Travel Adventures in Israel
by pancysingh on 17/09/09 at 5:12 am
After nearly five hours, much of that spent either waiting on a cramped “non-smoking” bus, or waiting to be questioned at the King Hussein border crossing, we finally arrived in Jerusalem around lunchtime.
After nearly five hours, much of that spent either waiting on a cramped ‘non-smoking’ bus, or waiting to be questioned at the King Hussein border crossing, we finally arrived in Jerusalem around lunchtime. With only 24 hours to explore the city, we threw our bags into our separate hotel rooms and dived head-on straight into East Jerusalem’s Arab quarter. Being late June, the scorching sun was high in the sky, and the walk to the walled city seemed to be taking an eternity, despite the very fast pace. We were a somewhat odd pairing; me, a twenty-something blonde Australian girl, and my ex-stepfather, a 6 foot 5 Palestinian-Jordanian intent on speaking Arabic everywhere in Jerusalem, despite having an MBA from Harvard. Shimla tours
The one thing I’ve always hated about travelling with tall people, is the way they seem to sprint everywhere their giraffe-like legs galloping miles ahead of my more modest ones, me struggling to keep up in a walk which more resembles a light jog.
Anyway, off we galloped through the Damascus gate, past the fruit sellers, the sweet shops, the woman selling random tea towels and in through the spice market, complete with purple cauliflower. As we meandered through the seemingly endless rows of falafel stalls, with the smell of chickpeas and thyme punctuating the hot dry air, my stomach rumbled, I hadn’t eaten since 6am, and was starving. Yet, this being my step-father, we weren’t going to stop for food yet, because we had an agenda or rather a quest. Vacations in India
Screaming down through the Christian Quarter to the holy Via Dolorosa where Jesus Himself walked to his crucifixion, we popped our heads into the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. The coolness of the church was a welcome relief from the heat, the pace, and my need to be fed. As we raced upstairs to the spot of Jesus’ crucifixion, my stepfather proceeded to bark questions at a single French nun deep in prayer.
“What’s this all about then? Why is everyone bending down like an idiot near that rock there?”, he asked in his usual polite manner that my mother had grown so fond of,
“Why sir, that’s where Jesus Himself died on the cross, the rock is the same one as it was back in the day.”
“Ah, I see” he said. “No big deal”, he said to me in an un-hushed whisper, “Let’s get to that Armenian Tavern for lunch.” Fine, fine, I was already exhausted, sick of being slave-driven, I agreed.
However, after what seemed like about an hour, and being no closer to the Armenian Quarter, my expert guide was obviously lost. Not wishing to look at our map, nor dare ask me what I thought, he admitted his defeat. Until of course he spied two pretty dark haired girls in their twenties with backpacks on,
“Let’s ask them!” he enthused.
After figuring out that the restaurant was just around the corner, he smiled with his weird non tooth-baring smile to the prettier one,
“Are you a tourist?”
“No, we’re not”, came the abrupt response in an American accent.
“I’m a Hessidic Jew”
“Well, I’m a Palestinian Muslim!” he persevered, a tad too eagerly – as I attempted to fade into the background of an Armenian porcelain shop.
“Well, then Ahlen Wah-Sahlen”, she said resolutely.
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