Getting beyond wow

Israel is a land that amazes. It's part of the cradle of civilization, and is the center of the Western spiritual world. It buzzes with innovation, immigrants, ideas, and intentions. There's an overwhelming abundance of natural, historical, and cultural wonders, and all manner of incredible things. Israel is one "wow" after another.

This richness, actually, can be a problem for a visitor. It's too easy for Israel to become a collection of remarkable sites and stories, almost intimidating in its wonders that can keep us moving from one to the next, nudging out the emotional impact that the place has on us.

But visiting sites isn't the reason I travel. I travel to be challenged by the undercurrents, to force my stodgy brain into seeing the world in a way that may not make sense to me, to turn what I know upside down and hand it back to me on a platter fashioned from my own naivete. But when there is so much to see and do, and it's all so amazing, how does one find the space, the time, to make the trip more than marveling at one site after another?

In one of my guide books, "Israel: A Spiritual Travel Guide," the author, Rabbi Lawrence Hoffman, puts forth a solution. He calls it "something better than 'Wow!'." His idea is rooted in the fact that most American Jews are visiting Israel not because it's got great beaches, nice weather, and a lot of good-looking people. They're visiting because Israel has a meaning for them. And many of those visitors may be like I was, superficially aware of Israel as the spiritual center of the teachings I was raised with, but not really understanding what a visit there means to me personally.

Rabbi Hoffman's proposal is reflection. Reflection not just after visiting a site, but beforehand, too. And being able to find the sacred, the hopeful, and the personally provocative in ordinary places, not only in the spectacular sites.

I tried to practice his approach as best I could; there is only so much you can contemplate and anticipate beforehand  when you're in a place that constantly surprises you. But on the flight to Tel Aviv, I thought a great deal about what it would mean to be Jewish and not be the minority, about being able to share my time in Israel with family I see too seldom, and about speaking a language that I associate with a dining hall at summer camp.

In his book, Rabbi Hoffman reminds us that one of the things Jewish culture values most highly is memory. Memory is how we keep people alive, keep history alive, and keep learning from the past. His premise is that not only should we reflect on our experiences, but we should record those reflections so other people can learn from them. It's this sharing that gives our experiences their greatest value.

So this is my tribute to Rabbi Hoffman's suggestion. I hope those of you reading it discover an unknown tidbit, or find yourself thinking something new. Maybe you will even be encouraged to contemplate your own adventure, large or small, far or near, that up-ends what you know and makes you different than you were when you left home.

The complications of Jerusalem

The Western Wall with the plaza in front of it
and the Dome of the Rock behind.

Jerusalem is a head trip. No where in Israel have I found the contradictions of this country more pronounced, numerous, and dependent on each other than in the Holy City. I expected the old-versus-new contrast, the traditional versus the modern, the Hasidim, side curls bobbing, texting their kids. But I wasn't prepared for so many complexities.

Even dates aren't straightforward: Jerusalem has been inhabited since about 4000 BCE. BCE = Before the Common Era. It's a non-religious reference that avoids the need to describe dates as being "BC" or "AD." "Before Christ" and "Anno Domini" (the year of our lord) don't have the same pizzazz to non-Christians. The irony, of course, is that either way, you're measuring time from the year that Jesus was born, whether he's lordly to you or not.

See what I mean? Israel is complicated. And this is just a simple complicated thing. Wait till we start talking about people.

OK, so...Jerusalem's been populated for 6000 years, making it one of the oldest cities in the world. According to Wikipedia, "During its long history, Jerusalem has been destroyed twice, besieged 23 times, attacked 52 times, and captured and recaptured 44 times." That amounts to a major plundering of some sort about every 50 years.

Considering this, I shouldn't be surprised to find fistfuls of contradictions here. Some of them are particular to the Old City (which is only a small part of greater Jerusalem, a town of 750,000), and others reflect the larger, sometimes-incongruous reality of Israel, magnified by the intensity of an ancient city that is, in some ways, the Center of Almost Everything.

Jews in front of the Church of the Holy Sepulcre,
which is tended to by Muslim families.

The Old City occupies a mere third of a square mile, but it is perhaps the most religiously significant and politically contested plot of land on Earth. Being the site of the Jewish Temple, Jesus' crucifixion, and Mohammed's ascension to heaven, one might expect the Old City to feel very spiritual. But sometimes the crowds of camera-toting tourists and fast-talking trinket salesmen can make the Old City feel more hokey than holy. A good primer for this sensibility is to enter the Old City through the five-centuries-old Jaffa Gate, most easily accessible by walking the length of a rather unpious, gigantic, glitzy shopping mall (pick up some new tennies at the Adidas store on your way). Once inside, you might head to the Church of the Holy Sepulcre, one of Christianity's holiest places, constructed on the site where Jesus was crucified. The church has been looked after for centuries by a pair of Muslim families, and if you visit at the right time of day, you'll hear the Muslim call to prayer from a speaker just above the steps into the church plaza.

Garments of the three Abrahamic religions,
keffiyeh, talit, and vestments,
hang peacefully side by side in an Old City shop.

It is this incredible mish-mosh of diversity that, for me, defines Israel, especially Jerusalem. Here, the sacred and the profane, the strict and the forgiving, the meaningful and the meaningless all exist side by side, just as every language, religion, desire, motivation, and expectation fill the air, not quite mingling but not quite separate, either.

Ironically (this is all about irony, isn't it?), the many contradictions I've sensed in Israel coalesced for me at the very place I expected to feel the most grounded; at the Western Wall, the holiest site in Judaism, the Big One that any Jew coming to Jerusalem is here to see.

Here's how it went: After a long day of touring the city, my cousin Lynn and I finally arrived in the plaza of the Wall. Crowds of people, many of them Orthodox, were praying there, their faces to the wall, their backs to onlookers. A short distance behind them, in a large and lively ceremony, a new battalion of several hundred Israeli soldiers-in-training were graduating into the armed forces. Army officials spoke to them of their responsibility to keep the nation alive. They got berets, and afterward would receive their weapons.

A new battalion of Israeli soldiers graduate while
behind them Orthodox (and others) pray at the Western Wall.
(click to enlarge photo)

Sort of a poetic scene; Jews in their most Jewish of places, attending to the spiritual heart and the national needs of their homeland at the same time. I confess to feeling kind of moved by it, until I started really thinking about how all the parts of what I was seeing actually fit together.

All Jews in Israel must serve in the armed forces (Christians and Muslims do not)--all Jews except the Orthodox. They're exempt from compulsory military service, and their exemption is defended by arguments that their studies at Yeshiva (study of Jewish texts, which all Orthodox men participate in) are vital to the continued existence of the Jewish people, and so take precedence over military service. Yet it's the military's defense of Israel that assures the Orthodox of a continued place to pray, study, and live freely, without discrimination. 

To complicate things further, the vast majority of the Orthodox don't consider the men and women who defend Israel to be Jews. Many Orthodox view themselves as the real protectors of the state's Jewish character. They tend to keep their lives within their communities, but remain active in the Israeli politics. At the same time, a significant number of them reject the idea of the state of Israel. Why? Two reasons: for some, religious belief dictates that Jews should be given a homeland only by divine, rather than military and political forces. A second reason is that at times Zionism has held Jewish nationalism in higher regard than the Jewish religion. The Orthodox prefer a religious state over a nationalist one. Despite this, many of them receive financial benefits from the state. which do not make them rich, but which allow them to stay in Yeshiva beyond the age at which they would be fit to train for the military.

And, whether the Orthodox agree with it or not, these benefits and the state that provides them are defended by both men and women in a society that is one of the most egalitarian in the world. At the same time, within Orthodox communities, gender roles are strict, and men and women are segregated in prayer and in other venues as well.

A section of the Via Doloroso, the path Jesus
walked as he carried his cross. Most of the Via
runs through the city's Muslim Quarter.

After pondering these contradictions, my vision of "Jews together" morphed into something a lot more confusing: here were bright young people, ready to be sent to the desert and the borders of the country to protect the place they live, including the rights of the people behind them to pray at that Wall. And the people praying practice a lifestyle and maintain a belief system that doesn't recognize these soldiers as members of the same religious group or necessarily consider the state something that should be defended. Despite the crazily incongruous nature of it, the situation seemed as it should be, an illustration of human nature and the complexity of passion.

And in the midst of this mix, I wonder where I fit--not Orthodox, not secular, but a practicing Jew from the United States who thought she'd connect to some identity in the Promised Land but is discovering that it's not as simple as finding some star-of-David-shaped hole to plug myself into.

My head is spinning, and it's a beautiful thing.

All my life, this small place called Jerusalem has had a huge mythology for me. "Next year in Jerusalem!" is what Jews say about their next Seder, their next birthday, their next whatever. This is the shining city on the hill in the Land of Zion, this is the destination of our pilgrimage. And by some magical stroke of events, one small scene made this place much less mystical, and much more human that I ever imagined. More than ever, it is, for me, the Holy City.

Holy Bagel, Batman, there's no meat!

I've never been into Kosher, but as a vegetarian, it's gosh darned easy not to mix milk and meat. One of Jerusalem's great joys, for me, is the Dairy Restaurant. Holy Bagel, Batman, don't even think of putting your meat on that dairy table.

Men (and women) with guns

A soldier in Jerusalem, his machine gun slung in front of him,
looking out at the Temple Mount and the Western Wall.

When traveling in Israel, you have to get used to machine guns. Active members of the Israeli Defense Forces carry their weapons with them, wearing them as comfortably as if they were pajamas. Israeli soldiers often have an air of maturity that is belied only if you stop to notice how young their faces are.

All Israeli Jews (except the Orthodox; we'll get to that in the next post) are required to serve in the military, women for two years and men for three. Israel is a very nationalistic place, and it seems that many young people take their required military service in stride.

On any bus or crowded street in the country, you're likely to find soldiers, both male and female, carrying their automatic weapons. Initially, I was both nervous and fascinated, being in such close proximity to objects of deadly violence that I had only seen in pictures. But soon, I got used to the sight. After a while, I came to find it reassuring.

I feel safe in Israel, and the armed IDF soldiers on the streets contribute to that feeling. I know the soldiers were trained to use their guns, and that it was unlikely that there were untrained civilians carrying concealed weapons, like I might encounter in Arizona or other US states. But there's more to my feeling of security than an American gun-control argument.

Israel feels safe to me precisely because there everywhere you go you find an awareness that Israel is NOT safe. The country truly is in a dangerous struggle with the West Bank and Gaza. And whatever you may think of that conflict (lord knows, everyone has an opinion), soldiers on the street and security checkpoints at bus stations are ways in which Israel acknowledges and prepares for the reality of that conflict. The Jerusalem central bus station was bombed about three weeks before Lynn and I traveled there. Seeing security guards and metal detectors at the station seemed entirely appropriate, and less paranoid than the shoes-off security checks at US airports.

Lynn and Jay's house is out of reach of the rockets occasionally launched from Gaza into the Negev, but those rockets reach Be'er Sheva, where the Steins do much of their grocery and household shopping. Still, a person is Israel is much, much, MUCH more likely to be injured in an auto accident than by a rocket from Gaza. Somehow, Israelis seem able to keep this in perspective, and find a balance between acknowledging and preparing for violence, while seeing it more as a threat to the nation rather than a threat to themselves as individuals.

While there are no rockets at Lynn and Jay's house, what is very visible is the IDF Air Force practicing maneuvers over the Negev desert. The day we hiked to the Bedouin tent, there were many fighter jets overhead. Jay said he notices an increase in such flights when the Israeli army is anticipating some kind of action. Indeed, three days later was Nakba Day, a day of protest against Israel, in response to Israeli Independence Day the week before. It turned out there was violence on the borders with both Syria and Lebanon that day (while Lynn's family and I visited the artists' studios, which probably aren't more than a few hours' drive from Lebanon).

After being here for several days, I've developed a sense of what it means that Israel is a land in conflict with its neighbors, or at best in a tenuous peace with them. It leads to an entirely different sensibility than we have in the US, where our wars and the people who dislike us most are, by and large, far away. No matter what you think of the political situation in Israel, there is no denying that the sense of conflict is palpable, and that the Middle East region is one of shifting sands and changing alliances, populated by many men with guns.

Artists on a Kibbutz

David shows Rebekah how he puts together
the parts of a violin bow.

We spent our evening after Caesarea with Lynn and Jay's friends Amy and David, in a small town called Zichron Ya'akov, in the hills above the ancient ruins. They were extremely gracious hosts, and all of us seemed to get along like old friends.

In the morning, David generously invited us to his workshop, one of many artists' studios on a nearby kibbutz. David makes bows for some of the world's most  accomplished violin and viola players. It's a very precise art, and requires a deep sense of how a particular physical aspect of the bow--it's curvature or the weight of the wood--will affect the sound that resonates from it. David is an an experienced player himself, and knew ever since he was young that making bows was what he wanted to do.

David showed us how he does his work and and Rebekah, who also plays violin, was especially interested. Afterward, David took us to several of the other artists' studios. Thanks so much for the tour, David!

Rebekah gets a feel for the horsetail hairs that are part of the bow.
The horsetails come all the way from Mongolia, where they are
trimmed from a particular breed of horse.

Next, we visited David's neighbor, Yonatan,
who makes violins, violas, and cellos.

Yonatan's picturesque work bench reflected the
craftsmanship that goes into instrument making.

Next we visited a group of artists
who make scenes out of paper mache.

The studios form a circle around a sculpture garden.
These cherries were one of my favorites among the sculptures.

Next, we dropped in to watch a glass blower at work.

Outside, Miriam has a look at big glass bubbles
the artist has set on poles outside her studio door.

As a finale, David takes us to another sculpture garden
where the artist carves faces and object from gigantic hunks of rock.
We wondered how on earth he got them there
and managed to work with them.

Miriam and Rebekah enjoy a view from inside a stone goddess.
They're joined by David's very loyal and friendly dog, Kiwi.

Happy cousins pose for a group shot. What a great tour!

Modern rock meets ancient rock

When Herod, king of Judea, built a grandiose city 2000 years ago to please Ceasar, was he thinking he wanted to leave a legacy that would live on for centuries, to later benefit aging rock fans? Doubtful. But he'd probably be delighted to know what we found there on our visit.

The harbor town of Ceasarea (pronounced see-ZAR-ria in English, kay-SAR-ria in Hebrew) was a marvel of engineering and urban planning, constructed on the Mediterranean coast north of modern-day Tel Aviv. Rome awarded Herod the land to build on, and the Judean king wanted to show Caesar that the favor was well placed. He created a harbor by building wooden boxes, floating them out to sea, and filling them with ash to make them sink, becoming the foundation for breakwaters that formed the harbor. He built a palace, and an aquaduct to bring water to the city from a spring 7.5 km to the north. There was a lavish bathhouse complex, an oval-shaped amphitheater for Rome's famous (and ugly) gladiator games, and a regular round theater for performances.


Caesarea's story is a tale of one conquering after another: Byzantines, Arabs, Crusaders, and others, each one destroying part of what they found here and replacing it with something of their own creation. The variety of different types of stone columns here paints a picture of the string of conquests: one culture uses marble, another granite, another basalt, each stone obtained in a different way, illustrating different political and trade relationships.

Caesarea exemplifies the fact that history repeats itself, especially when it comes to power, politics, and warfare. The same stories that played out here ten and twenty centuries ago are the same as those we read in our daily newspapers today. One group holds a valuable and strategic parcel of land. Another group finds a reason they feel entitled to it, and the battle begins. Eventually, someone topples the group in control. They take over the area and make it their own, only to find themselves years, decades, or centuries later having the same battle with someone else. Two thousand years ago, it was happening here on this Mediterranean shore. Today, we see it in Kashmir, Tibet, Cyprus, and, some would say, right here in Israel.

Thankfully, we can also find other, less destructive and distressing human universals at Caesarea, too.  Herod's grand theater, the oldest in Israel, seats about 4,000 people. In biblical times, crowds gathered to see plays performed, or hear musicians play. And so it remains. As we wandered into the theater, we were greeted by the sounds of a sound check, as roadies for the British 70s band Deep Purple stacked amplifiers and tuned their boss's instruments. Ironically, Deep Purple's biggest hit was a song about the destruction of a casino in Montreaux, Switzerland--accidentally set on fire by a fan--where the band was suppose to record an album.

And after the sun went down that night in Ceasarea, thousands of fans got their fill of smoke on the waters of the Mediterranean.

We dig Israel

Here in the cradle of civilization,  the ruins of some culture of other lie buried beneath the surface of almost every square mile. Ever since I was a kid, I wanted to be an amateur archeologist in Israel. Today was my chance. Piling ourselves into the car, we headed north, to Bet Guvrin-Maresha National Park, to get the dirt of history under our fingernails.

Our very lively tour guide Missy explained that Bet Guvrin-Maresha encompasses a set of about 5000 caves, dug out from the a soft limestone layer just below the land's surface, in the 4th century BCE (that's "Before the Common Era", the reference used often by Jews in place of "Before Christ"). The caves were used for as reservoirs, places for making olive oil and other goods to sell, and as storerooms. When the area was conquered centuries later, the victors trashed the caves by filling them with dirt. It was this dirt, that has been covering the artifacts of civilization for 2000 years, that we were digging into.

Miriam shows off our finds.

The cave we were in must've been well-stocked with dishes and vittles, because it took us only seconds to start uncovering shards of broken pottery and bones from meals eaten long ago. One person in our group of about 20 actually asked whether all the artifacts were planted, to give us participants a feeling of satisfaction. Missy assured us this was all for real. One team of people in the group uncovered a few steps in a hallway. Missy encouraged them to "be the first people to set foot on those steps in 2000 years," and they proudly trod their toes on the newly excavated stones.

Missy shows us an ancient olive oil press.

After the dig, Missy showed us a cave that contained an ancient olive oil press. The process of extracting the oil, she described, was a matter of "mush, smush, and gush." First, the olives were mushed in a large mortar using a wheel of limestone driven by a long wooden lever. Then the olive paste was transferred to bags that were smushed under massive weights using a rather sophisticated pulley system. Finally, the oil extracted from the smush was put into vessels for storage and sale. Olive oil was the petroleum of the past: it was the main source of fuel in the Mediterranean. Olive oil was also essential in making soap, conducting rituals, and of course, cooking. Today, it's still made through a similar "mush, smush, and gush,"

Crawing through the tunnels of the past.

After the tour, Missy invited us on a special expedition, to crawl along the  path through an unexcavated cave. Candles lit our way as we wiggled through holes barely big enough for adults, and entered mysterious chambers which might hold hidden treasures under their packed dirt floors. We emerged back into the sunlight dusty, happy, and feeling like we'd been led on a very special tour through the modern unearthing of ancient history.

The best bread in the world

Our desert hike had a destination: a Bedouin tent where a woman named Mazhdalen makes the best bread in the world.

The Stein cousins approaching Mazhdalen's tent.

My cousins discovered Mazhdalen on an earlier hike (you can see pics from that visit on their blog) where they came across her boards-and-blankets tent perched in the middle of nowhere on a high plateau, along a hiking trail. Outside the tent is a handwritten, wooden sign listing the foods she serves up: pita, lebaneh (a tangy cheese that resembles a very thick, creamy yogurt), za'atar (middle eastern herb mixture with sesame seeds) and hot tea. But this is no restaurant. A visit with Mazhdalen is like time spent with an old friend.

Mazhdelen wasn't in the tent when we arrived. Thankfully, modern life meets ancient ways in the middle of the Negev desert, and Lynn called Mazhdelen on her cell phone (the number is written on another sign outside the tent). Soon, a figure in a long black dress began to make her way toward us from another tent in the distance. When she got close enough to see who it was, she recognized Miriam and Rebekah immediately. A huge smile lit up her face, she was delighted to see her visitors from two months earlier.

A staff od Mazhdalen's wheat

She built a fire with sticks from dried bushes, added tea and a liberal amount of sugar to a black iron pot, and set it on the fire. Then she mixed flour, water, and salt in a bowl, explaining that this was flour from last year's crop, because this year was so dry, they didn't harvest much wheat.

While the dough rested, we talked about lots of other things, too. I don't remember how we managed to communicate, but somewhere between her sparse English and our broken Hebrew, we managed to get our points across, maybe because we listen to each other in the same way. The magic of human interaction: when people share similar ideals and traits, sometimes they don't need words for everything.

Mazhdalen shows Bekah the technique

Mazhdalen took the tea off the fire, and poured it expertly into a set of glasses for each of us. Then she covered the fire with a big concave iron plate. When the dough was ready, she made it into six balls. She patted one out into a circle, and then flung it back and forth from one hand to another, putting her shoulders and torso into the movement, until she had a wide, thin circle. She tossed the dough onto the hot concave iron, where it began to brown and puff ever so slightly. After a minute, she flipped it over, cooked the other side, and then tossed it into a basket, a piping hot, perfectly cooked flatbread.

She invited each of us to have our hand at breadmaking, which we were happy to do. You'll see in the video how she patiently waits and watches as each of us do our best, and then takes over like a pro.

Miriam digs in to the deliciousness.

When all the flatbread was cooked, Mazhdalen presented us with a beautiful basket overflowing with her handiwork, as well as a big dish of lebeneh she'd made with milk she'd gotten from her sheep that morning, and a plate full of za'atar. We hungrily tore of pieces of bread, scooped up some cheese,  dipped it all in the herbs, and filled our bellies until there wasn't room for another bite.

While we were eating, four Israeli hikers passed by, looking into the tent. We invited them in, but they turned us down. "No time," they said. They had something better to do that sit with others and share fresh food. Mazhdalen said that often hikers are only interested in Coca-Cola, or watermelon, or power bars, something quick and neat, to send them on their way down the trail. Her Bedouin hospitality isn't something they find worth stopping for. Sometimes, she said, they even taunt her or mock her for being Bedouin, and for living her life in her traditional way.

Me, Miriam, Mazhdalen, Rebekah, and Lynn

Later that evening, Miriam and Rebekah talk about how upsetting it is to them that people would make fun of such a smiling and generous soul as Mazhdalen. For me, the afternoon has shown me that sometimes the things we have in common with others are surprising: on many levels, our family shares much more with urban Israelis on vacation in hiking gear than with a woman in an old cloth dress and head wrap who's spent her life in an isolated desert. But in the ways that we seek and find friendship, it seems we have a lot in common with Mazhdalen.

Ancient tools in the Negev

Picking my way downhill through the trailhead.
Note the barbed wire. Don't go off trail.

This is the day my journey in Israel truly begins. My cousins and I set out on a hike through a canyon in the Negev. The trail is rugged and dusty, and along the way I have my first encounter with the omnipresent ancientness of Israel.

The canyon walls we descend are made of layers of milky-white chalk, soft, smoothed and whorled in many places by the desert's winds and sudden rains. Shot between the white chalk layers are chunky streaks of black flint. My cousin Jay, an adept amateur geologist, tells us that no one is really sure how flint forms. One thing's for certain, though, and that's that flint is a pretty darned cool rock, and it doesn't take us long to discover that it makes a nice blackboard for our chalk doodlings.

Miriam doodles a decorative "shalom!"

We take a moment to look up and down the canyon, which hasn't changed for millenia, and think of ancient Nabateans living here, making the same discovery for themselves. What messages did they leave on the rocks for each other? Was it strategically important to be able to write notes that could be erased? Rains long ago washed away any signs that might have been left behind, but there's plenty for us to imagine.

A scraper and a two-edged tool.
Someone may have made dinner with these long ago. 

Further along the trail, we came to a place littered with evidence of a more long-lasting use of the flint: as small hand tools. Once aware of them, it seemed that with every step we found another few palm-sized pieces of the flaky rock, with one or two sides chipped away to create a sharp, stony edge. These relics have withstood hundreds, maybe thousands of years here in a desolate desert canyon. The random discovery and admiration of them by random people from another continent and another time feels like feels like turning over the stones of human history.

Falafel, Israel's national snack

The food in Israel is fabulous, and pretty heavenly for a vegetarian. My first night, in Tel Aviv, Torsten treated me to a dinner of mezes on the beach of the Mediterranean, a delicious selection of salads and dips, a basket of bread, and a gigantic salad with nuts and tangy loquats and feta. But I was still wanting for that great Israeli taste treat, the national culinary celebration, the Semitic snacktime favorite, falafel.
 
I was greeted in Be'er Sheva by my cousins Lynn, Miriam, and Rebekah (that's Miriam on the left and Bekah on the right). When I told them I'd been in Israel a whole day and hadn't yet had a falafel, Miriam said, "Mom we can't let Robin go any longer without a FALAFEL!" We searched downtown Be'er Sheva till we found the "green corner" (note the awning behind us), which the girls had heard has the best falafel in town. The fast-talking man behind the counter handed us pita pockets stuffed with hot, crispy falafels, and loaded with salad, sauces, eggplant and potatoes.  Oh my, it was goooood.

From the bubble to the Bible

My friend Torsten, a reporter who's been working in Tel Aviv for seven years, tells me that TA is a bubble, in the same way San Francisco is a bubble, somewhat protected from the realities of the rest of the country. One quality that Tel Aviv lacks is the ancientness and sense of history found in so many other Israeli towns. In fact, it's downright hard to avoid biblically referenced places here in the cradle of Western religion.

Today, a train takes me to Be'er Sheva, the first of several biblical places I'll visit. It's in the middle of the country, the gateway to the Negev desert. A few thousand years ago, Abraham and Sarah staked their tents here. I think their living quarters have since been replaced by concrete condos occupied by Russians.

A view from my hotel room

For some reason I expected Tel Aviv to be really beautiful, but it's not. I'm probably spoiled by northern California. Or maybe it takes longer to see Tel Aviv's beauty.

Outside my hotel room men sort big pink bags of hangars. They have their not-so-interesting work cut out for them.

Bicycles for rent

Rent by the hour, like the bikes in Paris. Just put your credit card in the kiosk and off you go. Instructions in Hebrew.

Boarding for Tel Aviv

I can't believe I'm actually on a plane to Israel.

I have an Israeli friend already and I haven't even left the ground.

My gregarious seatmate, whose name I can't pronounce correctly, declares enthusiastically that he "loves science" and decided after a few minutes of conversation that I would be an excellent business partner for his new venture idea. He's delighted that I'm an American Jew visiting Israel and is absolutely certain I will have a fabulous time. And he seems entirely disinterested in religion.

All around me, Hassidic men with their curlicue sideburns and black hats file into seats. Sprinkled between them are Jews from Miami and Christians from Texas. Two Israeli lovers across the aisle indulge in PG-13 kisses and put their hands in places better caressed in private. Two rows up an ordinarily dressed man with a kippah sets aside a cloth bag that holds the small, scroll-containing boxes, called tefillin, that orthodox men wear on their arms and heads when they pray. When we fly through sunrise he and other orthodox men will don their prayer shawls and tefillin and stand at the front of the plane davening their morning prayers. In the back row a cranky mother and son speak Arabic and roll their eyes at the pilot's mention of Israeli airspace regulations.

These images ricochet off one another, seeming contradictory and yet all belonging to a place that's come to be synonymous with meaning and conflict.

I can already see that Israel is a complicated place.