No Regrets!

Dinner with Tati at a little restaurant called Boteco de Garafa, in the nearby neighborhood of Leblon (lih-BLON). I treated myself to a lime caipirinha (Brazil’s national drink) and got drunk after three sips. Good stuff. Was nice getting to know Tati, who is a local and seems very happy to show us around Rio for the next few days.

After dinner, Tati showed us around Ipanema and Copacabana by car. She said we’d be going places where I could take pictures, so I took my camera. While driving along Copacabana Beach, I started asking Tati some questions about the prostitutes leaning on the parked cars. Trying to accommodate me, she stopped in front of one and rolled down the window. I was scared. I asked her to keep driving.

We parked the car, and Tati said it was OK to take pictures. With nightclubs flickering on one side of the road and a well-lit but empty beach on the other, and lots of sketchy looking characters in between, I was a little scared, but Tati reassured me. I stepped onto the beach and immediately got looks from three rather large and scary-looking Brazilian guys, but it turns out they were security guards wondering WTF this gringo was thinking. Tati walked over to them, struck up a conversation, and everything was fine. I bet there aren’t a lot of people who have taken pictures of Copacabana Beach at night with a camera like mine.

We also drove around Lagoa Rodrigo de Freitas, a good-sized lake in the middle of Rio with a brightly lit Christmas tree floating in the middle. Kind of cool, but apparently the locals hate it because people slowing down to look causes a lot of traffic.

Tati took to one of her local Monday night hangouts, an intersection in Leme where bars overflowed and Brazilians drinking beer filled the streets. Although there were lots of people there, Tati said it was surprisingly dead and wasn’t sure why.

She took us to a few other spots around town, but there wasn’t much going on. Giving up, she dropped us off at our apartment. Doug and I rallied and ventured out on our own but couldn’t find anything except the sweet smell of bacon lingering at one particular intersection near our apartment. A relatively early night for our first in Rio.

Still no sign of our bags. The American Airlines web site says they will be delivered to our apartment tomorrow. Fingers crossed.

As we descended over Rio, the clouds broke and revealed huge expanses of mostly tiny buildings surrounding green mountains all around the city. I was snapping pictures out the window when a Brazilian guy leaned across the aisle and said, “Be careful in the street with your camera.”

Apparently, Ving Rhames was on our flight. He walked right by us and zipped through the much shorter crewmember line in customs. Doug spotted another familiar face, Chris Ferguson, who is apparently a big time poker player.

We walked to baggage claim and waited. And waited. No bags. The guy at the service counter confirmed that Doug’s bag was still in Miami, but he had no record of my bag. Hmm. He told us that our bags would be delivered tomorrow and gave us each a US$25 credit to use for toiletries.

Before we did anything, we’d need some local currency. My usual routine of hitting an ATM and withdrawing cash (you seem to get pretty fair exchange rates in other countries) was thwarted by ATMs not recognizing my bank card. As we were walking over to get ripped off by a currency exchange booth, one of the guys standing with the taxi drivers offered to change my money at a much better rate. Sketchy, but it worked.

The arrivals terminal was filled with taxi drivers and non-taxi drivers who wanted to take you places. They were willing to match the standard rate of R$80 offered by the sanctioned taxi cab services, but one of the drivers finally offered to give us a “discount” and take us for R$69.

We hopped in and headed to Ipanema. The scenery around Rio is magical. Lush vegetation lines the highway, and green, jagged mountains define the hazy skyline. Christ the Redeemer, one of Rio’s most famous landmarks, is visible in the distance.

We pulled up to our apartment building and met Laura. Friendly and helpful, she showed us in and answered all of our questions. Turns out Laura’s been renting property in the area for 21 years. When we asked her about safety in the area, she told us that only a couple of months ago, police swept through Ipanema and Copacabana and, through a well-organized series of violent attacks, cleared out a lot of the crime. According to her, the neighborhood was now “very safe.” Maybe Rio is starting to clean itself up a bit for the upcoming Olympics.

Our studio apartment is small but comfortable and safe. There is a security guard at the front, and it takes two keys to get in. Doug has graciously offered to let me have the twin bed while he takes the cushion thing that opens up into a bed. The little air conditioner has to work pretty hard to keep the room cool, but the Internet connection is great. A novelty broom closet elevator takes us up and down from the third floor.

We still owed Laura some money, so we walked around to a few banks, but again, we had a hard time finding friendly ATMs. After making arrangements to meet up with Laura again tomorrow, Doug and I stopped for lunch and split a platter of steak, chicken, sausage, and pork. Then found a drug store where Doug and I discussed our preference of solid stick vs. roll-on deodorant. After finding some “Happy Time” hand lotion, we were ready to go.

I’m getting a pretty good vibe form this place. It’s not nearly as scary as I was expecting it to be. Locals and tourists all seem happy, and there seems to be police everywhere. I’m going to continue to be cautious, but I think I might be able to get a few pictures out of this place.

We came back to the apartment for a few minutes and were just about to venture out to explore the Ipanema Beach, but thunderclouds just rolled in and it’s now pouring rain. Since we’re wearing the only clothes that we have and will have to keep wearing them until tomorrow at least, we’ve decided to stay in and chill out in our air-conditioned room for a while before heading out to dinner tonight with Tati.

For me, stress levels go up exponentially the days before a trip. The last few days are a mad rush of finishing up work projects, trip bookings, and packing. I ended up packing for this trip in about 45 minutes.

Our flight to Miami was late. We had to sprint through Terminal D to make our connection. Fortunately, airplane maintenance meant that the flight to Rio was late as well, so we were able to make it. The guy at the counter assured us that our bags would NOT make the flight and that they would have to be delivered to us in Rio. Wonderful.

Before going to sleep, I set my watch ahead three hours (never realized Rio was so far east), filled out my customs forms, and had a meal of relative delicious airplane lasagna. The maintenance was obviously for something other than the air conditioning, which has been blasting all flight and making the cabin downright frigid.

Thanks to Brazilians behind me swinging on my chair like angry gorillas, I never achieved REM sleep. Waking up was just a matter of opening my eyes. Doug, who took some sleeping pills a few hours ago, is sleeping like a baby.

Peeking out the window, I see a big-ass wing and a blanket of white cloud. Brazil’s under all that, I think. We should be in Rio in less than an hour!

The last couple of weeks have been a flurry of research and bookings and stress. Preparing to go on such a big trip is a lot of work, and since we’ve waited so long to finalize our schedule, book our flights, and organize or tour packages, our options were starting to become limited and prices were starting to skyrocket. This trip was twice as aggravating as Thailand was.

Accommodation was particularly frustrating. Between hotel web sites, hotel booking engines, tour packages including hotels, and local Craigslist listings, the options are overwhelming. Especially when there are no pictures or reviews. Just like it was for Thailand, TripAdvisor ended up being a great help. It’s the closest thing there is to a central database with availability, prices, and (supposedly) objective reviews from travelers, and it’s what I’ve been consulting for all of my bookings in Brazil and Argentina. I love that site. How did we ever find hotels before? Did we rely on our out-of-date, printed travel guides like Lonely Planet? Or did we just not care and find a place when we showed up?

By all accounts, Ipanema is the nicest and safest area in Rio. Unfortunately, Ipanema hotels were mostly sold out around New Year’s, so we ended up booking an apartment for a few days.

I sent a US$730 deposit with Western Union to a woman named “Laura” for the apartment. Cash in her pocket. She can walk away. It’s a bit scary booking some of this stuff, since it’s often through shoddy web sites and English-not-so-good e-mails that you plan everything. Who wouldn’t feel a certain about of nervousness about using Western Union with a woman named Laura or sending thousands of dollars with your credit card to a guy named Fred for an organized tour in Patagonia? Scary. But what can you do? You can’t really do a background check on a lot of these small companies and independent operators, so it all takes a certain amount of faith.

The accommodation and tour packages we booked in Rio, Salvador, and Iguazu Falls ended up being pretty damn expensive. The flights, in particular, were borderline ridiculous, presumably due to the limited capacity of the small planes servicing the airports inside Brazil. Our internal flights cost A LOT more than our international round trip ticket from Washington, DC. But it’s all done. Now, it’s time to relax and enjoy. This is what it’s all about.

The stories about muggings and violent crime in Brazil are still rolling in. One guy got stabbed in the liver when he resisted a mugging. Another was held up at gunpoint. A guy I work with was driven around Copacabana but a taxi driver who was snorting coke. A friend’s friend got mugged twice in one night. A photographer was telling me about his buddy who had all of his photo gear stolen twice. And another buddy of mine knows of a newly married couple who moved to Rio and were murdered within a year.

Found this on the web:

At night, especially after traffic has died-down you may hear what sounds like fireworks and explosions. This is not as menacing as it sounds, though it is still indicative of somebody up to no good. These are often firecrackers set-off as signals in the favelas. It might mean that a drug shipment has arrived and is in-transit, or that the police are making a raid into the favela. It is a signal to gang operatives who act as lookouts and surrogate police to be extra-vigilant. However, real shoot-outs may occur, especially on weekends. If you are on the street and you hear a shooting, find shelter in the nearest shop or restaurant.

This one was my favorite:

The tourist will be approached by a shoeshiner and to his astonishment discover a large, dirty blot on his shoes (which is actually shoe polish or mustard, but looks like quite something else). The tourist is typically shown to a chair and has his shoes or sandals cleaned in the best manner. Only after this service is rendered, the outrageous price of somewhere around R$1000 or more is revealed. At this point, muscular friends of the shoeshiner typically appear to “oversee” the completion of the transaction. If you are approached by a shoe shiner, you should shout or state loudly “NO” and walk quickly past. Swearing in your native tongue could also act as a deterrent. Should you be so unlucky as to have been put in a position where you cannot prevent having your shoes cleaned, it will be of some relief to you that the price can often be haggled down to a level suited to the size of your wallet.

And I’m not even sure the police are going to be much help:

Policemen can usually be trusted, but corruption in Brazil is still rampant and a few officers may try to extort you or demanding a little bribe.

There was even an article about how to get mugged “properly” (go limp, let them go through your pockets, and look down so that they don’t think you are trying to see what they look like). It’s also helpful to always keep a little money in your pockets, so the thieves have SOMETHING to take from you and don’t beat you up for wasting their time.

I think I’m ready. I’ve learned where to go and where not to go, how to carry my stuff and how to carry myself. And I’ve learned a few tricks for avoiding trouble. I won’t revel them now for fear that there are enterprising criminals using stolen laptops and wifi to read my blog. 🙂

For peace of mind, I’ve purchased a renter’s insurance policy to cover all of my stuff, with an all-risk rider for my expensive photo gear. If anything happens to my stuff, it will be covered. It’s amazingly affordable, and I strongly recommend it for anyone traveling with valuable equipment.

And to top things off, my buddy has a girlfriend who will be visiting family in Rio while we’re there, and Tatiana has graciously offered to show us around. Doug and I will feel a lot more comfortable hanging with a local.

With the trip only a few days away, fear is starting to give way to excitement. It’s strange to think that a week from today, the shortest day of the year up here in the northern hemisphere, I’ll be sitting under a blazing sun on the beach in Rio.

When I started telling people I was going to Brazil, everyone who had been there went on and one about how AMAZING it is. So much fun, they say. So beautiful. The beaches are fantastic. The nightlife is ridiculous. Everyone is gorgeous. They really talk it up. But then they tell me stories about muggings and robberies. Particularly in Rio.

I’ve always heard that Rio was a little dangerous. But since booking a trip down there, I’ve been hearing stories from people who have been there and reading some online travel forums. And I am completely freaked out.

Most people I have met who have been to Rio have been robbed/pickpocketed/mugged or traveled with someone who was. The stories they tell are a little scary. Muggings happen on the beach, on the street, doesn’t matter. Stuff is stolen out of hotels in the nice parts of town. Pocket-pickers are everywhere. One friend told me that she traveled with a group of twenty people for about two weeks. By the end of the trip, each one of them had been mugged or robbed. One of the guys wanted to outwit the pocket-pickers, splitting his money up and putting a bit into every pocket on his cargo pants. By the end of the day, he had nothing.

And things sometimes get violent, too. I’ve read a lot of stories about local kids pulling knives or guys holding broken bottles to your face and demanding your money and bag. Cars don’t stop for fear of being carjacked at a light or stop sign. So if you arrive somewhere intact, you’ll probably get run over when you try to cross the street.

Stay in Ipanema, they all tell me. That’s the safest spot for tourists. Then I find this:

EUA – The Washington Post
Título: Rio thieves armed with grenades rob tourists
Data: 27/11/2006

RIO DE JANEIRO, Brazil (Reuters) – Thieves armed with automatic rifles and military-issue grenades robbed a busload of British tourists in Rio de Janeiro before dawn on Sunday, the latest incident in a wave of violent crime plaguing Brazil’s seaside tourist mecca.

Police said four armed men pretending to be police stopped the tour bus as it pulled into an upscale neighborhood in the southern part of the city.

At least 18 British tourists who had just arrived in Brazil were robbed, losing their luggage, passports and cash. One tourist who resisted was hit in the head with the butt of a rifle but was not seriously hurt, police said.

The robbery took place near Rio’s famed Ipanema beach, a swanky area where police and drug traffickers squared off in a prolonged shootout this week that sent tourists ducking for cover.

Two days later a prominent socialite was shot and killed by a teenage assailant on a bicycle as she pulled up to a stoplight in Leblon, another glitzy beach neighborhood popular with tourists.

Nestled between lush mountains covered in tropical vegetation and the Atlantic ocean, Rio has long been Brazil’s most popular tourist destination. But it also has one of the highest murder rates in the world, prompting some travel agencies to warn tourists that it might be safer to vacation elsewhere.

So I’m freaking out. I’m not worried about my safety as much as I’m worried about my valuables.

I travel everywhere with my laptop and photo equipment, necessary for keeping an up-to-date, photo-filled blog while I’m traveling. But after suggesting that I wanted to bring my laptop and camera equipment down to Rio, people have told me that I am out of my mind. If I bring it and keep it in the hotel, it might get stolen. If I carry everything with me, I might get mugged.

The prospect of going without this stuff and not being able to blog while I am down there is killing me.

OK, so if I do bring all my stuff down with me, how would I protect myself? Probably a good idea to get insurance on all my gear. And I don’t speak a lick of Portuguese, so it might be a good idea to learn some basic expressions beforehand. Things like “Get your hand out of my pocket!” and “Please remove the broken bottle from my face!” and “You can take the camera but not the memory card!”

During the day, maybe we’re fine if we stay in the touristy, crowded spots and keep our valuables out of view. If we look comfortable and look people in the eye and keep stuff in hidden pockets and don’t flaunt cash or MacBook Pros or Nikon equipment, we might be OK. After dark, we should not be on the streets or beach. Taxis to clubs with a bit of cash and a photocopy of our passport. That’s it.

Maybe we only stay at some of the nicer, reputable hotels. Preferably ones with safes in the rooms. I fear that might get expensive.

I’ve decided. I am bringing my stuff. If the blogging stops, you’ll know what happened.

Been back home a couple of weeks now, and I’m finally recovered from the exhausting trip to Israel. I’ve adjusted back to local time, I’m caught up on my sleep, and all of the hummus and falafel has made its way out of my system.

The three of us saw about as much of Israel as you can see in ten days, I think. We were always on the go, praying that the GPS would take us to the right place and doing our best with Jerusalem traffic.

One of the amazing things about Jerusalem is that it marks the physical and spiritual intersection of Jewish, Christian, and Muslim people. The more I saw, the more interested I became in Jerusalem’s history. The contrast between glorious mosques and churches to the completely plain Jewish holy sites was fascinating. Judaism seems to be, by far, the most modest world religion.

But despite the close proximity of these religions in Jerusalem, heavy security prevents open integration. Non-Muslims do not visit Muslim holy sites. Dome of the Rock, the holiest site in the world for both Muslims and Jews, was inaccessible.

The social situation in Jerusalem is complicated. Arabs outside of the city are kept out by guys with guns and barbed wire and giant walls. Bethlehem, another place I wanted to visit, is just outside the city walls and off-limits. Inside Jerusalem, there are small pockets of Arabs communities, but for the most part, there is very little residential integration.

Segregation fosters intolerance, and for a surprising number of “educated” urbanites, there is an irrational hatred of Jews for Muslims or vice versa. At the same time, there seems to be peace and brotherhood among many of the commoners who work and live together. The issues are either obvious, complicated, or nonexistent, depending on who you talk to.

Most, if not all, of security in Israel seems to be for the protection of Jews and Jewish holy sites. In the city of three religions, it’s the Jews who are the targets. I felt a constant tension in Israel. But the suicide bombings and shootings are rare, and people seem to go about their daily lives without worrying about any of that stuff happening.

Israel is definitely a different kind of trip. There are beaches and clubs and drunk people, but it’s more of a cultural and educational experience.

Traveling with my Dad and Marion was about what I expected. I’m glad I went with them, and I’m not sure I ever would have gone to Israel with anyone else. Other than trying to keep up with them at lunch and dinner (they eat a lot) and my Dad cupping his balls on the way to the bathroom at 3am, there were no issues. I’d take another trip with them for sure, but maybe something a little less physical. This trip pushed them to the limit, I think.

So onto my next trip… Rio for New Year’s! Just bought tickets for a three-week trip to Brazil and Argentina with Doug.

I’m starting to feel a bit guilty. I can’t believe how much traveling I’ve been able to squeeze into the 18 months:

Peru – 10 days
Bahamas – 1 week
South Beach – 3 days
Thailand/Laos/Cambodia – 3 weeks
Ireland – 6 days
Vegas – 4 days

Maybe Iceland and Spain in 2010. 🙂

No Regrets!

Woke up this morning on a mission to squeeze in as much as I could on my last day in Israel. We had a plan to drive up the coast a bit before driving back to Tel Aviv to drop me off at Ben Gurion Airport.

Warm sun, cool breeze. Another perfect day. Every day has been warm but not hot, every night has been cool but not cold. This must have been the perfect time of year to come to Israel.

In the car, Marion kept talking about how much she enjoyed the camel ride in Petra. She can’t stop talking about it.

Our first stop was Soreq Cave, just outside of Jerusalem. I didn’t have high expectations for it, but I found it to be surprisingly large, ornate, and creatively lit.

It was also pretty warm and humid in there, so by the end of it, we were all a bit damp and gross.

From the cave, we drove up to Caesarea (rhymes with “diarrhea,” not “malaria”), a Roman-style port with ancient ruins and lots of restaurants and shops. After picking out a restaurant, it took almost 30 minutes to get a table (apparently the locals have priority) and another an hour and a half for the waitresses to finally get our lunch order right. Restaurant service here is mediocre at best.

I’m not impressed with Israeli food. It’s almost like they got together and decided to put all of the foods I don’t like onto one menu. I’m overloaded with hummus and falafel and onion and mushrooms and eggplant and tabouli salad. (No, I’m not the pickiest eater I know.) My Dad and Marion seem to be coping with the food selection, but I’m tired of it. And it doesn’t matter if it’s Israeli or Jordanian or Lebanese, it’s all pretty much the same.

Many, if not most, of the restaurants in Israel are kosher. Following laws laid out in the Torah, kosher means that there are specific requirements for what food is served and how it can be prepared. It usually means a very limited selection of meat, and you can never have meat dairy with meat, so no cheeseburgers or pepperoni pizza or real lasagna. If you’re eating seafood, you can have fish but no crustaceans.

The things I can find everywhere and enjoy, like lamb and chicken and potatoes and cole slaw, are served at every meal, so I’m starting to get sick of even that stuff. If you have a craving for iced tea, bottled Nestea Peach is about the only kind they have. I take for granted variety of food we have in America.

There are some pretty decent computer simulations showing the history of the place, but there’s not much to look at. Most of the ruins are really ruined. Today, it seems like Caesarea is mostly a romantic place for local couples.

After Caesarea, it was off to the airport. While I had to head home and get back to work, my Dad and Marion are staying a few extra days, so it was time to say goodbye.

Making my way through security, I was the subject of the interrogation. “Did you pack your bags? Where did you pack them? Who packed them? Did anyone else pack them? Who were you here with? Who are you traveling with? Where did you stay?”

If you say something like “I am here with my Dad,” they will quickly respond with “Are you traveling with him? Why is he staying? Where is he staying?” It’s all very fast and fluid, and they follow every tangent as far as it will go. You have to really pay attention to avoid misanswering them or stumbling over your words to arouse suspicion.

Going through the metal detector, I didn’t have to take jacket or sweatshirt or shoes off. It’s almost like interrogation (and presumably also racial profiling) seem to be more effective screening processes than any reliance on machines.

Why isn’t it the same back home? Do we rely on half-naked passengers walked through hypersensitive metal detectors because we don’t have a properly trained staff to interrogate people? Is it because we don’t have a population that would tolerate interrogation? Or is it because the general population would struggle with rapid fire, repetitive questions in general, making interrogation useless?

Imagine if there were a change in policy and Americans had to have these extended conversations for all flights? Americans would go apeshit. Too much work. Americans want to be safe but don’t want to be inconvenienced with conversation.

In any case, airport security is arguably more effective and definitely less of a hassle in Israel than it is back home.

I have a window seat on the plane. Every time I fly, it amazes me how small the seat and legroom areas are. I know it’s coach, but it’s uncomfortable being confined in those tiny seats for ten hours at a time. Yes, you can get up and walk around, but when you have two sleeping people between you and the aisle, I feel like a bit of a dick waking them up. If you need to get something out of your bag, it’s quite possible that you will pull a muscle trying to retrieve it.

On the seat back in front of me, I just watched Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen, parts of which were shot in Wadi Rum and Petra. The movie got the geography horribly wrong, obvious to me since I was just there a couple of days ago.

It’s black outside. Going to try to get some sleep.

The last few days have been exhausting. Marion and my Dad are both beat up, and I’m just plain worn out. Of course, I’ve also been staying up late trying to catch up on my blogging. It’s very time-consuming, especially because I’m trying to include photos as I go. When I fall behind, it starts to snowball, and it makes it even harder to catch up. It’s borderline stressful, so I hope people are reading this! 🙂

We didn’t do much of anything today except catch up on sleep and eat. Had an early dinner at a Lebanese restaurant in Abu Ghosh, an Arab settlement in the hills near Jerusalem. I had stuffed chicken, Marion had lamb shashlik, and my Dad had tasty but diarrhea-inducing lamb chops and onion salad.

Tomorrow, we’ll squeeze in a few more sights, including a cave recommended by Sarah and a quick trip to the ancient port of Caesarea. Then I head home. Where all of the girls I know who do not wear dresses will be waiting to beat me up.

It’s Thursday night, the big night to go out in Israel. And I felt like I needed one more taste of Israeli nightlife before going home. Somehow, I mustered up enough energy to go out.

I picked a place called Haoman 17, which according to one of my guides is one of the best clubs in the world and a conveniently short walk from our hotel. I copied a map onto my phone, cleaned myself up a bit, and headed out.

The walk took me through a neighborhood of sketchy apartment blocks, stray cats, and used car dealerships. Heard the music from around the corner and finally found myself standing in front of it.

From the outside, Haoman 17 looks like a warehouse shithole. There was a crowd of people at the gate by the street yelling at two bouncers and pushing to get inside. The bouncers were not shy, yelling and pushing back whenever they were tested.

None of the bouncers spoke English. I observed for a few moments before walking in. They quickly patted me down, and then I walked to the second gate, where more people were yelling at the bouncer and pushing to get in. Really, is all the screaming necessary? Not my style, so I patiently waited and observed some more.

Seemed like this bouncer was arbitrarily allowing people into the club. It wasn’t based on the order you arrived or what you were wearing, and nobody was giving him money. You were either selected or you were not. I was not. After a few minutes, the bouncer motioned with his hands to back up and told everyone who was left to leave, so I returned to the street.

Outside the gate again, I tried to be friendly with one of the bouncers. Older, beefy Russian guy. I asked him what was going on and what I had to do to get in, and he just shook his head. He spoke almost no English, but he managed to tell me that he had family in New York City and that he had never been there himself.

People continued to push, and predictably, a fight broke out at the gate. As the fight pushed out onto the street, the bouncers started yelling at and manhandling each other. The whole scene was tense and chaotic.

I waited for the ruckus to die down before asking my Russian bouncer friend if I could come in. He shook his head, and I gave up.

I’m not sure why I didn’t get in. Was it because I wasn’t yelling and pushing? Did I not have the right look? Was I not wearing enough black? Charm and a little patience will usually get you into a club at home, but not here.

At least I gave it a shot. Having gone and been denied, I have no regrets.

Woke up to find my Dad and Marion feeling good and ready to go. Had a quick breakfast and walked down to the Petra visitor’s center. From there, my Dad arranged a donkey and buggy ride for himself and Marion, while I walked with Mahmoud, our tour guide for the day.

Mahmoud was really good, discussing everything I was seeing in articulate, easy-to-understand English. He answered all of my questions and stopped with me whenever I wanted to take a photo. He even taught me some Arabic:

zakee jeh-den : very delicious

We all met up again at the Treasury, a sight as impressive during the day as it was last night.

Hardly anything to explore inside, though.

We walked further into Petra, exploring the buildings and tombs and mountains around us. Walking around Petra is like being in Manhattan. You really have to stretch your neck looking up and all around to see everything. Mahmoud led us around, stopping every few minutes to give us some history and answer all of our questions.

Petra is made of sandstone, which is easily eroded. All the structures are decomposing right before our eyes. Worse, people can walk all over them everything, breaking them down further. Tourists collect rocks and put sand into water bottles to take home. I’m really surprised preservationists and archaeologists don’t have a problem with any of this.

Marion’s knees and my Dad’s back were aching, but we got through it. At the end of the day, my Dad arranged for camels to take us back. Marion can’t stop talking about how much she loved the camel ride.

After a quick meal of hummus and cole slaw (for a change), Mohammed #2 picked us up and took us back to Aqaba, telling us a bit more about his personal life as he drove. He described his wife, who religiously covers herself from head to toe, as a “walking tent.” He also thinks that, at age 33, I should be married with kids.

On the way back, the back right tire went flat. We pulled over at the top of a hill and watched the sun set over Jordan. What a great place to stop!

We crossed the border back into Eilat, took a taxi to the airport, flew back to Tel Aviv, picked up our rental car, and drove back to Jerusalem.

A very long day, but Petra is definitely worth the trip.