Akko, Tel Aviv and some more Jerusalem. Israel, shalom.

I apologize to anyone who reads this thing (So I should just save some time and apologize to my mother) as I haven’t really been keeping it up. That’ll happen.

Believe it or not, I’m still mindfucked over Israel. I made some sense of it for the magazine, and wrote a travel piece for this month’s issue. T’save everyone some time, below is the text. More photos, as well. Hope someone’s happy. I’ll be back on this thing later this weekend.

(PS-Anyone heard the “I’m Not There” Soundtrack? I can’t think of a better reason t’get up in the morning)

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Picking over pieces of “Beyaz peynir” high above the Mediterranean Sea something dawns on me. I don’t have a damn clue what I’m going to be feeding my body (Besides necessary rations of Marlboro and the local brew) for the next week.

I suppose it shouldn’t matter. But when you’re on the road, those trivial little matters somehow become inter-relatable. And you never want to become a cautionary tale, but spending a week traipsing through Israel has certain implications. And on Turkish Airlines, (The only airline that flies from Istanbul to Tel Aviv) I began to get a little concerned about all of that.

And then customs in Tel Aviv proves to be as easy a process as getting nauseous on a mini-bus. The affable dude at the exchange bureau took our YTL with open arms and a decent rate. Not one hour in Israel and I was feeling safe yet oddly confused at how easy the process was. This felt like less traipsing and more of an organized tour.

We soon caught a “Sherut” (Re:Dolmus) to Jerusalem. Traipsing! But in a land which owes so much of its history to fate I should have watched what I wished for. Our daft and seemingly senile Sherut driver turned what was supposed to be a 90 minute trip into a 3 hour joy ride. Only because the back doors flew open on Israel’s highway sending me into the trunk with little regard for my limbs did the driver decide to take us all the way to the Old City of Jerusalem.

There we found room and board in a Palestinian-run guesthouse with a righteous rooftop view. It’s easy to find cheap accommodation in Jerusalem, especially if you’re willing to sleep on the roof.

The next morning we were bound for Ein Gedi and the Dead Sea. We got some idea of what Israel was all about that morning; I stood waiting for a city bus with a Marlboro after a breakfast of what looked and tasted like a foot long Simit.

Boarding that bus got me wondering. Before we left, we were bombarded with acute observations. “But Israel is so dangerous! Why would you want to leave Turkey?” Truth be told, I was slightly trembling as the bus pulled up. It’s one of those moments where you assure yourself the worse won’t happen, though you don’t have control over matters like that.

But the bus driver was as affable as the entire country. It was obvious we weren’t from around those parts.

“Where are you?” he asked us.

It wasn’t so much a grammatically poor question as it was an esoteric and existential one. I felt a little stoned and ended up feeling that way for the entire week.

It was easy to slip through Palestinian checkpoints and into the Dead Sea in this state. Floating lifeless in the water with an endless sun overhead isn’t so much calming as it was hospitable and stimulating. Though that dip and the impending hike in Ein Gedi national park was spent in solitude, it occurred to me that stimulating and hospitable is how I’d remember Israel for years to come. And I was only one day in.

The next day I awoke with a painful sunburn; apparently there would be a few things that would follow me around this trip. Jerusalem proved itself to be a walkable city, as long as you don’t mind spending half your time wedged between tourists and local shopkeepers screaming at a vicious volume. But it’s all worth it.

As I walked towards the Wailing Wall, I began to take stock. (As you so often do on the road) I was within five feet of the thing and I started to wonder how I was going to write all this down. Every year thousands of people save their coins to make a pilgrimage to a wall and I spent the morning haggling over the price of a t-shirt. But it also occurred to me that I was taking this assignment for this little magazine of ours much too seriously.

I should note that I only get excited about religion listening to Bob Dylan and Joan Baez do “With God On Our Side.” But touching the wall gives you the same feeling you get rolling upto any other iconic piece of furniture around the world: a gigantic nothing. And it feels alright.

I stood there in the center of the turbulent country and felt void of any surroundings. It’s a terrible thing for a journalist to be unaware of his surroundings and totally vulnerable to everyone around him, but it’s a great thing for a human being to feel.

Throughout Jerusalem, it wasn’t difficult to find Arabs, Jews and Christians living in peace together. And I wondered why so many people consider that to be an impossible task for only about three seconds. Standing at the Wailing Wall, a massive piece of massive history, I realized I don’t have any clue what anybody from Jerusalem goes through. I wonder if any tourists do; but that’s no reason not to go.

After the wall, we searched for schrwarmas and falafels. I’m sure to be ostracized for insisting that no combination of sliced meat, vegetables and bread will ever come close to what I had that day.

Thinking we had a feel for the common folk in the city, we tried to ascend a little higher the next day. We climbed along the walls of the Old City and amongst camels and mules to the Mount of Olives for the best view of the city. The climb was arduous but rewarding; by the time I got back down I was a trembling mess. Though the faces remained friendly, they were beginning to show their underlying suspicion for tourists.

I began to feel uncomfortable in Jerusalem, as if I hadn’t paid my dues. My ego had ratted me out once again. We had to move We caught a ride up the coast with some American hikers towards the 5000 year old city of Akko.

After wandering aimlessly for the city’s “Other” hostel (Which evidently, regardless of what you hear or read, does not exist) we bowed our heads before the hostel’s manager. We’d seen her an hour earlier but thought we could find a better price elsewhere. She knew better, but still opened her home to us.

We awoke the next morning to the smell of the sea. As we made our way into the town, we realized Lonely Planet once again steered us into the right direction; this town was as timeless as they claim it is. Though the entire city is one gigantic fortress, its citizens remain liberated, happy and open to the few visitors they have.

I practically fell into a football match with four Israeli youngsters behind our hostel. My footwork was a little better than horrendous and I likely enjoyed the actual match more than they did. I was assuaging my embarrassment with a Maccabee on the hostel patio after the match when I realized what those kids really enjoyed about the match; twenty minutes after it had finished they were still having a good laugh at my many grunts, moans, tumbles and general inconsistencies. It was nice to know that these kids didn’t feel pressured to let the tourists to Israel know how it all really works.

From there, we set out for a fish dinner. Seeing as how we had allocated 15% of our total budget for this meal alone, we had high hopes. I’d like to say that the night began promising, but it sort of rode that promising wave until 3 in the morning. As I was regaling lady luck with my tales of woe from the afternoon’s match, a voice caught us from two floors above.

“Hello! Welcome to Akko! Would you like to join me for a drink?”

And we gave into the first rule of obligation on the road; never turn down a drink. But as the conversation increased with the drinks, we began to get pekish. We’d covered every topic under the sun by this point and been introduced to 3 of his 13 brothers. Apparently “The Captain” as he so righteously called himself was the town’s social director. He’d clap and 3 fresh fish were brought to his door. Just as quickly, he’d severed their heads and tossed them back into the Mediterranean.

He cooked the fish on coals by candlelight while never letting our glasses of whiskey and water (We’d moved on) fall below half. And when the fish was ready, we didn’t eat it. We savoured that shit.

It was when one of his 96 nephews appeared with a Narghile that things began to make sense. It was black licorice flavoured; I usually reserve anything that tastes like that for the dogs. But I hauled on that thing and learned a little about tolerance. If “The Captain” could be so tolerant of greasy backpackers to allow them into his home, and if everyone I met in Israel could be tolerant of one another (We saw no signs of violence whatsoever) then surely I had it in me to tolerate some black licorice.

Before we called it a night, “The Captain” insisted on telling us our fortunes. He told lady luck she’d live forever, though he wasn’t so sure about me. He told me to return the next morning for something that would help me. I was too hungover to face him again. But I reckon if he could see my future, he would’ve known I wasn’t going to return anyway.

On the train ride out of Akko we laughed about my misfortune, but laughing about the beauty of Israel soon took over. But I wasn’t up for laughing as I left Israel and I wasn’t for a week afterwards; my journalistic mission over, I was only a human now and I had a lot to think about.

Blues on the beach. It really doesn't get better.