Israel, Day 4

Guy, Joel and I awoke to three cell-phone alarms and a hotel wake-up call. They did not occur simultaneously, much to our chagrin. Groggily we showered, dressed, and staggered into the dining area.

“Boker tov!” Ran greeted us. Good morning!

“Boker tov…” we muttered back.

I brightened up once I had some food inside my stomach.

“You guys ready for Jerusalem?” he asked.

“You bet,” I said. The others at the table let small rivulets of laughter seep out of their lips. I think they thought I was being sarcastic. Why would they think that?

We finished breakfast and the group set out to explore Jerusalem. Jerusalem is the capital of Israel and its largest city. It was established as the capital by King David long ago and is still considered the holiest city in Judaism. It’s a spiritual center for more than just us Jews, though; Muslims and Christians also seek it out for its religious significance.

Jerusalem is also one of the most popular cities for conquerors. It’s been captured and recaptured somewhere around forty times, and on two occasions, actually destroyed. By the time we got there, it had long since been rebuilt (again), so we saw the Holy City in all its glory. Yay for us!

Out in front of the Old City of Jerusalem, Ran stopped us at the steps to give us a coloring-book history of Jerusalem. Stern and Sarah held up this long banner of pictographs, dates, and captions, and Ran explained the timeline all the way from the founding fathers of Judaism in 2000 BCE to the declaration of Israel’s independence in 1948. He made it quick, though. Instead of taking 3500 years, it only felt like 1500.

When we entered the Old City I felt a wave of solemnity wash over me and leave me feeling serene and introspective. Something about the place immediately turned me inward until I reached the Western Wall. The first place we toured was King David’s tomb, which was creepy but intriguing in a morbid, historical sense. Like everything else in Jerusalem, it was made entirely of stone, which gave it a permanent and imposing look. It was dark inside. The air was somewhat damp, but not mildewy; just ancient-feeling. There were candles lit inside that added to the spiritual ambience.

We also saw the room of the last supper and several cool statues and monuments before breaking for lunch in the Cardo – the heart of the Old City.

“WAIT!” Ran called. “I need to give you your boundaries. Dhe Israeli flag is going to be your best indicator of where to stay. You cannot go past the street over there; that leads into the Muslim Quarter and you are not allowed there. You will see police or army officials here and there. They are here for dhe safety of dhe city.”

“Why can’t we go into the Muslim Quarter?” someone asked in a low voice. I don’t think Ran heard the question, or he would have answered with an essay.

“Because you don’t want to get rocks thrown at you,” someone else said.

These instructions made practical sense to me, but the poignancy of this image didn’t especially strike me as symbolic until a later conversation with Dustin.

“It’s almost like a concentrated picture of Israel,” he said. “The holy site with the military and police right next to it. And the Muslims over the wall that occasionally riot and throw rocks and bottles.” It truly was microcosmic.

For the moment, however, the politics were lost on me. I was caught up in the historical and cultural significance of everything around me. The old buildings, the ancient walkways, and the aura of reverence permeated and overshadowed everything else.

I wandered around with Anna, Hannah, and Jessie for awhile looking for a good place to eat, and when they decided on shwarma, I thought it was as good an idea as any. As we sat down, I looked around the square and noticed the way all the people looked different. Not from each other, but from themselves; they looked like they had also changed upon entering Jerusalem’s Old City. Even the ones simply chatting and eating their lunches. I didn’t know them before, but they had that same air of weighty consideration about them; a weight that I felt must be sitting around my shoulders, too, like an invisible tallis of precious metal.

Noticing this, my thoughts turned inward again and I lost the conversation entirely. The other three got up and started to walk off, and I started to go with them, but was admittedly relieved when Jessie said they’d be trying on clothes and doing girl shopping, if I wanted to go check something else out for a bit. I was feeling neither conversational nor girly.

I got lost. I wandered around the Old City, stopping in a couple of shops but mostly just getting a feel for the place and preparing myself for the Wall, which I knew was coming up. I passed a couple of passels of people from my group, and they waved me over, but I thanked them and kept walking. I overheard snippets of conversations: French, German, Russian, English, lots of Hebrew. I saw people dressed in all manner of clothing: Chassidic chic, European tourist, business casual, American casual. I took photos of some places multiple times from different angles, trying hard to see everything differently. It wasn’t as difficult to do as I expected. Maybe hat was because of where I was. Maybe it was because of how I felt. Maybe it was just G-d’s way of guiding me through this experience.

I tore my eyes from a beautiful vista looking up from a corner at the Hurva Synagogue, with the sky cloudless and bright blue in the background… and saw that I was back among the group. We ran a quick head-count.

When I say we ran a ‘quick’ head-count, please keep in mind that while our group was comprised of many different occupations, backgrounds, and educational experiences, even the mathematicians had trouble counting to 47. It may not be rocket surgery, but we found ways to complicate it. A ‘quick’ head-count (which didn’t necessarily indicate a ‘complete’ head-count) could take as much as ten full minutes.

So we ran a quick head-count and proceeded to the Western Wall. On my way in, I noticed my kippa was not in the pocket I had left it in, so I purchased one in the street for a small amount and caught up with the group.

They say the Western Wall, the Wailing Wall, ha Kotel, etc., is the holiest place in the history of holy places. It’s mind-blowingly spiritual, they say. They say you will never forget the first time you stand in front of it. They say true.

I watched my friends say the blessing and wrap tefillin with the rabbi before the Wall. They, too, had begun to internalize their feelings and concentrate on their prayers and gratitude. They, too, had felt the depth of this place reach into their hearts and connect them to their people and their past. Many closed their eyes as they approached the Wall. Some shed silent tears. All placed a heavy hand against the stone.

I took my scribbled note in my fist and walked toward the wall. The air changed, became fluid and more deliberate. The sky changed; the colors deepened and solidified. The whole mood changed, and everyone could sense it. I approached the wall, taking all of this in and focusing on the words that I held in my hand, my mouth, and my heart, concentrating on the words of gratitude and prayer I would pass through ha Kotel and into G-d’s waiting fingers.

When I left the Wall, I was feeling inspired. Words were flowing into my head from all around the Old City, from passing strangers’ mouths, from under their feet, from between the cracks in the walls. I pulled out my notebook and this spilled out of my fingertips and onto the page. When someone asks me what the Western Wall was like, this is what I will tell them:

Written inscriptions decrypting depictions embedded and folded and set in a Wall

Praying for strength and for health and for wealth and for hope and for help and for peace for us all

People emerging from all walks of life whose deep words will be heard in a merged amalgam

Of sweet, silent truth or a low murmur issued on breath like a gale in the crowd it came from

I was thrown from my introspection by the weirdest exchange I’d overheard, yet.

Andrew and Jesse were joking about something. “You redneck, you!” he said.

“I don’t believe in rednecks.”

What does that even mean? They’re not like fairies; you can’t kill them all simply by pretending they don’t exist. And they’re not like deities that generations of people worship and debate over and kill each other for. They’re like McDonald’s – they’re loud, obnoxious, and undeniably everywhere.

“That’s going in the book. Just for sheer shock-slash-comic value. Do you even know what you meant?” I asked her.

“No, not really,” she laughed. I shrugged. Okay.

We were swept onto the bus and carted to the marketplace. They’re big on haggling in these markets, which is entirely reasonable and very cool. As the evening wanes, the prices follow. Moreso, Ran announced, as Shabbat approaches in the evening, the merchants go home and the poor can take some goods for free. The community really looks after itself.

These markets were full of everything. Tables piled to the sky with kippas, stacks of t-shirts, hats, and shawls. Rows and rows of fruit boxes, stacked up and set out with prices marked for negotiation. Antique and newly made Judaica, including beautiful menorahs, kiddish cups, and vases. And above it all, the smell of a bakery sitting right in the middle of it, wafting aromas of fresh challah, cinnamon rolls, and rugelach through the air and into my nose.

The second Ran said “meet back here at--,” the group dispersed and went off to narrow their shopping lists. Some of them would find everything they intended to buy; many of them would buy things they never intended to find.

Back at the Bat Cave – er, hotel – we discovered a pool. On the eighth floor. After diving in and cooling off a bit, Robby came on the scene with his soccer ball. And just that simply, a game of water polo with rugby rules began.

We split off into teams: Marc, Reuben, Jessie, Hannah, Guy, and me vs. Joel, Anna, Aimee, Matan, Eli, and Jeff. Our team lacked the height of the other team, but we had the muscle and some good moves. Whenever the ball got tied up between opposing sides, the teams would pile on to try to help their player tear the ball away. Generally speaking, our team came away with the ball.

While Marc and I were pretty good at wrestling the ball away, it didn’t much matter once Joel got his hands on the ball.

“Dude, you’re a fish.”

“He’s like Aquaman… only useful!”

“Where’d Joel go? Somebody find Joel!”

“Too late, he already scored again.”

That’s basically how the game went. When we found an opportunity, we’d jump on Joel and try to beat the ball away from him. Thus, the game took on a new title: Murder Ball.

When the lifeguard finally kicked us out (because the pool was closing, not because we were too rowdy; I think he enjoyed watching us beat the living daylights out of each other), we went to our respective rooms to shower and get ready for Shabbat dinner.

I learned one interesting thing at dinner that evening. Danielle is afraid of fruit.

I wasn’t even at the table when this happened, but I heard it behind me and had to find out what was going on.

One member of our group is apparently afraid of fruit. Can’t stand it. Won’t eat it. Stays far away from it. Trembles in fear before it.

It’s apparently so bad that when Jesse shoved her watermelon in Danielle’s face, (a test akin to the “WHAT COLOR IS THIS?!” test that I get when I tell someone new that I’m colorblind,) Danielle cowered in her chair with her hands in front of her face and made a small, muffled squirmy noise. Needless to say, those occupying the surrounding chairs were amused. Calvin included.

“Does that include tomatoes?” I asked her.

“No. They’re eaten like vegetables.”

“What about pumpkin? Squash? Green beans?”

“No. No, and no. I only dislike fruits that act like fruits.”

Calvin had had just about enough of people saying things that really held no meaning. He was about to burst out with a “Do you even know what you’re talking about!?” when I thought of another question. “Is there any good dessert up at the buffet?” This was directed at nobody in particular. It was only meant to get me away from my own curiosity and incredulity about the possibility of fruitophobia.

“Yeah, there was something really good up there,” Jesse said, helpfully. I got up to find out.

That evening was full of excitement. Some people played card games. Some people put on music and danced. Some people sat in a hallway talking to a Frenchman about Judaism and philosophy, struggling through an intense language barrier with zeal and determination, until Sarah and Aimee came shrieking out of the girls’ bathroom because they saw a cockroach in the sink.

“Aaahhhhhhhh!”

“What? Is everything okay?” I asked, stupidly.

“NO! There’s a… a cockroach, IN THE BATHROOM SINK! IT’S HUGE!” Sarah’s eyes were the size of the reported cockroach.

“Is anyone else in there?” my French friend politely inquired.

“Just that giant… thing.”

“Okay, then.” I said. I walked in to take a look at it. Indeed, it was rather large. Probably the length of a full-size sewing needle and as big around as a stack of dimes.

I walked out. “Aimee appears to have it under control,” I confirmed.

“Huh?” Sarah was confused. She ran back inside. “EEEEeeeeek! HOLYCRAP KILLITDROWNITNOW!”

The Frenchman and I shrugged and walked out. Sarah followed us.

“Why isn’t it dead yet?” she asked.

“It’s a cockroach, Sarah,” I explained. “They don’t die. Ever.”

The Frenchman chuckled.

Sarah rolled her eyes at me and waited for Aimee. Honestly, some people just can’t appreciate good humor when they’re in extreme distress. Who would have thought?

After that it was going to be extremely difficult to pick up the conversation about religion and philosophy, so I bid my friend lilah-tov, good night, and moseyed upstairs.

My body was getting used to running on no sleep, so naturally, I wasn’t tired yet. I moseyed back downstairs and into the bomb shelter.

The party was still going. Excellent.

We danced, we hung out, we played games. Jesse blew out her knee dancing to Shakira. Naturally, that’s about all the detail I’m going into, but rest assured that all in all, it was a good night.

I was about to go to bed when Stern (pictured above) grabbed my shoulder. “Hey, you’re writing all kinds of quotes and stuff down in there, right?” He threw his head at my notebook.

“Yeah. That’s the basic idea.” I tried to read his eyes to guess his intention, but they weren’t well-focused at the moment. I dug my pen out of my pocket.

“Write this one down: Sometimes when you can’t help yourself, you’re most yourself.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I had to ask.

“I’m not sure, but it sounded good in my head. It seemed really important. Have a good night, dude.”

“Thanks. You too, Stern.” I went to sleep still hopelessly trying to rationalize a profound meaning into his quotation. Perhaps that’s why I finally got some rest that night.