May 3, 2018

A soldier is sitting next to me. He has a loaded machine gun, and it’s no big deal. A month ago this would have scared the hell out of me. Now it’s no more unique than the man sitting across from us with a briefcase in his lap, on his way to work. The soldier too is at work. He is guarding the train and the passengers on it from any potential terror attacks. Yesterday, while driving with a friend, we pulled into an underground parking garage on our way to dinner. The guard out front (because everywhere we go in Israel, there is a guard) asked us to pop the trunk on the white Volkswagen Golf before he would let us in. He wanted to make sure we weren’t carrying a bomb. This is pretty routine stuff in Israel, and again, it’s no big deal. Hours earlier, a friend told me that if she hears a warning siren, she has 60 seconds to get herself and her 2 kids into her bedroom and close the heavy, steel door over her window – because her bedroom is the bomb shelter in her home and because that is how long it takes a rocket fired from Lebanon to reach her town. She’s never had to use it, but it’s there. Yesterday, while sitting at the beach, an Israeli fighter jet, heard 2 minutes before I saw it, roared overhead. Shortly thereafter, I heard low thuds. “It’s just the waves lapping against the rocks,” I’m told, but I’m not so sure. This is life in Israel, and to everyone here, it’s no big deal.

My plan for Israel seemed reasonable. Ride the entire country from north to south – 1,000 miles over 4 weeks – cross into Jordan, and then back north to Tel Aviv.   I would be home in 4 weeks with an authentic Middle East perspective…so I thought. Instead, I rode for 1 week and maybe 300 miles before that plan blew up (I probably should have chosen a better descriptive, given the environment).

Cycling through northern Israel in the Golan Heights was an amazing lesson in perspective. Each day, I was pedaling through rolling hills, carpeted by lush green foliage as I paralleled both the Syrian and Lebanese borders. Borders that were lined with metal fences draped with razor wire and dotted with signs that read “Danger – Mines!” Although the temperature was in excess of 80F, I felt no cultural “heat”. Everywhere I stopped, I was greeted with beaming smiles and “Shalom! Manish Ma” (Hello! How are you?) This was everything that I was hoping for.    The further south that I traveled into the middle of the country, the more the mercury rose and like a line, the rolling green hills gave way to dusty cow fields lining busy highways. It was like riding through Iowa in July. There were no unique villages that predated the “now”. Israel had lost its sparkle in my eyes. It was hotter than I expected or rather than I gave my heat tolerance credit for.  I could feel my ambitions melting away in the Israeli spring.

The Negev desert was the final slice of truly unique landscape in Israel that I was intrigued by. The 300 mile newly built Israel Bike Trail runs through the region and zig zags its way down to Eilat, a resort town at the southern tip of Israel on the border of Jordan and the Red Sea. However,  a quick check of the forecast showed temperatures there in excess of 90F, with minimal trees or water. After 5 days of internal and external coercion, I decided that I could cycle from 5a-10a then again from 4p-7p.  However, as I was psyching myself up for that heat war, 1 day prior, a flash flood ripped through the desert tragically killing 19 kids, damaging infrastructure and washing away any last bit of ambitious resolve I may have clinging to. The clock had struck midnight. I was barely 2 weeks in, and it seemed my cycling time in Israel had ended. I resigned myself to pulling the plug and going home early, satisfied with my 2 weeks spent here. I had plenty of things I could do in Colorado, I reasoned.

“Go to Jerusalem,” suggested several friends. “It is a special place,” they all told me. Inside the Old City of Jerusalem, no place else in the world do 3 religions converge. Jewish, Christian, and Muslim followers all lay claim to this sacred space. The Western Wall is perhaps the holiest Jewish site dating back to 19 BC while the Dome of the Rock,  an Islamic temple completed in 691 AD, looks on just behind. While it seemed completely unreasonable to come to Israel and not go to one of the holiest cities in the world, I had to prepare myself for the one thing I truly dread and try to avoid – tourist places. I simply couldn’t get excited to battle thousands of western religious pilgrims, anxious to walk in the footsteps of Jesus.  “He’s yours,” said my friend, of the retired man, likely in his 70’s wearing a Detroit Tigers baseball cap, white sneakers, baggy blue jeans wrapped with a fanny pack. We played a game where we tried to identify either the Americans or Europeans. Sometimes the lines were a bit blurred, but that hat made it too easy. He was clearly one of mine. Ugh…I flew 18 hours to stand in line behind a guy from Michigan, the place I spent my youth. That was enough for me.   I made a quick pass through the Old City, took a couple snaps of the Western Wall and Dome of the Rock, and quickly escaped, before anyone identified me as one of theirs.

Just outside of the Old City, lies Mea Shearim, one of the oldest neighborhoods in Jerusalem. It is populated by Haredi and Hasidic Jews and although only a few streets over from the Old City, it could not be further away from anything found in a touristic guide book. No tour busses transporting eager religious pilgrims roll down these streets. Instead the streets retain the feel of the small Eastern European towns that existed before the Holocaust.  Men in their long black suit coats and pants, white shirts, black hats and curly side burns, walk these streets likely on their way to synagogue. Their eyes are perpetually scanning a book from behind their wire rim glasses, occasionally stopping to read news or propaganda plastered on building walls. Young boys, also dressed in the traditional black garments, zip by on bicycles. Wives push strollers carrying their children, all dressed in the same clothing pattern, perhaps to identify their family. The women cover their hair or wear wigs to show that they are married. Apparently the hair drives men crazy and they cannot be held accountable if the hair is not covered – so I’m told. The buildings are simple. Traffic is minimal. Two blocks over is a religious tourist mecca but here, I am the only tourist. It’s peaceful, and although I clearly look like the American tourist, nobody even glances my direction or picks their head up from their book. I’m invisible in a place that would seem impossible to be, but it is exactly what I was wanting.

The next day, I was told about a terrific trail that I planned to hike just to the east of Jerusalem. However it is across the “Green Line”, the demarcation between Israel and the West Bank, separating the Jews from the Palestinians “Don’t go without a weapon,” I’m told. “Normally it is fine, but there is increased tension in West Bank right now. You will probably be ok, but not worth the risk.” Ok…scrap that. Instead, the last thing on my list of to do’s was to swim in the Mediterranean Sea, and that is how I spent my final day in Israel.

Israel was definitely not all unicorns and rainbows. Some days sucked and some people were just…assholes. It was definitely not my favorite place to bike pack. The landscape is not dramatic – save for the desert. But I fit in seamlessly here, unlike my recent travels to India, Tibet, and Nepal.  Many of the men have similar skin tone and bald heads such that most people immediately begin speaking to me in Hebrew as if I’m one of theirs.

Drivers on the other hand are impatient and reckless. They will honk and speed around you if you wait even 1 second at the light after it has turned green. It’s as if they are perpetually late for something. They double park on streets, seemingly out of entitlement, creating massive traffic jams, but it’s likely because it’s just the norm and everyone does it. Pedestrians never jaywalk, probably because they’re afraid of those drivers who are always late for something. I simply learn and adapt – and don’t jaywalk.

But the hummus…my god, man, the hummus. It’s amazing and worth risking your life to cross the street for. “Hummus Complete” is a bowl of freshly made, warm hummus, drizzled with extra olive oil, a handful of chick peas (yes, hummus is made from chick peas so that seems odd, but it works), a boiled egg and 3 warm pitas. I’m ruined. I can never go back to American hummus. Never. Everyone says they “ate their way through Italy” but I’ve been to Italy. It’s pasta and meat. I ate my way through Israel. Fortunately I was only here for 1 month because I have no idea what would have become of me if I stayed longer.

I’m on my way to the airport. One month in Israel has flown by in a heartbeat. The best laid plans – every trip starts with them. They’re never anchored in concrete but rather sketched on a cocktail napkin and serve as an outline. However, like all good plans, they change.   I barely rode my bike at all and instead rode in numerous cars and busses.

One month in Israel was a big deal.  Don’t go to Israel everyone told me. It seems like a lifetime ago that I had even a shred of that sentiment or concern. Dozens of names, many without faces, have since come into my life. Warm smiles, fully belly laughs, generous offers of food or lodging, from people I had never met, for no other reason but simply because that is their way. I’m supposed to be afraid of Israel, but all this kindness has dulled that fear.

My travels over the past 2 years have taught me so many valuable lessons and Israel was yet another classroom. I have learned to soften, and become malleable to my surroundings, unattached to my plan or its outcome. Very rarely do I get rattled but instead am more intrigued. Amazing happens everywhere. Each country that I travel to, I learn a bit about their culture, but mostly, I learn a bit more about myself.  It’s far too easy to be afraid of the unknown or judge things that are simply different.  Go with an open mind and an open heart but be prepared for the inevitable kidney punch when things don’t go as scripted – but never give up that childhood curiosity.