IsReal

Fun hike. Was like a jungle gym for big boys.
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I spent three weeks in Israel, but I didn't get used to the reality of it.  I kept asking myself, "Is this real?"  When I'd pass road signs leading to Bethlehem, Jericho, or Nazareth, I'd think, "Those can't be the actual places, can they?"  When shown to the resting place of Jesus Christ or the spot of Mohammed ascension, my tiny human brain could not comprehend.  "This can't be the REAL prophet they're talking about it."  Before arriving in Israel, I knew these places existed and the people of the holy books verified by history, but I accepted them only at face value.  However, seeing them for myself, walking the same ground, was an entirely different and more intense means of knowing.  I realized this is not Neverland, and they are not Peter Pan and the Lost Boys.  This is real.  They were real.  As real, unfortunately, as a seemingly unending war raging under 100 km from where I was staying.

After a few attempts, I figured it was easier to dip in the Sea of Galilee rather than walk on it.
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I met Ofer nine months ago in China.  After two-plus weeks of travel, he told me I'd have a place to stay if I made it to Israel.  True to his word, he picked me up in Tel Aviv just hours before Shabbat, the Jewish holy day of rest, began.  He took me to his home in Herzliya, a suburb to the north, where the rest of his family and a Shabbat feast were waiting.  I was immediately welcomed into the home and ordered to make it my own:  "Please, eat as much as you want"; "Borrow anything you wish from the boys' closets"; "Feel free to use the internet whenever you like."  But the weeks that followed that initial dinner were even more welcoming.  I bonded with each family member separate from the others.  Oded, Ofer's youngest brother, took me to a synagogue service and, a day later, to a Hebrew music concert.  With Nimrod and his girlfriend, Shirit, I was reintroduced to the latest in American music and movies as well as the Herzliya nightlife.  And when no one else was home, Ariel, Yael, and I would discuss Judaism, the U.S., the war in Gaza, or simply the recipe of what was currently roasting in the oven.

In the seaside Church of the Seven Springs. The rock below the table is [disputed] where Jesus performed the multiplication miracle of bread and fish.
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I spent Hanukkah, Christmas, and New Year's Eve in Israel, but none were all that significant.  Hanukkah is a time of lighting candles and singing songs but not giving gifts.  Christmas is virtually nonexistent save for Jerusalem and other Christian holy towns.  And New Year's Eve, called "Sylvester" after the Catholic Saint since Rosh Hashanah is the Jewish new year, is just beginning to catch on with the young or party crowd in Tel Aviv.  Far more significant were Ofer's birthday with his closest friends, late night trips to the best hummus stands, or having three guys drive down from Haifa on a Wednesday to show me one of their favorite nightspots in Tel Aviv.  It's true I miss the always stocked and ever-raidable fridge as well as the newly formed guitar callouses on my fingers, but it is the house key in my pocket I miss most.  It opened the door to yet another comfortable, inviting, and hard-to-leave home away from home.

My best picture of the day. This is the Church of the Seven Apostles, but it is the bold color palette I like most.
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For most travelers to Israel, Jerusalem is the number one destination.  And for good reason.  No other city has been more desired or conquered by history's empires than this one.  It is a place of prophets, miracles, and holy wars.  In four days, I walked the quarters of the old city and was introduced to the tome that is Jerusalem's story.  I tend to be an anti-tour person for reasons of cost, time pressure, and herd mentality, but the old city's history screams for professional assistance.  With the help of Sandeman's Free Tours once again, I began peeling away the various layers of British, Turkish, Muslim, Roman, and Jewish occupation.

Israel's number one snack - Bamba!
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I began each day in the old city with a goal of what I wished to see, but I ended it having only seen half.  I happily dilly-dallied along the ramparts walk because I enjoyed peeking into the terraces, gardens, playgrounds, and lives of everyday people I'd passed on the street.  By comparison, the Kotel Tunnels burrow beneath the Muslim Quarter to reveal the colossal grandeur of the Western Wall and the significance of Temple Mount.  And just outside the bullet-strewn Zion Gate, the theme of incredulous disbelief continued with the Tomb of King David and the room of the Last Supper.

Talking to Shakshuka before our ride.
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On Christmas Day, I visited the old city once again.  I sought a church in which to say a few prayers and perhaps sing a carol or two, but I had not yet been atop Temple Mount.  I walked there first with the hopes of seeing the Dome of the Rock, the third holiest spot in Islam.  But when it was closed, I instead spent my time with pen and paper and hand on stone just below it.  The Western (Wailing) Wall is the holiest place in Judaism because of its proximity to the Holy of Holies, the Foundation Stone created by God in His six day construction project called Earth.  I wrote my hopes for good will, conscience, and hope itself onto a small sheet of paper and rolled it into my hand.  I carefully chose a crack in the wall, wedged it in, and gave thanks for the privelege of the life I currently lead.  I continued this trail of hope and gratitude to two more holy places, a church and a mosque.  I repeated the prayers I said at the Western Wall and figured someone somewhere from some religion might just listen to them.

I think we're ready.
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On my final day in Jerusalem, I succeeded in climbing Temple Mount.  The morning's weather was ideal, showing off the glinting, golden dome even more than usual.  Like the sun to its the galaxy, the dome's light can be seen across the city but is difficult to directly look at.  The inside was unfortunately closed to tourists, so the Foundation Stone will have to wait until my next visit to Israel, but it truthfully didn't bother me.  I was preoccupied and awestruck by the spot of Mohammed's ascension, Al Aqsa, the nearby Mount of Olives, and the many faces of the dome itself to feel disappointed.

Taking it nice and slow across the paddock.
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Without planning it, my final in the old city was also the last of Jesus Christ's.  The Way of Pain, or Via Dolorosa, marks the path he took while bearing his cross.  I found all 14 stations save one, each marking a significant part of his march to death.  The last four are within the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, and only upon entering it did the significance of my Christmas Day visit come to light.  I didn't know it at the time, but I had climbed Mount Golgotha to the spot of Jesus' crucifixion.  I had whispered my prayers outside his tomb, unaware of what was within and unwilling to queue for no reason.  This time, however, I knew, and I was going in.  How does one act in front of the 14th and final Station of the Cross, the tomb of Jesus Christ?  Reverent? Penitent? Inspired? Indifferent?  It is something you should decide for yourself, but I hope the magnitude of the place will be decided for you.

Working up the nerve to break into my first canter (no pictures of that, sorry).
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Israel is a small, developed country.  From any one city, any other city may be reached with half a day's public transportation.  From my home in Herzliya, I not only took day trips to Jerusalem, but to Tel Aviv, the old port of Jaffa, and the World Heritage Dead Sea fortress of Masada.  One of the only times I left my adopted family was to visit Haifa in the north.  Haifa, like other sizable cities, is easily accessible by train or bus, making it explorable only on day trips.  But it wasn't the distance that led me to change beds for a few days.  It was another pair of Chinese-made Israeli friends.

Gal with his gorgeous Arabian gal, Scully.
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I met Gal and Yael on my first Wonder of the World, the Great Wall, and spent but a few hours with them before we parted ways.  Perhaps it was the clear skies after several gloomy days of rain or maybe the simple yet tasty lunch we shared, but bonded quickly and they invited me to stay with then should I make it to Haifa.  Due to their work schedules, I stayed only three days with them, spanning a weekend, but they saw to it each day was well spent.  The first one was dedicated to Haifa's main attraction, the Baha'i World Centre.  This is the heart of the world's second most widespread religion.  It is home to the administrative body of the Baha'i Faith as well as the second holiest place in the religion, the Shrine of the Bab.  But the draw are the 18 terraced gardens.  Requiring 100 gardeners a day, this UNESCO-recognized area stretches one kilometer up Mount Carmel overlooking the Bay of Haifa and the Mediterranean Sea.  The gardens have received international acclaim in landscape architecture, water conservation, and natural environment preservation, but that recognition is solely a product of the primary goal: to create a beautiful, serene, and secular pedestrian path up the mountain.

Back in Herzliya relaxing on the Rinsky rooftop with a glass of limonana (lemon and mint juice) and my 5th RTW journal.
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On day two in Haifa, Gal and I went to another scenic mountaintop with a sea view.  However, it wasn't the Mediterranean, and the mountain was not in Haifa.  He drove me to the Arbel National Park overlooking the Sea of Galilee.  The first half of the day we spent hiking the trails and admiring the views from our half-kilometer perch.  In the afternoon, we descended the mountain and navigated the western shore of the sea itself.  After removing my shoes and unsuccessfully attempting to mimic Jesus' miraculous feet, Gal and I popped in to several seaside churches which marked the sites of miracles, lessons, or other important Biblical references.

On a day trip to Tel Aviv. This is just outside City Hall and near the Itzhak Rabin Memorial. (The only PM to be assassinated)
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Day three was really just an afternoon, but one unprecedented on this trip.  Back on the wall in China, Gal mentioned horseback riding as one of our must-do Haifa activities.  Making good on his promise, he took me to a nearby kibbutz and introduced me to Shakshuka, a beautiful, white mare who'd be my steed for a few hours.  After rounding her up, brushing her down, and saddling her, Gal gave me a few pointers to refresh my rusty horseriding memory.  Walking her was a no-brainer, and trotting wasn't much different.  Cantering, though, took some confidence and skill.  With Gal's advice and some trial and error, I was soon cantering and under the illusion that I was in control.  At least that was before pulled a 'Hi-ho Silver' gallop on his lovely Arabian, Scully, and left me behind.  But in his dusty wake, I was content to ease up on Shakshuka and watch the low-hanging sun flirt with the Mediterranean while whispering in her ear, "Next time, girl.  Next time."

Cruising down the Tel Aviv promenade on a near perfect January day.
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At the risk of closing with an unpopular topic, I feel a responsibility to comment on the war in Gaza.  Two days after I arrived in Israel, I saw the war begin.  Like a cruel, modern-day analogue to the country's rich, incredible history, I found its existence surreal and unbelievable.  Its reality solidified as I met army reserves returning to active duty, girlfriends fearful for their boyfriends' phones to ring, and parents praying their children would not be sent to the front lines.  War on home soil is unfamiliar to Americans, so the very concept of this particular one is hard to grasp.  I saw the war for myself in the places I visited.  I overheard conversations on street corners.  I noticed solemn soliders on buses and trains.  I listened to the eerie silence of a cafe, bar, or restaurant as its patrons glued themselves to the television's breaking news.  Being in the country during a time of war opened my eyes to many assumptions I had previously made and conclusions I had not.  One of the biggest was this:  the reality of a complex situation is far more difficult to discern then it initially seems.  Sources of information are subject to the filters of business, politics, and personal bias.  They should not be immediately believed nor discredited, merely questioned.  An unfortunate inverse relationship seems to exist between knowledge and judgment:  those who know the least are often the quickest to judge.  With information comes understanding, and understanding, tolerance.  This war is real, but, perhaps with a healthy approach, future ones won't have to be.