Arriving

After 11 hours in flight and less than an hour sleep, our plane landed in Tel Aviv at noon Israeli time. Barely 60 minutes later, we were slipping a key into our door on Emek Rafyim, a long and lovely street that bisects the upscale German colony.

Our apartment couldn’t be more perfect, really—charming, well-equipped, and surrounded by exotic growing things I’ve never even heard of. Hanging over the steps at our entryway is a lush Loquat tree, heavy with ripe orange fruit the size of a plum, the shape of a pear—and as sweet as the best apricot I’ve ever eaten.

Emak Rafyim is a delightfully cool street where the locals enjoy cafés, trendy shops, ice cream parlors, and even a Steimatsky’s should there be a sudden need to populate a bookcase.

But truth be told, we collapsed as soon as our feet hit the sidewalk. It turns out my shoes are suddenly too small and I can’t find my ankles. It’s possible my legs are older than I am.

The Street

On Emek Rafyim, every second shop is a café or restaurant filled from morning to night with joyful chatter and close conversation. The buses run on time, each taking a circuitous route to somewhere close to where you want to go—but not exactly. Of course, you can always take a taxi and fight the fare out with the driver later.

It seems to me that Israelis are amazing—a living example of a contradiction in terms. They get into shouting matches, but never raise a hand. They are pushy and rude, but offer their bus seat without being asked.

They are practical people living with the impossible and they make good use of every minute. No time is wasted—whether in prayer or in play. Their bodies are fit and their faces are hopeful.

They win more Nobel prizes than anyone on the planet, but can’t figure out how to design a plastic wrap that comes out of the box without tying you in knots.

Emek Rafyim is probably typical and like a typical tourist, I’m trying to figure it all out.

The People

Emek Rafyim is a main thoroughfare in the German Colony which was originally settled by Templars in the late 1800s. Our apartment is set back from the street, clean and bright and adequate—everything we need and nothing unnecessary.

I hear mostly Hebrew with a smattering of French and Russian and English.

A little boy shouts “rega” to a friend and runs past me, his tzit tzit swinging below a Texas A&M T-shirt. A young orthodox couple, he in black hat and curls, she covered throat to toes, stroll by with four little girls and a challah in the oven.

Four little boys step carelessly into a cross walk and a car honks at them before pulling to a stop. One child, 8 or 9 years old, opens a mouth and, in what is obviously blistering Hebrew, gives the driver a piece of his mind. The driver shouts back.

They don’t know about giving way or manners. It’s common to be rolled over by a woman pushing a stroller who doesn’t bother to say, “Slicha.”

Fashion is not their strong suit either. Colors are muted, perhaps in keeping with the Jerusalem stone cladding on the buildings, perhaps in concession to saving energy and washing only one load. Shirts skim the cobble stones or crawl up to the Great Rift Valley.

The Unexpected

It’s Friday and everyone is preparing for Shabbat. It’s also craft show day at the newly renovated train station and I find my way there to spend a couple of happy hours. Then I go looking for a building in my neighborhood that advertises a feminist orthodox lecture series. Sounds interesting.

I arrive to find the doors all closed and nobody to help, but there is a silk screen on the stairwell wall by Ian Leventhal. On my way home I pass a lovely old building with a sign: Jerusalem Conservatory. I find the door and wander in.

There’s a young soldier in the foyer and I ask if he speaks English. “A little, but it’s not my first language.” he says in perfect English. When I ask if there are any concerts I might attend, he shows me the bulletin board covered with leaflets—in Hebrew of course.

“What are they?” I ask. He points to one and says, “That’s me. I’m playing a Chopin étude Tuesday night at Mishkenot Shenanim.”

“Show me,” I say. And he does. In a small practice room with an open window and cooling breeze, he sits at a Yamaha grand and plays the most heavenly Chopin—here in Jerusalem, a young soldier I found by chance.

Ben-Gurion once said, “Anyone who doesn’t believe in miracles isn’t living in the real world.”

The Old City

Apparently, it’s not so easy getting there from here. That is, if you’ve a mind to explore the old city, it means you’ll have to hoof it. Not all the way, of course. You can take the bus for a while, then figure it out from there. Which is precisely what we did.

After much discussion with her fellow travelers at the bus stop about which bus to take (naturally, they were not in agreement) we hopped aboard #18—a bus that would drop us within “walking distance” of Jaffa gate. I assumed that of anything is non-negotiable, it’s a bus fare. Silly me we are in Israel!

“How much?” A asked the driver. “6.60,” the driver replied.

“I paid 6.60 yesterday to go all the way to Mount Scopus,” A said. “And that’s twice as far.” (A is a quick study. In two short days he’s got the Israeli thing down pat.)

“So how much do you want to pay?” the driver asked.

“Half,” A said.

“So pay half!” the driver said. And we were off.

A Free Walking Tour

Of course I’ve done it before, but the brochure said holy city free walking tour and it was hard to pass up.

I left early and arrive to see hundreds of beautiful, fresh-faced soldiers lolling around the Jaffa gate awaiting their orders. After basic training and before leaving for duty, Israeli soldiers tour the old city as a reminder of what they are defending. When my tour finally began, we were a group of 39 from all over the world, including a very nice couple from Bathurst and Eglinton. But it turns out the tour was misrepresented. It wasn’t a walking tour at all. We ran through every quarter and Ian, our Scottish guide, shouted a running history as we hustled through the narrow corridors and trotted over the uneven stones in the winding streets of the old city.

“We are about to enter a place where the food is fantastic. The aromas will entice you and you’ll want to stop. But you will be strong. We will not stop to eat.” Ian said.

We slid through the suq, scrambled through the Armenian quarter, rushed past… Well, to be honest, I don’t know where we went. But it was great. Exhausting, but great. Hard Bodies could take lessons from Ian.

I tipped Ian nicely. After all, he’d done it for free.

A Holy Land Tour

I’m so confused! Was it Moses who leapt to heaven on a horse? And did Jesus ride a golden calf in the desert? Was David a liar or was his wife a harpy?

I guess I’m toured out. Too much to absorb. Too many sites with too many bubba maasehs to remember.

I took a Holy City tour today—for a slightly different perspective and just to be sure I haven’t missed anything—and for five straight hours I bounced along the old city cobblestones with 15 exuberant kids.

Our guide was Vivian who was five or six years older than the others and struggled to keep up. We started out at 9:30 and at about 1, I asked if we could pause for a quick bite of lunch or maybe just a sweet. “We’ll vote on it.” Vivian said. “Who wants to stop to eat?” she asked.

I raised my hand. Fifteen others did not. We moved on to the Temple Mount (where Moses mounted his horse perhaps). And just as we turned a corner, we passed a juice stand.

“Orange juice. Fast!” I said. “Before I lose my tour group.” The man poured a glass. Cold and orange. “How much?” I asked.

“50 shekels,” he said with a straight face. I reached into my wallet and pulled out a 20. “Take it or leave it.” I said. He took it.

The Suq

Shhh. Don’t tell A I spent most of the afternoon in the suq. He’s quite convinced it isn’t safe and made his (what shall we call them?) his preferences very clear. But I didn’t promise.

Only a few feet inside the riotous corridor, I passed a stall bursting with Bedouin jewelry. It’s heavy, sort of silver, and strangely beautiful (albeit pretty dirty too). I handled a few rings and before I knew it, I had a new best friend. Turns out I can have the ring I like best for only 850 shekels.

The guidebooks say: Don’t be afraid to offer half. But I must tell you I’ve read for this play before and I knew my lines well. I declined politely with the requisite excuses. The price dropped to 550 shekels. I pleaded with the nice man not to waste his time with me and explained I had no interest in the ring and little to spend.

“If you were interested, which I understand you are not, but if you were, how much would you spend on it?” he asked. “I really don’t want it. And I don’t want to insult you.” I said.

“Nothing is an insult, Dear Lady. Even a dollar would not insult me.” he promised.

“$25.” I said

He laughed and explained the rarity of the jewels, the intricacy of the workmanship, the value of the artistry. And so it went. And so I went. And as my foot stepped over the threshold to the outside, “Okay, $25.” he said. And like a dummy I left it there.

Mount Scopus

Today we went to Mount Scopus and A showed me Hebrew University. In a word: spectacular. In a paragraph: Hebrew University is a visual symphony harmonizing contemporary linear architecture with the awe-inspiring crags and curves of Mount Scopus. The grass hugs the hillocks and flowers crawl among the cypress and pines in profusion, the petals soft and brilliant in counterpoint to the sharp angles of the grey stone buildings.

At the back of the law school is an amphitheater that overlooks the Judean Desert, Arab villages and Jewish settlements, and beyond to the Dead Sea and the hills of Jordan. Awesome!

After reclaiming our breath, we had lunch in the cafeteria with one of A’s former graduate students—good Israeli chicken stewed in a glorious Mediterranean concoction of fruits and savories, and served on yellow rice with roasted onions, raisins and nuts. I gave it three stars.

On our way home, I got off the bus first to pick up some toiletries on Ben Yehuda Street. In a little shop jammed with cosmetics and hair products, I came across three beautiful soldiers trying out lipsticks. I asked one if she spoke English and knew the Hebrew word for hand sanitizer. “No English,” she said.

I showed her the sanitizer I keep in a little zippered bag with the well-known LV pattern. Her eyes brightened and she reached out to touch it. “I love Louis Vuitton.” she said.

The Mahane Yehuda Market

The place to be on a Friday is Mahane Yehuda market where A and I headed to see a food lovers paradise on steroids.

It’s a trip to navigate your way through the figs and fruits and sacks of grains. Cheeses are stacked and wheels, slices, chunks—and knives flash like Samurai swords. There is the scent of fresh baked burekas, baklava by the yard, chalas by the shovel-full.

Shoppers trip over themselves—and you—to sample the figs and olives and amazing halvah that looks like cakes and tastes even better.

Paprika in mountains. Oils in bottles and barrels and buckets. Dried fruits piled so high an errant breath would surely blow them over. Schools of fresh fish.

A picture is worth 1000 calories and I kept my camera clicking.

“Damn,” I said to A. “There’s always somebody’s head in the way.”

“Stop the market!” somebody shouted. “The lady wants a picture.”

A Day in Tel Aviv

I was very clear about it. Today we were going to Tel Aviv and we would start on Ben Yehuda where there was a charming pedestrian mall, tables in the street for ice cream and coffees, and wonderful Israeli designer shops. I particularly wanted to return to the one on the corner stashed with unique contemporary jewelry where A had treated me to a beautiful bracelet on our last visit.

We’ve been burned by cabdrivers in Tel Aviv and before choosing our taxi, A asked the driver how much. “125 shekels.” the driver said

“I don’t want to buy the car,” A said, “I just want to ride in it. We’ll find another taxi.”

Back-and-forth they went until they finally agreed on 60 shekels. Five minutes later the driver dropped us off at the corner of schlock-a-lot Street. There was no pedestrian mall, no pretty shops, no wonderful ice cream parlors and cafés. Do I have to tell you?

“You didn’t look it up?” A said incredulously.

My answer I thought, was self evident. “Why would I look it up when I was sure I knew exactly where I was going?”

A Perfect day in Tel Aviv

After a very civilized discussion, we agreed we’d wander Dizengoff together before meeting my dear friend Ruthie for dinner at my all-time favorite restaurant, Benny Dagim. Within 20 minutes, I begged A to leave me. Not forever, of course. Just for a few hours. But no, if he couldn’t join the army, he’d test his metal watching me Dizengoff (it’s now a verb in Merriam Webster.)

Minutes later, A announced he would spend the rest of the afternoon in the air-conditioned lobby of the Hilton Hotel. Later, we’d go for an early dinner. Of course, I finished long before later because most of the best shops are gone, and while a few remain, designs are big and tent-like. So unless you plan to cool a few camels under your skirt, they just don’t translate.

I found A at the Hilton two hours early. We’d have phoned Ruthie to meet us, but she’s allergic to cell phones. She’s also allergic to TVs, GPSs and the internet, so when we’re out together, I have to walk 20 feet ahead on the lookout for hazards to her health—she says they give her phlegm.

So A and I went to our favorite beach café to pass the time. We ordered cold drinks and peanuts, but they didn’t have peanuts and gave us 16 pounds of olives instead. (We packed the leftovers in a suitcase and hauled them home.) Happily, Benny’s was exactly as I remembered.

The mezze are indescribably fantastic. Twenty little bowls of salad—each a different taste thrill. The fish is fresh and fabulous. Ruthie? As delightfully nuts as ever. And Tel Aviv? Perfectly wonderful.

A West Bank Tour

I was eager to visit the West Bank and chose a day trip to Jericho and Bethlehem as a good way to do it.

My day began early with the traditional Israeli bus shuffle. That is, you take a bus to a hotel where the tour bus company picks you up (in a bus which isn’t really your bus) so they can take you somewhere where you change buses and start your trip—which, in this case required a change of buses at the border checkpoint because only West Bank buses can travel in the West Bank. Going home, of course, the entire operation is reversed.

In any case, on the second or third bus, I forget which, our driver introduced himself as our guide whose name was, well, I’m not sure what it was because he was a mumbler—not usually a good thing in a guide, but in this case not important because he said nothing the entire way to Jericho.

While what’s-his-name failed to identify it, we drove through a barren lunar landscape which I recognized immediately as the Judean desert (not the sort of scenery easily confused with any other)—magnificent biblical terrain with scattered scrub and decrepit Bedouin encampments here and there.

We stopped briefly for pictures at the sea level sign and an optional camel ride, then proceeded to the checkpoint where a couple of Israeli soldiers waved us through. We changed buses, met a new guide, and entered Jericho, a town of 25,000 that proudly announces it is the oldest city in the world and the lowest.

We climbed a few million steps to get a better view of the mountain of Temptation where the devil offered Jesus the kingdoms of the world and Constantine’s mother Helena built a church (and where I would have happily made a pact with the devil for a little breeze).

We stopped at the very same sycamore tree under which Jesus preached 2000 years ago. A miracle! And, of course, we saw the site where the walls fell down and little remains but a huge hole and piles of rocks described as remnants of structures dating back 7000 years. I love this stuff!

In Bethlehem, we began at Manger Square to visit the church of the nativity, the birthplace of Jesus. The entrance is an Ottoman doorway about 4 feet high and while it would certainly keep out marauding armies on horseback or camel, I wondered about the infirm or elderly seeking entry. Still, it is a lovely church with a 14 pointed silver star marking the spot where Jesus was born.

From there we went to the Milky Grotto where we heard another bubba maaseh and then on to a gigantic souvenir shop where prices were in US dollars.

When we left for home, there was a car stopped at the checkpoint, and an Arab woman got out to open the trunk. A soldier glanced inside and waved her on.

OK, I’m oversimplifying. But that could’ve been me on a trip to Buffalo, I thought.

Ein Karem

Today was what I call a postcard day.

Nestled in the terraced hills southwest of Jerusalem is the bucolic village of Ein Karem which A and I got to see because an especially thoughtful former graduate student picked us up and took us there.

The town is pastoral and unspoiled—the sort of place that tourists miss, where picturesque lanes lead you to the spot where traditional says Elizabeth (mother of John the Baptist) “felt life” when she met Mary (mother of Jesus) and where John the Baptist was born and raised.

Bougainvillea climb the terraces. Roads meander. In front of a small church, a mammoth sabra cactus takes my breath away.

Thank you, Galia. It is a postcard—beautiful and memorable. Something to write home about.

Leaving Home

We’ve only been here a month and now that our time is up, it’s strange, but in a way we feel like we’re leaving home. I’ll miss my morning cappuccino gadol at Aroma, the joy of wandering through the old city, even the snarls of the surly bus drivers who look like they’d be much happier without passengers.

Last night, A went to Kol Haneshama shul and spa for Friday night services and now has a favorite nigun stuck in his head. I may be forced to resort to grave measures to get it unstuck.

We decided to spend our last Shabbat in the riotous atmosphere of Tel Aviv at our favorite beach café, at the port, and of course, at Benny’s for a final fish feast. Kol b’seder.

And today we left for a 12 hour flight home. But before I sign off, I wanted to leave you with three travelers’ tips you won’t find in the tour books.

1. If you have an extra week to tour, you can do it on your sherut ride to the airport.
2. One dress is enough (not black because it’s too hot). If you’re male, one dress is too many.
3. Walking distance doesn’t necessarily mean you can make it on foot. When Israelis say something is within “walking distance” they include the sort of trek only a camel could manage.

Craziness aside, Israel is a wonder. According to Sandemans’ free tour info, Jerusalem is the Golden City, the Eternal City, the Holy City. No other city means so much to so many people.

According to believers, it’s where a wall still stands as the closest place on earth to commune with Ha Shem.  It’s where Mohammed ascended to heaven on a horse and Jesus rose after death, taking the sins of the world on his shoulders. There is a leafy 2000 year old sycamore still thriving in Jericho.

I may complain about nothing to do on Shabbat, but if you think you’re living in a miracle, it’s not surprising you’d want to acknowledge its source.

Shalom.