Day 144: a stopover in Belgium

We landed in Liege, Belgium at five in the morning. The bus to Brussels didn’t come until seven thirty. The glass building we had to wait in for two and a half hours was cold. drafty. unpleasant. Andrew walked around to find a warmer spot. We moved our bags and sleepy selves to an elevator bank in the middle of the lobby that opened up in front of what looked like a banquet room. Higher, and surrounded by another layer of glass, it was warmer. I laid down on the floor using one of the backpacks as a pillow. And then the banquet lady came. I actually don’t know who she is, but she was not happy to see us. She told us (en Francais) that we had to move. I asked why. I told her we were cold, that there was no one around, and assured her it would not be a problem for us to stay there (in what I thought was Francais). I don’t think she had any coffee yet, because she didn’t take my response well. She threatened security on us. I think I responded that there was no security in the building… like there weren’t any other people in the building either. Because, I’m sure, there really wasn’t. There was me. Andrew. one other girl from our flight. and this crazy lady.

“‘Whey’ is ‘why’ in French as well?” Andrew asked as we sat there for a few minutes, not wanting to give in so quickly.

“Oh. no. I guess I was also speaking Korean to her…” I responded. Andrew laughed.  (I totally forgot until later when our new friends reminded me that ‘Whey’ is the slang version of ‘Yes’ sooo maybe she was just angry I was being so informal with her, when in fact, I was just speaking Korean to her.)

We moved back down to the drafty part of the lobby. Nobody showed up to the banquet room before we left. I was really hoping we would run into the banquet lady before we left so I could say “Ohhh Regard tous les persons!” which is the only French I could think of saying after a night of no sleep and eight years of no practice. (I know, I know, it’s probably wrong…)

We took a bus to Brussels. Got a waffle. Then a train. Got a waffle. Then another bus to the airport. Got some french fries. We tried to sleep. Checked into our flight. Went through Passport Control. Got grief about how full my passport has become. Slept at our gate. Found out our flight was delayed. For four hours. Ate some terrible airport food. Boarded our flight. Arrived to a rainy Casablanca. Paid too much for a taxi into the city. Arrived to our couch surfer hosts’ apartment close to midnight and crashed.

Day 143: Getting out of Israel

Our flight wasn’t until midnight. So we bummed around Tel Aviv, did some laundry, was put to work by Anat, who was trying to wrap up a film project, went back to our favorite coffee shop, and shot lots of street art for today’s video. Because, let’s face it, street art is way more fun than laundry.

All in all, our day was rather uneventful… until we got to the airport. I balked a little bit at Anat’s suggestion to get to the airport three hours ahead of time. When we got there, and had to stand in the security line for questioning, I understood her time estimate.

Before you check in for your flight, before you put your bags through security, before you go through the usual airport security and passport control, you have to stand in a long line to take your turn being individually questioned by Israeli airport security.

“I swear it’s because they don’t want Jews to leave the country” a young American ‘Birthright’ girl told us as she stood in front of us in line. We chuckled and told her of the poor Australian we met entering Israel from Jordan who got held up at immigration because “he looked suspicious, like he was probably smuggling something back into the country…” She sighed. We all waited.

When it was our turn, we handed over our passports and as predicted, Andrew was asked for other forms of identification (his passport is nine years old, and he’s about 100 pounds lighter than he was back then). He handed it over. And then it got interesting:

Security: How do you know each other?
Andrew: She’s my girlfriend.
Security: Where is your home?
Andrew: (laughing) We don’t have one.
(I could have kicked him)
Security: You don’t have a home?
Andrew: No. We’ve been traveling for five months.
Security: And… sorry for the personal question, but how did you two meet?
me: Through a friend in Korea.
Security: Korea?
me: Yes, we were teaching there.
Security: You both were in Korea and that’s where you met?
Andrew: Yes.
Security: How long were you in Korea?
me: five years.
Andrew: eight years.
Security: And how long have you been dating?
me: umm… well, it’s almost March, I guess, so almost three years?
Andrew: Yea, a little over two and a half…
Security: (hesitating) And you’re traveling now?
Andrew: Yes.
Security: You were in Jordan?
me: Yes
Security: Where did you stay?
me: Hmm where did we stay? Oh right, Amman and Petra.
Security: Where did you get your necklace? (with my name in Arabic on it)
me: A friend gave it to me.
Security: Who?
me: My friend Erin…
Security: Where is Erin?
me: Well, she was in Egypt and now she’s in America.
Security: What does your friend do?
me: She was teaching in Egypt.
Security: But now she’s not in Egypt?
me: No, like I said, she’s in America.
Security: (hands back our passports) Ok, Thank you.

“Security” consisted of two girls that were around our age… and they would pause in between questioning trying to think of more things to ask or how they could dissect your answer to trip you up. Andrew and I were amused by the whole thing. This probably didn’t help matters. I actually had a hard time trying to keep a straight face throughout the interrogation. I mean, all they had to do was look in our passports to see the amount of visas from our years in Korea, and look at the stamps since we’ve left. And when she spotted my necklace? It took everything to not respond sarcastically “Erin, Do you know her?”

Bananas.

After our fifteen minutes of questioning, it was somewhat smooth sailing. That is, until the 14 year old sitting behind us on our red-eye to Belgium started kicking our seats. plural. At three in the morning, when you’re trying to fall asleep on a plane and you’re being constantly woken up by the little you-know-what behind you… You resort to the stare down. And then you motion for him to stop, only it doesn’t. And his parents do nothing. And when you land, and passport control flirts with you and then makes the family with the you-know-what 14 year old stand aside… You bite your tongue instead of flailing your arms around on the other side of the glass divider shouting “KARMA!” to the entire family waiting for entrance into the country.

Day 142: Jaffa Flea Market

Jaffa Flea Market, also known as Shuk Ha Pishpishim looked like it would be fun even when we walked through as everyone was packing up a few days prior. It was the very first thing I wanted to do with our day back in Tel Aviv. Andrew, not wanting to get on another mode of expensive transportation readily tagged along. Although, he wasn’t nearly as excited about the Hebrew block letter collages as I was. He waited outside, then talked me out of buying an expensive already assembled piece of printing press letters, then waited somewhat patiently as I assembled my own smaller collage to take home to reassemble and frame for the wall I don’t yet own…

The flea market had everything. Junk that people found on the street (we assumed) to quality leather goods, antiques, artwork, used children’s clothes, and lots of hand pressed juice to go around. It was entertaining to walk through, and even though I spent too much on the block letters, it was more fun splurging on them than it was paying for a day of transportation in Israel!

Day 141: Caesarea

“Why did you go to Caesarea?” Anat (our friend we were staying with in Tel Aviv, in case you forgot) asked us after hearing about our adventure there and back.

“All of the books and travel pages recommended it. It’s ‘Number THREE’ on Trip Advisor.” I told her. She laughed. Ron laughed.

“You should have asked us where to go instead.” She responded.

We should have, but we didn’t, and we regretted it. Caesarea does not belong on any top ten list, let alone top three list of places to go in Israel. Perhaps our experience would have been lightyears better if we:

1. had a car

2. arrived earlier in the day instead of within an hour of closing time at 4pm (Thanks to the bus-train-taxi combination it took to get there)

3. and a budget that could have afforded a fresh (and expensive) seafood dinner at one of the Mediterranean seafront restaurants

But we didn’t have any of the above, and our adventure getting there and back infuriated Andrew, and amused me. We came to the conclusion that Israel is not at all a country for backpackers on a budget. It’s like the country is specifically designed for ‘Birthright’and wealthy Jewish tourists checking out their homeland. No offense, Israel. (Or… maybe that would be a satisfactory assessment of the Israeli tourism industry and pats on backs all around?)

“Had you known Israel was going to be like this, would you still have come?” Andrew asked, referring to how expensive it is and how much Haifa and now Caesarea felt like a disappointment.

“Yes. But I would have stayed in Jerusalem, gone to Palestine longer, and checked out Tel Aviv on the weekends.” I replied. Again, no offense, Israel.

Ok, so let’s back up for a minute- in case you’re unfamiliar with the term ‘Birthright’ (as was I until stepping foot in Israel) I went to Wikipedia for a definition for you: Taglit-Birthright Israel (also Birthright Israel or Birthright) is a not-for-profit educational organization that sponsors free 10-day heritage trips to Israel for Jewish young adults. Its goals are to diminish the division between Israel and Jewish communities around the world and to strengthen participants’ personal Jewish identity and connection to Jewish history and culture.

According to some older grad school ‘Birthright’ trippers that we met in Haifa, one of them admitted “It’s SO contrived.” But the entire group also admitted how awesome it was to have an entire trip to Israel (flight, accommodation, tours, etc.) paid for. I would be lying if I didn’t admit to being jealous. This country is super expensive. For example: coffee and a croissant in the morning costs around $8.00. I wouldn’t mind paying so much for that if all of my transportation and accommodation was covered!

So, all of these trips have buses and tour guides and everything laid out on a red carpet for the ‘Birthright kids’ in hopes they will be convinced to move back to the homeland. Meanwhile, Andrew and I look up Ceserea on the internet- find out we can take a train and then either a bus or a taxi to the historical site, and we go from there. What. a. mess.

Our taxi driver overcharges us. By the time we arrived, we had forty minutes to sprint through the ruins that were initially built by Herod the Great as the port city of Caesarea Maritima around 25 BCE. Being right on the coast, the view of the Mediterranean was unbeatable- but the ‘park’ itself was full of construction  materials that were left out giving the park an unkempt, and shabby appearance.

“Basically, anything you have to pay for in Israel isn’t worth it.” Andrew declared. I think he’s on to something. Both Masada and now Caesarea let us down. Both had overpriced entry fees, and not a whole lotta bang for our buck- er- shekel. The Old City in Jerusalem, The Dead Sea, The Baha’i Gardens, even The Holocaust Museum, were all free and worth our while -most sites I would even go as far as saying they were incredible!

After we got kicked out of the ruins- lit’rally- kicked out when it closed at 4pm (in the winter months only) we discovered there were absolutely no taxis waiting to take tourists back to the train station or to the nearest bus station. We doubled back to the promenade full of restaurants offering free wifi and both looked up how to get back to Tel Aviv from Caesarea on our phones. All of our findings agreed: “By car.” Except one that offered up a bus stop right off the highway 2 km away. We walked. We waited for an hour for the bus to arrive. We made it back to Tel Aviv, bought some convenient store hummus (which was surprisingly delicious) and beers (which were surprisingly cheap), and called it a night.

Day 140: Jaffa, Tel Aviv

Jaffa, also known as Yaffo, is the Old City of Tel Aviv, Israel. It was nice, quaint might be a better descriptive word. But it was a bit barren. The restaurant we wanted to go to was closed, which surprised Anat and Ron, who said it’s never closed. The ‘Old City’ offered a few cafes and a lovely church to walk in and say a little prayer, but that was it. It seemed like a lot of tourists, much like ourselves were strolling around with a kinda “This is it?” attitude. The port offered more, but the majority of the restaurants weren’t open yet and if they were, they were waiting for the dinner crowd. We are guessing that it’s more of a weekend/evening hang out than it is in the afternoon hours when we were visiting.

Day 139: The Baha’i Gardens

Success! We made it to the Baha’i Gardens in time to go on a tour. It wasn’t the most amazing thing to do in Israel. It was pretty. The tour was nice… but… also a little bit boring. It felt more like a supervised walk through the gardens than an informational tour. After walking up the hill in Haifa yesterday, we felt a certain obligation to go on the tour to see if it was worth it. (Debatable) The short film at the end on the Baha’i Gardens and faith was somewhat interesting, more informative than the tour guide.

A quick review of the Baha’i Religion: it was founded by Baha’u’llah in Persia with the goals of uniting everyone -spiritually at least- on earth. I believe it’s the newest religion. It draws upon persons (messengers being everyone from Moses to Muhammad) and philosophies from Christianity, Buddhism, Islam, and more. The Bab (founder) is buried in the gardens in Haifa- in the section we weren’t allowed to visit, specifically within the golden domed building. Interesting fact: No Baha’i follower is allowed to live within Israel. Because of their emphasis on equality, they don’t want anyone to be or think they are holier than others because they live within the holiest site of their religion.

Andrew teased me, asking if I was going to convert because they believe in and work towards equal rights for women. I teased him back that I just might. Unfortunately, over half of the gardens are off limits to visitors. This includes the shrine, library, and all other buildings on the grounds. This seems a bit at odds with their egalitarian philosophy. Guess I won’t be converting any time soon…

After the tour, we hung out back at the hostel and then caught a train down to Tel Aviv to meet up (and stay) with a friend we made in Burma (Myanmar) last year. Anat, and her musically inclined boyfriend, Ron welcomed us with open arms and some fantastic kubbeh. A wonderful respite from the falafel and hummus Andrew has been making me eat. everyday. for lunch. and sometimes dinner.

Day 138: Haifa

Haifa is boring. There. I said it. I have no idea why it’s number three on Trip Advisor’s list of things to do in Israel, because really, there is only one thing to do: The Baha’i Garden. The guided tour starts at noon. If you miss that (like we did), and it happens to be Shabat (like it was the day we planned to go through the garden), you will find yourself out of luck. Most of the city is shut down, buses are not running, and taxi drivers charge extra fare.

We were told there was a sculpture garden on top of the hill in Haifa (where the entrance to the top of the garden is) so we wandered through it. The sculpture garden, we discovered, is a direct reflection of the city itself: boring. Only one artist completed the 20 or so sculptures and they simply lacked imagination – as you may see in the video above.

The best part of the day was stumbling into a falafel joint with a buffet of unlimited sauces and side dishes. We stuffed ourselves silly and then camped out back in our hostel lobby with our computers to blog and plan our re-route through Africa!

Day 137: The joys of traveling around the world

“Smell my fleece.” Andrew demanded. I kept seeing him sniff different parts of it while we had been sitting in front of our computers in the hostel lobby. The joys of backpacking are not limited to smelling each other’s clothes, shoes, bodies at various times. I leaned in.

“Was your fleece on top of your shoes? Because it smells like it. Right here.” I pointed to the left side of his chest.

“Not here… but, right. here.” I said after sniffing around his chest, noting that there is something seriously wrong with us that we are willing to do such activities without hesitation.

“I knew it! Ohmigod I can’t wear this today. We HAVE to do laundry!” He said, and then we went upstairs for him to exchange his smelly fleece for a scarf instead.

My friend Michelle recently asked and made the comment “How is it wearing the same clothes over and over again? These are the kinds of things that people who are too scared to do what you’re doing say is the reason they arent doing it.”

Sometimes, it’s not fun at all. I fall asleep thinking of the variety of shirts and jewelry and bags and heels I have waiting for me at home. Who needs to count sheep when one can lust after her own closet thousands of miles away. Wool sweaters that are too bulky to pack. Dangly earrings that aren’t meant for overnight buses or camel safaris in the desert. The cocktail dress that is not wrinkle free. My silver pointy pumps. My green ballet flats. My ‘moquestian’ boots. I miss my shoes the most. 

This is when my Mom starts singing ‘Material Girl’ and I do not disagree. I miss it all. Sometimes I wear the same outfit for three days in a row because it’s the only thing I have that is warm enough. I can count on one hand how many times I’ve worn mascara on this trip. I’m pretty sure both pairs of my leggings (that I wear as pants, sorry Casey) have holes in them. And I still despise my backpack/daypack situation.

I miss having my own bed, clean sheets, and a pillow that is just right. I hate carrying my computer, DSLR body and three lenses around all of the time because I don’t feel it’s safe to leave behind in our hotel or hostel room. Relying on Skype to call your Mom or your best-friend is the WORST. Unless you keep getting sick in Nepal and India. In that case, that’s the worst. And you miss being able to safely lay down on the bathroom floor knowing you just scrubbed it a week or two ago and it’s relatively clean.

I haven’t cooked anything- as in follow a recipe and/or make something from scratch- since… August? I am officially ‘dog-crazy’ meaning I want one and have to have one right now. But I can’t because Andrew says it’s impossible or whatever while we’re traveling around the world. I miss wing nights and having a ‘place’ where you you go for a beer after work or to meet your friends for dinner. I miss my friends. Desperately. Especially of the girl variety because I’m tired of Andrew rolling his eyes whenever I mention movies starring Channing Tatum.

But.

Like I told Michelle, and like I remind myself constantly, it’s all temporary. And it’s totally worth it. Because when you’re walking through the Siq towards The Treasury in the middle of Petra, you’re not thinking about the closet full of clothes at your parents’ house. When you’re paragliding off the Himalayas, you’re suddenly not so worried about the backpack you’re going to have to pack up and haul around the country when you land back on the ground. And when you’re able to swap out a lens to get a close up shot of the kid hanging out on the Palestinian rooftop, you suddenly don’t mind having carried it around for the past four months straight.

Day 136: The West Bank

When we were in Petra, we met a French girl, Julie, who was volunteering in Aida Camp (a Palestinian refugee camp butting up against the security wall that was built on the 1949 ‘Green Line’ between Israel and Palestine). Nearing the end of her three month stay working with teens filming a documentary about the camp, she invited us to the camp and offered to show us around. How could we refuse? Banksy art on the wall, a guided tour, and a better understanding of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict? Yes, please!

We called the day before and made plans to meet her late into the morning, giving us a little time beforehand to check out the Holocaust Museum on the Israeli side before catching the bus into Bethlehem. We made these plans without realizing how strange the day would end up feeling. We spent a little less than two hours at the museum. The majority of our time there was spent in the first few rooms of the museum reading nearly all of the information plaques trying to get a better grasp historically of how everything happened. Obviously I learned all of this at some point in school. Unfortunately, you just don’t soak it up the same way you do when you’re in the middle of Jerusalem about to cross into a modern day conflict zone. When my “half of our time is finished” alarm went off, we had more than 80% of the museum grounds to go through. We started walking faster through the exhibits. We may have gotten some weird looks. But in the back of my mind, I reminded myself that our couchsurfer mom said it was better to go for not enough time than not at all. She was right. It was a really informative (albeit very disturbing and sad) museum and helped remind/clarify so much history for me that I had forgotten or that had never really sunk in.

We met Julie at the bus station in Jerusalem (she was coming back from a hip hop concert the night before in Tel Aviv) only for Andrew to realize he had forgotten his passport. Fortunately, the bus stopped near our couchsurfer family’s house and we could jump off and catch the next one over the border. Julie met us at the InterContinental Hotel a stone’s throw from the security wall on the Bethlehem side and we walked around the hotel grounds to one of the main entrances of the camp.

Julie told us back in Petra that the camp is just like a regular city. Buildings housed families and were left with unfinished rooftops to expand up when children grew and married. A few small markets and take away restaurants were open on the ground level. Children roamed the streets. Some men sat in front of their doors. Murals of Mecca (announcing that the inhabitants had made a pilgrimage there) and street art donned most walls in the camp. When I think of a ‘camp’ I think of shoddy construction, tents, and poverty. This wasn’t so much the case. It felt like a lower income area of the city. Concrete buildings lined narrow streets and alleyways. Children had appropriate clothing, shoes, and called out to us often- mostly unafraid of our presence. Julie talked of the lack of electricity at times. There’s no warm water in the camp. And she’s taken cold showers, in the winter, for the past three months. What a trooper.

On our way to the wall, at times it was a little difficult to breathe (tear gas) and we could hear shots being fired. Julie said we picked a good day to come! We found out later that one of the children on the Palestinian side stole one of the security cameras from the wall.

When we got to the wall, she said taking pictures was ok, unless the boys started throwing rocks at us instead of the wall. Throwing rocks at the wall is a right of passage for the men. If you don’t do it, you’re seen as not being ‘man enough’ to be Palestinian. Luckily, the boys (and men in the distance) didn’t see us as a threat. When I bent down to photograph a can of tear gas (empty of course) one of the boys sprang towards me, grabbed the canister and insisted I take his picture. That’s part of the security wall behind him. We weren’t sure who the men in that particular mural are though.

We went to the volunteer center where Julie works. I took a photo just to remember the website address for The Al-rowwad Cultural and Theater Society. 

It wasn’t until we were walking through the smaller refugee camp across the main street from Aida that it hit me how strange the current situation is. In the morning, I was walking through exhibits all about the work-then concentration-then death camps that Jews were placed into decades ago in Europe. Today, I was walking through a modern day refugee camp that the Palestinians have been forced into by Israel. Obviously there is a lot to comprehend, and I don’t know enough, nor do I have the emotional ties to the situation as both Isralis and Palestinians do. But it felt strange, and my idealistic self just wanted everyone to get along and both sides to have access to constant electricity and hot water.

Before we knew it, we were walking through the Old City in Bethlehem to visit the Church of the Nativity, where it is believed to be built over the cave where Jesus was born. The rebuilt church is a little barren and it feels cold. It didn’t help that there was a mass of pushy pilgrims waiting to get down below the altar to touch the stone marker of his birth. What’s wrong with an orderly line in a church? In one of the holiest of holy sites (for Christians), do you really need to cut in front of others?

The site is this tiny room under the altar with a half circle of stairs leading down into it. You know that feeling when you’re waiting to get into a concert and the doors open and there’s a mad rush to get in first to claim your spot closest to the stage? That’s what it felt like. Only there was absolutely no need for the rush, because the stone wasn’t going anywhere! It was without a doubt, the most annoying religious visit we’ve had in and around Jerusalem. The more modern church that was built off to the side of the nativity site was pretty and quiet, but I felt the attendants frustration as he shushed other pilgrims talking too loud and not taking care of the door slamming.

After the Church of the Nativity, we made our way out of Bethlehem and then out of Jerusalem to Haifa, where we were once again faced with the fact that Israel is not a country geared towards backpackers on a budget.

Day 135: Mahane Yehuda Market

Mahane Yehuda Market is a mostly open air market selling baked goods, vegetables, fruit, fish, and meat. Kosher signs dangle above some stands. Coffee shops have sprung up in between mountains of freshly scrubbed veggies and the oddball souvenir shop. It’s a great market. Smaller than we expected (but then again, after five years of markets in South Korea, it’s hard to be objective) but still a great time to walk through. We stopped to get a small bag of olives and saw something leafy wrapped up. I asked what it was.

“Yaprak!” He said and motioned for me to try one.

“But what is it?” I asked again, picking one up to try.

“Yaprak! It’s Yaprak.” He seemed baffled that I wanted to know more. Andrew laughed at me. I googled it. Yaprak = stuffed grape leaves.

We walked around the market, up and down the back streets and found a plethora of awesome street art. I meant to ask Meidad what some of the Hebrew translated to, but forgot. If anyone knows, please fill me in!

Andrew spotted the eyes after I was photographing the mustached mouth. “You should make a diptych!” He suggested. (I think he was secretly excited that he remembered what a diptych was) “Brilliant! I didn’t even see the eyes!” I got super excited and went to work- on my iphone, so if you haven’t seen the diptych yet, just click on the Instagram feed to your right to see it! (It’s one of my recent favorites!)

And then we made our way “home” to our wonderful couchsurfer hosts.

Day 134: Masada and the Dead Sea

Masada, about a forty minute bus ride from downtown Jerusalem is an isolated plateau on the edge of the desert with a glorious view of the Dead Sea. It’s about 700 steps to the top of this fortified palace built by Herod the Great. It fell to the Romans (big surprise) and sadly ended when 960 Jewish rebels and their families committed mass suicide. Now it’s a bit of a crumble of structures and it surprised me to find out that it’s Israel’s most popular paid tourist attraction. While it’s a nice three hour trip, it pales in comparison to the day we spent in Petra. (Sorry, Israel.) If you go to Masada and the Dead Sea together, it makes for a more interesting and complete day.

Andrew and I climbed to the top in about an hour and had a packed lunch at the top before walking around the ruins, making our way back down, and towards the Dead Sea for a quick dip. Floating like I’ve never floated before proved to be a much more unique experience. The “beach” was a rocky shoreline dotted with a handful of tourists slipping into the cold water for the experience, but then getting out when the salt started aggravating them. It was cold. Although once you acclimated yourself to the water, temperature wasn’t nearly as much of a problem as the salt content was. Warnings are shouted not to enter the water if you have any cuts – not to immerse your head – not to get any water in your eyes – and not to jump and/or dive in. You’re instructed to walk backwards and slowly sit in the water, but when you do, your legs immediately go out from under you and they gently bob on the surface.

Getting out of the water is difficult. It’s like seeking gravity out of a vacuum, or something like that. I grabbed for salt covered rocks and tried to push myself up free from the water only to slosh around and stumble out entertaining an older Italian who was drying off out of the water. Once you free yourself from the sea, your skin is covered in a slippery salty sea mixture that gets on all of your clothes even if you hold them at an arm’s length away. I grabbed a camera to get a few shots of Andrew and then he stumbled out of the sea to do the same for me.

After a mere fifteen minutes, my skin was tingling and I was ready to rinse off. Showers close to the edge of the sea provide fresh water relief. Everyone takes turns rinsing off and then changing under towels in a hurry to warm up before catching one of the last buses leaving Masada and the Dead Sea heading back to Jerusalem.

Day 133: The Old City in Jerusalem

The Old City is where religions collide or live harmoniously, depending on how you view your glass… Within its walls are The Wailing Wall (also known as The Western Wall) and The Temple Mount for the Jews. Just on the other side of the wall lies The Dome of the Rock and Al-Aqsa Mosque for the Muslims. On the other side of the Old City, a mere ten minute walk (if you know where you’re going and you’re not like us passing it up by accident more than once) is the Church of the Holy Sepulchre for the Christians. It was a long, religious filled day. After spending two months surrounded by Buddhism in S.E. Asia and then two months surrounded by Hinduism in Nepal and India… one day of three different religions was a lot to wrap my head around. It was overwhelming and spiritual at The Western Wall, calming outside of the Dome of the Rock, and familiar inside the Christian Basilica.

We headed to The Western Wall first. It’s the holiest site (right after the Temple Mount) in the Jewish religion as it’s the only remaining wall that surrounded the Jewish Temple’s courtyard. From my understanding, the Jewish Temple and the Temple Mount itself is so important because, according to Judaism, it’s where Adam was created among many other significant events recorded in the Bible. The first temple was built by Solomon (son of David) and then destroyed by the Babylonians. The second temple was built by Zerubbabel and then destroyed by the Romans. It was sometime at the end of this ‘Second Temple era’ that it’s believed the current walls were built by Herod the Great. (I think.) According to  (Jewish) TRADITION! (sing it Mom, I did that for you) it’s believed the third and final temple will be built here.

When we arrived at the Wall, Andrew and I stood behind a high dividing wall set up in the middle of the square dividing it into a large section for men and a smaller section off to the right for women. I stood and watched the men for awhile performing lots of Bar Mitzvahs with a few older men praying against the wall. It was full of life. There was singing and dancing and younger boys-turning into men were hoisted on fathers shoulders and led back to their awaiting families, with women on the other side of the wall watching all of the activity.

Obviously I could not go into the men’s side, so when I spied the entrance of the women’s side, I marched right in. There was no singing and dancing and cause for celebration. Instead, I was faced with the reality of the wall’s nickname; The Wailing Wall. Women anxiously pushed (but not in a rude way, just in an urgent I need to pray real bad kinda way) their way towards the wall to reach out and stuff a prayer written down into a crevice or lean up against it as they whispered their prayers into the stones before them.

Some women stood a few rows away from the wall with open prayer books and Bibles (I think, I’m assuming, they were Bibles) crying and praying. Some silently. Some out loud. It was powerful. I haven’t been so surrounded by such fierce prayer since… since… I don’t know when. For someone who hasn’t exactly been practicing, I was surprised by how much it took my breath away. There was a certain charge to the air. I’m sure it was the general energy of all of the women there, but I have to think it was more than just their (our) energy alone. As I walked out a mother and daughter walked backwards out of the designated women’s side to the open square, like they couldn’t turn their back on the Wall. It made me smile as I followed, facing them as we walked out at the same time.

Ok, so what’s confusing to me is that even though the Wall is technically a part of Temple Mount, Jews aren’t even allowed on Temple Mount itself because according to the Torah, it is forbidden due to it’s sacredness. I feel I need to take a course on Judaism and Islam in addition to Buddhism and Hinduism. Can one study all of this out of curiosity? If only…

Fortunately, visitors like myself are allowed to cross over The Western Wall into the designated Temple Mount area. This area is also the site of the Dome of the Rock and Al-Aqsa Mosque. Although it’s under Muslim control, The Rock (which resides in Dome of the Rock), according to Jewish TRADITION! is where Heaven and Earth meet. The (Sunni) Muslims regard Temple Mount as the third holiest site in Islam. It is the ‘Noble Sanctuary’ where Muhammad ascended into heaven. The Dome itself is one of the oldest Islamic structures in the world. This ownership dispute between the Jews and Muslims is at the top of the Arab-Israeli conflict.

So just like that, we were out of intense Jewish TRADITION! and in the middle of a calm Muslim garden and pavilion outside of Dome of the Rock. Not allowed inside the Dome of the Rock, Andrew and I sat in the sun until we were kicked out for prayer time.

Moving onto the third religion of the day, we walked through the Old City to the Christian Quarter. I have to admit, walking through the narrow streets and up the stairs past different Stations of the Cross- like where it was ACTUALLY a Station of the Cross (not just a plaque on a church wall), I felt a wave of “Oh Jesus was a real person?” wash over me. When you grow up in the Catholic Church taught to believe in God, it can feel a bit forced and in a way, mythical at times. Or maybe I’m just a bad Catholic… I mean, obviously, I’m a bad Catholic. A few people I went to high-school with probably already have made a list of reasons to back up this claim.

But being in the Old City in Jerusalem and walking past these clearly marked Stations towards the Church of the Holy Sepulchre makes being a Catholic and the plight of Jesus a bit more real. I’ve gone to a Catholic school my whole life, and I’ve never heard that the Hill of Calvary (where Jesus was crucified) is currently an altar that looks like a mini church built inside the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. It makes everything more believable. 

Furthermore, the Sepulchre (tomb) is right at the entrance of the church under a line of candles and more often than not, kneeling pilgrims kissing the rock itself that Jesus is believed to be buried underneath. It is also believed that he will be resurrected at this very spot as well. Today, the Church is shared between Eastern Orthodoxy, Oriental Orthodoxy and Roman Catholics. A Muslim family holds the keys to the Church itself to avoid conflict between the different Christian sects.

Worn out by religion, we headed over to the swanky hotel our couchsurfer host, Meidad was working and told us to meet him. He was full of enthusiasm when he met us and called us out on looking worn out. I think he thought it was from the four and a half months of travel, even though it was more from the day making sense of three different religions and one history. He poured us a much needed glass of wine, directed us to the rooftop restaurant for some warm bread and a beautiful view of the city, and then took us home with him at the end of his shift.

Day 132: Jordan Israel border crossing

Arriving at the Jordan Israel border crossing early in the afternoon was not a part of our plan at all. We had planned to go to Wadi Rum, a desert made famous by Lawrence of Arabia. I also learned that more recently, Transformers (Revenge of the Fallen) and Prometheus were filmed there as well. So, we woke up and were down in the lobby by six in the morning to catch our bus. It picked us up and then parked in the bus lot and told us that if we wanted to go, instead of paying 7 JD each, we’d have to pay 30 JD total because we were the only ones on the bus.

“Why did you wait to tell us this?” I asked, perplexed that they picked us up, drove us across town (the town isn’t so big) and then parked until randomly breaking the news to us fifteen minutes or so later.

“We told your guesthouse.” I narrowed my eyes. The same dude that told us there would be heat (when there wasn’t) didn’t deliver this bus news to us. I relayed this to the bus driver. He apologized and I assured him it wasn’t his fault. Andrew and I mulled it over, and decided we may as well save Wadi Rum (along with Jerash) for the next time we’re in Jordan. Instead, we crossed the border.

Which, is probably the most expensive crossing we’ve encountered yet. Not only did we have to pay a Jordanian exit fee, but we had to pay a luggage fee on the bus over to the Israeli side! We thought we had it bad, and then we met an Australian who was denied entry into Jordan because at this particular crossing, you needed to already have a ‘multiple entry’ visa. He didn’t. Not only was he “detained” on the Jordanian side, once he got back to the Israeli side, he was accused of looking nervous and his bags were confiscated to be searched. We left him at the second (of three) security checks before Passport Control.

Once at Passport Control, I went first and was asked twenty questions regarding our visit to Israel and why I didn’t want the Israeli stamp in my passport. I played the naive tourist (ok, so maybe I didn’t have to try too hard on the naive part) and walked out ten minutes later with a stamp on a piece of paper and my passport clean. (If I decide to go to Lebanon in the future, having an Israeli stamp in my passport would guarantee problems and most likely getting denied entry. Given that my current passport is only three years old and that I would love to go to Beirut in the future, I didn’t want an Israeli stamp inside.)

We walked around The Old City in Jerusalem for a bit, before I nearly fell asleep in my hummus and Andrew had to drag me back to our very fancy (not. at. all.) hostel outside of Damascus Gate.

Day 131: Petra

There are few things that are as breathtaking as walking through the Siq, and rounding the bend seeing The Treasury within the ancient Nabataean capital of Petra. And then you keep walking, because Petra is so much bigger than you ever knew offhand, and you pass ancient tombs and a Roman theater. You walk through an old colonnade, saying “No thanks” when offered a donkey or a camel to take you the rest of the way, thinking 100 stairs is nothing (only later, to find out you misheard and it’s actually 900 stairs). When you think you’ve seen it all, you round another bend and you’re facing The Monastery and hardly anyone is there. Bigger, and more impressive than The Treasury (if it’s even possible) it stands in front of you, and you smile, get some tea, and then you sit in awe. And then, you get to walk back through all of Petra, The Treasury, and Siq included, on your way out.

We woke up late. We didn’t know we were late until we stood in our guesthouse lobby confused by the revelation that Jordan was not on the same time that our phones told us it was. Not only our phones, but the internet as well. The guesthouse owner gave no explanation and having grown so used to India, I was slightly convinced he was messing with us. (He did after all promise heat, and there was none the night before) Later, as we caught a ride with some fellow Americans, one living in Amman, he explained that at the last minute during Daylight Savings Time, Jordan decided not to let their time “fall back.” He didn’t know the reason why, but he explained it has yet to be recognized by other countries and it makes for planning flights incredibly hard.

Petra is so much bigger than I ever knew it to be. You watch Indiana Jones, and you kinda assume (if you’re naive like me) that Petra revolves around The Treasury. Not so. We walked down a winding open air dirt path for awhile before we arrived to The Siq. The Siq, translated from Arabic means “shaft” and is basically the word for the gorge that is the entrance to Petra. It’s one of the cooler parts of Petra, no doubt.

Excluding our Indiana Jones notions (I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to humming the theme song once or twice) it’s magical walking through the high walled gorge and seeing the first glimpse of The Treasury at the end. It’s almost more special only seeing a sliver of it from a distance with the curves of the narrow gorge walls in the way, perhaps, mostly because the walls hide the mass of tourists taking posing in front of The Treasury when you come out of the Siq.

I thought The Treasury was the ancient bank of the Nabataeans. I was wrong. It’s actually unknown what the Al Khazneh (The Treasury) was built and used for. It’s name comes from legends that bandits hid their treasure within The Treasury in the (known now to be carved from solid sandstone) stone urn on the second level. Another legend is that it held the treasure of an Egyptian Pharaoh. Bedouins have tried to break the urn to retrieve the treasure, but obviously they weren’t successful.

I was amazed at the abundance of souvenir shops and stalls within Petra. I know I shouldn’t be by now, but I always am. One stall was held together by a few 2x4s and some ripped canvas. I peeked inside and could see necklaces hung up and laid out. I was impressed that the stall was left almost abandoned, but it seemed as if nothing was taken or in any threat of being taken in the future!

We walked through Petra, past other tombs and the cathedral, tried to get a hot cup of coffee at the overpriced cafe at the start of the climb up to the Monastery, but were told we would only have ten minutes to drink it. Not wanting to be rushed, we instead started the climb up to the Monastery. Why this isn’t more famous than the Treasury, I have no idea! Maybe it’s the 900 stair climb to get there, but it’s so much bigger and in the same condition as the Treasury. An open air cafe sat several meters (maybe the length of a football field?) away from the facade of the Monastery. I got us tea and we sat and enjoyed the view- that is- until a huge tour group of Americans showed up. We waited them out and took a few pictures before descending the stairs and making our way out of Petra before the sun went down and it got too cold for us to be outside.

I tried to wait out other tourists to get photos of an empty Treasury on our way out, but failed. Andrew called me out on being a “salty photographer” because of what words were coming out of my mouth when a tourist would take a picture and then pull out a guide book directly in front of the Treasury and stand there. forever. in my shot. Take a picture and move aside people! Tired, and hungry (we forgot to get a packed lunch from our guesthouse or any snacks before we went into Petra) we made our way back out through the Siq- pausing for more photos of course, and out of Petra.

We had planned on trying one of the restaurant’s buffets instead of returning to our guesthouse’s buffet, but knowing my blood sugar was too low, I grabbed a bag of chips for the walk. As we were walking, I heard a “F*ck You” from a teenager on the side of the road. Now, before I go any further, Jordan has been THE NICEST country we’ve visited on the trip so far. I’ve felt safe, and so many Jordanians have stopped to talk to us, I haven’t felt threatened at all stopping to chat with anyone. So, I stopped. The 14 year old boy looked harmless and after I asked him what he said (maybe I misheard) he confirmed I had heard correctly. I asked “Why?” as he pointed his extended middle finger down and repeated the expletive. Andrew doubled back and decided, “He doesn’t know what he’s saying.” Andrew turned and started walking away. The kid motioned for some chips. I shook my head no. “You just said F*ck you, I’m not gonna share my chips with you!” and turned away to follow Andrew. And then the kid punched me (hard) in the back of the shoulder.

Andrew turned at my sharp intake of breath. “He just punched me in the back!” I exclaimed!

“What?” Andrew looked dumbfounded. Shock consumed me.

“HEY! Get back here!” Andrew shouted out as the kid backed up the street. Andrew started jogging after him. I stood there, still completely in shock. An older man stood out from his driveway to see what happened. We explained (and motioned) what happened as the kid stood in the distance watching. A truck pulled up with two Jordanians my age in it. They asked what happened and started driving after the kid, who was now running away.

“He is Syrian. Not Jordanian.” The older man told us, as his wife looked on with a mixture of sympathy and something else, not shame, but as if she could tell it’s not something she would have wanted to happen.

“They (the men in the truck) will follow him home. I will tell his father. I’m sorry. Not Jordanian. Syrian.” He repeated.

“It’s ok, it’s not your fault…” I trailed off as we turned to walk back.

Andrew felt terrible for walking ahead. (He does this often. As maybe most 6’7” men do.) I felt terrible for assuming it was ok to question a sullen teenager for yelling expletives at a tourist. We both felt stupid for having taken for granted how safe life was in Korea. And then I made an executive decision. “We’re not going to think about this when we think of Petra. We had an amazing day. We’re going to remember Petra.”

And just like that, I have. That kid sucks, but who knows what he’s had to deal with if he thinks he can get away with punching a foreign tourist (female nonetheless) in the back. It was a lesson learned. I probably won’t be approaching any sullen teenagers again, and Andrew is at least trying to slow his roll and walk with me instead of ahead.

Day 130: Amman to Wadi Musa

“Where you want to go?” a taxi driver, or bystander (one can’t be sure) asked before I was fully out of the taxi when we arrived to the slushy bus station in Amman.

“Petra.” I responded, trying to avoid the puddles and heave my bag out at the same time.

“Oh no, No Petra. Only Aqaba.” He said pointing, and drawing a crowd of older Jordanians around to see what the fuss was about.

“But… Aqaba is further south of Petra…” I replied, confused, yet not at all surprised by the possibility we wouldn’t get out of Amman, again. Andrew got out of the taxi, I could see the frustration creeping in. When frustration creeps over Andrew, it’s slight, not at all obvious. I could see it nonetheless.

“No Petra! Aqaba.” The men repeated.

“Ok, ok, thank you!” I said to them, and then turned to Andrew, “Let’s just ask around… we’ll get there.”

And sure enough, on the other side of the station, men were waiting for the shared taxi (picture a mini-bus) to Wadi Musa. We got some tea, met a Wadi Rum guide, got his card, and eventually the shared taxi came. It took around three hours to get to Wadi Musa (the town where Petra still stands) and driving past all of the snow, I could see why the roads were closed. Footprints dotted the snow. One field bore the name “Josef” written clearly in the snow, like one might write in the sand. Cars were pulled over on the side of the road for its occupants to play. One person told us ‘it hasn’t snowed in Jordan in twenty years…’ I wondered how many people were playing in the snow for the first time. I was also struck by the lack of sledding trails. There were none. I wished I had boots and a garbage can lid (or at least a piece of cardboard) to show them that there is more to do with snow than write your name in it!We got into Wadi Musa too late to do much of anything, other than chat with other guests (from New Zealand, France, and Argentina) and eat a really great buffet spread that the guesthouse put together. If there was heat at the guesthouse (and the owner didn’t lie and promise me there would be), it would have been perfect, unfortunately there wasn’t and we had a mountain of blankets to keep us warm instead when we went to bed.

Day 129: Stranded in Amman

It’s official. We’re stranded in Amman. We woke up somewhat early, packed our bags up, had breakfast, and asked about reserving a room when we got back from Petra. “You cannot go to Petra today. The roads are closed!” The front deskman declared.

“What about Jerash?” I asked.

“Also closed.” He declared. And then the other front deskman sliced off some cake for us as they handed the same key back over for us to go back to our room. But not before we re-enacted the conversation because… with everything closed… what else were we going to do for the “Day in a Minute?”

It was a rather uneventful, and cold day. We trekked up one of the hills to find an open cafe on Rainbow Street. Got caught in a snowball fight, and rather than eating at Hashim (one of the very few restaurants open in town, Hashim has the most amazing hummus and falafel- for cheap too!) for the fourth time in a row, we broke down and went across the street for Happy Hour at Wings and Rings. One of the managers lived in Northern Kentucky/Cincinnati for ten years. He knew my hometown, and I knew where abouts he lived near my hometown. Behind the old Kroger’s near NKU. The world is small.

Day 128: Jafra Cafe

We had planned to go to Jerash, an ancient Roman city full of columns, arches, and temples. Jerash is a little more than 40 kilometers north of Amman. We found out that snow and ice had shut the roads down, so we decided to stay in Amman. We needed to catch up on work, and because of how unprepared we realized we are for colder weather in the Mediterranean and Southern Europe in the winter… we started thinking about changing up our entire route of the trip. I know, we’re crazy. But honestly, being able to change it up and adjust infuses a whole lot of excitement into an already amazing adventure. While we spread out our calendars and notes, the Egyptian and Jordanian waitstaff taught us how to make Turkish coffee at the very atmospheric Jafra Cafe.

Day 127: Amman, Jordan

We woke up to worse weather. Of course this region experiences the worst weather in 20 years just as soon as we arrive. We bundled up and headed out, trying to make the best of our time in the capital city. We trekked over to the Roman Theater, and then started to make our way up to the Citadel.

En route, we ran into a Palestinian completely overjoyed to see us. Walking down the street carrying a tank of gas and two ceramic mugs, he immediately put down the gas and walked right up to us excitedly trying to talk to us in Arabic. He forced the two mugs into our hands and continued to talk to us, as if we knew exactly what he was saying. We didn’t, but by this time, a crowd had gathered in what we assumed was where he worked. From the glass front, it looked to be a paper mill or a printing press. The men in the storefront looked as amused – and confused as we were. One of them came out and tried to translate. The only thing we understood was that he was from Palestine and was really excited to see us in Jordan, and that the mugs were for us. He tried to fish out other presents from his pockets (a lighter) but I refused and told him to keep it. He tried to take a picture of me (with my camera) but I told him I preferred a picture of him, instead! Then his colleagues encouraged me to put my arm around him, which made everyone happy.

Not two buildings later, some men waved us into their garage to warm up near a fire that they had going in a metal bin. As I was only wearing my barefoot water shoes and my feet were freezing, I jumped at the opportunity. We made small talk – what we could in – and were given steaming cups of tea. I re-gifted the mugs from the Palestinian (don’t tell!) and one of them jumped up when we went to leave to give us a ride up the rest of the hill to the Citadel.

We walked in the gates right around three, and were able to get into the indoor museum just before we were told it closed. After walking around the citadel for a half hour, we arrived back at the front gate to find we were locked in. The whole city had shut down, and we were on the highest point in the city behind locked gates! Luckily, a taxi driver spied us and pointed to another exit.

I really love how all of the buildings are the same color and just stacked right on top of each other. Because the weather was so dreary, I couldn’t decide if I liked the images in color or black and white, so I decided to do both.

Day 126: Flash floods in Amman

We arrived in Jordan to flash floods in Amman. We were told it has not rained in over a year. While everyone else was rejoicing, we were having trouble adjusting to the temperature after being in the balmy Emirates! Stairways climbing up hillsides between buildings turned into urban waterfalls. Traffic was horrendous. And our hotel lacked heat – that is, until it was cranked on and up around seven in the evening. (Oh, thank heaven!)

Day 125: Chasing dolphins in Oman

When we decided to stop by the UAE, I did not expect we would spend our last day chasing dolphins in Oman. But there we were, on the Straight of Hormuz running back and forth from one side of the boat to another watching for dolphins to surface, and more importantly, looking for the babies we were told were with them! We didn’t get to see the baby dolphins up close, but we were able to see all of the dolphin families. At one sighting, we counted 12 swimming together. Amazing. We also stopped off to jump in and snorkel. Kate and I were babies and stayed on board, not because of the fish, but because of the cold water! The water was so clear that we could see lots of the fish without necessarily needing to get in the water. (At least that’s what I told myself.)