Day 1

I was fine. All I wanted was a Starbucks strawberry and creme frappuccino. I did not want sympathy. I did not want to talk about it. Just the strawberry frappucino.

At the Starbucks counter I was met with a service refusal: "I'm sorry, but we can't make those right now. There was a shipping problem, and all the stores in this area are out of the cream mixture. We ran out two hours ago."

I burst into tears. Lana started laughing. The barista was baffled. He offered to make me a strawberry coffee, tea, lemonade, something. We declined, laughing and crying out the door.

"Bet they've never seen that happen before..."

* * *

Later, over a strawberry milkshake consolation prize, an outgoing young man in the next booth struck up a conversation. "You look Jewish," remarked Lana. He was not. He and his companion were both Palestinian. Lana is, in fact, Jewish.

"So I guess we're like the Middle East, separated by the Gaza Strip here," he said, motioning at me. "How ya feelin', Gaza?"

"volatile."

He laughed. I was being serious.