Day 8: Jerusalem: Pulling off cognitive dissonance since 3000 BC

Seeing all the people from extremely different backgrounds converge in Jerusalem reminded me so much of the Star Wars prequals where the representatives from various star systems form an intergalactic congress. Each had such unique costumes exceeded in creativity only by the next that I'd see. In addition to the seeing the apparelled pilgrims, one experiences a kind of cultural whiplash while walking through Jerusalem; the invisible borders separating the sections (Muslim, Christian, Armenian, Jewish, etc) create a Twighlight Zone-like atmosphere where you find yourself having to keep reassessing your environs. "Wasn't I just among a bunch of Jewish kids playing soccer in front of a synagogue? Why are there now kids speaking Arabic and carrying prayer rugs?"

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My hotel is just north of the Old City, outside the city walls. It is on the east side, so predominantly Muslim (it's actually just a few blocks away from the Garden Tomb). I walked down the street toward the Old City to do some audio-guided tours and grabbed some bread thing to munch on.

It was pretty early in the morning, so folks were gathering their goods together for market. I thought they should've been singing "More Than This Provincial Life" from Beauty and the Beast, but in Arabic. Some men were in the long shirts, and most women wore hijabs. I turned the corner, and it was as though I walked onto a different Hollywood set: Young orthodox Jewish families walked about--the boys with buzzed summer haircuts under their skullcaps (except for long locks descending from the temples)--perhaps to get groceries in preparation for Shabbat.

I climbed the ramparts for a bird's-eye walking tour. I chuckled at one parts where the narrator said, "This section of the wall is the youngest. It was built only 500 years ago."

The city outside of the walls:

Kids, despite being from different ethnic groups, demonstrated the universal war play of shooting arrows or guns from the arrowslits.

The Dome of the Rock in view! Even though the gold plating is very thin, the dome is so massive that the amount of gold sums to be 84 kg! Some ruler of Jordan or Saudi Arabia sold an estate in London to pay for it.

My city walls walk took me near the Western Wall, so I detoured. The Western Wall is considered the hol(iest?) place in Judaism, as it is the only remaining wall from their Second Temple. It actually is like an outdoor synagogue, where men and women perform their (separated) prayers, they have bar mitzvahs, etc.

A young man must have completed an act of passage, because I saw he and a few older men walk to the divider and a few women reach over to hug and kiss the boy's head.

Prayers written on papers and stuffed between bricks:

The biggest mesuzah I have EVER seen, at the gate to the Western Wall:

I continued walking along the perimeter of the Old City and crossed back into the Muslim section. Just outside the city wall corner that the Dome of the Rock plaza is nestled into, is a graveyard for Muslims. Across the valley is a vast Jewish graveyard, who want to be buried there due to its proximity and the belief of where the Resurrection will begin.

Near the entrance back into the Old City (and exiting the Muslim cemetery) I saw a person-sized wooden box. Hmm... that looks suspiciously shaped...

As I was about to enter the gate, I heard the beeping of a backing up van. Suddenly the back doors opened and several men materialized as coffin-bearers and a filled box exited the van.

I followed the procession inside and joined in the throng of Islam adherents who walked toward the Dome. But an Israeli soldier stopped me, saying that the plaza was closed today to non-Muslims. The stream of folks carrying prayer rugs were advancing for their religious services. I hung back and got the rare opportunity to be a fly on the wall. Hunkered up in front of a column, I observed daily life of these folks: the young boy walking around with a toy gun, the woman giving back the extra shekel given in accidental change to the boy who sold her a water bottle, the young woman petitioning passer-bys to donate to a handicap relief fund, the soldiers buying junk food snacks from the vendors, the prayer rugs and folding chairs being toted in.

On my way to another audio tour, I passed by a gaggle of soldiers. Some flirted with each other (both genders participate in their mandatory service), most held their guns at the ready, all were enjoying a cool morning in the sun.

A street section in the Muslim Quarter is considered to be the path that Jesus took while carrying the cross. I saw some re-enacting that:

Women selling produce:

I started getting a little peckish and saw several locals crouched along the sides of the streets, munching on.... personal pizzas? I bought one that most were eating ("When in Jerusalem..."): an egg and sausage dish.

I took a photo of this spice stall when a customer walked into my frame and turned around. I didn't mean to be so creepy! I promise!

Besides tourists and pilgrims, there are plenty of people who live in the Old City. I wonder what it would be like to be a kid there, who--despite tourists streaming by--were playing as freely as if it'd been in a cul-de-sac.

I remembered that my Israeli coworker said that he'd had the best Knafeh in the Old City, so I googled Knafeh. Google maps revealed one place on the other side of the city, so I started booking it. For a while, I swam upstream through Muslims heading to the Dome of the Rock, but I must have switched streams at some point, because I found myself navigating Jews heading to the Western Wall.

Minutes ticked by, and shops started closing down for Shabbat. I started getting a little frantic seeing each additional shuttered door. "What if I don't get my knafeh!?" Luckily I arrived in time at THE knafeh place. Actually, I arrived with plenty of time, as the store was Muslim-owned, so not likely to close at sun-down.

Here's the guy pouring syrup on a big batch before sprinkling pistachios on it.

Okay, so it turns out the knafeh is a dish with a thick mozzarella cheese base, with a middle baklava-like layer, topped with syrup and pistachios. Soooooooo.... maybe not exactly my dream dessert, but I had to eat my "When in Jerusalem" words.

I found the distribution of stalls interesting. They sold cheap souvenirs near the super touristy spots, but would imperceptibly change to everyday goods (meat, hardware, paint, shoes, clothing alterations) nearer the residential areas. This transition occurred quickly, as so much is packed into that area.

Advertisement at an ATM:

I had an interest in being near the Western Wall at sunset; I wanted to see if there was anything interesting for Shabbat. While I looked at the map on my phone, one American lady and her friend asked me in basic English, "You have Wifi?" They'd been separated from their group, and so had spent the day flying solo (duo?). They were from Mississippi, very kind, and had had the most enjoying 10 days traveling around the area and "really gaining a better understanding of the people in the region." We shared stories of how powerful going to River Jordan and Garden Tomb were, and we talked about living in the South ("One of my husband's coworker's friends is Mormon!"). At some point, an fairly orthodox Jewish extended family set up an informal picnic right next to us. The three of us remarked at how cute the little kids were, and then the lady was that tourist who obviously took pictures of the Other People. Okay, I know that I'm being hypocritical because there's evidence of me taking such photos--and I don't think it's inherently a bad thing to do--but there's a more tactful and sensitive way of doing it. Meh. When they handed us the treats, I responded with "Todah." One of the Mississipians said to me, "Oh is that how you say thank you?"
The other folks were very nice to us, though, because they shared their brownies with whipped cream with us! They explained that the occasion was a month before the bar mitzvah of a young man in their group, so they were coming to pre-celebrate (?). When they gathered for a group photo I was that guy who whipped out my phone and snapped a shot.

It didn't look like much was happening at the Western Wall, so I decided to hike across the valley and up into the Mount of Olives/BYU Jerusalem Center to watch the sun set over Jerusalem. Along the way I met a camel. NBD.

Lemme just say this: if Jesus and his disciples had to be trekking up through these mounts and valleys all the time, they must have been IN. SHAPE.

And now as I sit here, typing up this entry, Alvin and the Chipmunks movie is playing on the TV while a Muslim call-and-response prayer is piped over loudspeakers outside. The coexisting differences would be incongruous anywhere else!

Day 6: Finding my way to Bethlehem

Today began like any other: our scheduled work had been completed two days early, so here I was in a foreign country with extra free time. Ho-hum. I'd planned on going to Jerusalem/Dead Sea after five days of auditing, but here I was, left with the awful task of figuring out where to adventurate before then.

Bethlehem? Bethlehem.

Bethlehem is actually not that far from Jerusalem. Maybe just a few miles as-the-crow-flies from the southern edge. But logistically, Bethlehem is far separated. That is because... it is part of the Palestinian Authority. That's the pseudo-state of Palestine. Remember reports of West Bank clashes and Israeli settlements several years ago? Since then things are at a cease-fire, but tensions and complications still exist. To get from my hotel to Jesus's birthplace, I would need to take a bus to the Tel Aviv central bus station (~15 min), a coach bus from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem (~1 hr), a city bus from central Jerusalem to the outskirts in between Jerusalem and Bethlehem (~15 min), then a bus that caters to Arabs (I guess bus lines are somewhat segregated here?) that takes a tortuous path to a checkpoint (~20 min), pass the checkpoint through no-man's land, and squirrel my way through the city. Sounds pretty straightforward and fail-safe, right?

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In order to get to the Tel Aviv Central Bus Station, google told me that I needed to get on a bus of a certain number. However, it didn't tell me that it would be a minibus that could zip around more easily than a large city bus. So I was a little hesitant to hop onboard when a beat-up minivan with a numbered cardboard sign arrived at my bus stop. But it looked official enough, so I climbed onboard. Fortunately it appeared to follow the correct route on google maps, so I quickly felt at ease. A few tourists boarded and also locals, and it was heartening to see the manner by which people paid: someone would climb on and take a seat, and if they weren't near the front they'd just pass their money up person-by-person, like they were passing notes. Then the change would get passed back without being picked through. I felt heartened to observe the helpfulness and trustfulness of strangers.

I visited the exterior of the CSB earlier in the week for a podcast pilgrimage, but hadn't gone inside. (Actually my Israeli workmates were distressed that I'd visited the area alone, as it was a little seedy.) After putting my bag through the x-ray scanner, I stood before the interior of the station in all of its messy, anthill tunnel-like passages, partially abandoned glory. It had much the feeling of an old shopping mall gasping its last breaths. The levels below the 3rd level street entrance were darkened and foreboding, with dusty shadows that led to illicit imaginations. Buses departed from the 6th floor, and the view of the empty 4th floor was illuminated by ambient light and felt only somewhat post-apocalyptical. Despite the dysfunctional appearance of the station, tickets were easily purchasable and my bus left within a minute of my gate arrival, so I didn't get to explore the nether regions... perhaps a good thing.

About an hour of traffic later, and we arrived in the central bus station of Jerusalem! This station felt more on the level. The difference in the populace compared to Tel Aviv was immediately noticeable. Folks from varied groups--nuns, Hassidic and orthodox Jews, uniformed youth coming home from military service, and tourists--darted to and fro, eating (Kosher) snacks, trying on earrings, buying bus tickets, checking out yarmulkes. I exited and after waiting for my bus on the incorrect side of the street (wrong path direction) I was soon aboard, headed for southern Jerusalem. I enjoyed the views of Jerusalem as we made our way south. It wasn't particularly scenic or touristy, but rather more of a window into everyday Jerusalem residence. The city is built atop a hill (mountain?), so the roads snake up and down topographical features, and flat-topped white homes cover the hills in stair-step fashion.

When google told me to, I disembarked the bus and saw it--the massive wall the separated Palestine from Israel! I walked a block or two to my next bus stop and saw... oh wait, that wasn't the border wall. It was a retaining wall for the highway. I guess I was a little eager to assume.

I knew that I needed to take bus 231 that would take me to the checkpoint, and when the first came rumbling down the road, I waved at it but they kept on keeping by. I figured maybe it was because I wasn't exactly at the bus stop, so I moved down 20 feet. The next one came and didn't heed my gesture... well maybe that one was full? Some time later a half-full bus with burka'd passengers passed my frantically flailing arm. Hm... I was missing something. I asked a nice Jewish fellow if I was doing something wrong. He was a little aghast that I wanted to take the Arab bus (my Israeli coworkers would later repeat this same response, mentioning my "boldness" [but really, many gentiles take the Arab buses. I think it's just inconceivable for the locals to consider mixing?]) and said that they would stop in this Jewish area. He then suggested I try hitchhiking/carpooling. Near the stop, pedestrians regularly arrived and gaggled together. Periodically a local would drive up, and announce where they were going. Strangers would either decline or hop in. My coworkers later confirmed the legitimacy of the method, noting that the area is very underserved by public transit. I tried my luck once, repeating to a driver the name of the checkpoint area, but I assumed from the head shake that they were going elsewhere. I quickly forgot the name of the area and lost a bit of nerve, so after a fourth bus passed me by I decided that either I could return to Jerusalem or pilgrimize it up by walking. I couldn't tell from the map if it was a demilitarized zone, but that added to the excitement.

Passing through the checkpoint was much less exciting than my coworkers thought it might be. Really the whole place felt more like an old cattle corral, but with much grander walls and machine guns.

The checkpoint was a few miles from the historic area, and the entrance had several taxi-come-tour-guides drumming up business. I arranged a route--and agreed on a price--with a nice Palestinian guy, and I was off on the fifth leg toward Jesus's birthplace. The three different cities I'd been in that day were strikingly different: the laid-back attitude of Tel Aviv featuring both gleaming new and crumbling old buildings; the religious earnestness of Jerusalem, bursting at its seams with new neighborhoods; and the chaos of Bethlehem, with a feeling of failure-to-launch, lost tourism economic initiatives, and stalled building projects.

My driver Louie (no, not a very Muslim name. His father named him after a French friend. But Louie named his sons Houssein and Mohammed, so he proved is Aram authenticity) bubbled with enthusiasm and did the math to discover that our birthdays were within a few months. Unfortunately his computer engineering degree was unused due to lack of such jobs in Palestine and the inability to relocate outside. He described his family in warm terms and told jokes. In so many words, he said that his jocular nature was a coping mechanism for the bleak conditions in Bethlehem. I felt torn, because I recognized that such woe-is-me stories can be used to ask for more money, but the conditions he described were observably undeniable.

We first stopped at Shepherd's Field church that features a small, domed structure commemorating the area where angels announced the birth of Christ to shepherds. As I entered, a church group sat in a circle around a pulpit and someone read aloud the biblical narration. A wave of appreciation and recognition came upon me as I considered the reality of such important events millennia ago. The group then sang two verses of "Angels We Have Heard on High" and I joined with my harmony. 

Louie next drove me to the Church of the Nativity, built in the 4th century over the potential site where Jesus was born. The main floor of the church was under significant construction, but stairs led to under the nave where a silver star marked the site of Jesus's birth. A small grotto a few feet away is said to have been the manger in which He slept. This was also very touching to visit, though perhaps made less impactful by the teeming crowd. However I found it interesting to observe other attendees: a small group of Arab school children (Muslims revere Christ as a great prophet but deny His divinity), a large group of Arab teen boys more interested in taking selfies than reflecting on the site's significance, several Eastern Orthodox adherents, a British family, and three Russian young men. We made quite the motley crew.

After a brief stop at a church where supposedly some of Mary's breastmilk was spilt and blessed the ground, Louie took me to the border wall on which the graffiti artist Banksy had painted some works. The few tourists in this area consisted of young multi-national millennials, and a Palestinian man walked from one to another, desperately hawking cheap jewelry and Arab head scarves.

Louie and I then went to lunch at a café near the university. He insisted the Kesadiah was authentic Palestinian, and insisted that the Spanish quesadilla was merely a homonym. "Spanish and Arabic share the same roots, after all!" Uh-huh. It sure seemed like a quesadilla to me. But a tasty one, nonetheless.

On the drive back to the checkpoint, Louie blasted Saudi Arabian pop music, translating for me. During quieter parts, he described the history of the area. I asked when a Palestinian state would form. "Long after I die! The US doesn't support such a state." When I asked why the US is so supportive of Israel--an answer to which I don't firmly have--he responded immediately by smiling and flexing his bicep. "To have a strong ally in the Middle East." To try to further discuss the possibility of a Palestinian state, I asked which city of Palestine is most important. He briefly replied "Bethlehem and Jericho," and mindlessly turned the music back up. The conversation was over, not because he didn't want to talk about it, but more perhaps because it would be futile to do so. I wondered if Louie was representative of other Palestinians: educated and yearning to succeed, but stunted in large part due to external factors beyond his control. I hoped that spirited music and jokes would be enough to carry him through his circumstances. My easy ability to move among the borders without issue was not lost on me.

Back in Jerusalem the bus dropped me off next to Damascus gate. I was about to just follow the google directions back to Tel Aviv when I thought to myself, "I have a bit of time left. I wonder what's important in this area?" A quick look at the map revealed that, the garden tomb and Calvary was a few blocks away. On my way, I helped an elderly Muslim lady carry her grocery bags up the hill to a bus stop (she didn't skip a beat when I offered help!).

The exact location is not known (a common refrain) of the tomb where Jesus was laid, but several details suggest that this might have been where He was crucified and resurrected. For 150 years, a non-denominational British group has maintained a beautiful and calming garden around the tomb. Flower blooms filled the air with sweet fragrance and chirping birds (hoopoes?) hopped about, and yes there was even a holy cat. All of these and a peaceful spirit set the area apart, surprising considering a bustling bus station was just outside, and the air was occasionally punctuated by a Muslim call to prayer. Of course we don't know for certain where Christ died and was lain--though a 1982 LDS article presents it as an excellent candidate versus the more traditionally revered Church of the Holy Sepulchre--but it served as an place for contemplation of Jesus' critical gift and role in our eternal lives.

Day 2: Cities new, old, and post-apocalyptic

I forgot to mention that last night on my way back to the hotel, I found my first Israeli cat!!

I must have left my iphone charging cable on the plane, because when I went to charge my phone at the hotel, it was nowhere to be found. Sigh. Well, it looked like I'd get a souvenir! I had to poke around a few local convenience store before finding one. Along the way I got to check out a few more local products.

Produce:

SWEETS ("I'll save these for later"), which reminded me of the divinity fudge that my mom made gobs of in an effort to perfect in the final months of my grandpa's life:

and balloons. I don't know, maybe I don't look around Oregon enough but it sure seems like the Israelis like their balloons. I saw a ton at the airport and then multiple times since.

Oh wait, one more thing. A heated case of some delicious-looking delicacy. I tried sending a photo to my friend who lives in the area to get some clue.

When I got back to the hotel we had an extensive buffet breakfast that included cheeses (Whitney says that's a hallmark for what I consider a successful buffet breakfast :D), tebouleh, quiche, pickled herring, yogurt, spreadable yogurt cheese, etc etc etc. Tasty.

Because Intel organized this fairly last minute, there wasn't enough space for all of us in one hotel, so I had to transfer to another hotel (did I write this yesterday?), so I packed up my bag and strolled down the esplanade on the warm and very blustery morning. At one point a huge gust of wind caught my hat's visor and suddenly we had a flying Oregon State Beaver. My had soared across two streets for about half a block before tentatively landing next to a sidewalk. I so very patiently trotted to my hat (it's tricky to balance nonchalance with expediency) to the hat, hoping that it wouldn't get airborne again. Fortunately a friendly Tel Avivian hopped off his bike and picked it up for me. +1 for the locals.

Further down the beach, the wind was whipping up waves where folks were swimming. I heard an urgent voice over a loudspeaker. I couldn't understand the words, but could tell that someone was being rebuked. I, along with a few dozen other rubberneckers, looked over to where waves were breaking against a stone pier and saw a head bobbing up and down in the water. First a leathery older speedo'd man ran into the water, then a lifeguard with a great big lifesaver ran in, Baywatch-style, and finally another man on a surfboard with long paddles took off. Fortunately the person was saved and all was well.

A few blocks down I saw a dog park and human park, and I'm all about people-watching, so I paused for a bit. I saw seven or eight folks gathered in the shade of trees, setting up for a function. Someone strummed a guitar while three or four sang and shimmied and shook. They may have been Filipino based on their appearance and that I heard the word "Hay-zoos" a few times in their song. Note: A girl was blowing up balloons. Everyone loves balloons.

I feared that I was overstaying my observation, and that they'd invite me over to have lunch with them, so I kept on walking. A block or so down I took in the Hassan Bek Mosque. Built in 1916, Arab soldiers later used in during the 1948 war, when they used the minaret as firing position.

I continued my walk down toward Old Town Jaffa, which used to be Joppa, said to've been founded by Noah's son Japheth following the Flood.

Along the way I picked up a baguette thing in honor of Whitney (see this).

And then I ran into a carbohydrate heaven! So many breads! I wanted to try a pita bread with some sort of pesto and sesame... but the swarm of customers was teeming.

 They also had sweets! (you can tell where my interests are) Baklava and divinity stuff.... and other Mediterranean-looking things.

 Old Town Jaffa consists of a mosques, churches (one of which nursed Napolean's plague-stricken soliders to health), shops, and residences built on an outcropping...

 ...that provides handsome view of the coastline. One of those buildings on the left is my hotel. The juxtaposition of gleaming new Tel Aviv with old Jaffa was striking.

Unfortunately the museum describing the history of Jaffa was closed for a function, so after a walking break and bit more of people-watching, I started on my way back to my hotel, by way of the Central Bus Station and a street market.

But first I met another Israeli cat!

I heard about the Tel Aviv Central Bus Station in a 99% Invisible podcast episode.  It's worth a listen, but briefly: construction began in the 1960s on this 8-story, 2.5 million square foot gigantor that was to be a city-within-a-city. Unfortunately its planned size outweighed its need, and much of it is used for only illicit purposes in addition to being a transportation hub.

I met two more cats!

 My last stop was the Carmel market. I knew that--it being Shabbat--some of it would be closed. But I wasn't prepared for it to appear post-apocalyptic, with half-eaten pitas and pretzels around. The folks I heard scurrying scurrying around in the rafters (their sleeping places?) really added to the ambiance.

And that was it! I didn't exactly get to do all of the must-dos in Tel Aviv, but I certainly got a feel for the city!