Thirty Things, number 4: Visit Rachelle in Israel.

On the platform waiting for the train to the airport. Its 7:10am In my mind its dark and cold and raining. But that would be the return journey. Only two of those things are true though for the start of my brief adventure. There was definitely rain. There was more water coming up through my shoes from the bottom than through the top, and the cold was cutting through my cardigan. What a lovely June morning. I don’t think I really believed that in five hours time I would be stepping off the plane in Tel Aviv, that I was going somewhere I’d never really even considered going, and that it would be 36degrees. Thirteen months in London and I can’t remember what 36degrees felt like. 

So, I get my soggy self to Luton and take off my cons in the ladies and dry them, and my socks, under the hand dryer for a bit. I go through customs, amazed at hearing other people say things like “oh, but do I need to put my toiletries in clear bag?”, but a bottle of (non-Kosher) Australian wine duty free and get on my plane. I don’t particularly like airports and the whole pre-flight ordeal, but I’ve found that I do very much like visiting friends and seeing new places. In my last post I mentioned my fear of missing out. I’m slightly ashamed to say it resurfaced in Jerusalem, along with its twin phobia, my fear of wasting time. This did, at once point turn me into a teary, grumpy and short tempered guest, but I got over it, so lets not dwell on it now. 

Instead, I’ll run through my itinerary, reporting on the highlights, the fantastic food, the hours of lazing about in the sunshine – the sort of things that summer holidays are made of. 

Friday  - night. 

Rachelle picks me up from the airport and we drive home via an Arab village, Abu Ghosh, where we eat amazing Hummus that makes all western attempts at the dip pale into insignificance, its simply a different food. The Hummus of Amazingness is paired with bread (which obviously I don’t eat), vegetables, beans, meat and fresh, hot felafel which, unsurprisingly, turns out to be Felafel of Amazingness. Back at Rachelle’s house we drink the wine I bought duty free, eat chocolate at chat simultaneously about nothing and everything, it’s what we do. 

Saturday - Morning

Today, most of Jerusalem is strictly observing the Sabbath. Being the gentiles that we are, we go on a road trip, breaking Sabbath straight away simply by driving a car. We pick up our friend Annie, who happens to be in Jerusalem for the week and we stop off at the Dead Sea for our obligatory float. Rachelle, and others I know who have been, talk up the pain factor so much that I was surprised to only feel a slight tingling sensation. I actually loved my short swim, loved the early morning heat of the desert, the water that felt warm like a bath and thick like soup and would have stayed much longer were it not that a drive north to The Galilee awaited us. So, shortly after 10am we’re back in the car, I’m struggling to not sing Joshua Fought The Battle of Jericho, or the Veggie Tales number, Promised Land. As we crossed the border out of the promised land, we had our passports checked, got out of the car to put our bags through security, and experienced that most awkward moment of being watched by soldiers and not able to start the car. Soldier comes over to investigate, scares the car into submission, it starts and off we go. 

Saturday – Afternoon

About 1:30 we find a resort by the Sea of Galilee, pay our 50 or so sheckles for a day pass and head down to the designated swimming area. The fresh water feels comparatively thin and cold. We ate a lunch of Israeli style salad (finely diced cucumber, carrot and peppers) with cashews, followed by chocolate brownie, then plenty of time sitting about in the shade and a soak and a splash in the pool – thirteen months in London also making an outdoor swimming pool seem like an absolute novelty. We drive back to Jerusalem arriving in time to be shouted at by orthodox Jews who dislike the fact that we’re driving. This was a surreal moment and I felt a bit like I was in a movie, or I was a famous person or politician turning up to an event and being greeted by protesters. I really regret not capturing the intensity of those men in a photo.

Saturday – Evening

We go out for dinner, not everything is shut, and I buy a huge salad with super creamy goat’s cheese, plus chips and wine – which is awesome as I have quite a weakness, especially in summer, for the combination of chips and wine. 

Sunday – Morning

I join a New Europe tour of the old city at 8:45. Its old as in medieval rather than ancient. It is already quite hot, but I’m still enjoying it as a welcome relief from London’s drizzly 10degree start to summer. Our guide tells us that in Jerusalem, particularly in the old city, tradition is more important than whether or not something actually happened. The old city reminds me quite a bit of Venice and the Vatican. It’s a labyrinth of narrow twisted streets, markets, populated by religious locals and pilgrims and stray cats. It smells of spices and strong coffee, of garbage rotting in the heat and stale urine. 

At the end of the tour I meet up with Rachelle and we go for brunch. I eat scrambled eggs and mushrooms, with Israeli salad, hummus, cream cheese, grilled peppers and smoked salmon. Sitting at an outdoor coffee, brunching it up, enjoying coffee with the woman who taught me to be a coffee snob, its just like old days at Envy, only bacon-less. 

Sunday – Afternoon

We sit on the balcony and play a game of scrabble, which will surely have ballads and long books of heroic verse written about it, it was that epic.  Naturally Rachelle won, but I only lost by about 16 points, which is probably a personal best. I then had a wander through the city, and was visited by my fear of wasting time, battled the need to cry, again was visited by memories of holidays in Northern Ireland and my moment of panic when a day trip to Newcastle went wrong because I’d failed to understand the unreliability of the Ulsterbus service. I was struck by the belief that whatever I chose to do for the rest of the day would be wrong and that I had wasted my day hanging about. This was annoying as I thought I had got much better at holidays and relaxing and enjoying the now. 

Sunday – Evening

Rachelle cooks a stunning dinner of chicken schnitzel, rosemary pots (erm, potatoes), cinnamon pumpkin and eggplant. Full points for flavour, negative points for breaking her own rule that no meal is complete without a green vegetable. 

Gradually I pull myself out of my fear of wasting time slum, my negativity and grumpiness and go back down to the old city. Annie and I have a wander through the Jerusalem Festival of Light, admired some of the art, and stood in confusion trying to assess the rest. I bought jewellery, and managed to not pay the asked for price (though probably still paid too much), and have sadly since discovered that when I bought my ring I did not take into account how much my hands had swollen in the heat, and its too big, now that I’m back in London. 

Monday – Morning

Rachelle and I go to the fruit and vegetable markets. I admire the fruit – the summer fruit, taste some halva, buy dates –which were fantastic, who knew I liked dates? – photographed bags of spices and piles of fresh fruit, because thirteen months in London also makes great big displays of cherries, watermelon, giant avocados, nectarines and peaches seem like the most wonderful thing. We drink coffee and I buy loose leaf tea. 

I then go on another adventure with Annie. We go to the religious sites in the old city. I observe the religious tourists in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, lining up to stand on the ground where Jesus stood, only he didn’t because the church is too young by quite a few hundred years, though possibly he stood on the ground beneath the church’s foundations. I admire their commitment, but I’m also saddened by this display that seems more superstitious than faith motivated, though without having spoken to them, I guess I’ll never know. 

Next we walk through security and cover our shoulders with our scarves and walk down to the Western Wall. Again, I’m more watching the tourists, the religious, the fanatics, the deeply prayerful and reverent, than seeing the wall. Because, sure it’s old, and its amazing simply for its oldness, but no more than any other old thing. 

Speaking of old things, we went to the City of David and descended the stairs to Hezekiah’s tunnel, dug, I understand, in the 8th Century BCE. This was a bit of wet, dark, claustrophobic experience, but amazing, because, well it really is very old, and its straggering to think that this underground tunnel was built without modern technology.  And once it was no longer needed, its been left, under the ground for all that time, once a highly practical and necessary piece of engineering  and now being trampled through by me and countless others, a leftover of a time long gone.

Eventually, back in the daylight, we begin the slow walk back up to the old city and then to the city centre where we were staying. We stopped off by the remains of the pools of Bethesda, where I presume Jesus really did walk. The pools are now surrounded by beautiful, peaceful gardens and maintained by the church of St Ann. If I’d been staying in Jerusalem for another week I think I could easily have gone back to these gardens just to sit and read. 

Monday - Afternoon

Back at Rachelle’s we sit on the balcony, drink tea and pray. Then I’m on my way back to Tel Aviv, having the pleasure of multiple security checks and my bag fully searched (yep, that’s my underwear on display there).

Monday – Evening

 I doze a bit on the plane, and eventually we land in Luton. Its nearly midnight. Its raining. I don’t seem to have enough clothes on. Its cold. Somehow I stay awake on the train back to St Pancras. I get a night ride to Paddington, Its now approaching 3am. I realise I’ve been in transit for 12 hours. You could be half way to Australia in that time. For the first time in London I hail a cab. I’ve no idea what it will cost to go the short distance from Paddington to my home, a small fortune no doubt, and I have hardly any cash on me,  but I can’t be bothered waiting for another bus. About ten, the driver tells me. He doesn't take cards. Ok, I say, I think I have that. And I get in. Tell you what, he says when we’re half way and the metre is up to £7.00, I’ll just charge you £10.00 – even if it goes over. Oh. I say, surprised. It gets to twelve and a few pence. I discover I actually have £15.00. But he doesn’t let me pay. Just £10, he repeats. Unwilling to be generous just because, he starts making some excuse about how we got help up at traffic lights. So I thank him and pay, and I stumble into bed, thinking that was a pretty good end to a pretty good trip.