I Am Actually the World’s Worst Blogger

Before I left for Jordan, I decided I would make this blog as an attempt to keep friends back home updated on my travels. Me, being the worst with keeping in touch, decided it would be beneficial to relationships I wanted to keep for me to do this, to keep some sort of connection alive with the people in my life who are important. Alas, I made it a few days, and the door closed on my blog faster than an Allah-backed cab driver in Egypt in his eternal quest for the fastest arrival to point B from point A. Whether or not the passenger’s paramount fear of death is part of this mission, or if that’s an added bonus… I’m still trying to figure out. Ya Allah, protect us all. [As a side note, I have actually prayed a few times to myself in cabs here... no better time to take up religion than when death is near… right?] Anyways, I made so many excuses to myself about letting this blog trail off… “I’d rather tell everyone these stories in person, I don’t like blogging, yadayadayada…” In the back of my mind though, I started to regret every day I didn’t keep writing, because I knew that one day I’d like to look back and see my experiences… well laziness, as usual took the best of me. And every time I experience something I would like to remember in the far future, I think about this lonely, abandoned blog. So, I’ve decided that with the numerous, monstrous regrets I have in my life, both beyond making amends and not, that this, such a  small, insignificant thing as an internet blog that no one will bother to read, should not be on that list. Maybe I’ll respark the creative prose that used to flow from my hands so easily. Maybe I’ll discover something about myself. Maybe I’ll just ramble myself to death. Who knows. All I’m sure of is that this is something I need to do, for myself, for the sake of letting my thoughts out of the crazy shell of a nut I call my noggin. I will attempt to recreate the isolated thoughts and feelings of every experience I can possibly remember from the past five months, and from here on out, Inshah Allah, my thoughts will rear their heads on a timely basis. One can only hope. Here goes.

Israel/Palestine

I decided to begin with this last trip because it’s the freshest in my mind, I’ll erratic-ly fill in the details of the rest as I continue to rattle of my muddled thoughts of the last few months.

This past week was Eid Al-Adha, or the “Feast of Sacrifice”, is a Muslim holiday commemorating Ibrahim’s (Abraham’s) blind loyalty to Allah, manifested in his willingness to sacrifice his only son, granted by Allah himself after years of prayer from Ibrahim. However, this sacrifice was not to occur without first the consent, and ultimate test of faith, of Isma’il (Ishmael), who, thirteen years old at the time, was asked if he would allowed the sacrifice of his body in the name of Allah. Without hesitation, Isma’il submitted, and Ibrahim prepared to sacrifice his only son. Satan is said to have tempted Ibrahim away from such an act of faith, only to be driven away as Ibrahim cast pebbles at him. As Ibrahim held the knife over the body of his son, Allah intervened, content with the expression of devotion, and allowed Ibrahim to sacrifice a goat instead. While most of the rituals and prayer of Eid Al-Adha elude me, I understand three of the most prevalent traditions: 1. All Muslims dress to impress on this day, expressing purity and cleanliness (cleanliness is next to Godliness), 2. Stones are thrown at a pillar to symbolize the will of Ibrahim against Satan’s sinful whispers, and 3. Families either purchase animals, or take some of their own stock, and slaughter it, splitting the meat into thirds: 1/3 for one’s own feast, 1/3 for extended family and friends, 1/3 for the poor and needy – to ensure that all Muslims partake in the sacrificial meat of Ibrahim’s faithfulness to Allah. While I admit that I had a zealous desire to simply see an animal slaughtered on the streets, I admire the principles of this holiday… and I sincerely hope that most Muslim families pass down the true values of these rituals, rather than commercialized, diluted routines that I find more often or not in the United States during the holiday season.

                With this lengthy intro, I proceed into an even lengthier timeline of my travels during this week, hopefully finding meaning in my own reflections of events that occurred.

Queu Wed/Thur. Nov. 2-3:
                Wednesday night, just finishing a disastrous Economics midterm, and powering through the busiest middle-of-the-term in this history of study abroad, Greg, Stan, and I left for the border in Taba, anxious to leave behind our student-in-Cairo woes for a week of political and religious exploration in Israel and Palestine, two countries oft travelled to together, though two of the most controversially connected territories of our time. After weeks of complaining about our excruciating bus rides to and from AUC, we loaded up on the East Delta Travel bus, and embarked on a lovely 8-9 hour bus ride, plagued with unnecessary and unnecessarily long pit stops, in classic Egyptian fashion, to be deposited on the tumble-weed infested (metaphorically) resort town of Taba, placed on the most hated border in Egypt. Making friends with every Egyptian guard on our way out of Egypt, a simple two LE fee and a few questions from security about my single-or-taken status allowed us the walk onto Israeli territory. Immediately the difference is overwhelming, in the presence of common weaponry, tight security, and unfriendly faces. Naturally, I was given special attention, as was my camera, braving a lonely, extra trek through the security scanner. Then, foolishly, I asked for my stamp on a separate paper out of my passport, and the questions came flooding in. After a short waiting period, we were on our way again to Eilat, where we attained another three hour bus ride to Be’er Sheva, and yet another two-three hour ride to Jerusalem. Please don’t mistake my following comments for anti-Semitism, but I’d like to document the thoughts I experienced upon arrival in Jerusalem. Never, have I encountered such an overwhelming atmosphere of pure religious devotion… Perhaps I haven’t yet tapped into the awe-inspiring religious well of Egypt or Jordan, but, aside from the resounding call to prayer that rings musically in Amman, and sounds a bit like Big Brother in Cairo, I have yet to experience a united Muslim devotion as the Jewish unity I witnessed in Jerusalem. On the streets, scores of school children skipped and ran from school, wearing yamukahs (sp?) and sporting the classic dual-curl adorning the sides of the head, with conservative clothing, while even more traditionally dressed women and men followed behind. I honestly can’t express what I saw in such a simple image of shallow religious representation, but it was a striking sight, portraying the immense religious aura of the entirety of Jerusalem. Funny, at one point in our trip Stan said “DC is the political capital of the world, and Jerusalem is the religious capital of the world.” Perhaps my lack of patriotic feeling keeps me from agreeing about DC, despite my lack of a replacement, but there is nothing that could convince me other of Jerusalem. We got to our hostel, after being adequately scammed by a cab for the second time in one day, and headed out to explore the greatest mecca of religious history in the world.

                First on the list: problem. Why is Old City the most difficult place to navigate in the world? No worries though, the beautiful white stone streets that weave in and out of each other allow you to unintentionally stumble upon the quaint little alley you definitely passed by an hour ago, in search of the very place that continues to elude you. After a bit of navigating, and a little luck of chance, we reached our destination: the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. (Sepulchre, being a place of burial, a tomb). Yes, our first visit in the entire trip was to the very location of the death of Jesus Christ. The majestic courtyard, littered with religious pilgrims eager to pray before their savior, sat mysteriously beneath the bright moon and one, lone tree, dark green against an eerie, beautiful deep purple-black sky. Enter into the church: decorative lamps adorn the space directly above the rock which cracked from the Earthquake which mourned the moment Jesus died, followers touching their foreheads to the hard stone, hoping for blessings from its magical roots, all the while a large, beautiful mosaic set on a yellow background, depicting various moments of Jesus’ crucification overlooked the happenings. Move left to a chamber hosting a small shrine to Jesus, a priest? (I can’t be completely sure) allowed those in search of religious immersion to enter the shrine. Along the sides of the large shrine, women lit candles and placed them in a small, encompassing trough of sand, and the back of the shrine hosted a small, sorrowful but mournfully beautiful memorial specifically for Russian coptics. The ceiling hosted beautiful paintings and mosaics, supporting grim, but hauntingly wonderful ornaments – yet the best part was yet to come. Up the stairs lay yet another prayer area. If I remember correctly, this was the area in which Jesus’ body would be handed to Mary. Women and men alike got on knees, unmindful of age and aching joints, the crawl underneath a table, candles and lamps littered the room, and then the most… inexplicably beautiful moment: the group of pilgrims began singing, many of them in tears, until they all joined in a sorrowful harmony. At that moment I felt both to be a horrendous intruder of sorts upon an intimate moment of the follower and savior, and a witness to a transcending religious moment in which I will never personally be able to partake. All at once I wished for a religious loyalty that would allow me such rights, and I thanked my stars for the opportunity to observe as an outsider in awe.

                After we left the Church, we ran into two travelling actors, dressed as homeless mad men. They were hilarious characters both of trait and in person, and incredibly fun to chat with. They spoke to us about Tel Aviv, “party capital of the Middle East” (though I believe they purposefully stole the title from Beirut) and gave us tips on where to go. One stole cookies from a young boy (well, the boy gave it to him, sort of) while the other dwelled upon his invention of the word “giggers” (those who do gigs). Completely disregarding the fact that their act was impeded with the lack of a chair (one was supposed to be in a noose on a chair while the other threatened to kill him), they waited and chatted with us until hunger took over.

                Later that night, we spent the remainder of our “out-of-the-hostel” time in a small café – café Simon - right on the inside of Damascus Gate, drinking Taybeh (a Palestinian-brewed beer) out of chilled glasses and smoking shisha (or “nargileh” as it’s called in some places) as we people watched. Jerusalem is the perfect place to people watch. All of a sudden – a flash flood. The rain was… wow it was like a small storm hailed on Jerusalem just for our benefit. Greg and Stan were incredibly excited by their first rain in four months (the first for me in five/six months), and Greg went out and played in the rain, quite like an excited child… or puppy, haha. Rain rushed down the small stone ramps lining the streets, and, unhindered by the intense rain, and resulting power outages, trash tractors and young guys, hosting large, heavy wheel barrels of various objects, riding the rain on small tires attached to their barrels, busily rushed up and down the streets. And so ended our first night in Israel, a day well worth the arduous trip all in itself, as we went back to our cramped hostel, where the shower was the entire bathroom, and warm water was as much of a myth as the Lochness monster. End Day 1.

Cue Day 2.

Zoom in on groggy Jen. Cue snooze 1. Snooze 2. Okay, shut the f*** up, I’m waking up. 6:30 am. Damn, half an hour late already and I haven’t even begun my unnecessarily long morning ritual yet. Good start to the day.

Note to self. Shower is spawn of Satan, if Satan rained water colder than Santa’s cozy little workshop way the **** up in the North Pole. Needless to say, I came out, still feeling unclean, shivering like a heroin addict going through intense withdrawals (would you light my candle?), and WIDEEE awake. Cue changing clumsily in the dark, don’t care what I look like, but dear Lord, don’t let me freeze to death in the Middle East. Cue pushing the button on the remote for the AC/heater unit. Cue – nothing coming out, wonderful. Fully clothed, fully awake, fully grumpy, wake up Greg, grab computer and chillin’ in the lounge til the boys are ready.

Out of the hostel at 7:30am, not bad. We roamed around the area for a bit, snacking on the specialty of the Middle East: random assorted breads straight from the bulk-bakery. Finally giving up on any hope of finding our own way, we hopped in a taxi and headed to the Mount of the Olives. As progressive and efficient as Israel proved to be throughout our trip – it’s still the Middle East – which means, despite guidebook-assurances of early-opening attractions, 8-8:30 am is Middle Eastern standard get-to-work time. After arguing with a cab driver clearly ignorant of where he was driving us and valiantly attempting to rip us off, we exited the car and roamed the holy paths of the Mt. of Olives, teeming with speeding buses unwilling to swerve an inch for a small, camera-happy tourist unaware of her surroundings. Unable to find anything open, we wandered down and then up the hill again, stumbling into the site of the most beautiful view of Old City, Jerusalem. Just in time to watch the cloud part, revealing a brilliant sunshine, resembling a divine ray of light, a faint heralding chorus of angels in the background (not really, but you know what I mean) shining quite pointedly and specifically down on Old City. The three of us shared a rare, impossible moment of silence, bereft of offensive, politically and culturally insensitive witticisms, just to take in the impossible beauty of an area so darkly shrouded in conflict, injustices and bloodshed.

8:30 am. YELLA YA ARABS. With the hour of universal get-up time for the Arab population upon us, we began our Mount of Olives journey at the Dome of Ascension, the place where Jesus is said to have ascended into heaven, becoming eternally divine and forever the savior of… some people ;). Through the majestic doorway we strolled, unaware that waiting for us on the other side was… a plain, insignificant structure of concrete, hosting a small sand bed of lit candles and money more than likely being pocketed by the sketchy salesmen outside   and a lone, out-of-place stone in which the footprint of Jesus (and by Jesus I mean of that one of the maintenance workers of the Jerusalem sights/tourism industry) is preserved. Admittedly, I took a few snapshots of the rock and spent the remainder of our brief time in the Dome watching the pigeons up in the stone-carved windows, making those funny pigeon noises. (Ps. One day, I hope to be able to imitate that noise for pure self-entertainment. The little things in life, guys… the little things.

Shortly after, we began our trek down the long, winding path curving along the Mt. I wish so dearly I could relist the names of all of the places, but alas… I didn’t pay attention that well, whoops.

First we walked along the extensive Jewish cemetery, contemplating the religious significance of this burial spot and the consequential importance of its guests, whether bestowed before or as a result of his or her site of burial. As a quick note, the Mt. of the Olives, named for its abundance of olive trees (some considered holy) is believed to be the site at which the Messiah will descend and bring the dead back to life. Yeah, I wonder what amazing, ethereal, benevolent things you have to do to be buried there.                            

Admittedly, the name of the next site both eludes me, and holds no importance to me – it was the sanctuary of some fool. Behind two intimidatingly large doors, adorned with a cluster of Coptic insignia (as were many of the doors in Jerusalem), was a small, shabby garden, a lower platform with a gorgeous, yet familiar view of Old City, and a modest church. However, the main attraction, resided inside the church (Dominus Flevit Church), though it was not the mosaic garnishing the floor or the depictions of Jesus and his apostles on the ceiling. No, instead, my attention was drawn to a single, black, metal cross upon the lone altar affront the room. Behind it, an unfocused (caused by the aged nature of the fiber glass window behind it) view of the whole of Jerusalem. This simple, yet undoubtedly purposeful image held in its visage centuries of history, of religious turmoil, of death and bloodshed and tragedy. I can’t possibly describe the sorrow I inexplicably felt in seeing this hauntingly beautiful portrait of Jerusalem’s past, present, and future. The most justice I can do to it, is to not try at all.

From this sanctuary, we continued down the road, past the Church of Mary Magdalene (which was, unfortunately, closed. Funnily enough, the church is run by Arabs, and is only open for two hours on Tuesdays and Thursdays). From here, we arrived at the Garden of Gethsemane, the location of the Betrayal of Christ, or “the Kiss of Judas”. It is here that Judas identified Jesus to the soldiers of Sanhedrin for his arrest. The olive trees here are supposedly witnesses to this event, and therefore sacred, as are its olives and subsequent products. However, it is important to note, that it is believed by many that the original trees in this garden had actually been cut down in 70 AD by the Romans, when Jerusalem was under siege. Adjacent to the Garden is the Church of All Nations, originally a Byzantine, then Crusader, and finally the modern church, believed to be the final prayer place of Jesus and his disciples after the Last Supper. I admittedly can’t remember much of the inside of the church, though I remember it being different from many others in that it was well-lit, perhaps yellow in color, and a morning mass was in session at the time of our visit. However, I do remember the beautiful mosaic presented upon the front of the church, clearly visible from the roads outside the gates of Jerusalem, a yellow, shining masterpiece on the backdrop of shrubbery and the stretching Jewish cemetery.

And finally, three hours after our original crusade to find the tomb of Virgin Mary, we had found it, and it was more than worth the wait. Descending the steps in a dark, cold room of stone walls, as it, appropriately, began pouring outside, we came upon two separate shrines in a single room, both on opposite ends. Above, upon the ceilings were dozens of gothic-style ornaments, the walls adorned with depictions of Mary and gothic decorations. Attending each shrine was a priest, obviously of high-religious importance, praying in a slow, melancholy melody. It was completely ethereal, the priests’ voices echoing off the high ceilings, shrouding our ears, mourning both the loss of Mary and her grievous loss. Mesmerized by the sorrowful, somewhat ghostly scene, I was finally pushed back towards the stairs by Greg and Stan, who, exasperated, walked past me, and just as I looked up, coincidently, in time to see them walking towards a displaced bright light of the outside world, they looked as if they were ascending into heaven. But it’s Stan and Greg, so… definitely not.

Side note: I need to invent an add-on for Microsoft Word that reads your mind, takes all your unorganized thoughts, and puts them into witty, clever, intelligent sentences so I don’t spend an entire week, on and off to describe a week. At this rate, I’m going to need another holiday to finish writing about my first holiday. Dear Charles Dickens, how did you get them to pay you by the word? May I have the publisher’s contact number, I believe I have a gold mine here.

Current Word Count: 3,508 I could probably end world hunger with the money I get from this one.

Perhaps if it was more coherent and I wasn’t talking to myself right now.

From the tomb we finally began our return to Old City, first descending down then back up the road to the Lion’s Gate (insert the tale behind the name of this gate that I read but subsequently and instantaneously forgot). I can’t be bothered to look up the story, but what I do know is that the road leading into this entrance into Old City becomes the infamous and holy Via Dolorosa Road (“Way of Sorrows”, Way of the Cross), the road down which Jesus was forced to carry himself to a slow, tortuous, and inescapable death. Before I continue to describe this holiest of holy treks, it’s important to note that Via Dolorosa is a hotspot for one to catch the “Jerusalem Syndrome” bug. Any individual of any religion, or lack thereof, is susceptible to this disease in which one who becomes overwhelmed with the religious aura of Jerusalem is impregnated with the belief that he or she is Samson, the Virgin Mary, Jesus himself, or characters from either the Old Testament (common with Jews) or the New Testament (common with Christians). So you’ve just gone to Jerusalem and you realize your friend is acting strangely, and by strangely I mean he or she is one fry short of a Happy Meal, stepping into toilets to prove the ability to walk on water. How do you confirm that your friend is suffering JS (coincidentally, my initials)? Look for the following symptoms I just googled:

1.       Anxiety – there’s a difference between a constant fear of Jesus smiting you for all the crucification jokes (guilty) and a sudden realization of divine, Biblical personal status. If your friend orders you to bow down and kiss his knuckles, I would kick him in the royal nuts and get him the **** out of there before he starts throwing Holy Water on you.

2.       An inexplicable urge to ditch you – On one hand, you could just be insanely annoying, and your friend just sold you to a Jew, promising that you will work faithfully like a pack mule until you break a leg and they take you to the back and shoot you like a worn-out racehorse. On the other hand, your friend of newly divine powers may just be looking for the perfect place to meet his Maker.

3.       OCD in the form of showers, grooming, purification in any sense of the word. First, lick your fingers and stick in his ear – Wet Willy. Then, take his “cleanliness means I’m the embodiment of Godliness” self to the psychiatrist.

4.       Sporting the Biblical fashion of a plain, white bed sheet in a gown-like manner – if it’s your girlfriend, check to make sure she just wasn’t having trouble making a fashion statement – if neither of these is the case, take your friend to the most public area in Jerusalem (atop the church of the Holy Sepulchre would be lovely), rip off the gown in one fell swoop, and embarrass the hell of his holiness, because doctors say once you’ve reached this point, your Holy butt is a lost cause – craziness is next to Godliness.

5.       Singing of (moreso the incessant shouting of) Bible verses, strange attachment to holy sites, and the preaching of a “better, religious life” to passerbys comprise the last trifecta of I-think-I’m-Jesus syndrome. Personally I don’t see the big deal, religious crazies do these anyways – but, if for nothing other than pure entertainment, buy your holiest of holy friend a pedastool and watch him make a complete *** out of himself. Youtube hits are always fun.

*scrolls up to find original point to be made, scrolls back down, wonders why typing this little side note, stops wondering and continues arduous writing to the end of this single entry*

As I was saying, Via Dolorosa, while perhaps the greatest attractor of all pilgrims in Jerusalem, and the most infamous carrier of Jerusalem Syndrome in all of … well, you know where.

It is the road down which Jesus was condemned, nailed to the cross, and ultimately crucified after arrest. Below is a list (yes, another list) of the 12 sites of Via Dolorosa:

1.       Condemnation of Jesus Christ (Convent of Flagellation – cue purple robe, crown of thorns, old-fashioned hate crime of a beating)

2.       Jesus Carries His Cross (He is given the cross, nail-free)

3.       Jesus falls for the first time under the weight of the Cross.

4.       Jesus meets his mother.

5.       Simon of Cyrene helps Jesus carry the Cross.

6.       Veronica wipes the face of Jesus. (I have no idea who this Veronica is, though she should be commemorated as the first towel-person in history, Mabruk!)

7.       Jesus falls a second time. (Simon must’ve taken a lunch break)

8.       Jesus speaks to the daughters of Jerusalem. (He must’ve told them to keep the Palestinians out. And what a fine job they’re doing – good one, Jesus)

9.       Jesus falls a third time. (Simon still MIA)

10.   Jesus is stripped of his garments.

11.   Jesus is nailed to the Cross.

12.   Jesus dies on the Cross.

13.   Jesus is taken down. (I believe his body was handed to Mary)

14.   Jesus is laid to rest in his tomb.

Admittedly, throughout the whole of this holiest of holy ventures, Greg became Jesus, and Stan and I the Father and the Holy Ghost… along with the creation of jokes and witticisms of which only strengthen my disbelief in God, for if he had heard said statements, well … all of us would be smoldering piles of God-smited ash. It’s difficult to find Holy beauty along Via Dolorosa, which is now plagued and overshadowed by countless shops of commercial, cheap (in quality, not price) shops owned by Arabs exploiting a religion unknown to them, or Jews relentlessly exploiting their own beliefs, trying to make a quick buck. However, I did manage to spot one woman performing the walk with a….. comicly large depiction of Jesus, that looked as if it had been taken from google, stretched and skewed, printed upon regular white paper in cheap ink, and placed in a simple frame, as well as a group of women brandishing a large wooden cross. Had I been allowed to, I would’ve liked to have follow them and document the inevitable Jerusalem Syndrome to ensue, but as fate (otherwise known as Greg and Stan) would have it… I did not.

After Via Dolorosa, tired and a little Jesus-ed out, we valiantly pushed forward, completing a short, anti-climactic view of the Cenacle (the room of the Last Supper, otherwise known as the Cenaculum), the plain and…. Well just plain tomb of King David (sorry, bro), some nice-looking churches that happened to make nice pictures, and a small, banal Holocaust museum. Personally, I was the most excited for a glimpse of the grave of Oskar Schindler, located in a nearby cemetery, though I was most unsuccessful after about 30 minutes of futile searching while Stan and Greg sat and jeered – bastards.

However our visit to the Western Wall (aka The Wailing Wall) did not disappoint.

Built, originally, as an ordinary piece of a larger wall in 19 BC, the Western Wall became of religious significance around 500 AD, the Middle Agest, when the King restored a mosque to the site of the Temple Mount, and the Jews were left the Western Wall (in front of which they had been praying since the Romans conquered Jerusalem and banned them in the name of Christianity, 100 AD).  I won’t get into the rest of the wall’s history, but it remains an important site of pilgrimage to Jews today, famous for its thousands of notes and letters stuffed in its cracks, prayers and calls to the dead for favors in this lifetime. I could not help feel both intrusive in and entranced by the wall. Women (the men and women are given different sides on which to pray) lined the wall, their foreheads on the cold stone, murmuring prayers in hopes that someone would hear them and answer. Others sat in school-like desks, reading prayer books as the rocked back-and-forth quietly.

We then ran to meet Stan’s friend from AU for lunch at a ridiculously, unjustified, overly-priced shawerma/falafel café, after which we visited a large outdoor food market, then back to the Shisha café outside of Damascus Gate.

That night, we first hit a small, “posh” bar, where the waitress, when asked if there was Shisha responded: “it’s not that kind of place”. It was, however, the kind of place that played that lame Kenny G your mom listened to in the house when you were younger, along with Justin Beiber-esque, Now-That’s-What-I-Call-Kidz-Bop sh** music. Classy.

Needless to say, our beer-filled visit was short and followed by entrance into a much, how should I say, “awesomer” bar with good house music, lots of popcorn (of which we ate at least 6 baskets of once shots were taken), and the No Mercy shot, after one of which, “Stan and Greg watched me go downhill”, then proceeded to order me a second one, and themselves a first.

End early night before hitting Palestine.

The next morning, we woke up early, in vain, to visit the Temple Mount, home of the Dome of the Rock, the spot at which Jesus is believed to have used the dirt on the ground to create Adam. This area has been built over many times, ultimately ending as a Mosque, which, in lieu of Friday prayer, Saturday before a Muslim holiday, and the aforementioned holiday (Eid) kept us from seeing the inside of the mosque. The best we were allowed was a soldier (ironically, a Jewish one) taking my camera to take pictures of the outside of the Dome for us.

Disappointed, but not deterred, we hopped on a bus to Bethlehem, Palestine.

The moment the front of the bus touched Bethlehem, the difference was overwhelming. The Eastern European-style cities gave way to the Middle East once more. It was Jordan. It was Egypt. But it was different. It was oppressive poverty. It was quiet suffering. It was resilience. It was all the wrongs of Israel, all the responded violence from Palestinians. But, of course all was forgotten the instant we stepped off the bus and about 6 creepy Arab men “gave us good price for taxi”. Twenty minutes later, we were sitting in our hostel, drinking tea with and old man and his wife who had turned their humble abode into a B n’ B once their children had moved out. Bring in three European guys sitting down to the free breakfast (yes, that was quite a memorable part of our stay at the Place of the Holy Book, as with the New Palm Hostel in Jerusalem… backpackers live both an exciting and a sad life) who I would’ve enjoyed sitting and talking to, but instead we hit the small, tourist-geared part of Bethlehem, insignificant in all aspects except the banners: “UN: Palestine State 194”. Funny how a banner inherently guarding decades of abuse and bloodshed could look festive and cheery – funny how this is the essence of the Palestinian people themselves. After a short walk around the area in search of inappropriately politically charged t-shirts (for which, unfortunately we missed the opportunity, but that’s a different, unrelated, unimportant story), we returned to our hostel, where the owners’ son was striking a deal with a cab driver for a day-long venture around the ancient city of Jericho. In all honesty, Jericho, while a decided “must-do” for all travelers in Palestine, it was fairly anticlimactic. First stop: a cemetery/structure believed to be where Moses is buried? Strangely enough, I don’t remember any other story that confirms this fact, though it was an unexciting sight, so no harm no foul. From there, we hit the Old City, and visited Hisham’s Palace. Again, an unexciting structure, the palace was not once completely finished and was constantly built upon. Comprised of rubble organized into rows and groups, it had a few interesting objects, including a floor mosaic and a large, stone window topped with a large flower design. From here, we hit the Mt. of Temptation, a small mountain up which you can either climb (which we did) or take an expensive cable cars (super cool, bubble-like cars in groups of three). After a half-hour climb, and a few hundred pictures on my end, we made it to the top, where the Church of Temptation (where Satan is said to have tempted Jesus whilst he fasted) remained closed. Fail.

Either way, the view was nice, and we were ready to go back to the hostel, after another short stop at a 2,000-year-old tree, and a two-hour ride. Cue the lame backpackers in bed by 7pm, watching the In-Betweeners until falling asleep around 9pm. Good night.

Cue Wake-up, about 7am today, head over to the Nativity Church, take pictures. However, today is the morning of Eid Al-Adha, and we’re hoping to get a glimpse of a Palestinian family slaughtering a sheep. Instead, we did see a group of children pushing a large bucket filled with what looked like all the parts of the sheep you don’t want, some animal fat laying on the ground, and a few trucks that passed by filled with sheep, and then returned, empty.

On our way back to the hostel, we did see a large cow being bled out, and I hurried to take a picture, inconspicuously of course, and for the time being, we were satisfied. After a large breakfast, we headed out to The Shepherds’ Field, where the angel Gabriel was said to have come down and told the Shepherds of the birth of baby Jesus. Having been told the walk was less than 30 minutes, an hour later, still unsuccessful in finding this mystical field, we continued on, encountering a large stencil-graffiti of the Statue of Liberty in thug clothes, holding out her empty pockets, reminding us of the cruel reality of Palestine and the part American played in it. Soon, we encountered a family who had only seconds ago, slaughtered a sheep, the wife and children watching as the father bled it out and started skinning the dead carcass. Finally, we reached the entrance to the fields. The view over a large, widespread valley was entrancing, gorgeous, vivid in every aspect. After, ensued the childish exploration of the Byzantine excavations near the valley, mostly jumping into holes, climbing in caves, and exchanging impossible dares. Highlight of the mini-trip: climbing into a cave, and walking into the dark. Unsuccessfully attempting to light the way with the cheap torchlight on Stan’s even cheaper phone (gotta love pay-as-you-go), Stan bailed, and Greg and I refused to admit fear (which is probably refuted in the dark video I have) and I began using the flash on my Nikon to help us see (and look for snakes, centipedes, scorpions, Satan, etc etc) – which subsequently resulted in a series of ghostly-white pictures, until we finally reached a small staircase into another cave.

A short synopsis of our venture into the cave:

-          “Stop being a b****, keep going.

-          Gimme the light I can’t see.

-          Dude, what if there are snakes.

-          Okay, NOW I’m not going, you go.

-          No man, you go, you’re the dude.

-          I’m out of here (Stan).

-          Oh my god I can’t see anything.

-          Dude, it’s so dark.

-          Flash your camera so I can see. FLASH FLASH, keep flashing it!

-          Sh**, it’s so dark!

-          LIGHT I see light!

-          Go, go, go, go, go!

Indiana Jones status. Nbd.

After our short venture into the unknown, and few more caves, better-lit ones, we grabbed a taxi to Aida, a refugee camp established in 1950, named after a coffee shop previously in the area, visited by the Pope in May, 2009. After my experience in a refugee camp in Jordan (still my best memory there), I was excited to visit Aida, rightfully so. As we began walking from the center of the camp, children ran around in their best Eid attire, shooting each other, and us, with pellets from their toy guns. (As a side note, children in Israel and Palestine literally have on universal toy: plastic guns. And everyone wonders why the Middle East is so violent.) It was in Aida, however, that the biggest difference between Israel and Arab countries was glaringly apparent: as we walked down the run-down streets, everyone, children and adults, smiled and greeted us, welcomed us to Palestine, asked us our names, where we from, and thanked us for coming. As we continued walking we came upon the Israeli wall, littered with resilient artwork, telling the tragic story of Palestine from the view of the oppressed, demanding freedom, showing the untapped power that lay under the surface. On one concrete wall, the faces of Palestinian martyrs remained a reminder to all that the battle has been lost in the past, but the war is yet to be one. Quotes littered the empty spaces in between artwork, the one still burned in my mind read: “We are more powerful than they can possibly imagine.” The intimidating wall invoked feelings of sorrow, of loss, of strength, and of hope in a motley of history and potential events to come. I was amazed with the conviction of its artists, and saddened by the tragedy that induced such resolve and, in some cases, hate. One particular picture in front of which I lingered was that of the statue of liberty, defaced by subsequent graffiti. She wore her usual garb in this one, though she was manifested as a skeleton, a symbol of death and abandonment, the loss of everything she once stood for. As I stared quietly at this particular picture, two young Palestinian men approached us and began chatting with us in Arabic. After a few minutes, they invited us up to their rooftop, immediately adjacent to the wall, and able to see over the wall into Israel. As I looked out over the wall, I couldn’t imagine the pain and anger these people felt waking up every morning to see the wall that symbolized their pain and oppression, and the country that put it up, blocking them from land they have birthrights to. The guys tried to explain what it was like living near the wall, what it was like watching it built. We remained on the rooftop, trying to absorb the reality of what we were looking at, whilst the guys fiddled with my camera and sunglasses. After a while, considerably deflated and in deep thought, I suggested we continue, as we were to reach Tel Aviv that night. After leaving the rooftop, Greg, Stan, and I walked along the wall, reading the words of the Palestinian people, taking in their resilient spirit. Finally, we left the wall in search of a cab back to the hostel, from which we would leave back to the country responsible for the day’s trip. On one of the narrow roads we turned down, we ran into a small family of children, overseen by the eldest daughter, who immediately pulled up chairs for us to sit in, as they stood and stared at us with huge smiles on their faces, speaking shyly in broken English. We stayed here for a bit, taking pictures of the kids, letting them take pictures of us, it reminded me so much of my time at the camp in Jordan, how amazed I was that people in such poverty could remain so happy, cheerful, hopeful.

But being in Palestine… it makes you re-evaluate your life, completely in that cliché, life-changing, write-a-poem-about-the-meaning-of-life way. Though Greg had talked about it before, it wasn’t until this moment I realized how much I wanted to work in Palestine one day, and in my sounds-great-but-most-likely-won’t-happen fashion, I brainstormed a grande idea – one if I ever successfully accomplish, will be the manifestation of any drive I’ve ever had to live my life the way I am now. (That was the most befuddling sentence ever, but, that’s how it came out, and I don’t want to edit it.)

 Reluctantly we left, and began our trip to Tel Aviv. Again, travelling through Israel, the glaring disparities in wealth and development between the neighboring territories was both frustrating and angering. However, nothing made Israel’s lack of both need and resolve for peace more apparent than the luxurious, Eastern-European-esque streets of Tel Aviv – hosting bright, decorative lights, countless pubs and clubs, and the overall, air of superiority caught in the air. Inexplicable – no, it was completely warranted – guilt sunk in as we drove through the streets, and as we sat in the outdoor patio of a small, posh café, I couldn’t help but think of the kids we met in Aida, and what they were eating for Eid that night. Pushing it out of my mind, Greg, Stan, and I left, picked up a bottle of cheap (and when I say cheap, I mean ten-dollar-bottle) of Vodka, and headed back to the hostel, where…. We all fell asleep for three hours. AFTER the impromptu nap, we began drinking whilst I got ready (the downfalls of having a girl in your travel group) and, not quite having been hit by the sudden whirlwind that is cheap vodka yet, we set out, bar-hopping, finally settling on one where ladies got a free beer with every one purchased, and the woman next to me was most definitely a transvestite. However… I cannot tell you really what happened for the rest of the night, as the Vodka made friends with the beer in my belly and they got me pretty good. I do remember, vaguely, being in a pizza shop, taking two bites, dropping it, whining about wanting to go home, and then watching Greg and Stan devour the large slice.

Cue – Waking up at 8am, large headache, short skype talk with Nelson, fall back asleep.

Cue- Waking up at 1pm, waking the boys up after a LONGGG shower, slapping some clothes on, wandering about the promenade along the beach until we came upon Mike’s Place, the most out-of-place, Americanized bar/restaurant in all of Israel. However, no complaints with the best (in both price and quality) breakfast I’ve had in a long time, and cue a walk down the wrong side of the promenade for two hours, then another two in the other direction, ultimately ending in us stopping less than five minutes from our targeted destination (Jaffa) and sitting in a park near the beach until returning to the hostel.

Though I feel so much guilt now in that day, I admit that all qualms I had with Israel temporarily dissolved. The view along the promenade was gorgeous, tranquil, ethereal in a way, and I couldn’t help but wish for the opportunity to freeze the moment and stay there forever. One particular building, a progressively transformative in color structure (as you walked along it, you saw that the paint job was done to imitate a light spectrum of pastels) was enchanting, and while I was unsuccessful in snatching a good picture of it (#unartisticpersonwithacameraproblems), I still remember it vividly. As the sunset, the colors lining the horizon and the shoreline were… too fantastic to capture, and watching the peacefulness of all the families at the beach and on the shore was calming and comforting. One particular snapshot in time I remember well is two brothers, in Semitic Jew attire, were sitting side-by-side, talking quietly, fishing while the sunset in front of them. It was the perfect picture (that I inconspicuously got… I think) and for a moment, it was easy to forget all of our guilt and sorrow from just earlier that day. But, like all good things, it came to an end, and our bubble popped when we saw, at different intervals, helicopters and planes in the sky, coming from the North – later that day, we checked the news, and learned that Gaza had been attacked just shortly after we encountered the aircraft. Cue return of guilt and feeling of utter insignificance.

Once back at the hostel, we watched Mulan (Stan had never seen it, and Greg and I couldn’t stop talking about it – for some reason), then a few episodes of How I Met Your Mother, which made us crave burgers, so Greg and I returned to Mike’s Place, had “the best burger in Israel”, and went back to the hostel to sleep.

Cue early wake-up. Groggy bus ride, short detour into Jerusalem, one last look for Palestine t-shirts, Arab time never fails, stuff still closed at 10am. Perfect, ready for our last day’s trip: Masada. Built originally and a military stronghold (complete with two pools, in case discomfort became a problem) Herod the Great had Masada built as a sanctuary for himself should his people revolt, between 37 and 31 BC, though it was never necessary. He died of old age. Around 67 AD, during the First Jewish-Roman War, a group of Jewish extremists known as the Sicarii overtook the week Roman hold on the fortress, and their settlement numbers grew. In 71 AD, however, the Romans decided to lay siege to the fortress and take it back. The site is famous for the subsequent 375-foot ramp built by the Romans up the side of the mountain to the fortress gates, and even moreso for what the Romans found. Refusing to allow their people to be taken by the Romans, the Sicarii (reaching a small population of around 600, including women and children), organized a chain, in which ten soldiers would commit a massacre of all the others, then two of these soldiers would subsequently kill the remaining 8, and then finally, each other. Today,  Masada is a symbol of strength and pride in the Israeli world (though they didn’t actually excavate the area until the 1960’s) and, though less commonly in recent times, many Israeli soldiers were sworn in on the hills of Masada whilst chanting “Masada will never be taken again”. Now, the fortress is also seen as a birthright trip and many school children are taken here as part of their lessons.

Admittedly, our timing was terrible, as we began our way up the steep, winding Snake Path midday. For this to be significant, considering I froze most of the time I was in Israel and Palestine, it’s important to note that the fortress is atop a hill not a few miles from the Dead Sea, the lowest point on Earth. The sun beating down relentlessly and the wind withholding any relief, we made our way up, and it became quite apparent how badly I need to hit the gym. Anyways, we made it atop the hill, to find a large area of ruins, representing the different chambers of the fortress originally designed by Herod. To be honest, after a few months in Egypt, looking at dozens of sites of ruins, the fortress was wholly unexciting, though there was one room into which a long, steep staircase descended in which Greg and I managed to find entertainment for quite some time. After the camera war between us lost its appeal, we continue walking around the perimeters of the fortress, down into the deep valleys that surrounded it, and across to the Dead Sea stretching far. The large Roman ramp has been reduced to a rather large, but unimpressive pile of dirt, and the rest of the ruins were just that, ruins.

From there we descended the mountain, stopping only for playful photoshoots and watching large prairie dog-like animals stare at us. From there, we loaded up onto another bus, and made our way to Eilat, the closest thing to Vegas in the Middle East.

From here, we crossed the border, not first without me losing my ticket stamp to get back into Egypt, temporarily, and we were on our way… to an hour of walking in the cold searching for a mini bus that would take Stan to Nubia and Greg and I back to Cairo. Stan eventually paid his way to Nubia, and Greg and I, strapped for cash and unwilling to pay the ridiculous prices for a small bus, as well as a small disagreement (I was willing to get in the small bus with a fairly creepy man of sorts, so long as we took shifts sleeping, because he offered us an impossibly low price, but Greg wasn’t having it), so we headed over to a small café, drank tea, smoked shisha, plugged my laptop in and watched Pulp Fiction. Around 2AM, as we noticed the owners getting ready to close up shop, they too, made an observation, and figured that we had no where to go for the night, and let us stay in their padded, cushioned area.  Happy for the offer of a place to at least stay, other than the bus station, for the next 8 hours (our actual bus didn’t leave until 10:30am), we watched How I Met Your Mother until I fell asleep, and simultaneously got eaten alive by the largest swarm of mosquitos I wished to never encounter (my feet looked like large slabs of bitten meat two days later, and today, roughly two weeks after returning from our trip, I still have small bumps/scars littered on my feet, wonderful). Thankfully, we made it through the most terrible night of our trip, and that I’ve had in a long time, and we loaded on the bus for an 8 hour ride back to Cairo at 10:30 am, arriving home around 6 pm.

That night, I forced myself to power through a presentation preparation, I presented the next morning, got home, and slept for a long time. I have been abroad now for five months. Leaving in June was my first time abroad, and the greatest dose of independence I’ve had thus far. While I hope that in the next few weeks I can both document current happenings and past events so as to have them to reflect on in the future, experiences such as the once above have had deeply [profound effects on my life, that, whether or not details are remembered, cannot be forgotten completely.

And so, almost 9,000 words after my first, so ends the renewal of my toe-dip into blogging.

Inshah Allah this lasts past tomorrow…. Or even tonight.