Swimming in Salad Dressing

The Dead Sea is along the road to Jericho in the occupied West Bank of the River Jordan. It is the lowest point on earth below sea level and has one of the highest salt concentrations of any large body of water on the planet. Think of it as a mud puddle left over from the Great Flood of Noah although science will of course say that it's been around a lot longer than that. Biblical, metaphorical or seismological, we didn't care as the plan for the day was to drive our rented car down the hill to the Israel side of the Dead Sea for the sole purpose of swimming in it.

Floating, more like, as the famous salinity has been remarked upon as being the consistency of a good Italian salad dressing and able to keep even the heaviest of men above water with little to no effort at all. It was a relatively quiet period in the everlasting peace process and running count of ceasefires in the region, we were assured by tourist officials, with the one exception of Jericho itself. We and the car were on our own, they said, if we ventured there but otherwise we had free run of the country.

Down the hilly road to the lake we went, following the well marked signs to the nearest beach head from where our hotly anticipated once-in-a-lifetime dip in the dregs would begin. None of us expected the experience to be refreshing along the lines of a Caribbean swim or even a romp in some backyard pool. That wasn't the point. We wanted to float, plain and simple. Oh, and play in the mud, too, famous the world over for its skin revitalizing properties.

It was October, the Sun was up and the temperature on the warm side which helped us strip off in the changing areas in the blink of an eye.
The wife of a friend took a little longer, of course, because her shoulder length blonde hair had to be done up high enough to stay as far above the water line as possible. For the other two guys in the group it was like watching a seagull take to the air as they began an ungainly long-jumper's dash and skip down the runway for the greatest velocity to launch themselves headfirst in to the sea.

It would be untrue to say that the lightest one of the two of them bounced off the surface of the water but it was close. The larger one did manage to submerge completely but his head was up before his feet went under; skipping one big long-legged rock came to mind at the sound of the "sploosh" he made going in. No matter. They both "Ahhhh'd" themselves contentedly on to their backs, folded their arms over their chests and pointed their feet skyward, mugging for the camera likes kings of the world.

After the mud fight that ensued it was back in the car towards our hotel in Jerusalem following a quick side trip to the Cave of the Dead Sea Scrolls. It was a hole in a hill. I bought a couple of bars of Mud Soap for souvenirs and we made it back to town in time for dinner at a Russian restaurant.

Our skin was back to normal - dry and peeling - in two days.

Gotta go.

Mediterranean Sleeping

I was so tired I could hardly think but I had just landed in Tel Aviv, Israel and knew enough to stay in complete control of myself until at least I hit the curb outside of security. The flight in from Munich was on time and typical of Lufthansa standard but the problem was that I arrived a day later than expected. I was supposed to be coming in from Frankfurt but the delay out of Dallas caused a mad dash through Germany to get to the next available flight to the Holy Land. Instead of landing on Monday it was a Tuesday afternoon when I finally got there.

Thankfully my friends that had left earlier than I stayed abreast of my proceedings and met me with hugs and smiles all around. Welcome to Israel! Ben Gurion International Airport (and air force base) is interestingly placed almost halfway between Tel Aviv and Jerusalem. The surrounding countryside and indeed throughout the whole of Israel that we would see resembled Southern California scrubland/desert in every way - mild climate, rocks, bush and stucco homes lining hills and overlooking the sea.

Somehow or other they had managed to score a beachfront hotel which was perfectly fine by me. The ocean front of Tel Aviv might as well be Miami Beach in reverse: instead of the open sea to the east it faces to the west. And then it hit me. This was THE Mediterranean Sea stretched out before me. Gibraltar lay in front of me towards the now setting sun some 2300 miles away, nearly the distance of a transcon flight in the United States. Across each of those miles lay over 5000 years of recorded human history, Egyptian, Phoenician, Carthaginian, Roman, Greek, Persian, Ottoman, Venetian, Jew and Moor. Ships of reed and wood sailed from nearby Jaffa, the port being mentioned as a conquered city in ancient Egyptian scrolls along with honorable mentions in the Old Testament.

And I was standing on the sands of those shores, jet-lagged like no other but amazed still at finally being in this place, this incredible land of history, mystery and misery. We were like so many other tourists to Israel in not being on the lookout for much of anything in this largest city in the country. Some might sample the nightlife but in Israel there isn't a worldwide reputation for the types of goings on one is guaranteed to find in Rio, Sydney or Miami Beach. We were there for the religious history and had only a few days for the highlights.

Tel Aviv, like any other coastal city on a Tuesday evening, was going about its business, some heading out for the evening, others enjoying a quick bite before home, most already there and getting ready for bed. I chose on this first night to sleep out on the balcony. As someone who snores I didn't want to disturb my friends in their slumber plus the October air was perfect for sleeping al fresco. I don't know if my buzz sawing carried across the other balconies nearby but it truly was a blessed evening and a most welcome rest after a solid 30 hours of travel to get there.

As much as I was looking forward to seeing all the history I was history myself as I fell asleep under the winds and stars of the Eastern Med.

Gotta go.

The Mystery of Calvary

The Via Dolorosa was a brick paved alley through densely built Jerusalem neighborhoods where I had imagined it would be a dusty trail leading out of the nearest gate to the crucifixion hill at Calvary. The nine stations of the cross are packed with markers and merchants steadfastly fleecing the faithful who routinely walk "the way of suffering" to re-enact the last walk of Christ. I vaguely recalled that Jesus had been tortured on this walk, had performed a few last miracles and had fell under the weight of the cross at least once but wasn't up on my biblical history to remember exactly which station witnessed any of these events. No need - all was conveniently marked for both profit and posterity at each one. There was even a chance to carry a make-shift cross for a photo op, including the crown of thorns. Lovely.

We made our way to one of the most famous hills in the world only to discover it was surrounded by apartment blocks and crowned by a massive basilica, the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. And straight through the main door we discovered the hill had been well and duly razed for the sake of the chambers inside where five more stations were marked highlighting the stages of crucifixion.

Just inside the main door was a flat slab of rock, the "Stone of Anointing" where Jesus' body was laid after his death, washed and wrapped in linens prior to interment in the tomb at the base of the hill. Up a set of stairs to the right were a series of rooms, the first highly gilded and vested of which is where Christ was nailed to the cross while the one immediately to the left and equally ornate and thick with incense is where the cross was stood erect for the slow, agonizing death of Jesus.

Back down the stairs we joined the back of a good-sized line to see the alleged Tomb of Christ. There was barely room for one visitor at a time as much of the space was taken up by all manner of candles, statues of Mary, crucifixes and hanging orbs billowing still more fragrant smoke from every shade of holy oils. If you weren't claustrophobic the heat and smoke made it impossible to breathe in there for very long. Was that also part of the plan to keep the faithful moving?

The benefit in having the basilica was in not having the site swallowed up by urban housing and having some tour guide point to a kitchen window on the 2nd floor as the place where the great sacrifice occurred. Still, I found it hard to invest in the long held mystique and tragic wonder of the events that took place here. None of them occurred under the heavy stone of a building! Where was the desolate hill outside the city limits that good society avoided, leaving it to the military and the mourning brood?

I saw yet another set of stairs that led in to the lower reaches of the building. It had no barriers restricting entry or any hordes of pilgrims stacked up to get downstairs. It seemed cool from the heat of "the" tomb and peaceful from the multitudes above so I went on my own to see if there was something there.

There was. For me the mystery was solved, permanently, peacefully and privately.

Gotta go.

The Optimist Bucket List - Item 5

In Sunday school I learned of Nebuchadnezzar's Babylon, Ur of Chaldea and Ramoth-Gilead. I imagined the "sacred waters" of the three great rivers, Jordan, Tigris and the Euphrates flowing through Mesopotamia and Judea. As a young child I read the stories and saw the Ray Harryhausen films of Baghdad, Joppa, Phoenicia, Damascus and the great city of Persepolis. My head spun with the tales of Darius, Xerxes, Sinbad, Scheherazade, Aladdin and Gilgamesh. Flying carpets, Genies, one-eyed Cyclops? Are you kidding? When can I go? Shazzan!

I've had to visit each of these lands either through the 24 hour tragedy of CNN or the don't-go-or-you'll-destroy-it beauty of National Geographic. On one hand I can't go because of the political environment on the ground. On the other I shouldn't go because as a clumsy, heavy-footed tourist I'll unwittingly step on some holy pebble in the road and crush it to powder or bend a blade of grass that flowers once every 30 years and permanently alter the eco-system that relies on that particular variety of weed. Whaddya gonna do?

I wanna go!!! Item Number 5 on the Traveling Optimist Bucket List is to see the Middle East, a long-hidden and often forbidden part of the world. I've been to Israel and Egypt and I am free to travel to Jordan whenever it suits me. I wish for the day, however, when traveling to the big three, Iran, Iraq and Syria will be as routine as going to Greece.

How I have long envied citizens of other countries who are not restricted by their governments from traveling to these uniquely historic lands. Canadians can travel to Cuba and flock to the island nation in droves each winter. I can't. The French fly to Syria and Lebanon as a matter of course. Why not me?

How is an American tourist going to overthrow President Assad when all I want is Syrian tea, bakhlava and an afternoon at the bazaars? He's two years younger than me, probably speaks better English and looks like someone who enjoys a mean game of tennis or racquetball.

Thanks to Google Maps I can see an aerial image of Persepolis, to the northeast of Shiraz in central Iran as plain as day but I'm not physically there, on the ground, smelling the air and keeping the sand out of my eyes. From the comfort of my living room I cannot fully imagine great hosts of warriors and exotic merchants coming and going across the eastern desert plains.

Thanks to National Geographic I am able to view gloriously rendered images of mystic lands complete with erudite narrators and award-winning writers to enlighten, entice and tease me with the places they've been but I am as yet not permitted to travel. Reading the yellow bordered magazine in bed with a light snack and a glass of water before lights out does not give me the immediacy of life on the Tigris with bleating goats and giggling street urchins running from frazzled mothers wrapped in burkhas while shopping for the daily meal.

I'm no fool. I know full well that, if nothing else, my personal safety is not an assured thing in this part of the world. I know of the political differences between nations which keep the borders closed as well. It has always been interesting to me, however, that journalists, photographers and film crews from "The Great Satan" can safely travel and report from beneath the veil in the course of their duties where an average tourist armed with little more than a camera, credit card and curiosity cannot. When?

Gotta go.