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.
