I got an email about a week and a half ago from Ida Becker, who is currently traveling the world for an entire year. She wrote that she was coming through Tel Aviv and did I have time for a visitor. Did I? Did I?
I did a little seated Dance of Joy and responded YES and wrote her my phone number so she could call when she arrived. Since Border Control can take hours, especially since she had been to Syria, there was no way to know exactly what time she would arrive. But arrive she did, that little blond life preserver in my sea of self-pity. When she got out of the taxi, we hugged, and then we just looked at each other for a few seconds. It was strange. I met Ida while teaching yoga in Mount Pleasant, South Carolina. She was traveling around the world. I was standing in front of my apartment in Tel Aviv, Israel. Surreal is the word that springs to mind. Then we went upstairs and talked about her travels and my adjustment to living here and then we talked about boys and how to find a good bikini wax in a foreign country. Girl stuff. We walked around the city, stopped to introduce her to a few of my friends, ate bagels (such a stereotype--they're actually not easy to find here), then she waited while I went to therapy, passing the time by sleeping on a bench on Sheinkin Street. Evidently, all A
merican hangups about What Is Proper go out the window when you've spent a few weeks in Africa, convalescing from a motorcycle accident. After that, we went to yoga. It felt very full-circle. Met at yoga, and were then going to yoga in Israel. After that, Hummus and Pita and pjs. I let Ida wear some of my clean jammies. This is her in my living room.The next day she was leaving for a kibbutz in the North to visit family friends. Her mother had sent a package to them of some necessities that she couldn't get just anywhere on the road. She stayed on the kibbutz for 2 nights and then came back to the TLV, arriving late at night, since the trains don't run on Shabat and she had to wait until sundown on Saturday to come back.
We decided to go to Jerusalem the next day. Somehow, she only arranged for five days in Israel. And you can't come to Israel and not see Jerusalem. It would be like going to Charleston and not trying grits (I did, and they were gross). It would be like going to Maine and not eating lobster (we were clearly not kosher Jews). It would be like going to Minnesota and not freezing your ass off (longest year of my life).
But I digress.
The next morning, we took a bus to Jerusalem. They run every 15 minutes between the TLV and the Holy City, but we somehow managed to get crowded onto a nearly-full bus anyway. Ida sat in front of me, and I sat next to a cute young man and his M-16. You actually get used to that after a while. The ride is just over and hour, but, once we got into Jerusalem, we got stuck in dead-locked traffic. I figured it must be a car accident or something at the intersection up ahead.
As an aside, I must add that the irony of a person with a panic disorder moving to the Middle East does not escape me. I went to Jerusalem for an interview at the Jerusalem Post, and 3 days later there was a pigu'a (terrorist attack) on the street the bus station is on. Some lunatic Palestinian Israeli (and I'm not saying all Palestinians are lunatics, so let's not all get our panties in a bunch) drove a bulldozer into a bus not unlike the one I took only a few days before. 3 killed, several injured. It happens. It's terrible to say it like that, but it happens here. That only a few weeks later, my mind went to 'simple traffic accident' and not 'another pigu'a, my God, we're all gonna die' is a testament to the work of Dr. Noel Hunt, Wonder-Psychiatrist who I miss nearly as much as my family.
Anyway, Ida and I debated for a while about getting out of the bus, as many were, and walking, but I wasn't sure where we were, although I was sure we were near the bus station. One of the buildings looked familiar. After about 20 minutes of sitting in a non-moving bus, we decided we could get out and find someone non-Haredi to ask (Haredism is the most theologically-conservative form of Judaism. Even if I had asked, they would probably not respond, as I had not yet covered up my cleavage with the scarf I brought). As soon as we got out of the bus, I asked--in Hebrew--another young soldier if he speaks English. When he said 'yes, a little', I asked if he knew where the bus station is. He indicated that we should follow him. Such a nice boy. A nice boy, his large army-issue backpack, and his M-16. He led us straight to the bus station, like any nice boy with an M-16 would do. He looked about 15. He was probably just 18, just beginning his 3-year service.
Jerusalem is not like Tel Aviv. It is much more conservative. It is a well-known phenomenon that young people are leaving Jerusalem in droves, and leaving it mostly to the Ultra-Orthodox. There are still stores where you can buy tank tops and tiny skirts (when did skirts get so tiny, anyway?), and they even have Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf cafes. And McDonalds (Thanks, America!). But there is a different feeling in Jerusalem. It is a place that demands respect, although it is not always given.
We asked at the bus station how to get to HaKotel (the Western Wall, or Wailing Wall, as it is sometimes called) in the Old City. It was either another bus or a 30-minute walk. We were both up for the walk, even after I warned Ida that we were, essentially, climbing a mountain. Along the way, I stopped again to ask directions. We were told that if we walked straight up Jaffa Street, we would hit the Jaffa Gate into the Old City. As we kept moving, and I realized we were suddenly going downhill with the Old City on our right, I decided to ask directions again. This time, I asked a British boy--in Hebrew--how to get to HaKotel. He answered in English. We ended up going through the Damascus Gate, which is the entrance to the Arab Quarter. I didn't think twice about it, but was alerted right away that we weren't in the Jewish Quarter, thanks to an aggressive 80 year-old man. As I tried to walk by him, he got in my path and touched my boob. I pushed harder to get past him, and, I kid you not, tripped over his cane as I got away. When I caught up with Ida, she asked me: "Did that old man grab your boob, too?"
Toto, I have a feeling we're not in the Jewish Quarter anymore. The Jewish men will stare, gawk, drool, comment, catcall, and even get up to talk to you, but, in my experience, they do NOT grab strange boobage. Cultural differences. Before we walked in, I put my scarf around my shoulders to cover my chest, as I would in any part of the Old City. That's just being respectful of the history. Ida, being a blond, covered her hair as well. She had already been in a few Arab countries, where they always pay special attention to blondes. One man followed us all the way through the shuk to the spot where the Jewish Quarter begins--and there is a security checkpoint. T
hey scanned our bags, like they do at the airport, and we walked past some shops, stopping and looking at the amazing things you can buy. The shops are more like kiosks, most of them, and they are, literally, carved into the stone of the old city. Every time you walk into a shop, you are walking into a cave. Then you walk out and there is sunlight and it is simply stunningly beautiful.Soon, we walked out into major sunlight into the piazza in front of ha'kotel ha'ma'aravi (the Western Wall). It is wildly impressive no matter how many times you see it. Ida uncovered her hair, as we were in complete sunlight, and it was hot that day. The wall has a dividing wall set up, so the men can pray separately from the women. For some reason, the men get a lot more space, and the women are crammed together like oysters in a can (another non-kosher reference). So it is. Before we went into the area set up for prayer, we stopped, having heard a man speaking English to his children. I asked if he would take a few pictures of us with each of our cameras. The best one is at the top of this page. It gives you a little perspective about the magnitude of the Wall.
Then we went and put our prayers in. This is the part where I always start
to cry. I write prayers onto little bits of paper and then try to cram them into virtually non-existent spaces in the Wall. Thankfully, God made me tall, and, since the women are separated from the men, I have an advantage when it comes to reaching the high cracks. Down at a normal-sized woman's level, bits of paper are jammed into tiny cracks until they become like mortar. As I always do, I asked a few small girls if they wanted me to put their prayers in. They said yes, and I placed their bits of paper, prayers for the future and hopes for world peace (I'm guessing) into a higher spot in the Wall. I also, as I always do, knelt down to pick up pieces of paper that had fallen out, and made room for those up high as well. I don't do this because I feel that God is there and is watching. I know God is there. But I do this because there is something about being here that brings out the good in me. I don't expect extra credit from God. It's just extra-nice to be nice there.I cried, I kissed the Wall, and then backed up until I reached Ida.
Then we decided to get back to the TLV. First, I needed something to drink. After we got out of the Old City, we were again on the Arab side of Modern Jerusalem. It was different. The signs were in Arabic and Hebrew, and no English. Before we hiked up the hill, I wanted a drink, no matter what Arab/Jew relations were like that day. So we walked down a street, looking for a place to buy Nestea Iced Tea (wildly popular and available in even the smallest kiosks in TLV and Jerusalem). But here, in a largely Arab-populated area, there was a difference. They had stores with empty shelves. The kiosks had some drinks, but it was all juices and brands I didn't know, and I wanted something familiar. We walked about 100 meters, seeing nothing but sad-looking kiosks with old-looking produce and nearly-empty cases, until an Arab man asked "What do you need?" Without thinking, I responded as I would in that situation anywhere else: "What I need is a Diet Coke" (I had changed my mind). He said he had Diet Coke in his shop, so I went in and bought my Diet Coke and a water, only vaguely aware of people looking at the Stars of David tattooed on my right wrist. I didn't feel animosity. I didn't feel any kind of threat. I just felt sad that on just the other side of the city I could bathe in Nestea Diet Iced Tea if I wanted to, and here, they don't even get half-liter bottles in their shops.
We walked back to the bus station, stopping at the Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf so Ida could get "the worst iced coffee" she'd ever had. We should have gone to the Cafe Hillel across the street. So it goes.
After our trip, I argued like a champ about taxi fare from the bus station to my house, finally getting the price I wanted from a taxi driver I spoke to in Hebrew. Israeli taxi drivers love to screw the Anglos. I always, always, always speak Hebrew to taxi drivers. Otherwise, I'll end up paying 3 or 4 times what the trip is worth.
Then, at my apartment, Ida and I worked on finding her a safe passage to Jordan, as she had to leave from Amman on Tuesday to get to Bangkok for the next leg of her trip. When we got hungry, we took a trip across the street to the AM/PM for chocolate, then came home for some girly talk, and, finally, sleep.
It was a fantastic day in Jerusalem.
The next day, there was another pigu'a, another Palestinian Israeli driving another bulldozer into another bus, in Jerusalem. That's just how it is. It's sad to say it like that, but that's just how it is.
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To see what Ida has really been doing, and why, here's the info (my Truth will appear on there sometime soon):
In an age when neighbors are disconnected and societies are fractured
due to religion, creed, politics, race, geography, socio-economics,
and countless other markers, the U Truth Project seeks to discover
commonalities within the human drama that supersede surface differences.
Armed with little more than a camera, a laptop, a copious supply of
anti-malaria pills, and a tentative route, adventurer Ida Antares
Becker is circumnavigating the globe and asking the people she meets
to share one statement of truth.
The U Truth Project is a web-based photo documentary that chronicles
the responses.
Join the journey ::
www.UTruthProject.org
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