Rainbow Wanderers

Our band of California adventurers wanted to see more of the country than just its ancient center. With that in mind, we rose even earlier the next morning for the next phase of the trip.

Our guide for this excursion, a wonderfully hippie-ish fellow also named David from Desert Eco Tours, picked us up in a van and drove us through eastern Jerusalem and into a tunnel leading to the West Bank. We got to see up close how the divided country operates: in the 1990s the Oslo Accords laid out a framework for different parts of the West Bank, a swath of territory cut out of old Palestine that had been originally designated for part of an Arab state, then was occupied by Jordan, then by Israel. Some sections were to be exclusively under Palestinian control; others were partly administered by Israel. Obscured by the troubling news headlines is how people live and work under these conditions: it’s difficult for many, but an uneasy coexistence nonetheless is in place. From the long line of vehicles waiting in the other direction, to enter West Jerusalem and sovereign Israel, however, it’s clear this is a challenging arrangement for many.

As we left the city, the verdant mountains were replaced by arid, rocky hillsides. The Judaean Desert is a small sliver of the greatest hot, arid region on Earth, stretching from Morocco to India. This particular desert lies in the rain shadow of the Judaean Hills, and receives far less rainfall than points north and west. Flash floods from the mountains, however, periodically inundate the region, running through dry riverbeds known as wadis that are analogous to California’s arroyos.

Chasing Waterfalls and Climbing Mountains

Our first stop was a hillside oasis and nature reserve at Ein Gedi. A mountain spring runs through here, tumbling into cascades of small waterfalls that made for a refreshing morning dip. Ibex and Rock Hyrax—last see by me in South Africa for you dedicated readers—roamed the hills. The air had an almost thick quality: at hundreds of feet below sea level, the lowest spot in the world, the region boasts an atmosphere that’s richer in oxygen than at sea level or above.

The nearby Dead Sea, meanwhile, is a shrunken remnant of its former self. Water diversion projects starting in the 1960s have led to the hypersaline basin losing a good deal of its water; many of the beaches I visited as a youth are no longer swimmable, the water having retreated and the shoreline swallowed by sinkholes.

Our next destination, however, involved going up again: to Masada, that is, a mesa-like plateau that’s separate from the adjacent mountains. Begun as a pleasure retreat at its mostly-flat top by Roman King Herod, it was also the site of a last stand by Judaean rebels following the fall of the Second Temple. In my youth I remember visiting and taking in the epic TV miniseries starring Peter O’Toole as the Roman general. After lying mostly abandoned for millennia, the place was rediscovered in the 19th century and became a symbol of Jewish resistance following the establishment of the country in the latter half of the 20th century.

When I last visited, however, my technology-mad younger self thrilled at the ride on the rickety cable car to the summit; that’s been replaced by a modern, ski-lift-quality Swiss tramway that whisked us up to the summit in a few minutes. I’ve often remarked how so many places I’d taken in as a boy seem a lot smaller when I rediscovered them as an adult; not so this haunting place. Its summit some twelve hundred feet above the valley floor and sweeping vistas of the barren desert are as grand and breathtaking as I remember, and are comparable in scale to similar such spots in the American Southwest… though no American mesa ever had a Roman Legion laying siege to it, of course. Pro tip: I neglected to bring sunglasses and regretted it. The desert sun reflecting off the limestone cliffs renders this spot thermonuclear-bright.

Afloat in Briny Seas

Although the Dead Sea isn’t what it was, the southern branch of the ultra-saline lake has been crisscrossed by levees and has water diverted to it by aqueducts to retain its size and composition. This serves the needs of industry to its south, which continues to mine the place for minerals; and for the ever-hungry tourist business, for which a new colony of hotels and beaches in the town of Ein Bokek was largely developed in the 1990s. We made our final stop there for yet another iconic activity of the region: a dunk in the briny waters of the sea.

I remember doing this as a kid and having a grand old time with it; everyone in our party was likewise enchanted. The water’s so full of salt and other minerals that it has an almost soupy feeling. Buoyancy is such that the only real way to navigate the waters is to lie on one’s back and float. Only challenge: avoid getting it in your face and eyes. The stuff’s so inhospitable to life—hence the name—that even small drops of it sting like a mofo. I discovered that the hard way.

Our full day of sightseeing complete, we settled in for a longish drive down Israel’s desert highway to the bottom of this long, thin nation.

Relaxation Down South

At the southern tip of Israel lies the beach town of Eilat, a place distant enough from the rest of the country even I hadn’t been there since the 1970s. Ironically, for a city encircled by Egypt and Jordan—and its own resort towns of Taba and Aqaba, respectively—it’s a far mellower place, geopolitically and otherwise, than the rest of the country. Peace accords between all three nations mean the Red Sea region is actually quite navigable, with residents and visitors alike crossing back and forth regularly. All three towns have commensurately seen significant growth and development. In fact, Eilat’s little in-town airport has outgrown its capacity, and a new facility, capable of handling robust international traffic, is set to open in a few months.

Coming to Eilat also satisfied our passion for a bit of R&R after those hefty days spent exploring. Mathew and I settled in at a resort right by the coral reefs while the rest of the gang opted for a more in-town spot. I’ve often written of my love of the sea, and on our first day I made good on that: I snagged a mask and snorkel from our accommodations, entered the water… and found myself surrounded by fish. Lots and lots of fish in glorious colors. Eilat sits at the northwestern tip of the Indo-Pacific ocean system, and I had no trouble spotting numerous varieties of the same sorts of sea life I saw in Australia a few years back.

Back to the Med

We continued the chill vibe as we caught a short-haul flight from Eilat back up to the country’s center. It’s a glorious, short flight to Tel Aviv, recapping some of our earlier drive, before turning westward and landing close to the burgeoning city’s skyscrapers along the Mediterranean at the soon-to-be-closed Sde Dov Airport.

All of us caught a final dunk in the third sea of the trip: the soft sands along Tel Aviv’s magnificent beachfront promenade welcomed us into the warm waters of the sea. This was the first oceanic body I’d ever encountered while still a toddler, and coming back here likewise floods me with so many memories.

We closed out Tel Aviv with similar such reminiscences, meeting up with assorted family and friends who live in this small country’s biggest metropolis—a place that now compares in population with metro Seattle or Sydney, Australia. About the only hitch was my futile quest to savor the famed Israeli iced coffee, which in years past was served like a float or milkshake with a dollop of ice cream inside. Seems the Aroma coffee chain, which once offered those up everywhere, isn’t quite what I remembered. Oh, well.

With that, we bade an early-morning farewell to the little country; as I write this, we’re winging our way westward—the first time I’ve made an uninterrupted return trip from Israel to North America since 1977. As we wrapped up this trip of memories new and old, I was reminded of that scene from The Sum of Us, the Australian play-turned-film that was the first LGBT-themed movie I saw as an out gay adult. The accepting father of a young gay man—played by an early Russell Crowe—turns to the camera and says:

“Our children are only the sum of us. What we add up to. Us, and our parents. And our grandparents and theirs. All the generations.”

Here’s to making ever more sums.

As I wrote in my last piece, this international foray is taking us to all the places I’d been in my earliest travels. Well, the next spot was more than a vacation destination: it’s the country my family lived for three years in the 1970s.

“Welcome to my third homeland!” I exclaimed to Mathew and his family as we stepped off the plane at Tel Aviv Ben-Gurion International airport. I’d already briefed them on the augmented security involved in entering the region: before departing Amsterdam, we were all interviewed individually in the check-in line, with our stories cross-checked by the plainclothes officials. It was all pretty friendly and relatively brief, though I know that’s not always the case for many.

The flight over, on Israel’s discount carrier Arkia, was straightforward enough, leaving and arriving on time with a generally well-behaved crew and passengers —something that’s not always the case in this oft-surly land. As I’ve gotten on in years and travel mileage, I’ve become of two minds about discount carriers worldwide: on the one hand, I think it’s great that they’ve opened up travel to whole swaths of the public that otherwise wouldn’t be able to get away. On the other hand, cheap fares can sometimes translate into less-than-ideal behavior from all involved.

This time, though, the only hitch was luggage that took forever to show up, something that hasn’t happened to me in Israel since a visit in 1981. That hurdle cleared, we hopped in our arrival van, and rode up to Jerusalem on the newly-redone highway. Pro tip: for smaller groups or solo travelers, the newly-completed high-speed rail link from the airport to the historic city is a good choice as well.

Following a delicious welcome meal care of my local family that evening, we took it easy the next day… which ended up working out well as it was the Jewish Sabbath. Mathew’s parents, who’ve traveled to spots all over the world, were struck by the contrast between workdays and weekend Sabbath in this country; while the holy city was pin-drop quiet on Saturday, by evening after the sun had set and the formal holiday had ended, the place came to life with restaurants, cafés and bars.

In the Footsteps of the Ancients

In keeping with that rhythm, we got an early start the next day: we’d booked a walking tour of the Old City care of Israel Maven Tours, and their name didn’t disappoint. We headed to the summit of the Mount of Olives with its picture-postcard view of the ancient metropolis.

“Most cities are located near four key must-haves,” our guide Tal explained with a relief map of the region. “Access to fresh water; a defensible, strategic location; proximity to trade routes or waterways; and easy access to arable land to grow food.”

Jerusalem, however, possesses none of these: its water source—which I’d explored in my big world trip a decade ago—is modest; it’s not located on the area’s highest ground—we in fact were looking downward at it from a neighboring mountain; and it’s in the mountains, far from fertile farmland, waterways, or major trade routes.

So why build a capital city here? Unsurprisingly, given the region’s tumultuous past, it was rooted in political calculus on behalf of the Israelite King David. The city was sited at a geographic confluence of all the lands of the Biblical Twelve Tribes. I couldn’t help catch the historic irony: in the Americas and Australasia, countries formed in the era of nation-states often sited their capitals similarly. To wit: Washington, D.C.; Ottawa, Canada; Brasília, Brazil; and Canberra, Australia.

Guess you could call my namesake monarch a bit ahead of his time.

We strolled down the path of the Mount of Olives, past the ancient Jewish cemetery, following the route Jesus used to take to get into the city. As a rebel preacher and something of an outlaw in the city, Jesus chose to set up shop just east of the city; so call this pathway a uniquely historic commuter route.

We reached the Church of All Nations that overlooks the Garden of Gethsemane. Ancient olive trees slumbered outside the majestic structure—all supervised by errant cat, who are everywhere in this land. I’d probably seen the odd olive tree in past forays here, but I’d never studied them up close: they’re monumental works of vegetation, with thick gnarled trunks and delicate leaves between which hang their edible fruit. Even the name of this place, where Jesus was arrested, is related to the trees: our guide explained that Gath Shemen in Hebrew means “olive press.”

Inside, the relatively recently-built church (though based on predecessors going back to antiquity) presented a glorious ceiling. Dodging a few surly church ladies straight out of Dana Carvey’s comedic skits, we explored the place then continued to the Old City, entering it via the Lions Gate. A short walk brought us to the Pool of Bethesda, a spot that really accentuated the layers of history in this land: Roman cisterns commingle with Crusader and Byzantine constructions—eras as separate in time as we are now from the first European colonies in the Americas. Shallow water in the cisterns months after the most recent rainfall offered proof of Roman engineering prowess; two thousand years on and the facility still kind-of works as intended.

We continued down the Via Dolorosa, the “Street of Sorrows” where Jesus reputedly made his final walk. I say “reputedly” because much about the life of Christ remains hazy; of the many figures in both Old and New Testaments, many facts about the Christian progenitor remain in dispute, right down to the number of stations of the cross on this legendary road.

Our guide here managed to snag us an extra: a small fee to the groundskeeper of a local Islamic boys’ school afforded us a view onto the ancient Temple Mount, occupied for the last millennium-and-a-half by the Islamic Dome of the Rock shrine. Since we were deep in the Muslim Quarter of the Old City, our guide informed us that there’s no great love for the ruling power here: souvenir shops sold T-shirts with slogans that chided the Jewish state and supported a free Palestine. However, even with the vague tension we felt strolling this part of the Old City, all seemed peaceful on this Sunday morning in October.

A few more spins through narrow streets and we arrived at the last stop on the Christian way: the Church of the Holy Sepulchre where Christ is said to have risen from what’s now an empty tomb. It’s a massive, dense structure crammed into the ancient walled city; administered by six different clerical authorities, the place is a predictable hodgepodge of styles and eras, each more wondrously atmospheric than the next.

A lunch of falafel and kebabs preceded our next stops: the tomb of King David, Zion Gate, and the Jewish Quarter. In what’s probably the most unique bit of urban renewal, the Quarter, which had been leveled by the Jordanians following their capture of the Old City in 1948, was subsequently restored to its Roman-era look in the years following Israel’s conquest of the city in 1967. I’d been to the rebuilt Cardo shortly after its completion in the 1980s, but this was my first time back here since then. The theme park newness of the reconstruction contrasted with the much older bits of Old City we’d already seen.

Spirits and Sentiments

Our final stop was one I’d been to many times before, most recently on my big world trip: the Western Wall. Our guide pulled out a diagram illustrating how small a piece of the ancient Temple walls this was; while the Second Temple was built by Israelites on their return from Babylonian exile, the engineering prowess of ancient Rome, in an early attempt to pacify the Hebrews, was behind the marquee bit of showmanship here. Not content with a mere Temple sitting atop the knoll of Mount Moriah, the Romans framed the surrounding hill with a massive rectangle of walls and topped it with a pediment upon which the Temple sat. Today’s Western Wall is but a fragment of that monumental piece of ancient-world architecture.

I’ve written before about my flagging devotion to religion, spirituality, and even to my own religion. Consequently, the Western Wall seemed drained of meaning to me when I was here last—particularly in the wake of conflicts with friends who professed spiritual leanings. The place, however, held much more significance to my late father, who was a passionate Jew who would visit this site on pretty much every visit he made to the city.

Maybe it’s because this is the first time back here since his death; maybe, because this is a year of many reminiscences contrasted against a future family we’re aiming to build. Whatever the reason, I found myself strangely moved as I came upon the great mass of the wall and placed my hand against the ancient stones. The normally clear blue sky was streaked with clouds shot through with rays of the sun. My secular, yet nonetheless emotion-laden self found the perfect melodic accompaniment to the moment: I played Beyoncé’s song “Halo” and wept more than I had in quite some time.

A final dinner with family at Jerusalem’s First Station—a repurposed rail depot turned trendy hangout—capped off our time in the historic city before we lit out for points beyond. One final pro tip on that point: the country’s Kosher dietary laws are something of a blessing for those with non-religious restrictions. We found a plethora of options for the vegan, vegetarian, and gluten-free crowd.

The New Adventures of Old Zion, Part Two