Goodbye, President Hinckley

Just wanted to acknowledge the passing of one of the greatest men, Gordon B. Hinckley. I am grateful for the knowledge that although he leaves us behind, he'll be enjoying many great reunions now on the other side. I'm grateful for the perspective and reassurance that the Gospel brings me in my life.

I'd like to share part of my favorite of his talks. I used it a lot on my mission. I appreciate his boldness and straight forwardness.

Do we as Latter-day Saints really understand and appreciate the strength of our position? Among the religions of the world, it is unique and wonderful.

Is this Church an educational institution? Yes. We are constantly and endlessly teaching, teaching, teaching in a great variety of circumstances. Is it a social organization? Indeed. It is a great family of friends who mingle together and enjoy one another. Is it a mutual aid society? Yes. It has a remarkable program for building self-reliance and granting aid to those in distress. It is all of these and more. But beyond these it is the Church and kingdom of God established and directed by our Eternal Father and His Beloved Son, the risen Lord Jesus Christ, to bless all who come within its fold.

We declare without equivocation that God the Father and His Son, the Lord Jesus Christ, appeared in person to the boy Joseph Smith.

When I was interviewed by Mike Wallace on the 60 Minutes program, he asked me if I actually believed that. I replied, "Yes, sir. That's the miracle of it."

That is the way I feel about it. Our whole strength rests on the validity of that vision. It either occurred or it did not occur. If it did not, then this work is a fraud. If it did, then it is the most important and wonderful work under the heavens.

Reflect upon it, my brethren and sisters. For centuries the heavens remained sealed. Good men and women, not a few—really great and wonderful people—tried to correct, strengthen, and improve their systems of worship and their body of doctrine. To them I pay honor and respect. How much better the world is because of their bold action. While I believe their work was inspired, it was not favored with the opening of the heavens, with the appearance of Deity.

Then in 1820 came that glorious manifestation in answer to the prayer of a boy who had read in his family Bible the words of James: "If any of you lack wisdom, let him ask of God, that giveth to all men liberally, and upbraideth not; and it shall be given him" (James 1:5).

Upon that unique and wonderful experience stands the validity of this Church.

In all of recorded religious history there is nothing to compare with it. The New Testament recounts the baptism of Jesus when the voice of God was heard and the Holy Ghost descended in the form of a dove. At the Mount of Transfiguration, Peter, James, and John saw the Lord transfigured before them. They heard the voice of the Father, but they did not see Him.

Why did both the Father and the Son come to a boy, a mere lad? For one thing, they came to usher in the greatest gospel dispensation of all time, when all of previous dispensations should be gathered and brought together in one.

Can anyone doubt that the age in which we live is the most wonderful in the history of the world? There has been a marvelous flowering of science, of medicine, of communication, of transportation, unequaled in all the chronicles of mankind. Is it reasonable to submit that there should also be a flowering of spiritual knowledge as a part of this incomparable renaissance of light and understanding?

The instrument in this work of God was a boy whose mind was not cluttered by the philosophies of men. That mind was fresh and without schooling in the traditions of the day.

It is easy to see why people do not accept this account. It is almost beyond comprehension. And yet it is so reasonable. Those familiar with the Old Testament recognize the appearance of Jehovah to the prophets who lived in that comparatively simple time. Can they legitimately deny the need for an appearance of the God of heaven and His resurrected Son in this very complex period of the world's history?

That They came, both of Them, that Joseph saw Them in Their resplendent glory, that They spoke to him and that he heard and recorded Their words—of these remarkable things we testify.

I knew a so-called intellectual who said the Church was trapped by its history. My response was that without that history we have nothing. The truth of that unique, singular, and remarkable event is the pivotal substance of our faith.

But this glorious vision was but the beginning of a series of manifestations that constitute the early history of this work.

As if that vision were not enough to certify to the personality and the reality of the Redeemer of mankind, there followed the coming forth of the Book of Mormon. Here is something that a man could hold in his hands, could "heft," as it were. He could read it. He could pray about it, for it contained a promise that the Holy Ghost would declare its truth if that witness were sought in prayer.

This remarkable book stands as a testimonial to the living reality of the Son of God. The Bible declares that "in the mouth of two or three witnesses every word may be established" (Matthew 18:16). The Bible, the testament of the Old World, is one witness. The Book of Mormon, the testament of the New World, is another witness.

I cannot understand why the Christian world does not accept this book. I would think they would be looking for anything and everything that would establish without question the reality and the divinity of the Savior of the world.

There followed the restoration of the priesthood—first, of the Aaronic under the hands of John the Baptist, who had baptized Jesus in Jordan.

Then came Peter, James, and John, Apostles of the Lord, who conferred in this age that which they had received under the hands of the Master with whom they walked, even "the keys of the kingdom of heaven," with authority to bind in the heavens that which they bound on earth (see Matthew 16:19).

Subsequently came the bestowal of further priesthood keys under the hands of Moses, Elias, and Elijah.

Think of it, my brothers and sisters. Think of the wonder of it.

This is the restored Church of Jesus Christ. We as a people are Latter-day Saints. We testify that the heavens have been opened, that the curtains have been parted, that God has spoken, and that Jesus Christ has manifested Himself, followed by a bestowal of divine authority.

Jesus Christ is the cornerstone of this work, and it is built upon a "foundation of . . . apostles and prophets" (Ephesians 2:20).

This wondrous Restoration should make of us a people of tolerance, of neighborliness, of appreciation and kindness toward others. We cannot be boastful. We cannot be proud. We can be thankful, as we must be. We can be humble, as we should be.

We love those of other churches. We work with them in good causes. We respect them. But we must never forget our roots. Those roots lie deep in the soil of the opening of this, the final dispensation, the dispensation of the fulness of times.

What an inspiration it has been to look into the faces of men and women across the world who carry in their hearts a solemn conviction of the truth of this foundation.

When it comes to divine authority, this is the sum and substance of the whole matter.

God be thanked for His marvelous bestowal of testimony, authority, and doctrine associated with this, the restored Church of Jesus Christ.

This must be our great and singular message to the world. We do not offer it with boasting. We testify in humility but with gravity and absolute sincerity. We invite all, the whole earth, to listen to this account and take measure of its truth. God bless us as those who believe in His divine manifestations and help us to extend knowledge of these great and marvelous occurrences to all who will listen. To these we say in a spirit of love, bring with you all that you have of good and truth which you have received from whatever source, and come and let us see if we may add to it. This invitation I extend to men and women everywhere with my solemn testimony that this work is true, for I know the truth of it by the power of the Holy Ghost. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Labor Day

So here's the story I've been dying to tell.

This past Saturday I had planned to have lunch with two ex-companions. The three of us had a tight bond on the mission. We all served with each other at one time or another, and we also had the privilege of spending two p-days together in Rome, which doesn't often happen when you're not all companions at the same time and you're not serving in the same area. We were lucky that way. And one day, at the top of the Spanish Steps, we bought each other friendship bracelets and then tied them onto each other, announcing, "three knots for three friends at the top of the Spanish Steps." (The bracelets didn't last long---when our mission President saw them, he said that they were juvenile and had to go. So we replaced them with mature leather bracelets.) We always swore we'd go back to Italy together.

But fate intervened. Sidsel, the first of us to go home, started dating her zone leader. She married him soon after Clat got home from her mission. And then money and school prevented us from going too. And then Clat got married. So our plans of going to Italy pretty much fell through. But you get the point---we were close.

And Clat was close to her baby's due date last week, so we decided to all get together for lunch on Saturday before she popped. At noon, however, I got a phone call from Clat. I answered and asked, "So are you calling to cancel lunch because you're going into labor?" She said, "Well... kindof. I started having contractions, so I don't really feel like going out for lunch. I think I'll probably go into labor tonight." I asked if she'd like us to bring lunch to her, and she thought that was a great idea.

When Sidsel and I got there, the contractions were ten minutes apart. It wasn't long, though, before they were consistently three minutes apart. We kept questioning whether or not she should be going to the hospital (I even mentioned that I liked my shirt too much to ruin it by delivering her baby), but she said that her doctor said that if she could talk through the contractions, not to go in to the hospital. She didn't want to go just to be sent back home. So we talked a little more, or rather, I talked a little more, and realized that I'd been talking for a while. I asked Clat if she could talk, and she said, "I... don't.......... know." We suggested again that maybe she should go to the hospital, and she thought that was a good idea.

But we didn't leave before getting a picture all together. On our mission, we were all called to train at the same time, so we took the traditional "pregnant" picture. Now, we had a picture all together only moments before Clat left for the hospital.



We left Clat's house at 2:30. At 6:00, Clat called. I assumed she was calling to say that they sent her home. Instead, she announced, "Well. I had the kid." She went into the hospital at 3:00 and had the baby at 5:00. Two pushes and he was out.

I just have to say that I felt privileged to be with Clat in her last moments of pregnancy. Sidsel and I wanted her to name the baby Alma Julien, but apparently Clat didn't go for that. Well, she was always kindof a selfish witch anyway.


(Also, she has us to thank for looking so good in her picture because she did her hair and makeup before she realized that she wasn't feeling well enough to go out for lunch.)

L'ombrello

I'm the type of person who can't use things up when they're almost spent. The cupboard under my sink is full of various hair products that are 98 percent used up; I can never bring myself to use the last little bit because something in me makes me need to save it for when I'll really need it. My bedroom is littered with mint containers with one mint left in each. I can't use the last mint, but I can't throw away the container until all the mints are used.

This same phenomenon has prevented me from either using or throwing away my special Italian umbrella for a year and a half.

In Italy, it rains quite a bit. Because I am One Who Prepares, I would pack my umbrella every day. For the first year of my mission, it was a light-weight umbrella that had been given to me as a mission gift---until it was stolen by a church member. After that was stolen, I simply would grab one of the many umbrellas that inevitably collected in each mission apartment---not that it really mattered anyway; as long as you are in a big city, the moment a drop falls from the sky, mobs of foreign street vendors surround any umbrella-less person, offering an umbrella for five euros. No? Four euros. No? For you, bella, two euros. Sold.

And so, with a rain coat and an umbrella, you would think that I was set anytime it rained. But I wasn't. See, because I was One Who Prepares, but my companions never were. Or at least they saw that I had an umbrella and thought that they were covered, literally. But let's review the sorry lot of One Who Prepares:

Rain or not, One Who Prepares must carry the umbrella all day long.

When it begins to rain, One Who Prepares gets the job of holding the umbrella over the companionship for hours.

Because there are puddles, even when a companionship tries to walk closely together, inevitably they must sometimes diverge to avoid stepping in puddles and on those occasions, One Who Prepares still tries to be kind to the umbrella-less companion and stretches out her arm to make sure that the companion is covered as she steps around the puddle.

One Who Prepares, despite her preparation, gets wet.

Basically, One Who Prepares is screwed over completely. Get it?

It took me MONTHS before I finally clued into the fact that the situation was wholly unfair. Three months before the end of my mission, after we had about two weeks of straight rain, I told my companion that I was no longer sharing my umbrella with her. The torrential rains had claimed the lives of all but one of the umbrellas in the apartment. I told her that she could have the remaining umbrella and I would go out and buy my own.

I bought the most fantastic umbrella I've ever seen. First of all, it was name-brand. Second of all, it didn't cost two euros. And it didn't cost five euros. Third of all, it was beautiful and sturdy. I bought it and spelled things out clearly to my companion: I will never share this umbrella with you. You are welcome to use the other umbrella every day, but if you don't pack it and bring it with you, I'm not going to get myself wet because you failed to prepare.

Really it was an empty threat. As much as I would have loved to leave her out in the rain and stay dry under my beautiful umbrella, I was too conscious of the Church's public image to allow the Italians to see a companionship where the one sister wouldn't even share her umbrella with the other. But it worked. I never had to share my umbrella again.

The umbrella served me well for the last three months. And I loved it so dearly that I hand-carried it back to the United States. It was too long to fit into my luggage. I used it during the summer I was home before returning to BYU and the day I was flying out to BYU, I had it at the door, ready to hand-carry it to Utah. But I got distracted and left it there, at the door. When I got to Utah, I called home and asked my mother to please put it in the closet until I came home for Christmas.

I don't recall telling her that she could use it in the interim. But when I got home for Christmas, I opened up the umbrella and noticed that one of the spokes was slightly---ever-so-slightly---bent.

I hand-carried the umbrella back to Utah but as I used it, I noticed that the slight bend in the spoke was causing a slight rust spot and a slight tear in the fabric. And in that moment, the umbrella became like a can of almost-used hair spray or almost-consumed tin of mints. It was too precious to use and too precious to throw away. It went into the back of the closet for safe-keeping and I brought out an old, trusty umbrella that I didn't really care about.

I've been using old trusty for the past year, but forgot it in my car earlier this week, so yesterday morning, when it was raining and I needed to get to my car, I grabbed my beautiful umbrella, and popped her open.

Or at least I tried.

Sometime during a year and a half of disuse and two moves, the shaft of the umbrella was bent out of place, now preventing the umbrella from opening completely.

I can't bring her back into the house---I know that now, she's officially garbage. But she'll probably sit in my car for another year and a half before I can bring myself to trash her.

An Impressive Person

Often it's the small things that people do that make them impressive. Several years ago, I was waiting for my mission call. My papers had gone in and I was expecting my call any day. I'd been told that if you lived on BYU campus, calls generally arrived on Tuesdays, but if you lived off campus (like me) calls arrived on Wednesdays. They were mailed from Salt Lake City on Mondays.

On a Monday I was at work talking with my coworkers about when I might possibly receive my call. I didn't know if it was too soon to expect it. A coworker told me that her mother worked in the MTC mail room and that they had access to the shipping info on mission calls. She could call her mother and find out for me if it was in the mail yet.

She called her mother right away and I listened as she made the call: "Hi Mom. I was wondering if you could check to see if the call for Singing Cicada has been shipped... Yeah... uh-huh... oh, okay... uh-huh. Great. Thanks, Mom." When she got off the phone, she said to me, "Yep, it's been shipped. You'll probably get it on Wednesday."

I was thrilled. In just two days, I'd find out where I was going. As expected, I received my call that Wednesday and was shocked to find out that I'd be going to the Italy, Rome mission (in fact, I had to repeat "Italy, Rome" to my parents on the phone about three or four times before they could understand me).

At work on Thursday, everyone was asking me where I was going on my mission. They too were all shocked and excited (and jealous) to find out where I was going. Later during my shift, my coworker came to me and asked if I'd received my call. I said that I had and when she asked where I was going, I told her. She smiled and said, "Yeah, I knew." I thought she was referring to the fact that she found out from people in the office. But then she explained.

When she was on the phone with her mother---when I was standing right in front of her listening to her half of the conversation---her mother had said, "Yes, her call has been shipped and she's going to the Italy, Rome mission."

I am impressed with this girl's discipline. She could have gotten off the phone and teased me that she knew where I was going and I didn't. She could have let me know that she knew where I was going and offered to tell me. Instead, she respected tradition and recognized the fact that opening my call with my family and finding out where I was going together with them would be a more meaningful experience for me. And not only did she not tell me, she didn't tell other coworkers that she knew where I was going, either. She allowed me to have the full mission call experience. I am still impressed with her and I doubt that I'd have the discipline to act the same way.

Utah Missionaries

I'm in a cranky, ranty mood today, so I may as well post one of my favorite rants---about the foreign perception of Utah missionaries.

On my mission in Italy, few things bothered me more than to hear the Italian members voice their disrespect for Utah missionaries. I was talking to Redras about this and she said the French were the same. I imagine that it is common to many (but hopefully not all) missions.

When you first come to an area, the members immediately want to know where you're from. I had the good fortune of being from Canada, which was enough of a novelty to gain everyone's respect. The members say, "Oh! Canada! That's wonderful!" Then they tell me about the last missionary they knew from Canada. And they introduce me to other members and announce to everyone that I'm from Canada. Utah missionaries have a different experience altogether. They mention they're from Utah, and the members immediately say, "Oh. Utah." And if the missionary is lucky, that's it. Otherwise, the members might say, "Not another Utah missionary," or some-such crap. They complain about Utah missionaries and they compare the Utah missionaries to "stereotypical" Utah missionaries.

One day, I was with my companion and an Italian sister missionary and her companion. The thing is, I really loved this Italian sister, and she was one of the nicest people I've ever known. But when we were all talking about where we were from, her companion mentioned some state and then added, "But my family moved to Utah a couple years ago." Her sweet Italian companion spun around on her and shouted, "You're a Utah missionary! You're from Utah. This is the first time I have ever heard you mention it. All you Utah missionaries are always trying to say you're from anywhere but Utah. You're always trying to hide the fact that you're actually from Utah! I had another companion who always told everyone she was from Maryland, but then I later found out that she was born in Utah! You'll use any excuse to get out of admitting you're from Utah."

(Let's pause for a moment to realize what she was saying---she was saying that this sister whose family moved to Utah for the last two years of her life was supposed to claim Utah as her home state, while her other companion who had spent the first six months of her life in Utah was also supposed to claim Utah as her home state, and both these sisters were guilty of covering up the fact that they were both actually from Utah... Not very sound logic.)

And at this point, I couldn't hold in my anger anymore and I let her have my rant. I said that it's no wonder that any Utah missionary would want to find another state to claim as home (even though neither of these sisters was wrong in not claiming Utah) considering the reception they're given by the Italian members. Missionaries from anywhere else in the world are appreciated and applauded by the Italians, but the moment a missionary mentions he or she comes from Utah, they are treated as "less" of a missionary by the members. They are not celebrated at all. But the fact is that Utah missionaries make the exact same sacrifice that all other missionaries are making. They are also giving up 18-24 months of their lives to go and serve. They or their families or their wards are also paying to be able to do this. And the Utah missionaries are just as good as all the other missionaries who are serving in the field. From what I saw, there was no difference between the average Utah missionary and the average non-Utah missionary. And the fact is that the Church in Italy is there because of the service of Utah missionaries (who provide at least half of the mission force). Were it not for Utah missionaries, it is likely that most of the members complaining about Utah missionaries wouldn't even be in the Church at all. And for their efforts and for their service, they are rewarded with derision.

For what it's worth, Utah missionaries, I applaud you.

The War

Today a coworker returned to work after her vacation to Italy. It was rumored that she had left food at the secretary's desk (where communal offerings are left) and so I went up to inspect. There, upon the secretary's desk, sat a pile of poo cookies.

Now, I hate the word poo, but really, that's just what we called these cookies: Poo cookies. There are different brands, shapes, flavors, sizes of poo cookies, but the two things they all have in common are they they 1) are inexpensive and 2) come in a bag. Poo cookies would often feature at meetings. The only time I would allow myself to buy poo cookies was when they were accompanied by a jar of Nutella. There was nothing so exquisite as Nutella piled all over a poo cookie.

When it seemed that we'd soon go to war with Iraq, the mission president asked us all to buy enough food and water to be able to stay in our apartments for two weeks if necessary. Among the war provisions in my companionship (there were three of us) were three bags of poo cookies and three jars of nutella.

War broke out two days later, and after we received the phone call telling us to stay in our apartment, we all walked solemnly to the kitchen to bring out our war provisions: Nutella and poo cookies. And it was the best war ever.

Engaged or Unchaste

Phone transcripts from this morning, transcribed by memory and edited for readability:

9:30 a.m. MST: Ring, Ring!

[Cicada checks phone. Sees that it is old mission companion / old roommate.)

Cicada: Pronto?

CLAT: Pronto. Hey. Did you get the invitation to go to the mission reunion?

Cicada: Yeah.

CLAT: Are you going to go?

Cicada: Uhhhhh... I don't know yet. [That actually means no.]

CLAT: Because I want to know if there are people there worth going to see. No one good came last time, and it was boring. Aren't you going to, like, bring your boyfriend?

Cicada: Wasn't planning on it. I didn't think it would be anything that would interest him. He's busy most evenings, he doesn't like to be paraded around, and I don't really see the point in bringing him anyway.

CLAT: Oh... are things not going well?

Cicada: No. Things are going great. It's just that I'm not really interested in bringing him to the mission reunion when I wouldn't choose go to mission reunions otherwise.

CLAT: Oh. Well, do you know if Switchback is going?

Cicada: Haven't talked to her about it.

CLAT: If she comes into town for it, I'll go. But I don't have her number.

Cicada: I'll call her now. It's early for her, but she should be up.



9:34 a.m. MST/ 8:34 a.m. PST

Switchback: Pronto?

Cicada: Hey, 'ssup.

Switchback: Are you engaged?

Cicada: You know, as I was waiting for you to answer your phone, I realized that you would think I was calling to tell you I was engaged.

Switchback: Yeah. Because why else would you be calling me first thing in the morning? Either you're engaged or you had sex.

*******
I would like to take a moment and pause here to call attention to the fact that this was really funny. Apparently, the only two reasons for calling Switchback in the morning are because I'm engaged or because I'm unchaste. Going on...
*******

Cicada: Yeah. Uh. Neither. Definitely neither. I'm calling because CLAT wants to know if you're coming to the mission reunion.

Switchback: I'm going to be in London. So no.

Cicada: Are you going to take a trip down to Italy?

Switchback: I should. But instead, I'm going to Scotland.

Cicada: Oh. That's cool and all. You know... that you didn't actually ever care about anyone on your mission enough to want to go back and visit them.

After this point, the conversation basically degenerated into a big fight over who's turn it is to visit whom. Of course, it's DEFINITELY my turn to go down to San Diego and visit her. But I don't have the time or money for something like that.

Now that I've shared those stories, let me share a fairly recent Switchback story. It's only a few months old. Again, this is a phone transcript from memory, so be aware that I've taken a little creative license, perhaps by making myself more witty and eloquent.

Switchback: So when my [non-member] date was dropping me off, I asked him if he wanted to come up to my apartment. He said yes at first, but then he said that he probably shouldn't, and he just walked me to my door and went home.

Cicada: I'm sorry, you invited him up to your apartment???

Switchback: Yes.

Cicada: Look. I think that means sex Switchback. I mean, I've never not been a member of the Church or anything, but I think that means sex.

Switchback: What??

Cicada: Yes! Look. I'm no expert, but according to every single movie I have ever seen, the words "Do you want to come up to my apartment" mean sex.

Switchback: No! Do you really think so?

Cicada: Yes! And then it makes sense what he said! He thought that you were being really forward and inviting him up for sex, and he said yes at first and then he had second thoughts and said that he didn't think that he should.

Switchback: Oh no!

Cicada: Oh yes! I mean, in Mormondom, that's totally fine. "Do you want to come back to my place" means hot chocolate and if the guy is really lucky, a board game, but in the real world, it means sex. You invited a man up to your apartment for sex. Nice.



And even more recently, a conversation about jocks:

Switchback: So that guy that I told you about? He broke up with his girlfriend, and he was totally on my jock all night. And I was like, Hey, you had your chance. But I won't deny that it felt good.

Cicada: Excuse me? He was on your jock??

Switchback: Yeah. Totally.

Cicada: What does that even mean? I didn't think you had a jock.

Switchback: You know what that means. On my jock! You know!

Cicada: I have never heard that expression before in my LIFE.

Switchback: You're not serious.

Cicada: I am serious.

Switchback: On your jock. You know. Like, totally all over you and interested in you and stuff.

Cicada: Huh.

Switchback: So how are things with you and your boy?

Cicada: I'm on his jock.



Ahhhh, yet another post dedicated to how much I miss Switchback. Love and punches to you, Switchback. Love and punches.

A Short and Humorous Language Moment

In Italian, like in Spanish, the same word is used for both because and why. This word is perche (pronounced pear-KAY).

A sweet Italian sister was taking advantage of being surrounded by anglophones to practice her English.

On a particularly frustrating day, she dramatically raised her arms to the sky, shaking them, and yelled out, "BECAUSE!?!?"

Her patient companion corrected her: "It's why, sister. Why."

The Italian sister raised her arms to the sky again, correcting herself: "WHY!?!?"

Homecoming

Today I got my blog post inspiration by looking at old pictures and trying to find one that illustrates a story. Here's that picture:



You'll notice that I am a missionary. You'll notice that my mom and Mary Moo are in the picture. You'll notice that I look as if I've been traveling for hours (though remarkably fresh, because---you remember---I traveled first class). You'll notice that there are balloons. And you'll correctly assume that this picture was taken at the end of my mission. That glorious reunion with the family part. Only...

So when my nine hours of first class were over, I was carted onto this smaller plane to make the quick trip from New York to Baltimore. But as short a flight it may have been, no flight is short when you're so excited about seeing your family again and being home. After about 90 minutes---or in other words an eternity, I finally landed in Baltimore.

I got to my gate. Now, you know that I know that no one without a boarding pass is allowed at the gate anymore. So I didn't expect to see my family there. But I also didn't quite know where to expect to see my family. I kept walking with my heavy, heavy carry-on, wondering when I'd get to see my family.

Finally, I saw a set of doors that I knew led to the public area. Still not quite to the doors, I tried to see if there was anyone I recognized. I couldn't see any of my loved ones.

I got through the doors and scanned the crowd. And kept scanning the crowd. And kept scanning the crowd. In the distance, I saw a large bouquet of helium balloons, and attached to the bottom of them was my mother. She was busy taking pictures. Of my siblings. Who were sitting on a bench doing crossword puzzles. And Mary Moo was there, too. But no one---no one---showed any interest in me or the other people coming off the plane.

Instead of rushing directly towards my family, I tried to see if there was any way that I could make the moment immortal by inconspicuously making it into the background of a picture that Mom was taking of Richie and The Boy. I posed several yards in behind Richie and The Boy as Mom snapped several shots of them.

When I was done my little photo shoot, I decided it was time for me to join my family. Mom and Mary Moo were talking, so I walked up beside them and joined in their conversation. Mary Moo screamed. Loudly, actually. Mom nearly let go of the balloons. And after hugs and kisses, I asked, "Where's Dad? Where's Uncle Stu?" I was told that they had gone for a walk and a trip to Burger King. Not like anything important was supposed to be happening anyway.

As it turns out, the Church had given my family the wrong flight information. So while they had the right time, they were watching for the wrong flight. And the flight they thought I was on was delayed by fifteen minutes, so they thought that they had time to kill.

And not to complain, but if the Church had given my family the wrong information, it would have been better to have given them completely wrong information. That way, I would have a better story to tell---I'd be a real example of the missionary whose family didn't go to pick her up at the airport.

(And also by way of very sad news, I didn't make it in any of the pictures I posed for. Drat.)

I've had better.

I hate flying. It's not that I have a fear of flying or anything. It's just that I think that planes are like flying buses with less room and fewer pitstops.

Today I flew from Salt Lake to Baltimore so that I can spend a week with my family, looking for jobs in the Maryland area. Whenever I fly, I try to get as little sleep possible the night before so that I can sleep during the entire flight. I truly outdid myself last night---I was up till 5:00. I had filled my evening with traditional Valentine's Day activities and day-before-the-deadline freelance work. I only got about three hours of sleep total, which was actually rather exciting to me, since I thought it guaranteed that I'd sleep for the whole flight.

I did manage to sleep through take-off. I woke up shortly after, though, when the old lady next to me lowered my tray and put my snack pack in front of me. I would have preferred to keep on sleeping, but that was sweet of her anyway. Throughout the rest of the flight, I went in and out of sleep; I certainly didn't get the sleep that I had been hoping for. I slept in the full upright position. I slept in the reclined (by two inches) position. I slept with my face pressed up against the window. But mostly, I didn't really sleep. That's the point.

As the old lady's elbow was poking into my fleshy, tender underbelly, I was reminded that I've had better.

On March 31st, 2004, I went to catch my plane home from my mission. I went to the airport with another sister who was on a different flight that left at the same time. We said our goodbyes (they weren't particularly tender or difficult to say) and for the first time in eighteen months, I went off on my own. I found my gate and went to check in for my Alitalia flight. Apparently looking at luggage through x-rays wasn't going to be good enough for my luggage---they informed me that they'd have to poke through my luggage themselves.

So I happliy hoisted my humongous bag onto the table and opened it for the little baggage-check guy to look at. As he riffled through my stuff, I chatted to him about any interesting things in my luggage, as well as my entire experience in Italy and how much I was going to miss his country.

This experience seemed somewhat new to the Alitalia employees, who don't usually have someone so happy about having the contents of their luggage strewn all over the place. As I went back in line, with my luggage intact, to officially check in, I heard one employee say to another, "She was cute. Bump her up to first class."

And so it was that I was bumped up to first class for the first time in my life.

When I got on the plane and tried to take a left into first class, I was immediately blocked by an older gentleman who demanded to see my boarding pass, while starting to show me the way to coach (in Italy, missionaries are of the same class as street beggars and pickpockets). Upon seeing my boarding pass, he immediately apologized and escorted me to first class.

And what a class it was! I won't go into all the blissful details. I'll only say that after removing her elbow from my upper intestine this afternoon, the old lady beside me said that first class is like the celestial kingdom and coach... well, it sure as hell isn't the celestial kingdom.

When in Blogworld, Copy Daltongirl

Featured on Daltongirl's blog is a brilliant persuasive essay written by Lola about Rome. Lola hit on several points that I definitely know to be true from my mission. Without her permission, and without Daltongirl's permission, I have taken the liberty of either providing supporting evidence for or arguing against some of her main points.

Step away from Rome for a second so you can find out their good and bad characteristics, the cruelty they had against others, and what it’s like to be poor.

I had to step into Rome for a second to find out their good and bad characteristics, the cruelty they had against others, and what it was like to be poor. Among their bad characteristics was their unwillingness to open their doors to the gospel. Among their good characteristics was their willingness to open their doors for any other reason.

Anecdotal evidence: When we'd knock at doors in Italy, a typical response would be for the person to yell, "Who is it??" from the other side of the door, while peering at us through the peep hole. If we mentioned anything about being missionaries or having everlasting happiness and salvation to offer, we'd be immediately rejected. If we stated any other purpose, the doors were opened wide and we were welcomed in. Once, I wanted to make my companion a zucchini dish but we didn't have a cheese grater in our apartment. We started knocking on doors in our own apartment complex. Finally, when someone was home, she yelled "Who is it??" while staring at us through the peep hole.

"It's the neighbors!" I replied.

"Who?"

"The neighbors!"

At this point, she cautiously opened her door a crack to peer at us.

"Hi!" I said. "We're your neighbors. We live a floor below you. I wanted to make lunch for my friend, but can you believe we don't have a cheese grater? I was wondering if you had one I could borrow."

Immediately, the woman threw the door open wide. "Yes! Yes! Please, come on in!" she cried. "I was just using it but let me wash it up so that you can borrow it!"

Another time, while we were tracting in the middle of the summer, we made our door approach to a girl our age and were immediately rejected. I was parched however, so I said, "Okay, that's fine. But is there any way I could have a drink of water? I'm very thirsty." She invited my companion and me into her home where her mother was cooking in the kitchen. They sat us down at the table, gave us water, cut us huge slices of watermelon, and asked us all about being missionaries and what exactly the message was that we shared with people.

Those were Rome's good and bad characteristics. Except for the fact that both of those stories happened in Sardegna. Oops. In Rome, on the other hand, I seem to remember having the police called on me twice and being yelled at from windows. Hmm. That was their cruelty against me. Oh, and I knew what it was like to be poor. Like one time, I wanted to buy a cameo that cost 200 Euros. But I couldn't.

First, everybody in Rome had a good heart, but they forgot about their good-natured selves when it came to justice and cruel entertainment.

This is true, though many Romans would tell you that it's true of everyone but priest and nuns. Man, some of them sure have it out for priests and nuns! As I mentioned, the Romans called the cops on me a couple times. That would be them not having good hearts when it came to justice. As far as cruel entertainment is concerned... Switchback went to a soccer game in Rome where she experienced both justice and cruel entertainment. Riots broke out at the end of the game, and the police came out and tear gassed everyone, including Switchback and all her missionary friends. Cruel. But entertaining. Justice.

Next, cruelty was a part of their daily lives—killing, gladiator fights, and unjust treatment. Everybody was doing it (watching gladiator fights), but killing people was very common in Ancient Rome, in gladiator fights.

Yes, cruelty is still a part of their daily lives. One day, as I was walking past the colosseum with my companion, a man dressed up as a Gladiator (pictured here---I got it from the Internet, but I swear it's the same guy) started heckling and making fun of me and my companion. It was a little stunning, actually. I thought, "Wait... are missionaries so low on the pecking order that men who dress up as gladiators and wear short skirts can make fun of me??"

“Killing Christians is wrong, because they should be able to have their own say in their religion.”

Unfortunately for the Italians, Christian is synonymous with Catholic and since we weren't Catholic, we weren't Christian, which meant, according to the above quote, that killing us wouldn't actually be wrong.

Now that you’ve stepped back and looked, I think you’ll agree the characteristics, cruelty, and poverty tell you to stay away from Rome.

Hmm. Well, when I stepped into Rome, I really liked it. And now that I've stepped away from Rome, I want nothing more than to go back, despite the characteristics, the cruelty, and the poverty. Lola, if I weren't poor, I'd buy you a ticket to and have you step into Rome with me.

Carbonara Recipe

Nemesis mentioned carbonara on her blog and I felt obligated to share this story and recipe.

I had a favorite family on my mission. We still keep in touch---they even called me when the New Year came to Italy, which I think is special. We'd go to their home every Friday for a discussion and then for supper. The mother (who we'll call Neve) was the greatest cook ever and she'd prepare all day for our Friday meal.

After one discussion, as the mother was making the final touches on dinner and we were seated at the dinner table with the father, my naive companion mentioned that I was a great cook and that I had made carbonara earlier in the day. The father, who loved to try and prove me wrong whenever he could (we'll call him Nanni), turned to me.

Nanni: Oh really Sorella Cicada. And how exactly do you make carbonara?

Cicada: Well... I fry pancetta (like bacon). With onions.

Nanni: Onions? No. There are no onions in carbonara. Go on.

Cicada: Then, I mix a couple eggs--

Nanni: The whole eggs?

Cicada: Yes.

Nanni: Wrong. You don't make it with whole eggs. Go on.

Cicada: I mix the eggs with parmasean--

Nanni: Parmasean!? No! You don't make carbonara with parmasean! You have to use pecorino Romano! Go on.

Cicada: And I mix in lots of pepper and cream.

Nanni: Cream!? CREAM?! Neve! [Neve is still in the kitchen.] Cicada puts cream in her carbonara!

Neve comes running from the kitchen with a look of horror on her face.

Neve: Cream!? In the carbonara??

Nanni: You don't put cream in the carbonara, Cicada. You're doing it all wrong. You missionaries learned wrong.

Cicada: Rumor has it that the recipe comes from an older Italian woman...

Nanni: No it doesn't. It's wrong. Neve will show you how to make carbonara the next time you come.

The next time I went, I learned how to really make carbonara. For your enjoyment, here's the recipe. Of course, measurements are general.

• Start boiling a pot of spaghetti. The rest of the recipe won't take you any longer than the spaghetti has to cook.
• Fry a bunch of pancetta (or bacon) in a lot of olive oil. If you're serving four people, I may even do up a whole package of bacon. Fry it in a deeper frying pan so that it can hold the unbelievable amount of olive oil you've added.
• Dump in a bunch of red pepper flakes, depending on how spicey you want it. You'll want the carbonara to be pleasantly spicey.
• In a bowl, put in one egg yolk per person eating. If there are several people eating, add an extra couple yolks for good measure.
• Dump in a bunch of pecorino Romano (also known as Romano) and mix with the egg yolks. You'll want to create a fairly dense paste.
• Drain water from spaghetti, return spaghetti to pot. Dump oil/pancetta/red pepper into the pot with the spaghetti. Dump the egg/cheese paste into the pot with the spaghetti. Stir. Ideally, the heat of the noodles cooks the eggs. If you're still nervous or cowardly, heat up the pot a little while stirring the mixture.
• Throw in a bunch of chopped, fresh parsley and stir.
• Serve hot!

One in Sixteen

Today you will be titillated with another mission story. This is one of my personal favorites.

My trainer was Italian. We had pretty much the best companionship ever. It seemed that there were never enough hours in a day for us to say everything we needed to say. Every night, we'd lie in our beds, chatting endlessly. We had a hard time sharing an apartment with the two other sisters who lived with us, and a lot of our conversation centered on them: complaining, making fun, complaining, making fun. When we were trying to focus on the positive aspects of these sisters, we could only conclude that the one good thing they contributed was something to talk about. Without them, our conversations would be almost crippled. We'd be reduced to saying such things as, "I love you." "Well, I love you more." "No, no. I love you more. Because you are the best. I love you." And too much of that just isn't interesting.

One particular night, however, we were unusually quiet after our zone conference. It was late, but neither of us could sleep. We both lay awake in our beds, thinking and trying to fall asleep. Around midnight, Sorella timidly said to me, "Sorella Cicada? Can I ask you a question?"

Now for a bit of background. We had had a great zone conference that day. Our mission president was fantastic and his zone conferences were incredible. This zone conference took place in about February of 2003, and we were expecting war to break out with Iraq at any moment. Part of our zone conference was dedicated to reviewing what we needed to do if and when war broke out. But then our wise, kind mission president added some inspired and comforting words about how we as missionaries were protected. He said that, in fact, the mortality rate of missionaries was one sixteenth the mortality rate of young adults between nineteen and twenty-three. He added, "And think of it! You are constantly putting yourselves in danger. You are out in the streets every day. You are riding buses, you are riding bikes. You are knocking on strangers' doors. You are entering strangers' homes."

The complication came because the Elder translating our zone conference from English to Italian was French. Back to the bedroom scene:

Sorella timidly said to me, "Sorella Cicada? Can I ask you a question? Did President really say today that one in sixteen missionaries dies during the mission?"

There was silence for a moment. Then the room was filled with peals of my insensitive laughter.

S: Stop! I'm serious! Did President say that? Answer me!!

SC: No. He said... oh, I don't even know how to say this in Italian... he said that... it's a fraction. The... rate? Of dying? For us is one... how do you say this? A fraction. One over sixteen. How do you say that?

S: Sixteenth.

SC: Right. One... one that of normal people our age. Meaning that much, much fewer of us die.

S: Oh. Because the Elder said one in sixteen. I thought... I thought he meant one in sixteen... so I started looking around the room and I thought, "Four of us in this room are going to die."

SC: [Laughing hysterically again.]

S: It's not funny! What was the president saying then? He said that we die in the streets and we die on our bikes and on the buses and that we enter strangers' homes!

SC: [Still. Can't. Stop. Laughing.] He was talking about the fact that we're protected!! We're protected! So even though we are in all those situations, we still don't die!

S: Oh. Well that's not how the Elder translated it. Now all the Italians think that one in sixteen of us is going to die.

A month later, Sorella talked to the French elder. She said to him, "You said that one in sixteen of us is going to die!!" He responded solemnly, and a little scared, "I know, Sister. I know." I wrote the president and at the next zone conference, he made it clear to anglophones and italophones alike that we're protected, and our mortality rate is one sixteenth of the mortality rate of normal people our age.


















(She'll kill me for posting this, but that means that she'd have to buy a ticket to come out here, and frankly, I'd like to see her again. She keeps sending me text messages complaining that I haven't been in touch... This picture was taken our last night together. We thought it was funny that the White Handbook states that companions must sleep in the same room but never in the same bed. We knew that rules like that were created because someone had done it when it wasn't a rule. We always said that it would be worth it to shower together one day so that they had to add to the White Handbook, "Missionaries must shower every day, but never at the same time, in the same shower." But then, of course, we realized that that would cause all sorts of problems for the trees of life in the MTC.)

Sister! Love Her!

Have you ever been on the outside of your own inside joke? All I know is that on my mission, I lived in an apartment with three other sister missionaries, and we'd go around saying, "Sister! Love her!" And then we'd all laugh. I cannot remember how this even originated or why it's funny. I just know that it's what we're supposed to say to each other.

I know that on the mission you're not supposed to have nicknames, but some nicknames just happened in this apartment. It's not like we ever really referred to each other by these nicknames. They just existed, not to be used but to be a convenience for when I would eventually start posting my entire life on the internet for public viewing.

Today's post is about Switchback. Of all the people I served with on my mission, she's probably the one who is most like me and is most compatable with me. She was never my companion, so it's strange when I talk about her. Usually I say she was my companion for simplicity's sake. She just called me tonight and I don't think that I've talked so loudly or laughed so hard since the last time I talked to her. In fact, my throat is a little raw right now. She lives in California because she's selfish. If she had any regard for the feelings of others, she'd move to Provo.

Random Facts about Switchback:

• She was named Switchback because she used to be a bus driver for her university before coming on the mission. One of my favorite stories was when she was driving the bus and stopped at the pool bus stop but no one was there. As she was pulling away, she heard someone desperately crying, "Wait!!" Because she was a good bus driver, she waited and then the entire water polo team got onto her bus, wearing nothing more than speedos and goggles. Another favorite was when she noticed that all the people on her bus were sitting on the left side. So she got onto the PA and said, "Excuse me, but I've noticed you're all sitting on the left side of the bus. The bus will tip over. Please, half of you move to the right side of the bus." Some guy took the initiative to decide who would remain on the left side and who'd move to the right side. After half the passengers had moved, Switchback got back on the intercom and said, "Uh... I was actually joking. But that was some really good team work." She earned her name on the mission because she would always critique the performance of the Roman bus drivers. One day, as our bus was whipping quickly around some serious switchbacks, she said, "We are going to tip over! This driver is going WAY TOO FAST!"
• When we first saw a picture of her and knew that she'd be moving into our apartment, I said that she'd either be really cool or really dorky. I was right. Mostly about the really cool but partially about the dorky. But the right type of dorky.
• She was featured in an essay that won me $350.
• Her mother sent her a harmonica as a gag gift for Christmas. One day when I was sick and she was home babysitting me while our companions were out working, I learned to play her harmonica. Consequently, the only music I can play on the harmonica now are church hymns. Her most frequent request was "O God, The Eternal Father."
• She gave me the harmonica as a parting gift.
• She has the best story ever about a bag of condoms. A friend left a huge bag of condoms that she'd received at a safe-sex workshop. Switchback forgot that they'd been left in the trunk. Months later, her mother borrowed her car and found the bag of condoms. Her mother waited several days for the right moment to talk to Switchback about her habits. They went on a walk. Her mother said, "I wanted to talk to you about what I found in your car. I know what it's like to be your age, and when I was your age, I was married, so I could have sex, so I can't even imagine how hard it must be for you but I just want you to know that you're free to make your own decisions, but I just want to make sure that you're using proper protection and are safe." When Switchback finally realized that this was instigated by her mother's discovery of the bag of condoms, she explained to her mother where they came from. Her mother, gasping with relief, asked if they could just, please, throw out the bag of condoms.
• When I finally met Switchback's mom, I hugged her and told her that I think she is an outstanding mother.

Switchback, I know that you've never read this blog, nor will you ever read it. But I really miss you. Sister! Love her!

Pure Tu Sei Bella

Today on the way to work, a creepy, overweight man on a bicycle drove up to me and said, "You're looking very beautiful this morning." I accepted his compliment graciously and kept on walking. I know that his intentions were probably very innocent. I think that he might be... simple, shall we say.

But it made me reflect on the glory days of Italy, where random men (simple and smart) would tell me how beautiful I was every day! And whether or not they were creepy, the compliments were very welcome! So here are some of the more comical compliments that I or my companions received during my stay in Italy, in chronological order.

On a Bus in Florence

My memory on this one is sketchy since Florence was my first city and my Italian was also sketchy. My trainer was Italian. Two guys approach us on the bus and start telling her how beautiful they think we are. She says, "That's great. We're missionaries!" They ask what missionaries are. She says, "Like nuns" and smiles an icey smile at them. Conversation quickly dies and they find seats on a bus that was previously too crowded for them to have found seats on.

On a Street in Rome

One of my companions (there were three of us) says as we pass a car, Bella macchina (beautiful car). The driver says, Bella tu. We keep on walking, but the driver calls us back. He has a creepy voice but a really nice car.

--Hai sentito? Ho detto, "Bella tu."

--Did you hear? I said, "Beautiful you."

--Si. Ho sentito.

--Yes. I heard.

--Quanti anni hai?

--How many years do you have? (How old are you?)

--Pocchi.

--Too few.

--Quando torni in America?

--When do you go back to America?

--Quando i miei genitori vengono a portarmi via.

--Until my parents come to take me away.

At this point, we leave.

At Trevi Fountain in Rome

A foreign man is trying to sell roses. He chases my companion with a rose, calling her beautiful, beautiful, beautiful. I say, "If she's so beautiful, why does she have to buy her own roses? Shouldn't a man buy roses for her?" He turns to me and says, "I wasn't talking to you, ugly."

On a Boat from Sardinia to Rome

A guy is talking to my companion and me. He thinks my companion is beautiful. He goes on and on and on about how beautiful she is. Then he turns to me:

--Pure tu sei bella. Pero.

--Also you are beautiful. But.

And he shrugs his shoulders.

On a Train in Sardinia

My greenie comes up to me after having used the train's restroom:

--What does Sei bellissima! mean?

--What did you say to the person who said Sei bellissima! to you?

--I said, Si! because I thought he was asking if the restroom was free.

(Sei bellissima! means "You are very beautiful!" Si! means "Yes!")

At a Blind Woman's House. The Blind Woman Has Been Receiving Help from Sister Missionaries for Eight Years.

--Voi siete tutte belle! Tutte belle! Tutte belle e magre!

--You are all beautiful! All beautiful! All beautiful and thin!

There are three of us visiting her. She walks over to the thinnest of us and squeezes her arms. Magra! she cries. She comes to me and squeezes my arms. Magra! she cries. She goes to the third sister, who is hardly larger than me at all. She squeezes her arms. She hesitates.

--Tu, pero. Tu sei un po cicia.

--You, however. You are a little chubby.

On the Subway in Rome, Knowing that I Am Wearing a Perfectly Matched Outfit

--You are the most beautiful woman on the metro right now and all eyes are on you. (This was in English.)

On the Subway in Rome, Sitting Across from Two Drunk Guys

--Io sono bello. Pure tu sei bella. Io sono inamorato di te. Io ti amo.

--I am handsome. You are also beautiful. I am in love with you. I love you.

Prophetic Italian Midgets

About two years ago in Rome, I was walking through the streets with my companion who had a fettish for watches and leather bracelets. Every time we passed a watch store or a store where they sold leather jewelry, we had to stop and look. I didn't complain---the fettish was semi-contagious. Whereas she would admire and buy, I would admire and wish I could buy.

One evening at the end of our p-day, we were returning to our apartment for the evening. We were on Via del Corso when we met a midget selling leather bracelets. He was rough looking and greasy, with long, stringy black hair. Imagine Hagrid as a midget and you've pretty much got it. We stopped and looked at his work---it was fantastic! There was this one bracelet that both of us loved, but it cost 38 euros (I'm still not to the stage in life where I can be spending fifty bucks on a bracelet). We looked at his other stuff and I fell in love with this one bracelet that he had made. It was simple---just a strip of black leather with a black star tacked on. That's it.

And it cost 15 euros.

I thought I could certainly argue him down on the price. I think I may have asked to buy it with ten, because I didn't have fifteen. I thought that he would readily agree. Instead, he brought me around to his side of the table to talk to me. He held my bracelet in his hand and said, "It takes a lot of work to make one of these. I'm an artisan. I don't make this stuff in a factory. I do everything myself. I cut the leather myself. Then I file it [he makes filing motions to show me exactly how he files it] and then I dye the leather black myself. I do it all myself. So you can see how much work goes into this [he gestures, indicating that he has to file all ten edges of the star]." I thought that by being stubborn, then he would cave. I said, "Well, I can only afford ten euro." He said he wouldn't sell it to me in that case and as I walked away he said, "Don't worry. I know you'll be back."

There's something uncanny about a miniature Hagrid telling you that he knows you're coming back in Italian. It just seemed so... prophetic. He said it the same way that I would say to people, "I know that families are eternal." He was bearing testimony to me that I'd be back to buy his bracelet.

It haunted me. I thought about it for days and weeks and months. Every time I thought about it, I thought that if I returned to buy the bracelet, then I would only be fulfilling the midget's prophecy. He knew I was coming back. My last day in Italy, I considered stopping by and buying the bracelet, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. The midget couldn't be right!

I went home, still unsure as to whether I had always wanted to return because the midget put a spell on me while my back was turned or because I really wanted the bracelet.

About a year and a half later, I met a man whose hobby is leather working. I explained the story to him and asked if he would be able to make the simple bracelet for me. He assured me that he certainly could! He didn't ever actually make it for me, and months later, it became apparent that he never would, though he'd frequently remind me, "I haven't forgotten about the bracelet!"

We were talking about it the other day and it finally hit me that I passed a leather supplier twice a day on my way to and from work. So on my way home from work that day I stopped in at the store. I went home and cut the pieces and got them ready for putting together. The next day on my way home from work, I stopped in at the store again and got the store owner to help me to finish it. Now I have a bracelet exactly like the one the midget was selling.

The thing is, it still haunts me. Did I fulfill his prophecy by making it myself? Does my wearing the bracelet bring some sort of curse upon me? I guess I'll have to wait to find out.

Lake Powell

Gas to and from Lake Powell: $250 ÷ 7
Entrace fee to Lake Powell: $36 ÷ 7
Campsite at Lake Powell: $30 ÷ 7
Food at Lake Powell: $160 ÷ 7
Watching my Zone Leader hook up with my greenie at Lake Powell: Priceless

Let's Arrest the Tiger Mosquito!

In Rome, two summers ago, signs like this were posted all over:

LET'S ARREST

THE

TIGER

MOSQUITO

NAME: aedes albopictus,

a.k.a. TIGER MOSQUITO

CHARACTERISTICS: Lays eggs in

little puddles of water that are

found in our gardens,

terraces and balconies.

The signs clearly indicated that those found guilty of having pools of stagnant water on their premises would be fined.