No Regrets!

Made damn sure I woke up on time this morning. We made our way to Tel Aviv and to Sde Dov Airport, apparently and confusingly also known as Dov Hoz Airport. Parked the car, went through security.

In Israel, airport security seems to be run almost exclusively by young girls. Whether it’s the girl checking your passport, leading you through the metal detector, or staring at the x-ray machine screen, the girls in charge are in the early twenties at the most. Are these girls assigned these airport jobs through army service? And, um, is there any occupation more masculine than airport security? I can’t imagine young girls working airport security at home.

Israeli airport security relies on careful passport scrutiny and interrogation rather than hypersensitive metal detectors and shoe removal. When the girl at the door examined our passports, she really looked at them, verifying our names and studying our faces for a moment. Not like the cursory glance you get at home. The metal detectors must be cranked way down since I was able to walk through with my metal belt buckle, my watch, and a handful of change in my pocket. They didn’t even make me take off my sweatshirt or shoes.

We approached the counter, where a young girl was waiting to examine our passports once again. She then proceeded to interrogate my father, asking him where he’s been, whom he’s been visiting. She wanted specific names and places. She asked him about his personal life and how active he is in the community back home. Three different times, she asked him if he speaks Hebrew. She was trying to keep it casual and conversational, but he questions were all asked quickly and repetitively, and every tangent was explored.

I was getting a little antsy listening to this. It was getting awfully repetitive and I was starting to get annoyed. But I kept reminding myself that she was just doing her job, waiting for us to get impatient or slip up. So I kept my cool.

While waiting to board, my Dad thought it would be funny to take pictures of the security officials at work. Given how strict they are about security, I knew it was a bad idea. A few seconds later, a young guy rushed over to look at my Dad’s camera and see what pictures he had taken, demanding that he delete the one he took of the security officers.

Israeli passengers are pushy getting onto a plane. Everyone just has to get on first. What’s the rush?

Our flight took us to Eilat, a city on the southern tip of Israel and a convenient spot to cross the border into Jordan. Flying over the massive Negev desert, all you see is brown mountains and brown sand. No vegetation at all.

There was a shuttle just outside the plane waiting to take everyone back to the terminal together, but that didn’t matter. Israeli passengers are just as pushy getting off the plane as they are getting on.

We were met at the airport by a tour guide holding up a sign with our name and it and driven to the Jordan border. Our guide managed the whole process for us, which consisted of a bit of paperwork and a quick look at our passports on both sides.

We were met by another driver on the Jordan side, who gave us a quick tour of the town of Aqaba. Nicer architecture than Israel, with new hotels and resorts under construction all over the place. You can tell that tourism is what brings the money in. With lots of palm trees and mountains all around, Aqaba is a spitting image of Palm Springs. Chants from nearby Muslim mosques and an enormous flag of Jordan over looking the city, probably the biggest flag I’ve ever seen. And it was from Aqaba that I caught my first glimpse of the Red Sea, which is not red but very, very blue. Turns out that Jordan is NOT named for Michael Jordan like I always thought, but from a Hebrew word that means “down-flowing,” presumably an ancient description of the river that runs between Israel and Jordan.

Mohammed, our huge and scary-looking driver, turned out to be quite personable and informative. We asked him a bit about Jordan, his personal life, and his attitudes. When we asked how he feels about king Abdullah, he hesitated for a moment before telling us what a good man he is. I got the impression it’s unacceptable, and perhaps punishable, to speak badly about the king, similar to how it is in Thailand.

The drive took us through the red and mottled granite mountains of southern Jordan, which look quite different from the brown sandstone mountains of Israel. A few minutes later, we arrived at Wadi Rum, a nature preserve in the desert and site of our first tour. It was there where we were handed off to another guy named Mohammed, who had a 4×4 waiting for us.

Mohammed #2 quickly established himself as a crappy tour leader. From the beginning, it was obvious that there was a language barrier. Instead of acknowledging my Dad’s request for some water or telling us exactly what we were seeing or giving us some history or answering our questions, he’d put a big smile on his face and say “yes, very nice” over and over and then laugh loudly. And that was when he wasn’t jabbering on his cell phone in Arabic. Shame, because I feel like we could have learned a lot more from another guide.

This “organized” tour feels a bit unorganized. We’d been with them barely a couple of hours, and we’ve already dealt with a girl at the airport, a guy to process our passports at the border, a driver to Wadi Rum, and now this new guy. And each person isn’t completely clear about what the others are doing or what is coming up next for us. They haven’t put in too much effort into making things easy and seamless.

When we stopped for lunch, Mohammed #2 asked us to pick a table and then grabbed his food from the buffet and started eating before we even sat down. After joining him at the table, he jabbered on his cell phone again. Rude. I was a tour leader myself once, and the little mistakes I see other tour leaders make really bug me.

All that aside, the scenery around Wadi Rum really was fantastic. Multicolored, sculptured mountains set in a desert of immaculate brown sand. It was the location for movies such as Lawrence of Arabia, Red Planet, and Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen.

Mohammed #1 picked us up from Wadi Rum and took us for the two-hour ride up to Wadi Musa, the gateway town for Petra high in the mountains and the location of our hotel, the Petra Palace. Marion chatted with Mohammed #1 the whole way while my Dad and I passed out in the back seat.

Had dinner at the hotel. In contrast to Israel, the tourists here seemed to be almost entirely older people. Wonder why that is.

After seeing some sweet photos of Petra at night, we booked a night tour of Petra. The walk took us to the visitor’s center for orientation and then down a very long, narrow, candlelit path with huge canyon walls on either side. Walking with my tripod, I was approached by a Turkish guy named Aybars (EYE-bars). He had a furniture business back home and was in the area for one of his projects, but he was also a photographer, with a bag full of flashes and radio transmitters over his shoulder. He seemed like a really good guy, and we were both excited about seeing Petra at night. It’s funny how photographers always find each other in a crowd. Instant friends.

The walk ended at the Treasury, the most famous structure in Petra. Even at night, it was impressive. A full moon shone overhead while a warm glow from the candles lit the structure in front of us. Warm tea, music from traditional instruments, and a whining stray cat set the mood. A very cool experience.

After the little show, Aybars and I hopped around and started taking photos. Although the guide had said there would be plenty of time after the show for photos, they started extinguishing candles and cleaning up right away. We asked them what the deal was, and they said that they had to make sure the place was empty in ten minutes. “Take your time, but be quick!” they told us retardedly. Aybars and I were pissed.

Before saying goodbye, Aybars invited me to Turkey and offered to show me around if I come. Another place to add to my list. 🙂

The walk down to the Treasury and back nearly broke Marion, and she’s in pretty serious pain right now. I feel kinda bad. It’s been a very physical trip, and I think they are both reaching their limits.

Tomorrow, we are supposed to spend the day exploring Petra. It’s a complex of multiple buildings at different elevations. Rides on donkeys and camels can reduce some of the walking, but I’m a little worried that my Dad and Marion might have had enough.

Tonight, I get to share a room with my Dad and Marion. Sweet!

The 3am wake-up call came to my room since it’s the only one with a phone in it. Apparently, I answered it, thanked the guy at the front desk, and went right back to sleep. I’m awesome.

Off to a late start, we threw our things in the car and then booked it to Masada. Leaving Jerusalem, we passed various checkpoints, some empty and some with guys and big guns. Dad is getting good at turning on the charm when we have to stop and talk to them. We also passed an interesting sign that said that it is prohibited to have your car towed or serviced by the Palestinian Authority. Know why?

Through the dark and cold and windy and desolate Judean desert, up and down winding mountain roads, our little Chevy Aveo was pushed to the max. The GPS did help us today.

We arrived just as the sun was coming up. There were no tour buses or other cars there. Parking lot was completely empty.

Determined to get to the top as quickly as I could, I bounded up the steps with my camera gear and left my Dad and Marion behind. The ramp up the west side of the mountain wasn’t too strenuous.

I reached the top just as the sun was cresting over the Jordanian mountains to the east. There were a few people around, but it was almost completely silent. The whole experience had a certain magic to it. Ravens everywhere made it surreal.

It’s a much larger complex on the top than I was expecting, with lots of little buildings and restorations and cliffside views to explore. My Dad and Marion, who finally made it up, appreciated the view, but it came at a cost. The climb wrecked Marion’s knees, which were already suspect to begin with. She would hobble around for the rest of the day.

After Masada, it was time to head to the Dead Sea. In a nerdy way, I’m into oddities of the physical world like the lowest point on Earth and water so salty that you can float in it, so it was one of the places I really wanted to go in Israel.

We drove for a little while before reaching a line high in the mountains that marked sea level.

We continued to descend for another twenty minutes before we connected to the road that runs along the edge of the Dead Sea. Aside from groves of date trees, the entire area is a wasteland.

Our first stop was at the nature reserve at Ein Gedi. We walked around the gardens for a few minutes but got annoyed with the flies and stopped at the restaurant for lunch. Things were OK until we saw two employees pull food off the buffet tables with the fingers and eat, after which I lost my appetite.

After lunch, we drove down to the Dead Sea for a swim. The whole scene is very eerie. It’s like a beach, but not really. It’s like an ocean, but not really. The sky was cloudy and gloomy, the air was silent except for the sound of tiny waves trickling at the water’s edge.

There I was, in my sweet new gray shorts, standing at the lowest place on Earth. I hopped around a bit, taking photos of the salt deposits on the rocks. Then it was time for a swim. For those who don’t know, the Dead Sea is so salty that buoyancy is altered. You just need to get in on your back, and you will float without any effort.

I put my feet in, and it was cold. My Dad and I share an intolerance for anything colder than bath water, so we stood there like idiots while Marion frolicked in the water. We don’t get to the Dead Sea every day, so we finally manned up and fell in.

Floating in the Dead Sea really is an amazing sensation. If you relax, your body will naturally float in a fetal position, with your head comfortably above water. I put a pile of rocks on my stomach and I was still floating. Any other position and you start to flop around a bit as you try to keep your balance.

And that water is damn salty. It feels a bit greasy in your hands, a bit like watery suntan lotion. It’s so strong that you can actually see the little swirls in the water when you wave your hand through it. After wiping my face, it stung my slightly chapped lips and really burned when it seeped inside my mouth. I don’t even want to know what it would feel like to get it in your eyes.

While floating around, two F-15’s roared overhead. Heard a distant sonic boom a few minutes later.

We returned to Jerusalem just in time to get honked at by angry taxi drivers in rush hour traffic. They really are crazy. A moment’s hesitation and they are screaming things like “Alechi tisdaynu!”

Catching a flight to Petra early tomorrow morning! We’ll be taking an organized tour down there, hopefully less stressful than trying to do everything ourselves.

Today was a chilly, blustery day. We decided to take it easy, driving around a bit to explore some of the surrounding neighborhoods and find some sweeping views of the Jerusalem.

Next to the Old City, the Mount of Olives is covered with an enormous Jewish cemetery, Christian churches, and mostly Arab settlements. Garry wasn’t with us, so we relied on the GPS to get there.

It’s very easy to get turned around in Jerusalem. Even though I generally have faith in GPS technology, it seems like we’re often driving around in circles. And maybe we are. Today, I noticed that what the GPS lady says does not always match the directions shown on the LCD screen.

At one point, we found ourselves on the top of the Mount of Olives, turning in to alleys that got smaller and smaller. Eventually, we found ourselves at a dead-end, crammed between parked cars and schoolchildren. The only way out was backwards and uphill. So my Dad rode the clutch and fired it up in reverse. After a few minutes of this, the only thing we had done was fill the car and surrounding alley with the smell of burning clutch. A friendly Arab fellow kindly helped guide us out of the alley and back onto the main road. And we went down there because the GPS lady told us to.

It doesn’t help that the drivers here are among the most impatient and selfish in the world. Drivers have NO problem getting in your way, but will do anything to get you out of THEIR way, including screaming and making aggressive hand gestures and laying no the horn. My Dad has been getting into it, honking back to any cars that honk at him, and even taunting other drivers by slowing down or even stopping when he feels like he needs to teach someone a lesson. Unfortunately, there are too many drivers here to “educate.”

At a particularly majestic viewpoint over the Old City, my Dad struck up a conversation with an Arab guy who stopped to show us what we were looking at. His name was Abraham (Ibrahim in Arabic), and he invited us back to his friend’s restaurant for lunch. While I was a little hesitant, my Dad and Marion felt comfortable going with him, so we did.

We had passed his restaurant earlier but didn’t even notice it. Tucked away into an alley, we walked into what turned out to be a well lit, charming, lavishly decorated cave. Abraham led us to the nicest table in the back of the restaurant and sat with us. If not for the other tourist couple eating in the restaurant, I would have thought that this was when we get mugged.

Instead, Abraham sat and talked with us about his upbringing, his work, and his attitudes. He told us that he buys his food only from Jews because he knows they are more careful about food preparation than Arabs are.

We talked a bit about the religious and military conflicts it the region, and we told him how we have waited to come to Israel for so long because we were a bit scared. He was disappointed that we were scared and that there are probably millions of other tourists who are afraid to come for the same reasons.

Abraham’s take is that many of the region’s issues are perpetuated by greedy politicians and overblown by the media, but that in reality, many of the “conflicts” as reported by the media don’t really exist. He conceded that there are extremists on both sides who ruin it for everyone else, but that everyone gets along fine for the most part. He works with other Arabs and Christians and Jews every day and considers them all brothers. He even started to refer to my Dad as “brother.” We share similar customs, languages, hopes for peace. His message was that since we all have so much in common, we should work together for peace and harmony from the ground up. Abraham even holds peace meetings at his restaurant once a week.

Given what we have seen and heard about Arabs in the media, Abraham’s message and optimism was refreshing. If people from all religions were as levelheaded and hopeful as him, we’d solve a lot of the world’s problems.

Then the food came. Big platters of lamb and kebab and chicken and vegetables and bread and hummus and sauces. It was delicious, the best meal we’ve had in Israel so far.

We asked Abraham what the restaurant was called so that we could recommend it to friends. He said it was the Stone Cave Restaurant. By the way he looked up just before saying it, I got the impression that he came up with that off the top of his head. But I guess that’s what it’s called.

After lunch, Arab kids outside the restaurant were friendly and cheerful, and I started to think that maybe Abraham is right about everything.

Abraham offered to help my Dad get his cell phone problems worked out. He was willing to take us anywhere: any of the Arab territories, Bethlehem, Bedouin tents. But it was getting late, and we didn’t want to overcommit to this guy. As they said goodbye, my Dad and Abraham gave each other a hearty hug. My Dad doesn’t hug a lot of strangers.

We thanked him in Arabic, which sounds like “shook-uh-dun.”

We drove around the Mount of Olives for a few more viewpoints. Winds from an incoming storm kicked up some dust, basking the Old City in a golden glow.

Then a quick drive up nearby Mount Scopus, where the GPS was better behaved. From Mount Scopus, we looked east, away from the Old City and out across the Judean desert.

It really was a great day, could not have planned it better. If you had told me that we were going to take a photo with a guy and a mule and hang out with a random Arab guy who would take us to a fantastic restaurant and take photos of the Old City in golden sunlight, I would have never believed it. Sometimes, it just happens.

Tonight, I’ll get a few hours of sleep before leaving Jerusalem at 3am. We’re going to watch the sun rise from the top of Masada.

My Dad just walked past my bedroom to the bathroom completely naked. Sweet!

One of the things I enjoy doing whenever I travel is meeting the locals and figuring out what makes them tick. Tel Aviv gave me a good chance to do this.

Everyone, young and old, is pretty serious. I’m not sure if it’s because they have been hardened by their mandatory stints in the Israeli army and rocket attacks and constant security checks everywhere, or if it’s just a cultural thing from the days before Israel even existed, but people are direct and to the point. There are no friendly smiles or little nods when strangers meet in a store or pass on the sidewalk, no courtesy waves when you let someone into your lane. Interactions are practical and quick.

There ARE people laughing and joking around, but those people are friends who already know each other. There are a few others who have smiled and extended themselves for us, but most of those people are in the hospitality industry. They are the people who work at hotels and book our tours and guide us around and work at airports and deal with tourists on a daily basis. But being nice to tourists is their livelihood, and I don’t think people who work in the tourism industry are ever representative of the true national personality.

There do seem to be some differences between older and younger Israelis. I’m not sure what the age cut-off is, maybe 40 or so, but there is definitely a distinctive personality for both.

Older Israelis always seem angry. Whether it’s the people I watched at Carmel Market or strangers on the street or people on a bus, older people have a permanent sneer on their faces. They are always on edge, waiting for that one little thing to send them into a screaming tantrum. Unless you are about to give them money, they are especially impatient with tourists. And in cars, they are even more impatient, honking at the slightest hesitation.

Is it just this particular generation that’s like that? Or do all young Israelis get like that eventually?

I spent most of my time socializing with younger Israelis, and most of the ones I’ve met are a little more chilled out than the older people. Although it would be a stretch for me to say that they look happy, they do generally seem to be comfortable with life. Most seem to have a sense of humor, but you have to crack the shell to get to it. My attempts at humor are usually appreciated but rarely reciprocated.

Conversations with some of the locals about the “illusion” of security in Israel were met with disdain. They insist that the guards ARE in fact well trained, but mostly in the practice of racial profiling. If someone is Arab in appearance, they might go so far as to perform a full strip-search on them, while more “Israeli-looking” people and regular tourist folk get a superficial check and a wave. Racial profiling seems to be appropriate and accepted here in Israel.

The clothes young people wear are typically European: tight pants and ill-fitting shirts with lots of black and neutral tones. Guys flaunt chest hair and old school haircuts.

Israel is a Middle Eastern melting pot, so you get a lot of different skin and eye and hair colors, a lot of different body types. There is some natural beauty here for sure, but the girls don’t make the most of it.

In general, the girls here just aren’t very feminine. Clothing is tame, with many girls wearing the same drab, ill-fitting clothes that guys wear. Little to no make-up. It’s also the seriousness that bothers me. Seriousness is a masculine quality. Girls are supposed to be fun and smiley and dainty, but they’re just not like that here. And their voices. All the girls seem to have raspy, old woman voices. Is it because Israelis are always yelling at each other? Is it because they all smoke? Is it a Middle Eastern genetic trait? And Hebrew isn’t the most feminine-sounding language, either. Like Russian or German, spoken Hebrew is full of harshness.

Call me a traditionalist, but I like to see girls dress and look and act like girls. Is that a Western attitude? Am I a superficial prick?

At the same time, one of the good things about this indifference to femininity is that the most attractive girls don’t know it. At home, attractive (and even mediocre-looking) girls are objectified from an early age, developing attitudes of entitlement and selfishness along with a low self-esteem. Getting into a relationship with a girl like that is like hitting yourself over the head with a frying pan. Attractive girls here don’t have any of that baggage.

One of the redeeming qualities about Israelis is that when you’re in, you’re in. There is a certain loyalty that develops between friends that you can feel. Garry and Sarah have definitely gone out of their way for us, accommodating our every desire. Elior and Eli were gracious hosts who fed me and showed me a good time. And the friends I made in Tel Aviv are all very cool.

Just trying to paint a picture based on my experiences. There are certainly exceptions to my above generalizations.

I’ve learned a bit of Hebrew here as well.

toe-dah : thank you
toe-dah rah-bah : thank you very much
b’va-kashah : you’re welcome (actually a multipurpose phrase, it seems)
slee-chah : (seems to be used to get somebody’s attention, like “excuse me” or “sorry”)
ken : yes (also how you can answer the phone)
lo : no
shek-a-leem, or sh’kaleem : plural for shekel
shach : informal plural for shekel, like “bucks” in the US
tay-eem mee-owed : very delicious
at tay-eem-ah mee-owed : you are very delicious (to a girl)
alechi tis-day-nu : go fuck yourself

Furthermore, there really is no “J” sound in Hebrew. The Hebrew pronunciation of Jerusalem is “yeh-ROO-shuh-LIE-im,” Jaffa is “YAW-foh,” and Jeff is “AW-some.”

Today was a whirlwind of walking, picture-taking, eating, taxi-hailing, and stair-climbing.

While first two days were filled with clouds and rain, today’s weather was perfect, with a warm sun, a gentle breeze off the Mediterranean, and little fluffy clouds rather than big gray mean ones. My first impulse was to rock my sweet new gray shorts and head to the beach, but there was too much in the city I wanted to see. And since I hadn’t seen much on my first two days in Tel Aviv, I had only one day to do everything.

While everything is stone in Jerusalem, Tel Aviv is a city of slummy stucco buildings, with more glorious and creatively designed high-rises around the city center. I walked around a bit to photograph them. Lots of Russian signage everywhere.

Finally found an ATM with some English on it that I could use. Israeli money is beautiful.

I walked down Allenby Street a bit to Carmel Market, a medium-sized alley crammed with stalls and site of a suicide bomber attack about 5 years ago. Cheap baby clothes, ugly sweatshirts, knock-off watches, boxes of fruit and candy, mounds of colorful spices with metal scoops in them, and tables of shiny and kitschy Judaica. A few of the vendors didn’t like photographers stopping in front of their stall to take pictures.

The people at the market, and most older Israelis in general, look, act, and talk as if they’re angry, whether they are buying or selling, male or female, talking to tourists or each other. I’m not sure they really are angry, but that’s how it comes out. They look like they’re on edge to begin with, and then the slightest thing will send them into a fit of screaming and arm waving.

Got a giant chocolate bar with raisins and hazelnuts but was disappointed with it. The chocolate is the cheap, sugary kind which kind of dissolves in your mouth, not the creamy kind that is so delicious.

The sun was shining and the wind was warm, so I finally had a good opportunity to hit the beach. The sand is light brown and very fine, almost like powder, but littered with rusty nails and broken glass. The Mediterranean Sea was rough and filled with kite-boarders. Put my feet in the water. COLD.

Walked the oceanside promenade down to Old Jaffa, where I visited a church, a wishing bridge, and snapped a few photos of Andromeda Rock, the spot where Perseus pulled Medusa’s head out of a bag, turning the gorgon to stone, and then rescued Andromeda, who was chained to a rock as a sacrifice for the gorgon. The rock was a lot bigger in Clash of the Titans.

In Old Jaffa, I stopped at Aladin, one of the restaurants recommended in one of my travel guides. It’s perched up on the cliff above the shore and offers a pretty good view of Tel Aviv. At the waitresses’ recommendation, I had a lunch of Sea Bream and salad. Not bad, but it was served split in half and with the head still attached, so I got a close-up look of the brain and eyeballs. Not into that. My fish lunch was accompanied by Muslim chants from loudspeakers on top of a nearby mosque.

From Old Jaffa, I took a cab to Azrieli Center, a collection of huge, geometric and brightly lit buildings near the city center. The plan was to meet up with Elinor, who was going to go with me to the top to take some photos of the Tel Aviv from above. No easy task. Security was very tight around and inside the building, and access to the upper floors was restricted. So Elinor called a friend who worked in the building on the 42nd floor. He met us downstairs and took us to his office, where I snapped a few photos just after the sun set.

Had a quick Chinese dinner with Elinor (sesame chicken doesn’t come with any sauce in Israel) and then zipped off to the Central Bus Station just in time to catch the super-cheap #405 back to Jerusalem at 8pm, and that’s where I am right now.

I return from Tel Aviv wrecked. A big storm rolling in means that we do NOT have to get up at 3am to go to Masada and that I can get a full night’s sleep instead. Will do me good.

Tomorrow, we’re going to have a chilled out day exploring the parts of Jerusalem we haven’t seen yet.

After waking up to more rain and clouds, I met up with Relly and her friend Noa, a couple of girls from Tel Aviv, and took a drive down to the Tel Aviv Seaport. The area is undergoing a transformation from industrial shipping port to trendy boardwalk. Some of the warehouses have been converted into restaurants and clubs, and fancy restaurants with patio seating and an ocean view line the boardwalk.

We waited in line for one of the warehouse restaurants for ages. My enormous cheeseburger tasted more like ground lamb than ground beef. It must have been quite fatty, because I barely ate half of it. After dinner, big gray clouds covered up what was supposed to be a dramatic sunset over the Mediterranean.

While walking up and down the boardwalk with my camera and tripod, something occurred to me. The nagging urge to get the best possible photos everywhere I go can get stressful and exhausting. I think it’s important to disconnect from the camera every once in a while. If you don’t, you might start resenting photography, and that would be horrible. So I took it easy with the camera today, and I think it was good for me.

Last night, instead of joining Eli again for a night of debauchery, I set off on my own. Ended up at a bar called Backy on Ibn Gvirol. Met a girl named Elinor and drank all night. Good times.

These late Tel Aviv nights make it hard to do anything productive the next day. I have no idea how the locals do it. Nonetheless, I woke up this morning with sunlight streaming in through the windows. That was all the motivation I needed. On my last day in Tel Aviv, I am determined to see the city and take a shitload of photos.

Eli, Elior’s boyfriend, picked me up at my hotel. Apparently, I am the first one to ever think that Eli might be a short version of Elior. After getting in the car, I teased Eli about his parking job (his car was parked at a 45-degree angle with half of it on the sidewalk) and driving. He told me that I should see him drive when he is angry.

At Elior’s place, I had the pleasure of meeting their VERY affectionate cat and their 7-week-old baby, Adam. Just before dinner, I got to watch them give Adam his fist bottle.

Elior served a wonderful selection of traditional Israeli dishes, including a tasty beetroot soup with rice and some kind of meat in it. Elior and Eli were very warm and hospitable, and a big thanks goes out to them for welcoming me to Tel Aviv.

After dinner, Eli took me out to show me some Tel Aviv nightlife, first to Florentin and then to Rothschild Street. I don’t know how many bars we went to or how many Bacardi colas I had, but it was a lot.

Halloween doesn’t exist in Israel. At its roots, Halloween is a religiously motivated holiday, and a non-Jewish one at that, so while the locals know of our generally non-religious and playful traditions, they don’t partake. Nonetheless, there was at least one bar on Rothschild Street with black and orange balloons and a plastic Jack O’Lantern by the front door.

Furthermore, the traditional Christian work week as it exists back home (Monday through Friday) does not exist here, either. The Jewish Shabbat occurs on Friday and Saturday, so the Israeli work week is Sunday through Thursday. It never occurred to me how much daily life back home has Christian roots.

After Eli dropped me off at my hotel, I went into about ten more bars along Allenby Street. Almost every bar has no smoking signs, and in almost every bar people are smoking.

In a lot of ways, the bars here really aren’t that much different from the bars at home. Techno and classic rock is mixed in with the occasional Hebrew classic. Some bars have neon signs outside, some have lasers inside. And a good number of the bartenders, waitresses, and bouncers seem to be American.

At 4am, the guy:girl ratio in the bars and clubs was approaching infinity and I decided to go to bed. The street was still raging. Tel Aviv is a city that never sleeps.

Just woke up now, feeling surprisingly good but predictably unmotivated. I’m about to head out to the Tel Aviv Seaport with a couple of local friends I’ve made.

Yad Vashem was, as expected, a pretty emotional place. Like the Holocaust Museum in Washington DC, the architecture and layout is very effective. They close early on Fridays, so we were kicked out before we got to see the whole thing, but what we saw was worth the visit.

By the time we hit the road for Tel Aviv, it was pouring down rain. I slept most of the way.

Woke up just in time to take an abbreviated tour of Jaffa, a historic port just south of the city. From Jaffa, I caught my first glimpse of the Mediterranean Sea, with huge rain clouds hovering over it.

Elior, Garry and Sarah’s daughter who lives in Tel Aviv, was kind enough to reserve for me a hotel room in the city center, just a couple of blocks from the beach. I just got dropped off, and now I’m on my own for the weekend. My room at the Sun City Hotel is tiny and motel-like, but it’s just fine for a quick weekend visit.

Elior has kindly offered to pick me up, get me dinner, and take me out with some of her friends tonight. Tel Aviv has a reputation of being a party town, so I’m pretty excited. 🙂

With this rainy weather, I’m not sure how much beach time I’ll actually get. It will be a shame if I don’t get to rock my sweet new gray shorts. If I manage to get out of bed tomorrow, I’ll do a little exploring in and around Tel Aviv on my own.

There is a fucking mosquito in my hotel room. It got me the first night and then patiently waited all day and mounted another attack the next night. Is there anything more annoying than being uncomfortably warm because you are under the covers trying to avoid a mosquito? Or even worse, capturing the mosquito under the covers with you? That’s probably paradise for them. Warm and humid, with a human body they can feast on all night long. It’s like spending the night locked inside a Ruth’s Chris Steak House with an all-you-can-eat buffet.

Our first stop was the Ben Dover street sign. I had noticed it the day before and actually spent a few minutes searching on Google to see what kind of historical figure Ben Dover was in Israel. Not finding anything, I wanted to return for a closer look. Turns out someone got a little creative (and funny) with a marker.

Then back into the Old City. Whereas we saw the Jewish and Armenian Quarters the day before, we walked through the Christian and Muslim Quarters yesterday. Our first stop was the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, one of Christianity’s holiest places. It’s an enormous building filled with enough incense to gag a non-Christian, built up over Golgotha, the rocky mount where Jesus was (supposedly) crucified and his body prepared for burial.

Absolutely no security checks going into that place, which I couldn’t believe. What’s to stop someone from going in there with weapons or bombs? Come to think of it, it’s only the Jewish buildings and religious sites with security at the entrances. Is it only the Jewish locations that are targets?

From there, we took a short walk through the Muslim Quarter, passing five guys smoking a hookah and two guys with guns, all of whom didn’t want me to take their pictures. Marion and I really wanted to get up onto the Temple Mount to see the Dome of the Rock, a beautiful-looking building and one of Islam’s holiest places. Unfortunately, access to the Temple Mount was very limited, and we couldn’t get up there. Shame.

Later in the afternoon, we headed to the Israel Museum for a look at the Dead Sea Scrolls. The scrolls themselves were not particularly fascinating to me, but the enormous scale model of old Jerusalem in the courtyard was pretty cool.

As the sun was going down, we took a short drive over to Meah Shearim, a run-down neighborhood filled with Orthodox Jews. The streets swarmed with men in black suits and top hats, conservatively dressed women, and kids on bicycles. Sarah, Garry’s wife, encouraged me to take photos of them, but I didn’t feel entirely comfortable. I got the impression that most of them didn’t want their pictures taken.

For dinner, we stopped a little restaurant called the Restobar Café. As expected, a guard out front inspected our bags and cameras. After taking our seats and ordering our food, Sarah mentioned to me that a few years ago, a suicide bomber attacked the restaurant, killing eight people. Felt kinda weird to be there after that comment.

I got back to the hotel last night completely exhausted and crashed early.

Woke up early this morning feeling like $800,000. Would have been an even million if not for the fucking mosquito bites all over my legs. Just had another traditional Israeli breakfast of scrambled eggs and Cookie Crisp.

Today, we’re going to visit Yad Vashem, Jerusalem’s Holocaust museum. Later this afternoon, I’ll be dropped off in Tel Aviv for a weekend of fun by myself. 🙂

A pretty full day today with perfect weather. Warm and sunny and dry.

Garry picked us up in the morning and took us to a mall to run some errands. Before driving into the parking garage, security guards gave the car a quick once-over and asked us to open the trunk to take a look, but it was hardly a secure check. After parking, we had to walk through another guard at a metal detector before going into the mall. Most of these guards seem untrained and look bored, and I am beginning to think that they provide the ILLUSION of security more than anything else.

From there, we went into the Old City to see ancient Jerusalem. Driving in was a nightmare, with impatient drivers making undersized and overcrowded roads even more stressful than they already are. And parking was even worse. Took a little while, but we finally found a spot. I was surprised at how little security there was as we walked inside.

Leading us along enormous rock walls and down the stone walkways, Garry pointed out some of the structures of historical significance. Kind of weird to be walking around a place so ancient. The Old City, and Jerusalem as a whole, really is a mix of Jew and Arab holy sites, people, and architecture. Most of the impressive architecture, it seems, can be attributed to the Arabs.

Many of the walls and gates have been damaged by centuries of warfare. Strange to see some of the outward-facing walls of the Old City pocked with bullet holes.

Our first stop was King David’s Tomb. Surprisingly modest for such an important historical figure in Judaism, but then again, most things in Judaism are surprisingly modest. According to Garry, it’s not where he’s really buried anyway.

Before getting to the Western Wall, we passed through a metal detector and handed our bags to guards who did pretty much nothing but wave us through. A pretty plain sight but a place with lots of historical and religious significance.

Some gross kosher shawarma for lunch.

Tourism in the Old City was about what I expected. Up and down a few of the alleyways, locals panned their pomegranates and spices and t-shirts and trinkets, but nothing too obnoxious.

There are some international tourists walking around, but not too many. They seem to be mostly older and quiet and respectful. Not many kids. Also walking around were young guys and girls in uniforms of various colors and big guns hanging from their shoulders. I guess that would be a deterrent for troublemakers. Stray cats everywhere.

Walking back to our car, I spotted a sign pointing to Oskar Schindler’s grave inside a Catholic cemetery. Excited, I hurried down the steps and got in just as the guy was getting up to lock the gate. He told me I had only five minutes, so I ran up and down rows of gravestones and sarcophagi before finally finding it. A modest rock slab covered with flowers and little rocks left by visitors as a sign of respect. I placed a little pebble of my own onto it. Pretty cool.

Driving out of the Old City, we stopped at several traffic lights. After a few lights, we noticed a pattern. Israeli drivers behind us would honk the INSTANT the light turned green. Instead of hesitating for a moment to see if we would in fact be slow off the line, they’d hit their horns immediately. It is really quite amazing, almost as if the lights and their horns are synchronized.

Another quick shopping trip. Again, the car was inspected before the parking garage, and again, we walked through a metal detector. Found a sweet gray pair of shorts for 79 shekels (US$20). The XXL size was the only one that came close to fitting me. Are Israeli people small, or do I have a big ass?

Meandered around the mall for a bit. There are some familiar brand names in English (like Burger King and Office Depot and Ralph Lauren), but most of the stores have Hebrew signage. And most are staffed with young kids who speak mostly Hebrew. At one point, a girl who was serving coffee started talking to me in Hebrew. I didn’t understand, but I could tell by her stance and arm motions that I was not supposed to be sitting where I was sitting. Another was icing donuts and tried starting a conversation with me in Hebrew, but the conversation obviously didn’t last very long. I just took a picture of her donuts and smiled. Do I really look like a local? With the lost look on my face and the big-ass camera (and the big ass)?

Had dinner at a place called Karma. A guard out front inspected our bags and purses (not really) before we could go inside. Had some yummy salmon fettuccine. There’s actually a service fee on the bill for the guards (2 shekels, or about 50 US cents, per person), but apparently it’s optional. More stray cats.

So far, Jerusalem’s pretty close to what I expected. Every building is made of stone, whether it’s an apartment block or a restaurant or a shopping mall. Some of the stone is beige, some is brown, some is pink. Some is cut rough, some is cut smooth. The roads around Jerusalem, even the big, busy ones, meander up and down and around hills. It’s so easy to get turned around. All kinds of people: tall, short, fat, skinny. And lots of skin colors: white, black, and everything in-between. I’m actually surprised at the number of Africans here, both as residents and as tourists. I didn’t think Jerusalem was much of an attraction to them. Most of the people I’ve talked to seem friendly. And lots of stray cats.

And as far as the girls go… Yes, there are some attractive ones. The most appealing thing about them is that they don’t KNOW they are attractive. At home, if they are even mediocre, there is a whole attitude that comes along with it. Girls outside of the US are way cool in this regard.

More Jerusalem sights tomorrow.