Why Didn't the Israelites Just Wander North?

There is no forgiveness in the land of Israel. Take that how you may, down a sociological or philosophical rabbit hole. In any event you would end at the same mad hatter’s party. But I simply mean the land, the physical dust and rock that boils at one hundred degrees under a cloudless sky. I’ve heard people speak of the mystery of the wilderness, of its subtle beauties. But if so it is a beauty that kills and forgets.

The last three days of my life have been spent roaming this wilderness, the southern part of Israel called the Negev, traveling from Jerusalem to Ashkalon, to Arad, to Qumran, and finally home (yes, after a trip like that my hotel in Jerusalem has all the comforts of home). And I bet you couldn’t guess what the word “negev” means? “Dry.” Really, you don’t say so?

It is a stunning place really (note: stunning, not beautiful. I’m still to sunburned to admit it so). From massive caverns made entirely out of chalk, to the Mediterranean Sea with its dozens of unforgiving jellyfish. It truly leaves you speechless, the mere antiquity of it all. I went for a run along the beach (high stepping around said jellyfish), and the entire coastline is silhouetted with stone structures dating back to the Iron Age. Yes, the little spot of time before anyone knew anything about anywhere. When they just had figured out that they could use metal instead of rock to kill each other and do other neat things. That was Ashkalon.

There was a day of hiking, Wednesday. We climbed Israel’s version of the Grand Canyon, complete with a lovely encounter with the local flora and fauna (meaning, I jumped up on a rock and scared the hell out of a sleeping snake, who returned the favor). And then there was a day at the spa, Thursday. That was the Dead Sea. I won’t say it was a pleasant experience, but it was an Experience. When you step into a saline solution of 25% salt, you soon discover cuts and sores in places you never imagined. Every torn cuticle is a tiny bonfire being lit under the skin.. So I rubbed the mud on my body, I let it dry, I floated for a few minutes (which is strange sensation, weightlessness), and then I got the heck out and ran up the 200 degree walkway on blistering feet to wash the burning sensation out of my body. Apparently its good for your complexion.

Hours-- of bus-riding, hiking, swimming, burning, thirsting, repeating-- later, I am home in the City of David. And today? Today I am finding a pool and drinking girly drinks all day. This country owes me that much I think.

Shalom/Salam

Almost one week later...I finally have some free time to write a quick post. Flew into Tel Aviv, Israel, last Monday morning. We hit the ground running as fast as we could, and just increased the pace from there :)

Where to begin? Good news: so when I was imagining this trip I figured it would be me, my parents, and a group of older/middle-aged retired peeps with enough money to tour around Israel for three weeks. Figured on a lot of alone time and a lot of (boring) adult convo... Turns out, the class we're in is taught by a prof from Azusa Pacific, and thus 80ish% of the students are undergrads. And I'd say it's a 3 to 1 girl to guy ratio. So let me just break it down for you: I'm hanging out in Israel with a bunch of college kids only slightly younger than me, all from Cali, and mostly girls. It's been rough.

Bonus: there are numerous kids as fanatical about the World Cup as I. Double bonus: I'm in a country where every other back alley has a big screen projector playing every game aired. There is nothing quite like sitting with a pint of Maccabees and a hookah, eating a shwarma, and watching the World Cup with a bunch of Arabs.

But seriously, I'm very thankful. I've made some incredible friends already. It makes the days easier, because they are looooooong as hades. The typical day is something like this: 7am breakfast. 8am to 12pm we're in class (snore). 1pm through 6pm we walk/hike around ALL of Israel. And I mean all. We made walking around the Old City of Jerusalem look like a Sunday stroll. We'll walk (insert "jog") to a place, stop, listen to Bob the Prof explain its significance, and then keep walking for around five more hours. 7pm dinner. 9:30pm World Cup. 12am bedtime. Six hours until I do it all again... Needless to say, I end each day shattered. But it is unbelievable all the same. I've seen too much to remember, from Calvary, to Herod's Palace, to Bethlehem, to Jericho, etc. I usually get to the end of a day and can't remember my name let alone what we saw.

It isn't what you think though, touring around Biblical sites. It's been pretty hard, actually. I mean in a spiritual/emotional way. Because you come to a place like Jerusalem expecting to just have your mind blown by standing where Christ stood, by walking up the hill he walked to die for the redemption of everything ever created. But the reality is, there is no hill. Calvary is just another site, another building thrown up as a holy place and filled with trinkets and people kissing everything. You go to Bethlehem, and instead of a quaint country town where the Messiah was born in a manger, it's a Palestinian outpost, a concrete jungle surrounded by razor wire and armed guards, where impoverished children beg for a living. And I'm supposed to learn about the good Samaritan, looking out over the wilderness on the road to Jericho, but I can't quite hear the lesson over the jabber of the little Bedouin boy who wants my apple, wants to sell me a bracelet, wants my pen to play with. Who, then, is your neighbor...

This is what I've come to: I have no sense of place. For me, a place is a who, not a where. It is the people in a place that make it such. And so I find it hard to see the place of Abraham and Isaac and Jacob, when it is Josef the Syrian bellhop who wishes me good morning every time I leave the hotel, or Jonathon the Palestinian bartender who I visit a few nights a week to watch soccer. I have no deep or profound thoughts as to why, it just is; I cannot reach the place of meditation when I can't get passed a place of dirt and smoke and refuse.

But maybe it isn't that different a place then, after all. This is the Jerusalem of Christ.

Memory Lane

Have been amiss in my updates...was on the road and in London for the past few days, ergo no internet. Thus, the past few days (plus a little vid-vid of our drive to London. Nothing like a road trip and tunes):

It's never quite a settled feeling, visiting places that hold a place in your mind and heart. It just leaves you feeling...scattered. Spent the day in Oxford on Friday, as Mum and Dad and I drove down to London out of the Lake District. We walked the city, yours truly being the tour guide. From Christ Church Meadows, to the Bodleian Library, to a nice cream tea 'round 2ish, and up to St. Anne's where I studied last summer. Every little street was like meeting an old friend, but one who doesn't remember you as well. You try to explain it to the people you're with, try to introduce the thing remembered and the ones you're with, but it always ends awkwardly. After all, how can you explain that right there, right at that very spot, you fell in love with a place? You walk around, pointing to the bench you sat on to read in the mornings; the tiny corner room in an old Victorian house with windows that created the perfect cross-breeze for an afternoon nap; the unassuming cafe that became a sanctuary for the mind; the path you walked out of busy Oxford, to suddenly burst upon the Port Meadows with its acres and acres of rolling English countryside. How can you explain memory? How can you make someone remember with you, feel with you? For that is what memory seems to be, an emotion.

And thus, we misrepresent the place, the thing remembered. For we cannot truly remember it for someone else. It isn't theirs to remember, to feel.

...And as you can see, I am sidetracked. I love Oxford. It was a glorious day, despite the gnawing wish to turn back time and simply live it again. I guess that simply attests to its charm. From Oxford, we drove to London and checked into our hotel. Two full days of walking, and a few brilliant pub moments (e.g. eating fish and chips on the Thames, having a pint of Carling with a pie, watching the U.S. vs. England World Cup game in a British bar...etc.), and we'd seen it all. I must say, if ever anyone would like a tour of England, I've got it pretty pat...

There and Back Again

Nothing is quite so green as the Lake District. It drizzled off and on yesterday, on our hike along the fells from Ambleside to Grasmere, northern England. Peaks on the left-hand side, steep mountain leading down to the lakes on the right. We stopped in a little cafe for lunch, soaked and shivering, needing a warm up. Upon commenting on the constant drizzle, the lady serving us goat cheese and chicken sandwiches (with a side of red onion marmalade...breathtaking) said how much they needed a good rain. I wanted to ask her what it had been doing for the last few days we've been here... Apparently unless it creates flash flooding, they just call this "humidity." I don't think she's been to Arizona.

The journey home was delightfully easy, in comparison with the hike to Grasmere. Rolling country roads through a farmer's field, picturesque sheep creating quite the ruckus when a farmer drove through in his Land Rover. I felt like I was in Babe. We took the liberty to stop at Wordsworth's home (both Dove Cottage and Rydal Mount), but didn't want to spend the pounds to get a tour. If you've seen The Holiday there isn't a need to. Same thing really. Just with a dead person's things still lying around...poetically...

Everything is green, everything is stone, and everything is wet. And absolutely fantastic. It'd probably be harder to live here and not write poetry than to do so.

And so... "I wandered lonely as a cloud that floats on high o'er vales and hills, when all at once I saw a crowd, a host of golden daffodils; beside the lake beneath the tress, fluttering and dancing in the breeze." Here's to Bill Wordsworth.

The Flight Over

British Airways is quite a cruel little institution when you think about it. Flew from Chicago to London yesterday, here's a tale I like to tell:

5:45 p.m. I board the plane, right as rain. 6:30 p.m. I am served a delightful array of sweet-and-sour chicken, a biscuit, and carrots, with a pudding on the side for desert. My water is in a cute foil-covered cup. I wanted lasagna, but my friend the steward was all out. C'est la vie. In recompense, I receive an extra mini-wine, a tasty malbec from Argentina. Fantastic. 7:00 p.m. I do some light reading (Emerson's essay, History). "The true poem is the poets mind." By 9:00 p.m. I have finished both bottles of wine, watched half of Blindside, and am feeling quite rosy, inside and out. Isn't travel smashing? 10:30 p.m. I have reclined (despite the 6' 9" behind me) and dozed off (despite the screaming infant).....

.......11:00 p.m. the lights come on. What's happening. The shades snap up. Up? please put them back down. The child is screaming. Everything is fuzzy. The pilot is saying something about good mornings, we have begun our descent, and it is 6:00 a.m. local time. The steward would like to know if I would like tea or coffee with my breakfast. I would like to know the relevance of that discussion at this time, and does he value his life. Someone hands me a card. It wants to know my passport number. I can't read the fine print because my eyes are still moist from the inflight movie. Landing gear is down...plane stops taxiing...people moving everywhere...its so hot. Stale air.... BAM!

Welcome to Heathrow. You now have a full day to enjoy the bounties of England and one hour of, dare I say, "sleep" to enjoy it on. Cheers.