inspired hat (complete with little ears) with a built-in scarf with matching mittens. Everyone wanted to wear it, but it lasted about 10 seconds in a real downpour. ("I guess it's not really waterproof." "No, honey, it isn't." "But it's cute, huh?")

When we got back to school and reconvened this week, kids talked about the rain as hardened vets recounting battle stories. Unfortunately, the 7th graders were having none of it. In their part of Turkey, it had snowed.

"Whoa!/Cool!/That is so incredible!/Can you believe it?/Oh my gosh," came the chorus from the 6th grade as they heard about the below freezing temps, piles of slush, stuck buses and frigid hikes of the 7th grade trip to Cappadocia.

And then the inevitable question, "Do you think we'll be that lucky next year?"

(I have purposely chosen photos from our trip that are somewhat blurry and that don't show the kids' faces clearly. But you definitely can get the idea of what it was like to tour in the pouring rain (in Ephesus) and in the beautiful sunshine (in Priene).)