the separation fence

In the time of Jesus, travel to and from Jerusalem and Galilee involved going well out of one's way to avoid Samaria - a land looked down upon due to their mixed Israeli/Gentile blood.  In our time, travel to and from Jerusalem and Galilee involves going well out of one's way to avoid the West Bank. Today's reasoning, however, is due to the barricade surrounding the land.

We couldn't go through it, but we did go in it... to visit Bethlehem. I just couldn't imagine traveling all the way to Israel without seeing the birthplace of Christ.  Now I wish I hadn't been so adamant about it.

Inside the lightly guarded walls, life feels different.  Cars are old, buildings are darker than the rest of Israel, and the landscape isn't as clean.  Bethlehem itself is cramped, modern, and very hilly.  In the tour guide's haste, we had a split second view of the old city as we drove past it.  That momentary glimpse is the only one we had of how the little town could have appeared when Mary and Joseph rode into it over 2000 years ago.

The Palestinians within the West Bank are vastly different from the Palestinians without it.  Their oppression and forced imprisonment inside the walls is the only conclusion I've been able to come up with to explain the hostile attitude and blatant disregard of some of the locals towards all tourists.  Not that I blame them; I'm sure it's painful for them to watch hundreds of people freely walk in and out of the West Bank, when they'll never be able to leave the 5,640 square kilometer space. 

the "exact spot"

After seeing the "exact spot" where Christ was born (and the three hour wait, which I had a hard time dealing with, preceding it) we stopped at the compulsory gift shop.  Boredom set in after my initial walk around the small store, but I took a second loop while my mom mulled over jewelry.  I stopped in mid step as I noticed olive wood bust statues of Joseph and Emma Smith.

Turning to the shop owner, I asked, "Is that...?"  "Joseph Smith," he replied, "many Mormons come here."  "Ah, I see."  "They like olive wood," he continued.  "Yes," I said lightly, "I know."  "They also like nativity sets," he added. "Yes," I responded with a smile, "I know."  After another minute or two of being shown items Mormons generally like, I thanked him and stepped outside for some fresh air.

The moment I sat down on the last available patio chair, a peddler, who already targeted the others in my group, turned to me.  "Necklace?" he asked, attempting to hand me a few. "No thank you," I responded, without reaching out to take the offering.  "Purse?  Do you want a purse?" quickly exchanging the handful of necklaces for a crochet bag to give me.  "No thank you," came my response, without giving the bag any regard.

He turned back to the woman in my group who naively took the necklaces handed her.  He proceeded haggling, as she made futile attempts to hand back the necklaces.  After a few minutes of his persistence, it was easy to see the growing frustration on her face in wanting to return the items.  "Just set  them down on the chair," I whispered to her as the peddler was speaking to someone else.

You would have thought I killed his only child.  The peddler whipped around, red in the face, and started yelling at me.  On and on he went, venom in his eyes. "I'm sorry," I explained, "she didn't want it."  I stood up and walked to the van.  The others followed, and so did he.

He threw snide remarks to the woman who didn't buy the necklace, from the opening of the sliding door.  And, feeling as though he didn't express himself well enough,  he stood on the opposite side of the window of which I sat and pointed at me, swearing... until the moment we drove away.

Then we visited Jericho, the oldest continuously inhabited city and the lowest city in the world.  And that was that.

buoyant

The water was amazing, silky smooth... although not so amazing that I wasn't embarrassed when my mother filled empty bottles with dead sea water to take home with her.

But the mud, on the other hand, was amazing enough to take home... pre-packaged and overpriced, naturally.

Where would you choose?

Tel Aviv Bauhaus architecture  photo credit

My mom and I tend to play a game while on vacation, which we initiated three years ago during the "Mommy and Me" trip we took. Since then, 'I could live here!' (guess how the game works) has provided hours of conversation material.

When we reached Tel Aviv, I declared it on the spot.  "Man!  I could totally live here," I exclaim to my mother.  The city is vibrant; a Miami meets LA atmosphere.  Palm trees line the waterfront and city streets. Its Bauhaus architecture had me waiting for Don Johnson, wearing a white blazer over his pink T-shirt, to appear at any moment.  There's hardly a soul that isn't between the ages of 20-40.  Well built men in wife beaters and Bermuda shorts work out on the beachfront gym equipment, as women with perfect bodies run past them on the beach's walking path.  Natural food and specialty grocery stores are hidden around every corner. Frozen yogurt shops (with all you can choose toppings) grace every city block. There's shopping and restaurants galore. I was wide eyed in amazement. My heart even skipped a beat when, due to a confused taxi driver, we drove past a Max Brenner's Chocolate Shop.  I demanded we eat there, which we did.  Twice.  In the evenings, the city is abuzz with beautiful people making their way to the best clubs, or to their late night dinner reservation. It felt as though we were in a whole new country, thousands of miles away from the Israel we had experienced up to that point.

"I don't know," my mom replied, "I think I'd rather live in Jerusalem."

the zoo

Crossing the border back into Israel was inevitable, but doing so back in Aqaba/Elat was not a possibility.  We only had one option, and through my pre-travel research, that option didn't seem very pleasant.

Around 2pm we stood at a window counter of Jordan's King Hussein Bridge crossing, where an unhappy gentleman grabbed our passports and told us to pay for the exit fees, pointing to the woman behind us.  We paid and were directed to another window where another unkindly man looked at the receipt and stamped a few papers.  He then told us to sit off to the side, in the waiting area, for the bus to arrive - gruffly informing us that he wouldn't return our passports until we entered the bus.

Our wait, in a windowless room, was over 30 minutes.  Our knowledge of the bus's arrival had to be instinctual, because no one advised us of when it would come. But somehow those of us seated in the waiting area knew the right moment to make our way outside and onto the bus.  Our passports were returned, after we paid the bus fee, which we were informed of after we were comfortably seated inside it.

The 15 minute ride took us across no-mans land; an area stark and desolate in the parts not covered by the Dead Sea.  Our bus stopped right outside the beautifully landscaped, gated, entrance into Israel, where we stayed for a good 40 minutes. Once given the green light, the bus continued into the border control complex where our luggage was unloaded and we queued in line. Two seconds later, a bus load of Palestinians crammed their way into the queue, pushing themselves in front of us. It was a veritable mosh pit. Suitcases were floating over our heads and people were crawling between our legs.

Thirty minutes after we got in line we reached the luggage drop-off point, where 10 people would try cramming their suitcases into a small opening to 2 governmental workers. Somehow the workers managed to keep track of each suitcase and the correlating passport which we all had to surrender as well, to have scanned and tagged before being returned to us.

We were corralled along, forced to wait another 30 minutes before reaching the interrogation point.  Upon passing the minute long spitfire questioning we moved from outside to inside... to, surprisingly, wait in yet another line.  It only took a few seconds for us to make our way through the security checkpoint, which we thought was the end.  But our elation was short lived.  We turned the corner to see rows and rows of lines slowly inching their way forward to customs officers.

So we waited, in our own tourist queue, for another 20 minutes before reaching a friendly customs officer - who was surprised I actually wanted an Israeli stamp in my passport as opposed to one on a separate sheet of paper like everyone else had requested. Maybe the rest wanted to go to Syria or Afghanistan or Iran?  Although..., Iran would be a neat place to visit. Thankfully my passport expires soon.  But, now I digress.

Because we made it. We had finally made it through.  But not completely. For after we left the customs officer we had another (yes, another) line to go through.  An official needed to verify that the officer did, in fact, stamp our passport - or sheet of paper.  Then we were free.  Free to go into another line for someone to confirm that we had a piece of luggage (based off the sticker tagged on our passport) so that we could randomly pick whichever suitcase looked the nicest.

And then there was the line for the taxi and the hotel ordeal that inevitably ensued...

"He is not here"

The location my church and I believe Christ's tomb to be is half a mile away from the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, outside of the city walls.  The garden tomb, as it is called, is a night and day difference from where the Orthodox patriarch steps in once a year to witness the Miracle of Holy Fire.

Because, even with the Easter revival held in front of the tomb, there was a sweet peaceful spirit there.

Holy Saturday

Once every four years the Orthodox observed Easter lands on the same date as the one marked by the Gregorian calendar.  2011 is one such year, adding more celebrations over one weekend in Jerusalem. In addition to Good Friday and Easter Sunday, the Orthodox also celebrate what is known as Holy Saturday. On that day, Greek and Armenian Patriarchs follow huge processions into the Church of the Holy Sepulcher to participate in what is known as the Miracle of the Holy Fire.

Hundreds of people fill the church with bundles of long thin unlit candles.  The sepulcher (which is widely believed to be where Christ was laid to rest) and the patriarch chosen to enter it are both checked by guards to verify that neither have hidden a way to start a fire.  Around 1pm the patriarch enters the sepulcher with two unlit candles, the door is shut behind him, and he kneels on the alter to pray.  Soon afterwards a pillar of light pours down from the sky and sets aglow a rock the patriarch is kneeling before.  The light changes to a fire that is cold to the touch and has a radiance that is different than all others.

The patriarch lights the candles with the fire, exits the sepulcher, and shares the flame to those closest to him.  The fire from that one flame is passed from person to person until the entire church is illuminated.

Due to our Saturday tour of Nazareth and Galilee, we missed the event.  But when we entered the Church of the Holy Sepulcher later that evening it was still filled with people.  Lit candles lined the wall around the sepulcher, and crowds crammed in line waiting to enter it.

In a moment of insanity we decided to join the crowd for a chance to see the inside of the sepulcher as well. We were pushed, we were shoved, and we were used as arm rests.  When we had enough it was too late to turn back; a wall of people blocked us in every direction.

45 minutes of waiting ended abruptly when the door to the sepulcher, which was a mere 10 feet in front of us, closed.

Maybe, just maybe, the light went out.

"You my boy! I really get love an aloha fo you"

Included in our Nazareth and Galilee tour was a trip to the Jordan River.  It was not the exact baptism spot, which is located in Jordan itself, but no one really seemed to mind. They still flocked to the entrance in droves. 

The wall leading up to the entrance/gift shop was lined with plaques of the scripture, Mark 1:9-11, in various different languages - which continued past the entrance along the inner wall as well.  In my rough estimate, there were around a hundred plaques in total.  But only one truly stood out.  No language touched me more than the Hawaiian Pidgin's scriptural rendition of Christ's baptism.

But those plaques weren't the real site to see.  And quite honestly, neither was the river and its beautiful surroundings.  Looking past it all, most of our time was spent watching people emulate Christ and baptize themselves in the waters of the river Jordan.  Two types of baptismal robes were rented out: the cheaper plastic variety, which we discovered is see-through when wet, or the more expensive cloth variety.  Sadly, most people went the more economical route.

Donned in their garb, people chose one of three spots along the bank of the river to enter the water.  Each spot had three rows of bars equidistant apart in a semi-circle shape, which created a rainbow effect, of sorts.

Now... I could continue painting a picture with words, but sometimes (in cases such as these) videos speak more than words ever could.

And over here you'll see...

Although I paid a pretty penny to tour Nazareth and Galilee, I'm feeling charitable enough to play tour guide for free.  It was a rather whirlwind tour we took, with the amount we saw in the time frame in which we saw it... and I figure I may as well give you that experience as well.  (So, read fast).

Welcome to Nazareth:

Wait... is that good shopping?

Now, before we get to the Christian sites, just let it be known:

Ok, we are presently inside the church of the Annunciation, and have already seen Mary's home. Why don't we look at some of the depictions of the Annunciation of Angel Gabriel to Mary by various countries around the world:

Over in St. Joseph's Church we can see the steps that lead down to a bath area in Joseph's home:

As we leave Nazareth, if you look below you will see the Mount of Transfiguration:

Time for a small rest break...

Moving on!  We've reached Capharnaum, also stated to be "the town of Jesus" - no shorts please.

 

And finally, the water on which two men walked, the Sea of Galilee:

Don't go too far. This tour's not over. I'm saving the best for last. 

When you believe

The thing about Shabbat in Israel is that public transport doesn't run at all.  And to take it one step further, you'll be hard pressed to find taxis as well - at least in the Jerusalem area.

Saturday morning we had a scheduled tour (my mother is a tour fiend) to Nazareth and Galilee.  We were requested to meet at a hotel near the old town city center, a 10 minute drive away from where we were staying, at exactly 5:50am for pick-up.

The lack of taxi abundance on Shabbat worried my mother to the point of stopping every taxi driver we saw on Friday and requesting if they could pick us up. Hardly any of them were Arab or Armenian Christian, the only two types of people who do drive Saturdays, and those who were didn't work the early morning shift.

The evening wore on and just as we were at the brinks of despair, we walked into a shop to placate the emotion with chocolate and happened to speak to an employee who was able to help us. He called his cousin who was willing to pick us up at 5:30 from our apartment.

At 5:30 the following morning we were waiting outside the apartment for our ride.  There was no car in sight.  A few minutes passed before I decided to call the drivers number, which his cousin the shop employee gave us.  The phone rang and rang, but finally the call was answered by a groggy hello. He said he was on his way and he would pick us up in ten minutes time. I wasn't happy...  and I may have done too good of a job expressing it as well.  I told him we would wait down by the main road, since we would only have five minutes to reach our destination from the moment he stated he would arrive. Plus, I figured we could catch another taxi if another one came by sooner.

In the end, he never showed up.

Even the main road was empty.  At 5:40am we had only seen one car drive by.  I was getting nervous. When we saw our first taxi at 5:42 I tried flagging it down, but since it was going in the opposite direction I never made it to the median in time for it to see me.

As the minutes passed by, so did a few more taxis.  Only one of them acknowledging me as I tried to get their attention.  But as he was also going in the opposite direction with passengers, he only motioned that he was sorry.

When the clock hit 5:50 we weren't any closer to reaching the pick-up point as we had been 20 minutes prior. At that moment I felt any attempt to continue onward would be futile, but we started walking anyway and my frustration towards our no-show taxi driver mounted.

Three minutes later a miracle occurred. The one driver who actually acknowledged me and my frantically flailing arms with an apologetic shrug pulled up beside us.  He had dropped off his previous passengers and turned around to see if we still needed a ride.

We hopped in and he sped off (like all Israli taxi drivers do). I watched as the minutes went by on the clock:  5:59... 6:00... 6:01. After each passing minute I made a comment expressing my doubt and discouragement of our likely vain attempt.

But I should have known that in a land of miracles the miracle of miracles would occur. As we sped forward towards our destination point, we rounded the curve to see a bus, our bus, starting to leave without us. Our driver honked, the bus stopped, I jumped out of the taxi to reach the bus driver and confirm our spots... just in time.

Once my mom and I were comfortably seated and the bus started moving, I was again flailing my arm to our taxi driver... but this time to thank him. He returned the gesture by doing the same.

Shrine-ify it!

Although Israel is a predominantly Jewish country, it was interesting to see the influence of other religions there, namely Catholicism.  What I found most noteworthy was that every site deemed holy had a Catholic church plopped on top of it.

Check it:

Mary's home, where she was informed by angel Gabriel that she was pregnant? Now inside a church.
Joseph's carpentry shop?  Also inside a church.
The manger where Christ was born?  You guessed it: inside a church.
The home where the bedridden man with palsy was let down through the roof? Under a church.
The Garden of Gethsemane?  In front of a church (because they couldn't put one on top of it). But to compensate, the garden is fully gated.
The widely believed crucifixion site and nearby tomb? Yes, they too are inside a church - an enormous church.

View of Mary's home from the Church of Annunciation

Two step

We couldn't have picked a busier day to arrive in Jerusalem.  Not only was it a Friday - the beginning of Shabbat, but it was also Passover, Good Friday, and if I can recall correctly, one more holiday which, in the blurred activity of that day, my mind just can't seem to identify. Pilgrimages to the city had taken place from as far away lands as America, Ethiopia, India and the Philippines. (Along with everywhere else in between). Needless to say, the streets were crowded.  Very crowded.

Throughout the day, processions were held along the Via Dolorosa - a path where many Catholics and other Christians believe Christ took his last steps.  The groups of pilgrims carry crosses of their own and stop at 14 different stations along the way representing the spots where certain things occurred, including Christ's condemnation, receiving the cross, the times He fell, where He met His mother, et cetera up to where many believe He was laid in the tomb.

In another part of the city near Jaffa Gate, David Street was a virtual mosh pit. We found ourselves stuck within it, unable to move in any direction.  I had half a mind to climb atop of shoulders and ride it out.  But then there were the police, who magically parted the crowds enough to let their little dance train reach a location where they could jump a man.  That was all it took, apparently, to ruin the mood. So everyone left, leaving us free to make any type of move we wanted.

In the evening the crowds found their way at the Wailing Wall.  Shabbat during Passover is a time for the Jewish of all ages to give supplication near the foundational remains of Herod's Temple. They came in droves, and like the masses earlier in the day, it was quite the site to see.

O Jerusalem

It was a surreal feeling as we walked up to the Jaffa Gate in Jerusalem.  The moment we climbed the stairs and passed through the walls of the old city, we were transported back to a different era.  Street vendors dotted the entrance, inviting us into the city with sweet smells of roasted corn and date bread. Limestone streets matched those of the old buildings they joined. The white monotone of the city was offset by the vibrant colors of the linens and spices the multitude of shops had to offer.

Light reflecting off the limestone buildings made the entire city look magical.  No photo I had previously seen, nor the ones I took of Jerusalem myself were able to capture its glimmer and sheen. So I stared at the city, sad that the only way I'd be able to see its full beauty is by walking its streets.

In the middle of being enraptured by the architecture, our focus was shifted to people watching as one Hasidic Jew or another rushed past us.  We couldn't figure out where they were headed, especially since we saw them walking this way and that all throughout the day.  In the end, we just came up with our own conclusions.  My mom deciding they all just like to 'walk with a purpose'.  While I on the other hand felt that they, like my own genetic disorder (from the maternal side), are chronically late.

 

Then again, if I lived there and knew where I needed to go, I'd probably walk the same speed to skirt past the hoards of tourists as quickly as possible.

Preconceived notion

Due to the select pictures I had seen throughout my life, I had what I thought was a distinct image of what Israel looked like.  I envisioned a dry, brown, desert-like country with sparse greenery. And while part of Israel does, in fact, look like that - primarily around the Dead Sea, the image I conjured up of the rest of the country couldn't have been farther than the truth.

The lush green rolling hills, the mass amounts of trees, the immaculate roadsides and the stunning glow of the landscape reflected in the rising sun took both my mother and my breath away.  With a welcome as warm as that one, neither of us cared that our flights arrived before dawn.

Can I finally qualify for the title of globetrotter?

I'm the first to admit that I'm a travel-a-holic, if that's even a word.  But there are times when even I outdo myself.  Four days. 96 hours. 5,760 minutes.  That's all the time I allowed myself from the moment I returned home from Bosnia to the moment I left again.  I didn't purposefully plan it that way, but it did leave me wishing that my life could always be like that: work four days, travel a few, then repeat.  But until that happens, I'll continue to relish in this moment of insanity.  Because actually, that's all it really was.

Once I finally felt my feet were firmly planted on the ground, I found myself at the airport again- this time standing behind a podium facing a five minute interrogation. The interrogator held onto my passport as she walked over to another airline employee and proceeded to have a conversation about me. She would frequently glance in my direction and nod her head as her colleague would comment. When she returned, she gave me instructions on the next steps I must take and placed stickers on my itinerary printout. I was informed I had less than ten minutes from that moment to reach a designated location in a far wing of the airport for an appointment.

So I hurried as I made my way to the check-in counter to receive my ticket and drop off my luggage. I continued to cruise past armed guards on my way to passport control.  More armed guards line the pathway to the location I advanced towards.  When I finally reached the scheduled room, two minutes late, I was again interrogated while my possessions were searched behind a partition.

Fifteen minutes later I was given the clear and escorted to the security check where I passed through the x-ray scanner and frisked down.

When it was all over, I plopped myself down on a chair, exhausted, trying to wrap my head around what just happened.  But I wasn't even given sufficient time to do that before I entered a plane with a sign that read, "For your information: This flight has been koshered for Passover."