Israel

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Hello All,

I’m sorry I’ve been a little behind on my blog. I left Israel and have been in southern Turkey along the coast and it is hot. It is gorgeous down here, but the heat of the Middle East in July can wear you down to the point where you don’t want to do anything that requires any physical or mental effort. But I digress; let’s get on to Israel:

Following my three hours with the welcoming committee down at the Eilat border, I headed straight for Jerusalem. The history, religious significance and current political climate make this one of the most unique places on Earth. You can just walk around the old city and let your eyes and ears take it all in. Within a short distance, this city has the holiest site in Judaism, the holiest site in Christianity and the third most holy site of Islam, along with all the people who live here and the pilgrims who come to visit. This is probably the only city in the world, save for maybe New York, where within the space of an hour you can spot people wearing the following three tee shirts: “Free Palestine,” “I Love Jesus,” and “Super Jew.” I visited all of the major sites, observed all the different peoples and ate three falafels a day, which are cheap, ubiquitous and filling.

If I had to describe the collective tone of Jerusalem with one word, it would be “serious.” Political violence is always a concern, people here are religious, a controversial wall is under construction separating what is considered the Palestinian territory of the West Bank with the rest of Israel, very different people with very different agendas are living right next to each other and everyone has a strong opinion. The people of Jerusalem seem more on-edge than anywhere I’ve ever been. In other countries, when I met an Arab, I was usually greeted with a smile. Here, the Arabs usually greeted me with suspicion or indifference. If I got into a conversation with one and told them of my family history and where I had been, only then would their whole body language change to that of warmth. The Jews of Jerusalem, for the most part, are curt, and for some reason they refuse to say “you’re welcome,” or the Hebrew, “bevakasha,” which irritated me to no end. Luckily, I would find this to be much different in the other parts of the country.

On each side of the wall separating Israel and the West Bank, there are Arabs and Jews. Although I personally don’t believe that being an Arab and a Jew are mutually exclusive titles, for the purposes of this blog and simplicity, I will refer to them as such. There are Israeli Jews, Israeli Arabs, Palestinian Arabs allowed into Israel, and those that are forbidden, and there are some Jews that are allowed to enter the Palestinian territory because they live in settlements built by Israel, and then there are those that are not. Trying to understand the different residential statuses of everyone here is beyond me. One day, along with a group of people I had met that morning, we crossed into the West Bank to visit Bethlehem. Foreign passport holders are not restricted from entering this area. Crossing through the gates and being buzzed into secured areas honestly felt like entering a prison. Once inside, the Arabs we encountered all generally looked dejected. On our walk, we passed many sections of the wall, which is blanketed with graffiti and messages mainly directed at Israel and the United States. As we went to see the Church of the Nativity, built on the spot Jesus is believed to have been born, we made occasional small talk with vendors along the way. One of them asked where we were from, and when the one American girl with us told him, “The United States,” he stared back emotionless. After seeing the church, we returned a few hours later to the border and were buzzed back through to the Israeli side.

Crossing the wall into the West Bank was quite an eye-opening experience. Since the construction of the wall began, suicide attacks have been reduced significantly, and that fact can’t be denied. At the same time, however, when I was there, I felt like I was in one big cage. I couldn’t imagine having to live like that. I think one could effectively argue both sides. Unfortunately, in this part of the world, there are just no easy answers.

I wanted to return to see other parts of the West Bank, like Ramallah, but I never made it back over. At my hostel there was a Japanese guy, who was living in Jerusalem for a few months. He encouraged me to come with him to Ramallah to a weekly rally supporting Palestinian rights. “Well, I’m not intent on participating in a political rally, but that would be an interesting thing to witness. Is it dangerous,” I asked. “There will probably be some tear gas,” he said. “Whoa! Tear gas? No thanks. That’s a little more than what I was looking for,” I told him. He smirked and said, “Aw, come on. Everyone should be tear gassed at least once in their life.”

Although the general character of Jerusalem is a bit heavy, it’s not that no one is happy or out to enjoy themselves. There are plenty of bars and restaurants and people looking for good times. Half the people filling these establishments are probably foreigners, but I don’t want to give the impression that the whole city is somber. It is serious, but there is still plenty of activity and business and life seems to move along. Jerusalem also seems to attract many interesting and intelligent people from all over the globe who come to experience the place firsthand. I made friends with a number of distinctive new people whom I would end up traveling with to other parts of Israel.

Aaron is a singer and songwriter from Canada. His ever-present sidekick, who called himself Moe, is an architect from England. There was Anne, Claire, and Nicolas, who are French, and respectively, a journalist, a playwright and a software engineer. There was Arthur from Brazil, who on his bicycle, is literally cycling across the world. He has been on the road for about two and half years. He rides across an entire continent, and then usually arranges some type of transport on a ship to the next destination. And there was Ben. Ben is also from Canada, but teaches English in South Korea to school kids for stints of a year at a time. When Ben isn’t in South Korea, he is either traveling to a new country, or back in Canada driving a worm truck. (That is not a typo). He works for a distributor that sells worms to bait and tackle shops all across Ohio, Kentucky, and Pennsylvania. If you have ever gotten worms in one of those states, there is a good chance that your worms were delivered by Ben. (Yes, that is probably the strangest sentence I have ever written).

Scott Silverman is a friend of my sister’s from college, who is currently studying at a yeshiva in Jerusalem. A yeshiva is a school of Judaism, where one can go and live and receive instruction if he or she is searching for a deeper understanding of the faith. Scott asked if I’d like to come to his school for dinner one night, which I promptly accepted. He then asked if I had a yarmulke, which everyone must wear in the building. I had to explain to him that I was living out of a backpack, and that every cubic inch of that bag is accounted for with essential items that I need. Along the way I’ve even purposely left behind expensive jeans and nice shirts in certain places, because I determined that they just weren’t worth their space and weight. At home, yes, I did have a few yarmulkes, but when going through all of my possessions ranking the top 25 absolute necessary items that I would be able to bring, the yarmulke did not make the cut. It came in around #138, just edging out #139: my signature Return of The Jedi Princess Laya bikini action figure.

I arrived at the school after Scott had found an extra one I could wear. He met me at the front door and told me, “I’m sure it is fine bringing you to dinner and all, but if anyone asks, just tell them you are considering studying here.” Not a problem. I donned my borrowed yarmulke and Scott showed me the classrooms, the dorm rooms, the study rooms, the dining area, and the kitchen. It was not a very large building and it actually reminded me a lot of a fraternity house. It was just a lot cleaner, and the dorm rooms didn’t have photos of girls and movie posters, but pictures of rabbis. The people at this school were all male and aged between 18-30. Some were dressed in traditional black and white clothes and some in contemporary blue jeans and tee shirts. The students appeared to be almost entirely American or Canadian, and everyone was incredibly nice and welcoming.

Occasionally, people would inquire what I was doing there, for it was a little unusual to see a guest at dinner at this yeshiva in the middle of Jerusalem. Visitors were rare; it wasn’t like I had just jumped in the car for a road trip to SUNY Binghamton. When asked, Scott would interject and say that I was Jewish friend taking a tour and thinking about attending. Even one of the rabbis, whom everyone seemed to deeply respect, encouraged me to give studying there some serious thought. I felt a little guilty pretending I had any intentions of attending, but at this point I was in deep and there was no turning back.

About 40 of us all sat at long tables in the dining area and were served spaghetti and meat sauce. As everyone ate and chatted, I questioned to the room, “You guys got any parmesan cheese?” It was almost like a record scratched, and the room went silent. Scott’s eyes widened in a panic, and he murmured at me in a half whisper, “Jews don’t mix meat and dairy! Remember? There is meat in the sauce!” Whoops. Of course, I did know that rule, but had never even considered it, as my cover was now seriously blown. I meekly tried to recover by saying something like I hadn’t realized that there was meat in the sauce, which was utterly ridiculous because I had already plowed halfway through my first helping.

Luckily everyone seemed to courteously brush it off and let it pass, and I believe Scott’s reputation remains in solid standing. A number of us would go out later to drink beers and watch some soccer. At this school you are still allowed to go out and do whatever you want. Nothing is forced, and no one seemed to judge each other. The curriculum was basically self-elective and you could take it at your own pace.

After Jerusalem I headed to cosmopolitan Tel Aviv with Ben the Canadian English-teacher/worm deliveryman, to meet up with Arthur the Brazilian cyclist and the French contingent that had left earlier. Tel Aviv’s main asset is its beautiful beach right on the doorstep of the city. The tone of Tel Aviv couldn’t be any more different than that of Jerusalem. This city is less religion, and more money, looks and status. Although I found the city had a similar feeling to that of Los Angeles, which I wouldn’t exactly consider “normal,” I felt like I was back in a more regular place. If I said, “thank you,” I would get a “you’re welcome.” If I joked around with a waitress, or a clerk, I would get a laugh back and not a blank stare. We would hit the beach by day and hit the bars by night and my new friends, who we would collectively name, “The Tel Aviv Family,” would continue to surprise and impress me in unusual ways.

While sitting at a café, Arthur was cutting open a peach he had purchased from the market. “Oh, look at this,” he pointed. There was some larva that had burrowed into the peach and was now squirming around on his knife. He informed us, as he calmly wiped the larva into a napkin, “If I was still cycling in some place like Sudan, I would definitely eat that worm. That’s good protein. But, I’m in Tel Aviv, so I can get yogurt.” He continued to eat the peach where the larva had not explored.

One night I went to get dinner with Ben. The issue of American politics came up. I readied my defensive stance, for I figured, although we had been getting along very well, it was now time for this Canadian to unleash his distaste for the US. But just when you need a reminder that you should never prejudge someone, Ben went on a diatribe against the vociferous critics of the United States. He told me how he had a Masters in history and his thesis was on the United States Declaration of Independence. He spoke of the beauty of that document and the incredible vision of the American forefathers. He spoke of the altruistic moves made by our country and the aid we provide to the rest of the world. I sat in awe as he eloquently defended our Middle East policy and pleaded to let the Iraq effort succeed. He expressed his disappointment in what he called, “America’s current excessive self-criticism.” In a heartbeat, I would recommend him for a spot on the White House press staff. He was one of the most patriotic and learned Americans I had ever met. But, he was Canadian!

After a few days enjoying Tel Aviv, it was time for everyone to continue on in separate directions following their own itineraries. I headed north to meet Aaron and Moe, the Canadian singer/songwriter and British architect. On the train ride up to Haifa I met three teenage girls who had just joined the navy. One of them was hearing impaired and the other two had started to learn sign language to help out their friend. The three of them enthusiastically gave me a crash course lesson in Hebrew. When I met Aaron and Moe, we rented a car and explored the whole northern half of the country including, Akko, Tiberious, the Golan and Safed. Each one of these areas was distinctive in its own way and we would encounter very friendly people. In Haifa we stayed at a small hotel where the manager was an older Jewish gentleman. He had the weirdest most peculiar rules like he only permitted you to put your bags down on one side of the lobby. He was difficult when you didn’t comply, but when you did, he was as sweet and helpful as you could imagine. He actually reminded me of my late Jewish grandfather, who was an incredibly kind man, but could expose a wrath if you unintentionally disrupted his system of food placement within the refrigerator.

In Akko we passed a number of Arab women gathering for an engagement party. One of the women walked by and offered the three of us desserts before she had even offered them to the rest of the party. We stayed at a hostel in Safed, where the Jewish woman was so nice I felt like we were staying in someone’s home. When we went out hiking one day, she was like our collective mother who was extremely concerned that we bring enough water. We explored parks and historical sights and swam in the Sea of Galilee. We covered a lot of ground and got along very well until Moe unexpectedly wanted to visit every single site that had anything to do with Jesus. We had hit all the major ones, but Moe wanted to go everywhere. If it was rumored that Jesus had stopped somewhere once for a sandwich, Moe wanted to see it. This is a unique place in the world, and everyone comes here for their own reasons, but there are only so many religious sites I can take. There were beautiful national parks and wineries in this area as well, which Aaron and I wanted to visit. This created some tension, but after some stringent discussions, we were able to plow ahead and work it out.

Safed is an ancient town situated on top of a mountain and home of Kabbalah, which is the strain of Jewish mysticism. Kabbalah made news most recently after Madonna had embraced it, and who may or may not be converting A-Rod. Safed is an old fortress of a city with narrow alleyways and old buildings, now housing mostly art galleries and cheese shops, which Safed is also famous for. After we wandered the town and browsed a few galleries, it was time to head south and wrap up our time in Israel. Before heading to the car, we made one last stop at Safed Cheese for a taste of some of its specialties.

It was about 2PM on a hot and bright day when we left the cheese shop and walked down the sleepy street headed for the rented Peugeot parked a couple blocks away. The town was quiet as tourists poked in and out of stores and orthodox Jews strolled the tranquil ancient streets. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a white van came speeding at us, almost running us over, and three men in dark shirts jumped out. Moe and Aaron started to run, for they thought this was a kidnapping. The large one caught Moe and started reaching in his pocket. Aaron yelled at them, “What are you doing!” I kind of watched this all in disbelief. Although these three guys had no identification, or badges, and made no attempt to alert us to whom they were, my instincts told me that they had to be cops who had just made a serious miscalculation.

As Moe tried to unleash himself from the grasp of the largest one, I asked one of the others, “Who are you guys? Are you police?” “Yes, we police,” he responded. The large one pulled out the contents of Moe’s pockets. Moe shouted, “Are you serious! How about some identification mates? You don’t just jump out of a car and start putting your hands in peoples’ pockets!” The three of them produced some ragged yellow cards with Hebrew writing, which for all I knew, could have been memberships to the local video store.

As the large one rifled through Moe’s wallet and cigarettes, the others concentrated on Aaron and myself. One looked me over and his eyes widened when he saw that in my hand, I was holding something in a small clear plastic bag. Excitedly, he exclaimed, “What is in your hand? Give me that!” I raised my hand and opened the bag. Again he yelped, “What is that!” I told him, “It’s a piece of cheese. I just bought it in that shop.”

Aaron asked them, “What are you guys looking for?” The large said, “We have a big hashish problem in this area.” He went back to inspecting every cigarette in Moe’s pack. “Where you from,” one of them asked Aaron. “I’m from Canada,” he told them. “Passports! Give us passports!” I didn’t have my actual passport, but I was carrying a copy. I handed it over. “Give me something official,” he demanded. I then offered him my New York State driver’s license. After looking at the two items for a minute and comparing the information, he looked back over at Aaron and unbelievably asked, “Are you guys all from Canada?”

WHAT! Any previous doubts I had harbored had now been vanquished that we were dealing with three of the most idiotic cops on the planet. They looked through my pockets and at my camera case, and found nothing, as the disappointment started to set in on their faces. These guys could have been tryouts for Comedy Central’s Reno 9-1-1. Aaron was the only one carrying a backpack. After giving up on me, the two remaining officers went through all of Aaron’s stuff. They started to look through every page in every book, every pocket, and inspect every item that was in there. After coming up empty, dejected, they started to move back towards the van. “Come on, they are clean,” they told the larger one, who was still hassling Moe. I don’t know if we had matched some description of some local drug dealers or what, but it was evident that these small town guys originally thought they had the big arrest of the day on their hands. Pictures in the paper! A hero’s welcome! But instead, they had nothing. The frustration in the air was palpable.

Still unconvinced however, when the big one finished with Moe, he turned to me and hassled me about the camera case draped over my shoulder. By this point, he didn’t have three people that were aggravated with him, he had five, as the other two officers had already returned to the van. “It’s a ca-mer-a,” I told him. He moved on to Aaron in exasperation and started to go through his bag. “I already checked him,” came the call from one of the others. The big guy ignored him. He was relentless. His gritty police instincts would not fail him and he knew there was more to this story. He rifled through the bag as all five of us watched him in annoyance. He was like a big badger gnawing at a stump convinced there was a feast of evidence somewhere in there to be uncovered. This continued, as we stood in the hot afternoon sun. He dug and dug as things fell to the floor.

But then he found it. He pulled out a small piece of paper wrapped around a soft substance. One of the cops watching from the van perked up. What had he missed? The confidence returned to the large one’s face. He had been doubted, but he stuck to his intuition and persevered. The two others bashfully returned to help inspect the contraband. As the large one intimidatingly peered into Aaron’s eyes, he questioned, “So, what is this?”

Aaron smiled, “Are you serious?” Becoming nearly frightful, looking like he was on the verge of losing his composure, he slammed it into Aaron’s hand, “Yes, what is that! What’s in that paper? Open it!” “That,” Aaron informed him, “is a piece of gum.” Momentarily shocked, he paused, but was still unconvinced. With a hint of doubt starting to crack through his voice, this bulk of a man was close to infuriation, “What! Open it!” “You want me to open that? I already chewed it,” Aaron explained. “Just open it!” Aaron pulled apart the sides of the small piece of paper to expose his chewed piece of spearmint Orbitz. The cop fumed.

It was over. The big guy’s body language admitted defeat. He sighed and motioned to the other two that it was time to go. Then, as if this episode couldn’t have gotten any more bizarre, he turned around and asked in a fairly warm tone, “You guys don’t smoke hash?” In unison, we informed him, “No.” He smiled, and mimicked with two fingers as if holding an imaginary joint to his mouth and said, “Why not? It’s good stuff.” He then jumped in the van and they drove off.

We three former suspects all looked at each other in silent and stunned amazement and then laughed. It was time to move on. Aaron and Moe headed south towards Egypt. I went back to Haifa where I was told I could get a ferry up to Cyprus, which would lead me to another ferry to Turkey. If one wants to go to Turkey from Israel, which I did, most people would get a flight. But if I took a ferry, I would get to see an additional country and something about going off and setting sail on the Mediterranean intrigued me, like Odysseus continuing his grand adventure.

In Haifa I eventually found the outfit that arranged transportation to Cyprus. After I purchased the ticket, the guy told me, “So far you are the only one on the boat.” “What? I’m the only one on the ferry? You’re kidding.” “No, this is not a ferry. This is a cargo ship. There are a few extra rooms for passengers,” he matter-of-factly informed me. “A cargo ship!” I don’t know why I was surprised, my expectations with boats on this trip inevitably never turn out as expected. I already had purchased the ticket and wasted time coming to this port city, so I accepted my circumstance. I would find out later that less than 1% of people leaving the country do so in this manner. The boat would leave two days later on July 3rd.

I returned to the hotel and over the next two days, out of nowhere, I started experiencing excruciating headaches like I had never had my whole entire life. I also had weird aches, my joints hurt and sunlight irritated my eyes. I didn’t want to get out of bed. I didn’t like light. I felt like a vampire. I would go outside and walk around for two hours and be exhausted. I got very concerned. Did I contract some weird disease from Africa that was only now showing its symptoms? Did I contract something else in the Middle East that I didn’t get a vaccination for? Was my body telling me that I’m not supposed to be running around living out of a bag? I then got a message from the hotel front desk. The ship’s travel agent called and said the departure would be delayed one extra day until July 4th. Fantastic. I would now spend my first Independence Day of my life out of the country, stuck on some cargo ship, alone.

July 4 came and I went down to the port, joints aching and the sunlight shooting pain into my sensitive eyeballs. I always try to stay positive, but when your body has been in discomfort for days, you are about to spend the next twenty hours on a cargo ship alone, and you think about missing out on everyone at home gathering for barbeques and good times, my mood that day could conservatively be described as: “miserable.”

This was now compounded by the fact that I had to face Israeli immigration to be processed out of the country. I had been told that if you thought getting into the country was a hassle, ironically, getting out is twice as bad. They want to know where you have been, who you have talked to and what you have done. Since I had been to the West Bank and entered Palestinian territory, I knew I would be in for a real treat. Based on my experience at the border last time, and then the recent treatment from police officers Larry, Curly, and Moe, I was in no mood for the impending inquisition.

At the port, the Israeli Guard at the gate looked over my documents and told me I had to wait for an agent. He then apologized telling me that it might take a just a couple of minutes and brought out a chair for me. Well, this was certainly a nice change of pace, although I didn’t know how long I would have to sit there. After only a few minutes, I was directed to meet the agent at the next building. The interrogation proceeded as follows:

Agent: Are you originally from New York City?
Ed: No. Originally, I’m from a place just north of the city.
Agent: Where? Westchester?
Ed: Yeah, how did you know that?
Agent: Just a lucky guess. I’ve met people from there. Ok, have a nice trip.

And that was it. I was taken to the Greek cargo ship, the Maria G, along with a South African couple who had been on the road for almost two years. It turned out that I wouldn’t be the only passenger. We boarded the ship where we found our spare cabins to be quite accommodating. As the crew continued to load cargo in the form of everything from carrots to electrical equipment to fish food, the ship’s cook made us a nice lamb dinner and then the three of us went to the top deck to watch as the ship pulled out of port. The sun started to set, the ropes of the ship were reigned in, and we gently nudged off the pier. James and Isabelle graciously indulged me by lifting a few beers to toast America’s independence, and actually appeared to be excited to take part in this celebration. I almost didn’t even realize at that moment, that for the first time in four days, my body actually didn’t seem to ache and my head felt fine. The Maria G then set sail on the historic Mediterranean, headed for Cyprus and beyond, and I felt that, without incident, I had just quietly and politely slipped out the backdoor of Israel.


General Notes and Thoughts:


-My headaches and body pains would return the next day. After I gave my body four solid days of sobriety, hydration, and rest, I would rid myself of all these symptoms and have felt great ever since. Strong like bull.

-Israelis don’t cross the street if it doesn’t say “walk.” There will be twenty people standing on a corner on a street with no traffic, and no one budges. If you see someone walk across, they are probably American.

-Since everyone in Israel must serve in the armed services, there are kids with guns everywhere. The males are issued machine guns, which they are required to carry with them at all times, even if they go out to a bar or to dinner. It’s a little unsettling to see an 18-year old kid walking down the street with a machine gun strapped around his back, using one hand to talk on a cell phone and the other to hug a girl.

-I don’t know if it is because Israel is a relatively small country, or if it’s a cultural difference, but the Israeli concept of distance is definitely skewed. When asking for directions, I would consistently get answers like this: I was looking for the Federal Express office and asked a woman if she knew where it was located. She said, “Do you have a car?” When I told her no, she said, “well you can’t just walk there! It’s much too far.” I continued, “Well, how far is it? I walk a lot. 1KM, 2? 3?” A bit bemused, she exclaimed, “I don’t know the distance, but if you try to walk, it will take you at least ten minutes!”

-The hostel I stayed at in Jerusalem was run by a number of Arabs. One of them named Sayid was unintentionally hilarious. I would joke around with him and he would always respond in deadpan and I was never quite sure if he was joking or not, but I still found him funny. After seven days I decided I was leaving and he asked, “You go, or you stay?” I said, “Well, I’m not sure Sayid. What do you want? Do you want me to stay?” He responded, “If you stay, I say, ‘welcome.’ If you go, I say, ‘goodbye.” I told him, “Well, I’ve had a good time here, but I think it’s time I move on.” Without batting an eye he said, “Ok, then I say, ‘goodbye.’ You come back next year, I say, ‘welcome.”

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