Red Letter Day

Although nowadays this expression can denote any special day, it originally referred to saints' feast days, which were marked in church calendars in red ink. (The Church also used red ink in certain parts of the liturgy, which result in our English word "rubric" from Lat. ruber meaning "red.") I mention all this not to bore you with ecclesial etymologies but to inform you that today in my red letter day. Strike up the band: November 30 is the Feast of St. Andrew!

This day never struck me as very special until I was studying abroad in Rome, and the director of my program, whose name was Franco, suggested I go to the Church of Sant'Andrea for the feast day. I decided to go and was expecting a great celebration, but in fact there was nothing especially grand about mass: we in the pews were soggy from rain and took up only a tiny fraction of the cavernous church, and most of the interior was covered in scaffolding as part of the pre-Jubilee 2000 facelift that was happening all over Rome. Fortunately, the Argentinian cardinal who presided rose to the occasion. And how! It looked like he had put on every vestment in the sacristy, then hung his Olympic-sized medallion over the layers like a paperweight. Over the top? Yes! But someone had to dress up, and it might as well be the cardinal.

The mass itself also left an impression on me. That semester was my first time away from home: I had missed Thanksgiving and was also going to miss Christmas that year. Besides this homesickness, I could also feel the stress over my final exams mounting. That hour at Sant'Andrea, however, lifted both worries, not permanently of course but long enough to be a comfort. Since then I've always remembered the day of my namesake. Later when I was at Weston I had a classmate who was learning how to make icons, and she agreed to make one for me of St. Andrew, which Emily and I now have in the house:

I'm happy to say that just this morning I learned a little more about the feast of St. Andrew around the world. Here at the Albright there are two scholars from eastern Europe: Ivan from Bulgaria and Teodozja from Poland. When I saw them this morning, they asked me if I knew that today was my feastday and I said Yes. Then they explained that St. Andrew is a major celebration in their countries. Ivan said it is called Mechkin den in Bulgaria, which means "Bear Day," because there are several legends involving St. Andrew harnessing and riding a bear like a horse.

Teodozja told me that in Poland the eve of St. Andrew's day is a night of foretelling, especially for unmarried women. They usually gather and take turns dripping candlewax into a glass of water until it has hardened into a design on the surface. Each young woman takes out her wax and holds it up to the light so that its shadow is cast on the wall. Then everyone offers an interpretation: some see the shape of a wedding ring, others see coins of future wealth, etc. Another tradition in Poland is for all the unmarried women to line up their shoes heel-to-toe across a room; the first to touch the far wall will be the first to get married. Unfortunately, there are no bears involved in the Polish customs.

Happy St. Andrew's Day, everyone!

At the Barbershop

As many of you know, I am pretty particular about how my hair looks. In the mornings I've been known to spend seconds, sometimes even minutes, getting it just right. To the naked eye it may look like bedhead, but in fact it is a meticulously groomed fashion statement. For this reason, when it came time to get a haircut in East Jerusalem I approached the task with great consideration. What luck, then, that Rami's barbershop is only a stone's throw from the Albright! It is always packed with locals, so I figured Rami was just the guy to handle my head of hair.

When Bob and I arrived, we found it even more crowded than usual. We sat down and waited; Bob smoked a cigarette as did just about everyone else in the place. I was mildly annoyed when a guy jumped us in line, but I didn't protest because I knew Rami would soon have a straight razor on the back of my neck and wanted to stay on his good side. (I was glad I kept my mouth shut because later Rami told me that his brother was getting married today and lots of guys were stopping in for a trim.) At last it was my turn, and I hopped in the seat. Here's the "before" picture of me and Rami (and Bob in the mirror):

Fortunately, the guy ahead of me had hair like mine, so when I sat down, I pointed after him and said: "Like him." "OK," Rami said and got to work with the clippers. He zipped around the sides and back, speaking to the smokers, whom I could see in the mirror. Then came the straight razor; the only other time I've gotten the razor was by Frank Turnipseed at Man-Mur on Hillsborough Street in Raleigh. Frank was kind of old, and his hands were unsteady. Rami, by contrast, was confident with the razor, scraping away with no hesitation.

While waiting I had noticed that after the razor, Rami usually winds up a thin string on his fingers like dental floss and rubs it up and down the client's cheekbones. This, I gathered, was for the hirsute Arab men whose beards sometimes sprout outlying hairs high on their face. Rami apparently did not notice that I have no beard and therefore no outlying hairs, because before I could say babyface he had that string on me. At least I can say my cheeks are exfoliated, and it even brought out a nice blush. Thanks, Rami!

Lastly came the scissoring on the top. When it was done, he sent me over to his helper who gives you a post-cut wash. Below is a short clip of me leaving the hairwashing nook (Bob accidently switched the camera from snapshot to movie mode):

Of course, no Palestinian barbershop visit is complete without a little gel. Rami keeps a coffee can-size tub of it on his counter, and I had watched the clients ahead of me dip their fingers into it and work their hair until it was just right. As I walked out Rami invited me to "Have some gel," so I dipped my two fingers in, slicked back my hair and strutted all the way home.

Yeem-ka Update

With each visit to the YMCA here in East Jerusalem comes new stories and new friends. Over the last few weeks I've come to know a high school kid who exercises at the same time in the afternoon, and on this past Friday I saw him in the (men's) locker room and said Hello. He walked over and asked if I knew how to play volleyball, and I said, "Yes." Of course, I was tempted to add that I had taken Beginning Volleyball as one of my mandatory PE courses at Carolina and proudly earned an A for proficient hitting and teamwork skills, but I kept my answer a simple yes.

It was a four-on-four game, and I'm sorry to say that the other team would have scored low in teamwork skills.

Instead of passing the ball to each other for a higher percentage shot, they came from the school of slapping the ball over as soon as possible. This school has produced very few victories, and my team won all of the games handily. It helped that the other team insisted on serving overhand, as if the underhand serve is wimpy and second-class, even though the overhand serve rarely made it over the net.

After we finished volleyball, a kid from the other team asked if I played ping-pong. "Yes," I said. (Unfortunately, Carolina didn't offer a Beginning Ping-Pong class, which I would definitely have taken. As it was, my other PE class was Beginning Weightlifting, which wasn't exactly life-changing.) This kid had his own paddle, and once I got one from the front desk, we played a few games. I tried to go easy on him, but his ping-pong was as bad as his volleyball. For one thing, he played around his backhand, which may work in tennis, but not so much in ping-pong. He was a nice kid, though, and when we were done, I was happy to have made some new friends at the Y.

My other exciting news is my attempt to learn a new sport: squash. Squash is like racquet ball, except the ball is not blue; it is also smaller and less bouncy. When it comes off the wall, you're lucky to get one good bounce. Since you can't borrow racquets from the YMCA, my friend John and I went halfsies on this one:

At the end of the year, he said he'd buy out my portion (a whopping $25 -- I can't wait!), because I don't want to carry it home. It doesn't matter anyway, because there is a 99.9% chance it will be broken before the end of the year.

The actual purchase of the racquet is itself an interesting story because it is a typical example of how things are bought and sold here. I went to the sporting goods store on Salah ed-Din, where the guy showed me three racquets. The most expensive cost 350 shekels (= $90) and he handed it to me saying, "You should buy this one."
"It is too expensive," I said. "I am only a beginner."
"Yes, but you will be expert with it. Where do you play? Yeem-ka?"
"Yes."
"Everyone is using this racquet."
"I don't think so."
"With it I will give you free balls."
"Hmm," I said. "How many balls?"
"Two. They are 25 shekels. Each one. But for you: free. With this racquet."
"How many free balls with this one?" I asked, reaching for the 195 shekel racquet.
"That one is not as good."
"Yes, but how many balls?"
"None. Not for that racquet."
"OK. Maybe I will come back," I said, walking away.
"Ah. OK. This racquet plus one ball for 200 shekels."
"OK."
"You need a basketball, too?"
"No. This is it."
"Ping-pong?"
"No."
"Band for arm sweat."
"Nothing."
Finally, I paid him, and he thanked me. Now I learned today that my friend, Bob, wants to buy a racquet, so I'm going to take him to my new friend at the sports store. Since I'm a repeat customer, I think we can get him down to 150 for the racquet and the free ball!

Annapolis

This poster certainly caught my attention as I was walking to work this week:

This depiction of Israeli prime minister Ehud Olmert pretty much sums up the level of optimism here regarding the meeting to take place in Annapolis later this month. This poster was put up around the city by a right wing political party, which strongly opposes any concessions to the Palestinian government, but even moderates I have spoken with are unenthusiastic about the prospects for peace in Annapolis.

The key problem is that all three of the key players -- Olmert, Bush and Mahmoud Abbas -- are very weak, and this meeting, which has been steadily downgraded from a "summit" to a "conference" to now a mere "meeting," is seen among Israelis as a last ditch effort for all three to bolster their foreign policy record. The more cynically-minded also argue that the three are using this peace effort to distract from their resepctive failings at home and abroad. (Take your pick.)

No one here is expecting anything good to come out of the Annapolis meeting, but people are keenly aware of its potential to disrupt the peace process even further. There's a good chance it could do more harm than good, and at this point, most would be happy if the meeting came and went quietly. I just hope they can get their hands on some Berger cookies while they're in Maryland.

And speaking of coming and going quietly, I took a picture of this poster on Sunday, and it was gone by Tuesday morning.

Indanis!

With Thanksgiving coming up, my thoughts have been turning to some Davis family traditions from this time of year. Of course, this blog is supposed to be about my time in Jerusalem, but since I'll be missing Thanksgiving because of my stay in Jerusalem, I thought this would be an appropriate place to share some holiday reflections.

For one thing, my family's house in Raleigh has rather distinctive Thanksgiving decoration. Have a look at the kitchen door:

My gifted hands made the Indian, whose head is growing out of his chest, and my little brother contributed the paper-plate portraits. I don't know who made that turkey, but I am very proud to say that I am responsible for the yellow poster on the bottom. Here's a closer look so you can really take in its brilliance:

You may be asking: Andrew, was this a term project in a grad school seminar? It wasn't. Believe it or not, I made this in elementary school, and it has been taped to the kitchen door every Thanksgiving since. (In that time, I have learned that the poster has a few misspellings, such as "bee came," which is actually one word.) The last time I was abroad during Thanksgiving, my mother sent me an old-fashioned telegram with this exact text on it. As she later told me, it took some explaining to convince the Western Union clerk that for this telegram, the wording was not incorrect at all. It was just right.

Another thing I'll miss next week is, of course, the food. We have a really fine chef here at the Albright named Hisham (his father Omar was the chef here before him), who will prepare a traditional Thanksgiving meal, and there are some European fellows here who have never had an American Thanksgiving meal before, so it'll be fun to share in their new experience. But nothing beats the meal made by your own family, and I know I'll be homesick when I call Raleigh this Thursday. In particular, I'll miss the Davis family tradition of going around the table after we eat and saying what each of us is thankful for. If I were there on Thursday I'd say how thankful I am for all of my family and friends and especially for Emily, my wonderful wife and best friend.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!

Adventures at the YMCA

I try to swim a few times per week, and since the East Jerusalem YMCA is just a few blocks away, I've become a Y member for the first time in my life. It has been quite a learning experience, so I thought I'd share some of the more memorable adventures.
But before we get to the pool, here's some background on the YMCA in general. First of all, it is not pronounced as the acronym Y-M-C-A but as one word: "yeem-ka." (I assume this is why the Village People's hit single never caught on in the Middle East.)

Secondly, in the men's locker room, there's one room for boys and one room for men. I learned this through trial and error, along the way receiving some disapproving looks from passersby, as if I should have known better. I only caught on when the karate class upstairs let out, and I was suddenly surrounded by twelve ten-year-olds. One of them started a conversation: "You are American?"
"Yes," I said, trying to be an affable, friendly American. "Do you speak English?"
"Yes," he said, then looked right at me and said: "F### you." He and his friends started giggling; it seemed so funny to them that I doubted any of them knew the rudeness of the expression.
"Ha ha ha," I said. "That is a very bad word."
"Yes," he said and continued giggling. I have not been in the boys' room since. Fortunately, the mens' room is a much more civilized environment: if the men are cursing me, at least they have the decency to do it in Arabic!

Actually, everyone is really quite friendly, especially at the pool. Just this morning I was swimming my laps, and as I glided into the wall, a man grabbed my forearm. I looked up to face him and his friends who were smiling at me, and he asked: "Where are you from?" "Washington, DC," I said. (I usually find this easier than explaining that Baltimore is just north of DC, even though the Baltimoron inside me always wants to point out that we had a Washington Monument first.) "You are welcome," he said. I waited for more, but that was it. "Thank you," I said, then resumed swimming.

Such friendliness occurred last week in the steam room. A group of us were relaxing when all of the sudden one of the men turned over and lay flat on the marble bench, and another man started to give him a full body massage. No one seemed fazed by this, as if it were a regular feature of the steam room. Partway through, the masseuse looked up at me and said: "You are next?" Although my shoulders did feel a little tense, in general I try to avoid massages from strangers in the YMCA; I declined his offer.

Of course, it has not been all fun and games at the YMCA. When I asked for the pool schedule I was given this:

Of course, the coffee stain was my fault, but it's not like it was legible to me before I spilled my morning cup. The front desk lady kindly translated the main parts, stressing the mens' hours and women's hours. (They never mix in the pool.) When I arrived the next day to swim some laps, I think every Palestinian in Jerusalem was crammed into the pool. Indeed the pool is really more of a public bath than a lap pool: older men wade around the shallow end and hang their arms over the lane ropes. The only swimming occurs when one of them moves over to another conversation group. I decided to leave rather than navigate that teeming oasis, and after consulting the front desk lady, I learned the off-peak hours. But even at these times, there are a good number of waders. (The man who grabbed my arm today is a regular rope hanger.)

All in all though, the YMCA has been a fun place to meet some of the locals. Who knows: maybe one day I'll even get a massage!

Day Eight

Alas, Emily has returned to Baltimore, and I am left here with only my Kit Kat Koffee mug to comfort me. It is true that that the Tar Heels' preseason #1 ranking in the AP poll and the Coaches' poll gave me an emotional boost, but preseason polls only go so far.

Separated again by a continent and an ocean and now by seven hours instead of six, thanks to last weekend's fall-back, we will have to finish the chronicle of our adventures in stages. Since Emily knows the password to this blog, she'll jump in and add comments as she sees fit.

DAY EIGHT

This day started off with great uncertainty. Since the Amra Palace could only guarantee us one night, we did not know where we'd be spending the next night of our trip. (At least we knew it would not be the Sella Hotel under any circumstances.) We made the following plan: eat the Amra Palace's complimentary breakfast and check about another's night stay there. If there was no room or it looked unlikely, we would check the schedule for buses to Amman. Rather than hustle around Petra for another hotel, we decided we would just head back to Jerusalem, since we were both dragging from our colds and liked the idea of waking up in Jerusalem for Em's last full day. The only problem was that the border closes at 2 pm on Friday and the drive to Amman was listed in the guidebook as 3 hrs., so we would have to catch a bus pretty soon after breakfast.

After we ate, the desk clerk said there were no rooms available, and he wouldn't know for sure one way or another until 10 or 11 am. So we walked the five minutes to the bus station, where we encountered a taxi driver who said he could take us to Amman for very cheap. There was a bus that parked on the other side of the station lot, and when I asked the taxi driver where it was going, he said: "Not to Amman. No more buses to Amman." I walked over to the bus and asked the driver: "To Amman?" and he said, "Yes." Nothing like a simple answer to a simple question.

But the bus was leaving in two minutes! We decided we would take it, then explained to the driver that we had to get our bags. He said to get on and then drove us around the corner to the Amra Palace, where Em packed the bags and I checked us out. I felt bad about holding up the other passengers until we reboarded and the driver stopped at an ATM for another passenger.

So we were on our way to Amman. We picked up people and dropped off others along the way, and it was fun to be on the road with some locals. We got to Amman in only two hrs. and then caught a cab to the King Hussein-Allenby Bridge. The cab ride took about thirty minutes, and along the way, we passed a police van driving with its back doors wide open, as if it was transporting a carpet. But there was no carpet poking out the back of the van, only the feet of a corpse covered with a white cloth. It was a grim sight, and when I caught the eye of our driver in the rear view mirror, he put the back of his hand to his opposite cheek and tilted his head, indicating sleep. I nodded that I understood.

The rest of the drive was thankfully uneventful. As when one leaves Jerusalem for the Dead Sea, the drive from Amman to the border is a steady descent. Just before the border, we had to switch taxis because the first driver was not authorized to pass through the pre-border checkpoint. (At least this was how I understood what he explained in broken English.) When we got in the new taxi, the driver said. "Welcome to Amman," which seemed funny because we were actually leaving Amman.

The Jordanian side of the border is a study in ineffeciency. There are no signs and no real lines; people just crowd around windows, and you can only guess which window you need. Consequently, Emily and I stood in the mass of people arriving in Jordan for about twenty minutes before we realized our mistake. When we got to the departure side, there were five workers, and the whole operation reminded me of the post office in our Baltimore neighborhood or Kinko's pretty much anywhere: there is always at least one person doing nothing. This person could likely help you; maybe this person will help you in a few minutes. But not right now. When we finally got on the bus to cross the border we met a father and son from Venezuela, and they reported that when they arrived at 9:30 am, they had to wait for the Passport Control guy to finish his breakfast in the other room before he would stamp them through.

Once on the Israeli side, things moved a little faster, but it was still slow from the tight security. At last, we were on the bus that dropped us off near the Damascus Gate, and we walked up to the Albright, where we took a well-deserved nap. Since I had signed us out for dinner that night, we went to the nearby Azzahra Hotel and ate. The waiter recognized us from the Friday before and mentioned that it was my third Friday in a row there. (I had gone by myself the Friday before Emily got here.) He brought us a free dessert, which Emily didn't like; luckily, I was up to the task of eating both.

Unfortunately, we didn't take any photos this day (or the next). We were both feeling sick, and there weren't many photo ops. I would have loved to document the scene at the border crossing, but I didn't think either side would appreciate someone photographing their security measures -- who knows how long we would have been stuck at the border then!

Day Seven

On Thursday we woke up to a beautiful morning in Eilat and caught a taxi to the Yitzhak Rabin (Arava) border crossing. It was a relatively easy process to cross into Jordan at that checkpoint; everything is run pretty efficiently. While we were waiting at the passport check, we met a lovely Austrian couple. (Andrew enjoyed a brief conversation in German with them...I looked on enviously, wishing I knew how to speak at least one other language. It's officially on my lifetime "to do" list!) Their names were Thomas and Sarah, and they were very nice. We agreed to split a taxi to Petra, which was about a 2 hour ride from the border (and would only cost us 10 dinars apiece - approx. $12 - split four ways). Our taxi driver, Aref, was wonderful. He stopped a few places along the way to point out various sites of interest, including a coffee stand (where he treated the coffee drinkers - Andrew and Thomas - to some Arabic coffee) and an overlook with beautiful views of the Jordanian countryside. We liked Aref so much that we asked if we could have a picture of him, to remember him by:When we reached Petra at about 11 am, Aref dropped us off at the Sela Hotel, where we had a reservation, and we bid our new friends good-bye. The experience at the Sela Hotel was less than desirable. Andrew had booked us a room online through a booking agent, and even after showing the hotel employees the reservation confirmation online, they refused to honor it. They then informed us that they had one available room, but it would cost 50 dinars each rather than the 50 dinars total that was part of the original reservation agreement. The kicker was that the guy told us we could only pay cash for the room. He claimed that the credit card system for the whole city of Petra was down for the last two days, and refused to even try to swipe Andrew's card. Needless to say, we hightailed it out of that place...it was all very shady.

At this point, we were pretty stressed...we were in an unfamiliar foreign city with nowhere to stay. In desperation we tried the Amra Palace, a very nice hotel that Andrew had actually tried to book a few weeks ago, but was told that it was packed full. When we told the front desk manager at the Amra Palace our saga, he was incredibly nice. We waited in the comfortable lounge while he scrambled to try and find us a room. The staff there were very gracious; they brought us glasses of fresh pomegranate juice while we anxiously waited, praying that something would work out. Our prayers were answered - the manager found us a room for the night! We were so relieved. (And doggone it, wouldn't you know, when the manager swiped Andrew's credit card, it worked!! Miracle of miracles!) We had the last laugh on the Sela Hotel, though -- see our review of the Sela Hotel experience on TripAdvisor.com.

Anyway...from the Amra Palace it was on to Petra. I'm pretty much going to let the following pictures speak for themselves, though they don't really do the place any justice. It was just unbelievable to see these huge structures carved right into the sandstone. It was absolutely breathtaking...one of the most amazing places I've ever seen.

Upon entering the site, there is a 1.2 km. path called the Siq. (Pronounced "seek," not "sick"; unfortunately, Andrew found the pun "Siq and you shall find" irresistible.) It leads you to Petra's most photographed monument, the Treasury, which was featured in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. Here's a shot of our approach to the Treasury from the Siq: Here's the Treasury itself:
And again, another obligatory camel shot:
From the Treasury, we decided to hike the 800+ stairs to the Monastery (Al-Deir). It was quite a hike! Here's a view from the trail up to the Monastery:
And a shot of us upon our arrival, about half an hour later:
Another short hike up from the Monastery was "Sacrifice Lookout" - I'm not entirely certain of the history of that name, though I'm fairly certain that I'd be able to come up with a decent hypothesis! The view was indescribable. Hopefully these pictures will give you a sense of the place:
Here's a shot of us on our way back down toward the Monastery:
By the time we made it back down to the Treasury and through the Siq, our legs were about ready to fall off. Then we had another thirty minute walk uphill to our hotel, where we rested for a couple of hours before heading out again at 8:30 pm to a special tour called Petra By Night, which involves a walk through the Siq, lined with hundreds of luminaries, to the Treasury. Once at the Treasury (which was also illuminated by hundreds of candles), Bedouin musicians treated us to their traditional music and also some hot tea. Between the stillness of the night, the majesty of the Treasury, and the unbelievable view of the night sky, it was a pretty magical experience.

We had no problem falling asleep that night!

Day Six

This day started off early, as we left the Albright a little after 6 am on our way down south. We were planning to hit Qumran and Masada, take a dip in the Dead Sea and finish up in Eilat, where we were scheduled to drop off the Diahatsu at 4 pm. We made great time and got to Qumran at 7 am...only to find out it didn't open until 8 am! A silence descended on our car, as we realized we could have slept for another full hour that morning. Instead we spent an exciting hour in the parking lot of a nearby gas station:


Not the start we were hoping for, but we did manage to snooze in the car a little bit. I should point out here that Emily's cold was at its worst this day, but she was a real trooper at every stop. She was even a good sport when she learned I had dragged her out of bed an hour prematurely.


I personally thought that walking around the Judean desert in the hot sun and surveying the ruins of an ancient apocalyptic Jewish community would be the perfect cure for her cold. Such were my hopes when the gates to Qumran opened at 8:00. This site is where most scholars believe the Dead Sea Scrolls were produced, although the scrolls themselves were found in eleven caves in the hills around the site. Here, for example, is Cave Four, which is the closest cave to Qumran and can be seen from the site:


The site itself is rather small but interesting. We saw the whole thing in a hour, and that was including the hokey video they show in the visitor center. The most prominent feature of the site is its multiple ritual baths; there was an aqueduct that ran through the site filling the baths and several cisterns. Here is an example of such a bath:

From the scrolls we know that the community took ritual baths rather frequently. Another highlight was the "scribes' room," which was a two-story building where the scrolls were most likely copied. Here I am in that room (for some reason I look like I only have one arm):
Well, it turns out that Jewish apocalyptic communities do not cure the common cold, so we tried the next best thing: exposure to the sun in an isolated Jewish city whose residents committed mass suicide rather than yield to the Roman army. That's right: Masada. There are two ways to get up to Masada; you can hike up the "Snake Path," which would take appoximately forever, or take the cable car, which ferries you to the top in a matter of minutes. I have not taken a cable car anywhere since my childhood trip to Stone Mountain, GA, so the decision was a no-brainer. Here is the view of the Dead Sea as we neared the top of the mountain:
The site itself covers the entire top of the mountain, and the story goes that with the Romans on the brink of capturing the city, its residents decided that each man should kill his own family, and once this was done, they appointed ten men to kill all the men of the city. Among the last ten men, one was appointed to kill the other nine. And then that last guy killed himself. When the Romans stormed in the next day, the joke was on them. With this cheery story in mind, we
spent about an hour zigzagging the various ruins. It was pretty hot up there, but Emily soldiered through it all, including the pigeon coop. One of the best parts of the site was the views it offered on all sides:

Once we got down, we zipped along the Dead Sea and stopped at En Boqeq for a dip in the Dead Sea. Only as we were arriving did we read in the guide book that the water at En Boqeq is not the real Dead Sea but is a massive reservoir pumped in from the Dead Sea. So much for keepin' it real. Despite these shortcomings, the water is still salty and we still floated. The strangest part about floating in the (not quite) Dead Sea is that it is really hard to stay vertical while you are wading; the water is always pushing you onto your stomach or your back.


After this stop, we head to Eilat, which was our final destination. It is a resort city on the northern tip of the Red Sea and about a three hour drive from the Dead Sea. The drive is almost all through the desert, which was beautiful in its barrenness. At last, as we neared Eilat, like an oasis for weary desert caravaneers, an ice cream shop emerged on the horizon. Cookies'n'Cream never tasted so good! Refreshed from the ice cream, we pulled into Eilat thirty minutes later and dropped off the car. (Thank you, Diahatsu Sirion, for five days of quality four-cylinder performance!)


At the Eilat Guest House, where we stayed, every floor had a porch that overlooked the Red Sea. Here is Emily as we set off for an evening dip:


It was a refreshing swim after a long day of traveling and we were happy to get to bed early that evening, especially considering our big plans for Day Seven!

Days Four (continued) and Five

DAY FOUR (continued)

We just got back from Jordan today (i.e., Day Eight, to be recounted in a future post) and are able to pick up where we left off. Our next to last stop on Day Four was Nazareth. All along we have been using J. Murphy-O'Connor's Oxford Archaeological Guide to the Holy Land and have not been disappointed. About Nazareth Murphy-O'Connor writes, "Modern Nazareth is dominated by the massive basilica of the Annunciation: visible from anywhere in the town, it serves as a perfect orientation point."

We have strong evidence to the contrary; leaving Sepphoris in our little Diahatsu we pulled into Nazareth and circled the city (note I didn't say "town"...Nazareth is actually the largest Arab city in the country) approximately four times before we located the basilica. [Emily jumps in here to say that she was so frustrated that she was ready to skip the stop altogether.] This was only half the battle. Once located it took us another three laps around the basilica to figure out how to get in.

Finally, we parked the car. Of course, there are no lots, no meters, no parking rules; you just find a spot and hope the car is still there when you return. Because our car had two large El Dan (our rental company) stickers on the side, our Diahatsu basically screamed "TOURIST," and we were especially anxious leaving it alongside a turnabout. Luckily we were on a mission from God.

Anyway, here is the facade of the not-so-visible basilica of the Annunciation

Once inside you see that the courtyard is lined with mosaics of Mary from all over the world.

The basilica commissioned works from lots of different countries, and we really enjoyed the international flavor. The inside of the church features more depictions of Mary, including one from the United States:
After leaving the church and finding the Diahatsu where we left it, we hustled to reach the top of Mt. Tabor before it closed at 5 pm. According to Father Murphy-O'Connor, "The perfect breast shape of Mount Tabor excites awe and wonder"; this is perhaps true, but we could not share his excitement because it was already getting dark. After zigzagging up the mount, we reached the church at 4:55 pm, snapped some photos, took in the spectacular views (our photos came out a little too dark), then slowly worked our way back down. After this long day, we drove back to Jerusalem and went straight to bed.

DAY FIVE

Worn out from our excursion to the Galilee region, we slept in this morning and decided that we'd head to Bethlehem to visit the Church of the Nativity. Bethlehem wasn't on our original itinerary, but we decided that it was definitely a stop that shouldn't be missed. Because it is in the West Bank, however, Bethlehem can be a tricky destination. We didn't feel comfortable driving our rental car, because a) it is plastered with El Dan stickers and b) it has bright yellow Israeli plates (the Palestinian Territories have green & white plates). Luckily, Andrew has befriended the director of the Tantur Ecumenical Institute, which is run by the University of Notre Dame and just happens to be located a stone's throw from the Bethlehem checkpoint. After a quick call to Fr. Mike, he assured us that we could park at Tantur and walk to the checkpoint.

My mental image of Bethlehem prior to this trip was the city we sing about on Christmas Eve - a quaint, peaceful "little town." This dreamy vision was shattered after going through the metal detectors, seeing the enormous cement barrier that runs along the city, separating it from Jerusalem (think Berlin Wall), and facing the aggressive taxi drivers on the other side. Nevertheless...the Church of the Nativity was our destination, and it was well worth the hassle of getting there!

The Church of the Nativity, as one would imagine, marks the site where Jesus was born. Here is a picture of us at the entrance:

That door is not an optical illusion; it really is that small. It's called "the door of humility" - the arch above the door shows the entrance's original size. It was made smaller around 1500 AD to prevent looters from bringing their carts in.

Once inside, there's much to see: a portion of the beautiful mosaic floor from the 4th century, faded portraits of saints painted onto the red marble columns, and dozens of oil lamps strung throughout the nave. Underneath the church is a network of caves thought to be the place where Jesus was born, and where Mary placed him in the manger. Here's a photo of me kneeling before the Birth Altar: Beneath the altar is a 14-point silver star and a space to reach down and touch the original rock at the site. It was a beautiful, reflective place to pray.

Next to the Church of the Nativity is St. Catherine's Church, where midnight Mass is celebrated and broadcast around the world every Christmas Eve:

The tomb and study of St. Jerome, as well as the tomb of his patroness Paula, are located in the same network of caves beneath the church. That study is where Jerome produced a Latin Vulgate translation of the Bible.

After Bethlehem we drove to the City of David, which is where David first occupied Jerusalem. It is located just south of the Temple Mount, outside the walls of the Old City. After a few hours touring that site, we headed back for a nap before enjoying a special guest dinner at the Albright.