“Very disorderly and aggressive.” That’s how one person described the Cairo Airport in a review at virtualtourist.com. It’s a fitting description for Cairo in general, if you throw in hot, dirty and ear-splittingly-noisy.

I’ve been in Cairo two full days, three nights; departing for Istanbul tomorrow. So far, it’s been a bit of a bust. The first night was great, as I was welcomed by Egyptian-born-but-world-traveled Aladdin and his Columbian wife in their home, along with two other visitors: Carmen and Jenny are in town because evidently Cairo has quite the belly-dancing scene and that’s one of their hobbies back home in Columbia.

The next day I gorged on Cairo like a starving man with a gift-card for Old Country Buffet. I began at the Great pyramid of Khufu, and hurried from there to the old central city of Cairo, and then walked, walked, and walked some more, trying to absorb and see as many of the fascinating people-clogged streets and alleys and historic sites as possible. I was so focused I didn’t stop to eat, and neglected to drink the required water to survive in Cairo’s sweltering, polluted heat. Not surprisingly, just like the guy who stuffs himself at Old Country Buffet, I got sick.

Maybe it was just heat illness, or maybe I picked up a bug the day before traveling up to Cairo from Taba Heights on the bus, but I spent most of yesterday with headaches, alternating chills and sweats, dizziness, and an upset stomach. This was exacerbated by the fact that Alan (Aladdin) and his wife experienced a painful personal family event, so I felt that I needed to evacuate ASAP. Thanks to the ‘net, I found a nice hotel – screw authentic experience, I was sick – in Cairo for about half of what its rooms usually cost. Still, I didn’t want to add to Alan’s issues by telling him that I felt lousy, so I took the local mode of transportation from his apartment into town. Which meant taking two buses – not a problem, right? Right. In theory. The problem was lugging my bags around in the holy-cow-dirty-and-hot!-heat as I tried to find the second bus. It was too much heat and unrelenting sun, too many flies, too much feeling like a stupid, out-of-place foreigner, too much dust – just too much Cairo in general. By the time I got to my hotel, it was time to just sleep and rest and stop trying to see the sights, even if my time here is awfully short.

So after almost 15 hours resting in my hotel room, I’m feeling well enough to get back to exploring Cairo, albeit this time at a slower pace and being more careful to keep sucking down the bottled water and some salty foods here and there. As I explore, I’ll hunt out a wi-fi spot and upload this post, along with another, and hopefully get some pictures up at Facebook or Flickr or both.

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But the story’s outcome was so obvious, it seemed to me, that I didn’t really think I was actually leaving anybody hanging.

Here it is: Despite all my values and intents to travel as close to the authentic local lifestyles as possible, I ended up staying in an Egyptian resort. The kind of resort I’d never go to in good conscience. All gleaming marble and polished glass surrounded by a man-made oasis of green in the otherwise barren and bleak eastern Sinai landscape. The kind of resort that has three separate security gates to, I was told, “keep the locals out.”

I’ll link here to a flickr photo album as soon as the pics are uploaded to which illustrate just what kind of obnoxiously luxurious, humongous-carbon-footprint kind of resort it is.

What led me to such a place? Searching several sites like Orbitz for the cheapest hotel in Eilat, Israel. This was the cheapest, even cheaper than hostels. And I didn’t really pay attention to anything other than the price; if I’d have realized what kind of place it was I’d have opted for something else, even something that cost more.

So that’s how I ended up in resort in Taba Heights, Egypt. May Allah have mercy on my soul… (and please don’t let the Earth-friendly folks at Bustan Qaraaca find out!)

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Written Friday evening, June 26; posted Saturday mid-day.

So it’s been 36 hours or so since I’ve had ‘net access, and I’m jonesin’ for a fix. Maybe tonight I’ll be able to use the land line of the house where I’m staying. A friend of my father’s who lives just outside Cairo invited me to stay with his family, so I’ll stay here at least one night, perhaps until I leave Tuesday morning.

The bus ride from Taba was uneventful – six hours of time to sort pics, write posts, and read from the several books I’ve been lugging around. Then after I arrived in Cairo I had about four hours to hang out before Aladdin (that’s the guy’s name) could pick me up – I didn’t do too much exploring because I had both bags of luggage with me and I wasn’t exactly sure when he’d be arriving, so I just hung out on the street and soaked up the ambience. Cairo’s got a buttload of ambience. Dusty, albeit, but ambience nonetheless. And I finally made a bit of headway speaking Arabic. Evidence of what a simpleton I am is that is I can’t learn two languages at once – that semester in college when I took both Spanish and German was a total wash.

So it was nice to stop working on Hebrew (in fact I threw away my Israel guidebook to free my bags of the weight) and just focus on Arabic. A couple of street urchins decided to hang out with me, even though I wouldn’t given them money, and they helped with my pronunciation. They were persistent buggers when it came to the begging. Every minute or so they’d ask again for money. At one point, when they asked why I wouldn’t give them any, I said, “Because I’m mean.” (-: Heh. But we stayed friends and they were pleased as punch when I snapped a couple photos of us.

Then Aladdin picked me up, and, lo and behold, the one-new-language-at-a-time scenario died a quick death when he introduced me to Jenny and Carmen, two women who are also staying with his family. They are from Columbia, in their mid-twenties, and – get this – here to work on their belly-dancing. Yup, buddy boys, I must have some good karma, ‘cause I’m hanging out with a couple of exotic and attractive Latina belly-dancers. <smiles>

If I had more time, I’d explain last night’s horrible mistake, but, um, I think it’s time for me to go socialize. Adios!

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Sometimes it’s hard to choose a title. For this post, I wavered amongst:

1) “Be careful what you wish for: With every wish, there comes a curse.”

2) “Last night, I did the unforgivable.”

3) “Honestly, it’s not my fault! Blame the Internet.”

It might be instructive to simply stop writing now, and then let you guess what happened. Would we learn more about what you think of me, or would your guesses be more accurately viewed as projections of your own predilections, and guilt-inducing belief systems?

Anyway, before I tell you what I did that prompts such possible titles, let me remind you of a few key points about this trip: First, I aim to be an “authentic traveler” – someone who gets a taste of how locals live their daily lives, rather than the stereotypical tourist who whisks in and out in an isolated bubble, snapping many a photo and probably seeing the “important sites,” but having almost zero meaningful understanding of local life. It’s the difference between someone who comes to Elkhart County and lives with an Amish or similarly conservative Anabaptist family for a while or people who sleep and eat at EssenHaus, visit the Shipshewana Flea Market and then returns to wherever they came from, spouting their knowledge of Elkhart’s conservative Anabaptists.

This philosophy of travel rather than tourism has evolved out of several experiences of the last few years. A good part of the credit goes to JAM and Mel, who, when hosting us in Germany over New Year’s a few years ago, put in a lot of extra work to figure out the public ground transportation to get us around Germany and into France without simply renting a car, which would have been the easy thing to do but would have denied us the visceral experiences of intermingling with the local populations. Then, to some degree in S. Korea, and especially in Japan, I found myself chafing at the limiting isolation of (mostly) being bussed around on charter busses with other teachers from site to site. Thankfully there were times in both nations when I took advantage of free time to wander and roam the streets, to ride the mass transit, and – in the case of Japan – to stay with a Japanese family in their home. The other major influence on my thinking has been the three student trips to DC that I organized and chaperoned the past three summers. On the first trip, I basically followed the tour company’s modus operandi, since I’d never led a student tour before and because I had already been a pain in their butts when I insisted that we not go to DC in May and June, but instead go over the 4th of July – a time that virtually no other school group visits. That first year I was a bit dismayed at how much time we spent on the bus, lecturing to students about all the many historic scenes and sites. It was boring – felt like being back in school, and not with a very dynamic teacher. Sure, I know why most tours would want to run that way; every moment the kids are off the bus there feels like more potential for trouble: kids going missing by accident or on purpose, thievery by our kids, or muggings – or worse – of them out on the streets. The “safest” (by that I mean most controlled) way to take a group of 14 year olds to DC is to keep them at the hotel and on the bus as much as possible, zooming from one site to the next in such a bubble that one bright young student once asked me, “Does anybody actually LIVE in DC?”

That did it; I couldn’t take a group back like that and still live with myself. So rather rapidly we’ve make the trip a much more on-the-ground, this-is-what-DC-is-like experience. First we added a trip to Ben’s Chili Bowl. Then the next year we went all out: giving the kids far fewer informational lectures and instead giving them time to explore neighborhoods like DuPont Circle and Adams Morgan, and incorporating time at the Eastern Market (where else would Alex have been able to purchase a raw pig’s foot to sneak into my backpack?) (-:

So when I applied for a grant to fund this trip I did so with the plan of not just studying the historic and modern interplay of the three monotheistic religions, but doing my best to especially focus on experiencing modern Islam in its daily reality. That’s why I jumped pretty quickly on Mike K's idea of using CouchSurfing.org to stay with “real” people in their homes along the route -- knowing all the while that I don’t enjoy sharing my bedroom space, and that I need a certain amount of alone time to recharge my batteries. I inquired with five separate people about surfing their couch in Tel Aviv, and only ended up getting the hotel when none where able to accommodate me. I used CouchSurfing to find Bustan Qaraaqa; I expected to be staying with Palestinians, not an enclave of Europeans and Americans in the West Bank. Still, they were warm hosts and enable me to travel around the West Bank for a couple days as local Palestinians do – by foot and small outdated buses and servees (shared taxi-bus-type thingys). Admittedly, I did some online whining about some of my less favorite parts of the stay, and two days later ended up at a hotel in Jerusalem, but I made sure that hotel was A) the cheapest I could find without going to a hostel and having to share a bedroom, B) locally owned by a Muslim family in East Jerusalem (that’s the part mostly inhabited by Palestinian Muslims, as it was part of Jordan prior to the 1967 war, and C) within walking distance of the old city. For my taste, it was perfect distance – a good 25 minutes of serious walking up and down challenging hills all the while surrounded by locals, some of whom greeted me cordially and some of whom no doubt said to each other something like, “Look, there’s the stupid American on our streets again.” It was great. I ate from street vendors, walked and sweated in the crazy heat, and – with time and language acquisition – could really have become part of the community.

Whoa! I’ve written over a thousand words and still haven’t told you what dastardly deed warrants such defensive explanation. Unfortunately, time doesn’t permit me to continue, so you’ll have to wait to find out what I did last night, but feel free to offer guesses. (-: Let me say this much, my crime was something that would be neither illegal, nor immoral, in Elkhart (yeah, Robbins, that’s a pre-emptive strike at whatever you were going to say).

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Written Thursday June 26, around 8AM (Israeli time; 12:50AMEST), as I ride the Egged bus #444 from Jerusalem to Eilat (not posted online until Saturday). On one side of the bus is the Dead Sea, such a bleak and barren looking body of water that its name seems to fit. On the other side, the Negev Desert rises in dust-covered rocky crags and cliffs, home to almost as little life as the Dead Sea.

The bus is headed south, taking me out of Israel. Today marks a week since I arrived and my concluding thought is quite simple: I don’t know why anybody would ever voluntarily come here; nor can I imagine why anybody would ever leave (aside, perhaps, from occasional quick trips to Japan to gorge on the best sushi in the world).

A week was just enough for my pre-trip loathing to have returned. Why would I want to leave the chaotic, confusing, dirty and noisy hustle-bustle of Jerusalem’s Old City and East Jerusalem? I could spend years exploring the ancient cobbled streets and alleys, learning to speak the language and to read the subtle body-language nuances and cultural mores. I think I could happily enmesh myself in the community, making it central to my persona, as has been the case as Concord over the last eight years.

If I had to make two lists: one of major locations of significance that I visited and the other a compilation of those that I wanted to visit but didn’t, the second would certainly be far longer. And yet, I must confess: I could have made the time to visit more historic sites. But that would have meant cutting back on my favorite hours – walking and wandering the hills in the heat: the streets of Beit Sahour, of East Jerusalem (predominantly inhabited by Muslims, as it was part of Jordan until the 1967 War, my hotel was something like a mile or so walk from the Old City in this area), and of course the streets of the Old City, a labyrinth of both symbolic and physical complexities and contradictions that no words can do it justice.

Later today, after my bus arrives in Eilat, I will have adventure of finding the Egyptian consulate and (hopefully) obtaining a visa that allows me to travel not just into Egypt, but also north to Cairo. From what I’ve gleaned via numerous websites, I will could encounter the following difficulties: The consulate might close early in the afternoon, and/or, I don’t have an extra passport-type photo which rumour says I will need. So, I don’t know if I’ll be able to get the visa today or not. If I end up stuck down here for a couple days, there’ll be plenty to experience: snorkeling in the Red Sea (well, technically the Gulf Of Aqaba), swimming with dolphins, and, if I have enough time, the ancient site of Petra is only a couple hours northeast in Jordan. But the hotel I reserved online last night is on the Egyptian side of the border, so the ease of crossing back and forth between Israel and Egypt could prove to be an issue. It’s rather exciting to have the challenge before me, and to wonder where I’ll be staying and what I’ll be doing tomorrow – especially after yesterday’s silly tourism-by-organized-bus-tour mistake. If all goes well, tomorrow I’ll be riding an Egyptian public bus north to Cairo and will have three days to see the pyramids, the Nile River, and the eastern edge of the Sahara desert before I fly out of Cairo early Tuesday. If the visa issue trips me up, I’ll make the most of my time here in the south, crossing my fingers that I find a way to Cairo in time for my flight. Either way, it should be memorable!

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Written Wednesday June 24; posted online June 27 .

1) Eschewed my “be an authentic traveler” philosophy; embraced my inner tourist and paid to join a tour to Nazareth, Galilee & Jordan River.

2) Realized my mistake as soon as I was on the bus and remembered what it was like to visit abroad in such a manner: like going to a zoo and having no choice which animals you’re going to see and in what order and how long you get to stay there. Ride, stop, snap photos. Ride, stop, snap photos. Ad naseum.

3) Nazareth. No village are we here to see, I soon discover, but instead the big, big churches erected in spots where legends say major Biblical events occurred. I refused to take pictures of them other than their information signs – sick of big religious buildings am I. Did take a couple shots, though. The first is the kind of ancient-looking building I want to explore, rather than these gigantic “beautiful” monuments in honor of what is – for many – sacred. I’m beginning to find it saccharine. The second is an ironic billboard right in front of the Basilica. Head to head with some of Christian billboards around Elkhart, I think it compares reasonably well in marketing religion. Sure, Crossroads clearly wins when it comes to cleverness, but I think the direct approach deserves some props.

4) Cana – where Jesus turned water into wine. Or, rather, a church commemorating the event. Not so many tourists as in Nazareth, thankfully. But just another building. Maybe, to appreciate this sort of tour of ancient places/events by the modern buildings built there one needs to be either A) an architecture student, or B) of the persuasion that buildings can capture the essence of spiritual history. I was raised in a tradition that played down physical structures and emphasized the person as temple in which God dwells. Maybe if I’d have been raised in the another tradition I’d find more meaning in these structures (note, again I’m not referencing my current religious beliefs – just how I was raised).

5) Sea of Galilee. Can’t wait to touch something real – to put my feet in the water of such a famous place. Oh, wait, we’re at another bloody church. This one is marks a stone that legend says is the stone upon which Jesus multiplied the fish and bread. As buildings go, this one isn’t too bad – got some plants and a koi pond. But I want to go to the Sea. Driver says we’re going there soon.

6) Sea of Galilee. What?! Another dang building? You’ve got to be kidding. Turns out that on the way to our actual stop on the Sea we stop again at a religious site – this time what is believed to have been the house of Simon Peter where Jesus probably spent much time. There’s a very modern looking church that I didn’t even think of walking inside. Cool beans, there’s also some ancient ruins that may not quite date back to Jesus (though there’s thought that parts do), but at least go back to the late Roman Empire. Some shots:

7) Sea of Galilee. Finally! We’ve stopped for lunch and then some wading in the water that was featured so prominently in the New Testament. And – yippee – it’s my first picture-worthy meal of the trip (unlike Japan and S. Korea, where I promise I photographed more meals than anything by a degree of like ten or so). Check out the most-excellent lunch, eaten not 20 yards away from the water it supposedly swam (and I’m happy to believe what the retaraunteur says).

8) There was another stop after lunch that was pretty cool – the River Jordan near where legend says John the Baptist baptized Jesus, but rather than bore you with those pics I’ll share the a couple of shots of some cheap touristy fun that a fellow passenger and I had at a rest stop when we saw a camel to be hired for short rides for only 10 shekels (like 3 or 4 bucks).

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First, no more wary wolf was I today. I dove right in to all the red meat time would allow: the Western Wall, the Al-Aqsa Mosque, the Dome of the Rock/Temple Mount, PLUS both the places reputed to be the burial spot of Jesus.

I’ll write a post about it in the next couple days, hopefully. There should be plenty of time, as tomorrow I’m taking a bus to Nazareth and to Galilee and the Jordan River, which is mostly time spent on the bus, with an hour here or there seeing the sights.

Then, on Thursday, I’m taking a bus south to Eilat – south (not down) near the Red Sea (technically the Gulf of Aqaba), from which point I’m planning to cross into Egypt and take another long bus ride north (not up!) into Cairo.

Here’s where the doofus part comes in: Long ago, when I first started planning this trip, I checked to see if I’d need a visa to enter any of the nations. Nope, or not really, at least – just in Istanbul where I’ll buy one at the airport.

That was before I thought, “Hey, if I’m in that part of the world, I’ve got to see the pyramids.” Which immediately became part of the planning process. <Without realizing I’d never checked about visa requirements for Egypt.> And so the planning went on, buying a flight (nonrefundable, of course) from Cairo to Istanbul on June 30 – smooth sailing all the way.

Until today, when I thought about double-checking visa requirements and, duh - you can see where this is headed - I can’t get to Cairo without a visa. Supposedly I can get one from the Egyptian Consulate in Eilat, but that means that I need to A) find the bloody consulate B) get there before they close, and C) obtain the visa even though I don’t have the required extra photo.

So that’s where the adventure leads later this week. I could end up stranded in southern Israel. At least if that happens I hear there’s great snorkeling just offshore of Eilat. And, yes, I’ll deserve 40 lashes at least if I end up swimming in the blue waters to the south when I could have stayed here and seen some of the places I wanted to see but cut from the itinerary for the sake of time (Dead Sea, amongst other casualties).

Ces’t la vie.

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I’ve been wandering around the Old City of Jerusalem for a day and a half, but for some reason I’ve stayed away from the sites I really came to see: The Al Aqsa Mosque/Dome of the Rock/Temple Mount and the Western Wall. I feel like a wary wild dog, slowly circling my way ever-closer, but unsure and hesitant. I think part of my wariness is due to my experience at Al-Khalil (Abraham’s Tomb) two days ago (more on that soon, hopefully). Anyway, I feel I’ve got to write about my time at Bustan Qaraaqa (BQ) on the outskirts of the West Bank village of Beit Sahour (just south of Bethlehem a couple/few miles) before the experience of Jerusalem overshadows my memories of the prior experience.

I first learned of BQ via CouchSurfing.org, a site that Mike K. used on his travels around the world. Basically it connects local people around the world who are willing to host with travelers needing inexpensive lodging. Besides saving money, part of the incentive for me to use the site is that I want authentic local experiences, not the isolated, tourist-snaps-photos-then-leaves way of traveling.

So anyway, when I contacted BQ and heard back that they had room for me, I was pretty happy. Unwittingly, I had fallen into the trap of expectations. I was assuming I’d be staying with Palestinians, getting to see and feel one version of that experience first-hand (I hadn’t looked at their website yet, which would have perhaps helped me figure out a bit of what I’d find).

Instead of a local Palestinian home, I found a group of Europeans and Americans, devoted to employing permaculture as a tool to help the Palestinians, help the Earth, and resist the Israeli Occupation. Devoted to their beliefs, and (perhaps) justly so. This group of 6-10 people (there was always someone coming and going, I think the core group numbers about 4 or 5) is exceptionally well-traveled, and most have significant experience within Israel and/or Palestine (there was a strong-enough anti-Zionist streak amongst many of them that they preferred to use the term Palestine for all the territory of Gaza, Israel & the West Bank).

It’s not fair, perhaps, to call them jaded and cynical, but I’m afraid many of them are. They’ve seen such pain and poverty and hopelessness amongst the Palestinians, and such aggression and arbitrary hostility from Israeli settlers and soldiers, that to remain open-minded and recognize validity on both sides of the issue is no longer possible (nor, I think, would they even say it’s desirable – they’ve taken the side they believe warrants their passion and effort – why should they spend time looking at life from the Israeli perspective?).

BQ itself is nestled in a valley with splendid views of the hills of Palestine. When I saw a young boy shepherding goats and sheep along the hillsides, it was as if I was looking at a scene 2000 or 3000 years ago, or older – who knows how long local people have been herding up and down those slopes?

BQ is committed (one might say radically) to Earth-friendly practices. As little use of electricity as possible (thus a natural refrigerator – which means it’s essentially a big clay pot that’s got a second outer layer of material to help cool it’s contents). Using water is to be minimal and maximized, hence the composting toilet. Showers are short, and for some of the folk, few and far between (so it seemed, at least).

The two days I was there were provocative and powerful. Though I’m not nearly as one-sided as most of them are about the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, I can’t deny that Israel has the upper-hand, has had it for quite some time, and is not treating the Palestinians with the human dignity and rights I believe all people warrant. And in theory I find the ideals of permaculture worthwhile. I was welcomed and treated as one of them. Which was great when it came to the fascinating conversations, the terrific natural foods and meals, and their local expertise which enabled me to travel to Al-Khalil (Hebron) like a local Palestinian – via small buses and shared vans. I happened to be at BQ during the summer solstice, and their all-night celebration (I only made it until just past 1AM, but that’s pretty good for early-to-be-early-to-rise me) was a memory to last a lifetime.

There were downsides to being treated like one of them. I don’t sleep well in a dorm-room full of people coming and going, snoring and breathing all night long. And though I agree with the ideal of composting toilets, I much prefer the Japanese approach to bodily functions – keep them in a separate room, with separate shoes for that room, and combine a bidet with a toilet).

The other concern I had was that as anti-Zionist as the group was, it felt to me like they had an condescending approach toward the Palestinians. Clearly they were on the locals' side. But often the tone was one of superiority toward the locals (heck, maybe just toward everybody else in general). I don’t want to over-simplify. There was respect for Palestinians and a desire to get to know them and stand with them. But their desire to “teach the Palestinians” often made me a bit uncomfortable – as if these foreigners could just drop in for a year or two or three and now they’ve got all the answers for this thousands-year old culture?!

But, let’s be honest, I’ve just done the same thing: dropped in for two days, made my judgments – whether fair or not I’m sure could be disputed – and now I’ve left. I’d like to go back, for a meal or so, but it’s hard to see how I’ll have the time.

I uploaded pics of my stay at BQ on FaceBook and at Flickr here.

Later, I hope to write a post on my visit to Al-Khalil (Hebron), where I viewed Abraham’s tomb and a first-hand crystallization of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. But for now I feel like I’ve gotten enough off my chest, and perhaps spent more time than warranted typing away when I could have been out on the streets of Jerusalem.

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This trip is such a by-the-seat of my pants that I’m not doing a fantastic job of 1) absorbing all I can from my present locale, 2) planning/arranging upcoming legs of the trip – I quite honestly don’t know where I’m going tomorrow, let alone where I’m staying tomorrow night – and 3) chronicling the trip/communicating with those back home. I’ve done most of my updates for y’all on FaceBook, though they tend to be short and cryptic (perhaps a relief from my blog wordiness). So if you really want my communiqués, becoming a friend of mine on FaceBook is your best bet.

I’ve also posted the most pics on FaceBook, though I’ve also begun to get some up on Flickr.

Here are a couple of my favorite pics from Tel Aviv:

This is the view of the Med. Sea from my hotel:

Here I am, feeling the Mediterranean water for the first time ever:

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Written June 19, 2009, though not posted online until June 23.

Only this bus isn’t from Elkhart to Chicago; it’s from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem. My first 18 or so hours in Israel have been splendid. Naturally, after the over 24 hours it took from leaving home to landing at Ben Gurien Intn’l airport, I was pretty wiped. But the good-ol’ traveler’s second-wind kicked in so rather than take the more expensive path-of-least-resistance and hire a taxi to take me to my hotel in Tel Aviv, I figured out how to take the train from the airport to the city. Not that hard, actually, though there are always those moments of wondering “Just how stupid do I look right now?” (Case in point: purchasing the ticket was easy enough, but I couldn’t tell which way it was supposed to enter the machine. If there were any sort of obvious arrows on it, I missed them in my fatigue. But I think to an observer I must have looked like a zoo gorilla, slowly and carefully examining this new-found piece of paper, turning it over and back and forth and every which way. Eventually I just tried to use the dang thing and -- lo and behold -- no problems. )

Most notable difference between the Tel Aviv train and American systems like DC’s metro: the numerous young soldiers in military gear, with loaded machine guns around their necks. I think some were on active patrol duty, most appeared to be traveling somewhere -- perhaps on leave as they weren’t in groups so much as ones and twos. I thought of some of our recent Concord graduates, fine young men and women, but in contrast they seemed much softer and childlike. I tried to imagine one of these young Israeli’s former junior high teacher walk up, greeting, “Hey doofus, how’s life?” with a semi-gentle finger-snap to the youth’s shoulder. Um, not so much. Perhaps when out of uniform these young Israeli adults revert to a less serious way of carrying themselves, but I wouldn’t bet on it. Military training is supposed to change a person, after all, and most non-Orthodox Israeli young people serve their compulsorily three years.

My goal upon reaching the train station in Tel Aviv was to use the local city bus to get to my hotel, but that was a labyrinth of Hebrew that I couldn’t figure out, even with some advance Internet research, so I copped out and employed a taxi and of course -- no surprise here but I’m sorry for letting you down Mike -- I overpaid.

No matter; got to the hotel, used the wireless connection to update quickly on FaceBook, then headed out for one fantastic meal of fresh fish soup and mussels, along with a nice citrus take on the mojito.

The “Mike” I referenced in the last paragraph is recent world traveler Mike Koscielny, whose persona I hope to emulate in two ways while on this trip: First, to barter and negotiate my way like a local, not some weenie American who hates to barter. Even though I am by nature a weenie American who hates to barter. (-: Second, I’m determined to push myself into engaging with friendly conversation with those I encounter along the trip. A few years ago, I recall defending to Ericka and Mrs. Linda my modus operandi of studiously avoiding conversations with passing strangers. Even before MP3 devices, I could shut down the most determined talker by shoving my nose in a book or magazine.

Somewhere along the way I’ve loosened up a bit, and especially given the fact that I’m going to five different countries (not including the West Bank) and in just about each of them a different language or dialect is spoken, and for about 2/3 of the time I’m going to be winging it on my own -- taking it literally one day at a time -- it’s just not practical to think that I can be Mr. Self-Sufficient and get by with my old ways of refusing to interact with people with whom I have no likelihood of ever meeting again. So, here’s to you, Mike: I’ve had at least three conversations with people I could have avoided talking to. And each has made the trip more memorable. Doesn’t mean it won’t be a struggle to continue the pattern, but that’s the plan.

You know how wolves and dogs pee to mark their territory? (Yup, drastic changing of gears here). Well, my way of feeling like I’ve made a city “mine” is going for a jog and long walk ASAP. So I’m happy to report that I had a terrific jog along the Mediterranean Sea this morning. Now the city will feel like I’m returning home, should I ever end up in Tel Aviv again.

There was more to say, but my bus ride is ending. Time to disembark for the Jerusalem Central Bus Station (the largest in the world, according to one unsubstantiated Internet source) and figure out how to get to Damascus Gate, and from there into the West Bank and to the hostel/dormitory/commune called Bustan Qaraaca in a Palestinian village called Beit Sahour where I’m going to stay a day or two.

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Written 10:30AM, EST, June 17, 2009, but not posted online until June 23, 2009.

Title explanation: the Black Eyed Peas are a thousand years ahead of us in terms of coolness . It’s three hours into my journey, and the lyric from a popular song on my iTouch prompted me to write my first blog post. As socially conscious as the Black Eyed Peas can be, I don’t think their catchy line was intended to initiate thoughts of time, but, for me, this trip is all about Time-with-a-capital-T. There’s the four-hour bus ride to O’Hare, then the three and a half hour wait before the first flight (2.5 hours), then the layover (another 2 hours), then the 12 hour flight to Tel Aviv. Across time zones. Across an ocean. And back in time. To the land of Abraham. And Jesus. And Kings David, Solomon and Herod. And that’s just the first leg of the trip.

I’m reading A History of God, by Karen Armstrong. I’ve become a big fan of hers through countless NPR interviews, but so far, the book is… okay. For someone who spent a lot of my growing up years deep in a strain of fundamentalist Christianity there’s something disquieting about the clinical dissection of Old Testament giants like Abraham and Moses. I grew up believing that Moses really did hear Yahweh’s voice in a burning bush. And that Abraham was prepared to slaughter his son Isaac. And that God parted the Red Sea.

Notice I’m being careful to say what I did believe, and may still believe, but as I’ve told my students a number of times, I work hard to teach each of the world religions as if it is the truth -- the way to God and/or the ultimate reality. Every student should feel that his or her home’s beliefs are respected and validated in my classroom -- whatever their religion (or non-religion) may be. So I’m unwilling to share my own religious beliefs with students until they’ve “crossed the creek” and moved on to high school. Then I’m more than happy to engage in long religious talks. But since kids who just finished 7th grade -- and conceivably kids that I haven’t even had yet as students -- could read this blog (I didn‘t say it was likely, just conceivable), I’m going to attempt to walk a fine line between discussing religion without ever actually sharing my specific beliefs.

Back to Time. “All I know, time is a valuable thing” sings Linkin Park in another song that just played on my play list. That’s the essence of religion, isn’t it? How valuable each moment that we get is. Choices in this moment, and the impact they have on today’s world (“Heaven’s here on Earth,“ I heard Tracy Chapman singing earlier) and -- especially important for the devout believer -- the impact our choice have on whatever happens to us when we die.

We’re getting close to O’Hare, and I think this thought has pretty much played out for now. And, as Billy Joel is pointing out at this exact moment in my earplugs, “We didn’t start the fire.” It’s not like I’m going to have something especially profound to say about Time and Religion, given that far better minds than mine have given attention to the issues. Like Karen Armstrong. I’m going to go back to reading and see what she has to teach me.

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Labels: 2009, cowells, israel, travels

Labels: cowells, travels