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Hey everyone,

Thanks for reading Over Israeli Skies .. it’s been fun. This blog was always intented to be tempoary from the get-go, and a new, regular blog is now established at http://sharoute.wordpress.com

Head on over to Sharoute, and we’ll continue discussing life, God, Israel, the future, and ideas over there. Trust me, WordPress is a much better blogging system then Xanga, and you don’t have to log in over there or be part of another community in order to post a comment. See you all there!

Whilst I was in Pearson Airport in Toronto, enjoying the 6-hour layover on my way back home, I picked up a book from the airport convenience store, “In Conversation with Bono.” The writer, the interviewer, is a journalist who first met Bono in 1980, and was the first British media writer to plug U2 outside of Dublin. As a result, Bono and the writer have a long history that allows for an honest, open interview.

I can’t read on planes (I get motion sickness), but between the terminals and a bit of downtime back home, I’m on page 43 of this 300 page book, and am already finding some just amazing things. I have, of course, always looked up to Bono as a rock star, a humanitarian, and a person. I know he is over-publicized and idolized by alot, and I know he is very to-the-point and arrogant at times, but honest nonetheless.

In the first 40 or so pages, Bono has been discussing how he views himself and what role he believes he plays, between being a person, a performer, and a writer. I must admit, even though I am familiar with U2’s amazing lyrics, that I never thought of Bono as a writer. But it is evident that he views himself in this light way more then the light of a rockstar or performer. The book has been looking deep not only at Bono’s soul, but also the soul of a writer, and I think I had some of these things originally and I’ve forgotten about alot, or let alot slide. All of this comes at a time when I am very much trying to figure out how to approach writing from this point on. I am confused at the moment with where to take “Avenue of the Giants” and “Over Israeli Skies,” and how to approach some subjects I very passionately want to get out there. I know I can do it, I know I have the capabilities to do it, I’ve just lost a bit of the “how.”

Bono tells us that as a writer, he has to (bad paraphrase here), “get this hands under his skin, break his breastbone, rip out though his rib cage, and lay his skin on the table.” This goes back to an old Irish belief that to be a writer, a true writer whose occupation is from the soul, you must be willing to lay your skin on the table.

I had severe writer’s block while in Israel. There were several times I sat on the flat’s proch in Haifa or The Coffee Bean patio in Jerusalem, trying to write, and I just couldn’t. Bono believes that when a writer has writer’s block, he should write about that. That comes from Bono’s belief that he is always able to writer, because a writer must always be true to himself. Therefore, a writer can always write what’s going on then and now from his soul, because he is completely unable to be dishonest with himself. Wow. That line struck me like an epiphany in the book while reading it in Canada; I’ve been dwelling on that thought ever since. I was sitting in Jerusalem trying to write something from a perspective that I used to be at, or that I wanted to be at — not from the perspective that I *was* at. That was the problem.

I am still reading that book, and still working my way through some thoughts. There is passion and hope there, a bit of that reawakened in Israel; a bit of that through new life situations; and even more of that from getting an increidble new viewpoint on faith and life while standing inside the Garden Tomb outside Damascus Gate. I am thinking more and processing where my writing and my art is at alot more, and this trip did help. I look forward in two weeks to being in Portland with Justin, walking around with him in a city that motivates me and inspires me even more. My friend Dave Hart said that perfection lies in transit. I don’t know if I fully agree with that, but I will agree that heart and finding and discovery lies in transit, and the opprotunity to get out there and know yourself, and the world, more intimately.

I honestly had to wander how I ended up in this particular situation; riding in a taxi bus with a Jewish-Mexican family I had befriended on a train, traveling at 80mph through the Tel Aviv freeway system three hours before my flight; and I was still half an hour away from the airport. It was an interesting end to an interesting trip.

I said goodbye to David at the Haifa train station, and bought my ticket from a machine since there were no actual real people at the train station, being Israeli Independence Day and all. Also, since it was the end of a 2-day holiday period, all the soldiers of the Israeli Defense Force were on their way back to base near Tel Aviv, and so the southbound train I boarded was packed. There was standing room only, very intimate standing room only, for the entire two hour ride, but I didn’t mind. The train rocked back and forth steadily, and I found my sea legs and stood in the corner of the entry room to the train, where I met Marvin and his wife Olay, who had moved to Israel from New Mexico after converting to Judaism several years back. They were nice and we exchanged stories of living in America, and they asked me how I like their new country. They agreed with me that is is beautiful, but it is an extremely pressurized environment nonetheless. That is true, peace here seems to exist, but merely on the teetering threshold of violence and intolerance at any moment.

The train conductor anncounced the last stop, which we all knew from previous talking was the stop for Ben Gurion Airport. Marvin and Olay agreed with me that this was the right stop, and as the soldiers with their massive guns and duffel bags shuffled pass us, we wished each other a good trip and said our goodbyes. I left the station and rode the elevator back to street level, and found myself under a freeway that I recognized as the Central Bus Station that I was at three days before. We were nowhere near the airport, but the citizens and soldiers filed on to their military buses that awaited them. I had a little more then three hours before the flight, the train I just got off had left, and the next train was an hour away. I had no cash for a taxi and no atm for a taxi in site. Ouch.

I turned back around to reenter the train station to try to look for an atm downstairs or wait out another train and hope I make it to the airport on time. After getting past the very concerned security check and approaching the escalator back down, I ran into Marvin and Olay who also had realized their error. We had talked some more, and it turns out we both needed to make the same Air Canada flight to Toronto in just a few hours. Olay had just called for a taxi, and he offered to let me ride with them. I told him I had no more shekals for a taxi, but he didn’t care — he viewed me getting off at that station as his mistake and told me he would pay for it, and he also offered apologies up and down. I thanked him for his offer and we ran outside to board the taxi bus, and the driver said he had to drop someone else off and it would take an hour to get to the airport. But he was the only taxi in sight, so we had little choice. The lady, who was in the car, realized out predicerment and insisited we be taken to the airport first — the driver didn’t like this, because he would have to backtrack, but the kind lady insisted. We then started speeding through the freeway system, slowing down only when a police car rode next to us for a tiny bit.

We made it to the airport just in time, and I was directed to a different line as an individual with an American passport. I said goodbye to and thanked Marvin and Olay once again, then we parted ways as I stood in line and waited. Jamie and I met in that line, and we exchanged a hug and some stories of our last couple days, hers in Jerusalem and me in Haifa. After two baggage checks, an insepection, a questioning, and a passport screening, we were free to fly. Twenty-four hours of travel later, and Sky Harbor never looked so inviting.

So much more to say … but suffice it to say the day can be wrapped up in good conversation with a good friend, honesty, gondola rides up Mount Carmel, hanging out in the water while looking ahead at the Mediterrenean, packing whist listening to Jimmy Eat World, cappucino, and falafal stands.

Israel has been good to me, and I expect to return sooner rather then later. I must go pack now, and catch the train to Tel Aviv, and begin my 20-hour voyage for the return home.

I will post soon about where I be blogging in the future, and I will be working over the summer to wrap up some thoughts I have had about this trip and what has brought me here, though I am not sure what that project will look like just yet.

I love you all; thank you for reading and journeying with me the past several months. We are yet halfway through the year and it has already been one with many up’s and down’s, some sorrowful times and some amazing experiences.

Much love to you all!

I have slept in late this morning, and don’t wake up until 11am, when the loud wail of air raid sirens disrupt my dream. I spring up for the sake of curiosity and put on a t-shirt before walking to the staircase landing outside, and see the cars are all stopped in the road. The sirens continue, but the sky is clear above and the Mediterrerean is as blue as ever, then I remember that it is Israeli Independence Day. Last night was Soldier’s Day, and so the air raid sirens went off at 8pm last night, too. That’s apparently how they celebrate holidays here — they declare war, but false alarm nonetheless.

I feel well-rested but still a bit tired, as David and I were up late last night talking, enjoying nargila on the roof of an old bomb shelter, about halfway down the hill from his flat. With every puff of the sweet tobacco at least one or two bats would fly out from the trees, pick a qumquat, and then fly back somewhere behind or above us. The bats here, flying close and above you, are about as common as the housefly, or in the case of Israel, as common as the mosquito. I managed to weather the hostel with only a few mosquto bites and one bite from what I believe was a queen ant (amazing to see in person, but not so amazing when it bites you).

While David is off at Hebrew class I lounge around the flat lazily, reading and writing a bit and enjoying the few quiet hours I have left in Israel. Tomorrow we may go see a couple more things before I have to catch my train for Tel Aviv, but now I am looking forward to going back home. I wouldn’t care much about returning home except for the fact that I miss someone, otherwise I would be quite content to stay and travel, if money would afford it. But that is for another time.

Soon. More soon.

I wait in the long line outside the Jerusalem Post Office to have my bag searched and my body patted-down, and then 45 minutes in line when everyone in front of you is another story to be read. Elevan stamps later and down the chute to the bin marked “Anywhere except Jerusalem,” then it’s past City Hall down Jaffa Road to walk next to the old abandoned ramparts, and the stones. Through the city gate and back into the Plaza, and I am called upon to buy orange juice, magic carpets, oil lamps, and tacky souvenirs. Greetings go ignored and the steps descend, then a sharp right turn back up above the marketplace past the final bazaar barker with six fingers and cures for all the ments of ail.

Back through the hostel doors into the lobby, and a greeting not returned by the front desk man, but an old man from New Zealand merrily pats me on the back on his way out. A final smoking of the tobacco on the roof of the guesthouse, while watching Dome of the Rock change colors at sunset. The Mount of Olives becomes a shadowy haze behind it, and the mosque towers glow green as the Islamic prayer chants are echoed loudly throughout the Old City. We watch from above as Jewish children run to their yeshuva on the lower rooftops, and their rabbi’s follow suit, and the Arab children return from a hard day of selling and begging to play hacky-sack or soccor above King David Street. We watch, and the air grows cold. Jackets are put on and we walk together outside the gates to the new city, and walk down Ben Yehuda Street to Zoli’s Pub, where liters of Jewish beer are consumed, Israeli soldiers are briefly befriended, and cheers are exchanged as we watch the Tel Aviv - Moscow Final Four basketball championship. The game is close, but Moscow wins, and the bar speakers pump Guns ‘n Roses immediatley after the game.

The next morning bags are packed and Klemir from Finland, Danielle from Holland, and myself walk back down the steps and wait for the number 20 bus, and the inner-city life of Jerusalem begins, and I count 150 people aboard one bus, and we are always packed in against strangers and friends we haven’t met. At the bus station and pass another check point, and the ticket is bought to bus to Tel Aviv, and we all sit alone, and I listen to Blindside while a Jew next to me reads from the Torah.

We arrive in Tel Aviv, on floor 6 of the bus station, and we gather for one last cup of coffee as Israeli techno is blasting from the shop down the stairs. We say goodbye to Danielle, who will spend a week in Tel Aviv before going to Eilat, then back home to Amsterdam. Klemir and I tow our bags a mile down the street underneath the freeway, then past another checkpoint and onto the train heading for Haifa. About three stops later, we are rushed off the train and escorted to another platform while Israeli soldiers in full bomb gear descend on the train, and it proceeds a way from the station a bit further down the track, then stops. We are put back on another train, this one old and made of wood, and we countine along the coast. Danielle and I talk about life traveling and life back home, and once off the train we negotiate a price with a taxi driver to take us up Mount Carmel to Ben Gurion and Hegeffan. Once there, we walk uphill some more and Danielle’s hostel is shut down, but he knows another Swiss hostel down on the shore, and we part ways there and I continue my walk uphill to my friends’ flat.

If I even begin to describe Jerusalem in detail, it would take hours to write and hours for you to read, so I’ll save the descriptions for a different project. I have tried to stay in the Old City for the mostpart, with the occassional walk up to Ben Yehuda Street for cold medicine and some fresh air, usually while sipping a latte from The Coffee Bean that sits just above Jaffa Gate. I have spent four days in Jerusalem now, and have a wide range of mixed emotions about the city. There are beggers and swindlers everywhere, something that I guess has not changed much. If you’re not smart, the shopkeepers will rip you off and the pickpockets are good. I have to say I have found myself learning some lessons here — but from what I’ve heard this city is one of the best for the crooked, topping Cairo, Paris, and Amsterdam. So as my Dutch friend, Danielle, and I were talking about it all — you just have to laugh it off and learn your lesson to be smarter for next time. But it is good for when I go elsewhere, to have cut my international traveling teeth on the streets of Jerusalem.

At other times though, this city is amazing. It is the small things — such as the Judah lion on the manhole covers throughout the city, or the way that you are walking on stones that have seen prophets, a Messiah, Byzanntine monks, Ottoman rulers, Roman soldiers, — streets that have carried Jesus on a donkey and King Herod on a Camel and have heard the echos of Pontious Pilate, Constantine, and Napolean. Yesterday Daniel and I had went to the old Citadel that was half fort / half David’s Tower / half Herodian palace and browsed through an exhibit that depicted the history of Jerusalem. Every great empire throughout history had made it’s stab at, and consequently left it’s mark, on Jerusalem. Some of these are old — but the War for Independence, various riots, the 6 Day War, and Palastenian attacks are new and continuing — this is a city never at rest.

But lining the narrow streets are the people, the faces of the city — Aremnian Priests, Greek Orthodox Priests, Orthodox and Reformed Jew (standing with them at the Wailing Wall on Shevat was an experience), Christians, young Israeli soldiers, and the beggers. The falafal, sweet corn, baklava, and fresh pressed orange juice stands are plentiful, and history is everywhere. A couple days ago David, Jamie, and I stood atop the Temple Mount, and stood not five feet away from the entrance of the Dome of the Rock, and then later looking down from atop the Citadel there were old cannonballs that numerous empires had thrown at the city walls.

Just the other day I walked the Via Dolorosa, with the Stations of the Cross, from where Pontious Pilate accused Jesus clear to where Crusader tradition says He was crucified. The walk was interesting not from a spiritual perspective, but from a histrical perspective on the Crusades and the Herodian and Roman empires; seeing all the shrines and chapels that were built; then climbing on my hands and knees to reach an underground Herodian plaza beneath a convent, then climbing further down below that, five stories under the modern day city, to see the huge Roman cisterns and archways that were built to help supply water to the Temple Mount and Palaces, and to support the marketplace above. The Via Dolorosa ended at The Church of the Holy Schepular, a gawdy, over-the-top shrine / cathedral that was beautiful in architecture but demeaning and blasphemous in spiritual intent. Here they claim was the traditional spots of the Crucifixtion, Burial, and Ressurection. However, I read that these spots were only held by tradition because Constantine’s mother liked the spot, and the Crusaders backed her in that though by building an even more elaborate shrine.

But then — but then — you walk outside the city gates, past the Arab Quarter and the Damascus Gate, and you come to the Garden Tomb — here religious scholars, historians, and others have studied and found to be a more accurate place for the events of Christ. Here, surrounded by a quiet garden area that has been maintained since the days of Joseph of Aramethia, there is what has always been known as Skull Hill — or Golgatha — or Calvery, if you prefer. But there Golgatha does resemble a skull, and here just outside the gates in view of the city walls, was once one of the most important roads of Jerusalem. And here, a quiet bit away, is a rich man’s elaborate tomb, thousands of years old, carved out of the rock. I could not help but almost find disgust in my heart for the elaborate man-made religion that we have turned Christ into, and how all of that is perfectly symbolized at the Church of the Holy Sechplure. But that kind of faith is a faith that I no longer believe in, that I no longer want any part of. The rituralists and the legalists can have their way with it. But here, in the quiet tomb, is a faith that is simple, and pure, and one that I can actually believe in. And no matter what we try to make it, it really does all boil down to what happened in that one cave carved of stone. Simple and quiet, and real. I think that is the faith and the Christ I have been looking for here in Jerusalem, and even back in America, but that I could no longer see because of all the self-righteousness and hypocrisy we put in front of it.

I am glad for my time alone in the tomb. And I am glad for being able to come here and see what is real, for my soul could no longer follow what I’ve known back home.

This morning we slept in a bit at the Haifa flat, then packed up leisurely after eating a breakfast of pitas, hummus, and pears. I was just finishing my pita and starting on a pear, looking out the window at the Mediterranean Sea, when the air sirens started their wail of war, and all the cars stopped and all the people stopped and stood still. This is what the Middle East sounds like at war time. David told me how many years ago some of the other Haifa residents had gone outside during a random air raid drill, but that time it was not a drill. Iran was sending bombs onto Haifa and Tel Aviv, but America had given Israel the Patriot Missle, which met the bombs in the sky just above the cities. As a result, the citizens stood there watching these strange explosins in the sky, starring at imminent death but being spared all at once.

With all stuff all packed, we walked down the five stories of stairs at the street and then about a quarter mile up to Ben Gurion, again at the base of the temple. We walked down this main drag, and the weather was good to us, nice and cool and windy, but not rainy like yesterday. My throat is a bit scratchy today, probably due to hiking around Sefat all yesterday afternoon in the wind and cold rain with merely shorts and a t-shirt. My shoes were also soaked, a result of thick rain that was trickling down the stairs throughout the town.

At the base of Ben Gurion, at Jaffa Road, we turned right and walked another mile or so to the train station. Here, I was searched throughouhly as always, but Jamie never gets searched! She also didn’t get questioned massively at Israli customs like I did, too, but I guess that comes with being a male! However, they did throughouhly examine her passport but didn’t even open mine.

We rode on the top level of the train for about an hour and a half until we came to the Markas (Market) stop in downtown Tel Aviv. We had planned to only spend a few hours in Tel Aviv and then head on to Jerusalem, but there were no lockers in this station to store our luggage and we didn’t want to haul it around the city, so we decided to grab a taxi for the nearest youth hostel. On the way, David spoke with the driver in half English / half Hebrew about Arizona and what it is like there. The driver took us to a nice, moderately priced hostel right in downtown Tel Aviv. After securing our room and our luggage, we walked towards the market in search of pictures and food.

We were told by a visiting German in the hostel that today’s market would not be “an accurate representation” of the Tel Aviv bazaar, only because the nation was still observing Holocaust Memorial Day. It turns out, however, that all the vendors were still open but there were just less people. Businessness wise, Tel Aviv is very different then the other major cities of Israel in that it is secular and modern. Therefore, Shevat and religious/state holidays are seldom observed completely.

We spent the afternoon at the outdoor market, walking among vendors selling their wares for low prices — I bought a couple things only to have the experience of haggaling for a price. It was quite fun, but I don’t think I did too well because the vendors agreed at my first or second offer!

We stopped for falafal at a downtown scharwma stand, then walked along the coast for awhile. We spent about an hour climbing the rocks and lying on the grass in front of the beach just enjoying the day, a bit south of the main city. The waves here are huge, and so the wind carried the mist too us several times, and the clouds were moving fast but were steady, so we were able to lay in the shade for quite some time. I think I like Israeli beaches more then American beaches so far! Laying there, about to fall asleep, I put my iPOD on again and listened to the entire “The Great Depression” album from Blindside there on the beach and then again while walking several miles more south of Tel Aviv. The lyrics of Christian Lindskog’s experience of being lost in Africa resonated well with my time walking the beach here.

We finally ended up in the old port city of Jaffa, also known as Joppa in the Bible and Yafa in some Jewish contexts. It is the oldest shipping port in the world, and was founded by the Caananites and was where they would ship the cedars of Lebannon down the coast to in order to be hauled into Jerusalem for use in building Solomon’s temple. It is also where the Jonah and the Whale story was chronicled, and Simon the Tanner along with St. Peter both had residences here. In short, the city is very old and full of tradition. We visited a massive old Catholic church and some museums and galleries, along with some Egyptian ruins that were underground. There was so much more to see, but time was short.

I sat on a curb in a narrow alleyway and began to write some postcards while David and Jamie browsed a textile museum, and then we all walked together down to a fish restaurant and had seafood dinners. Finally, we walked back up through the old city and back along the beach, with Tel Aviv to the distant right. It is an amazing city at night! Very alive, very active. I deffinitly want to come back here at some point in time and explore more. But, tonight, time and money were short, and I was exhausted and still fighting off my sore throat. Not exactly a good time for a pub or disco, but another time.

Now it is back to our bright yellow downtown hostel, and time for bed. Tomorrow is the Old City of Jerusalem.

I really wish I could be more descriptive right now — but it’s all in my journal and my head and my eyes area heavy. This morning I did laundry. We then piled into a van, driven by David. If you thought David was an interesting driver in the States, you should see him in Israel! (Kidding, Dave, kidding). We drove out of Haifa for our first time since arriving here a few days ago, and went a bit further north and east to the Tibarius, which sits on the Sea of Gailee.

However, before going there, we took a sidetrip to the city of Nazarath, which was large and upon a hill. Nazarath is still one of the low points of Israel among locals, as it was in Jesus’ day, but it is still a prety interesting place to visit. The population is about 85% Arabic, and many of the signs around on the buildings are in Arabic with a bit of English thrown in for measure, but very little Hebrew. They are truly their own culture here. Jamie and I, being the coffee addicts we are, asked David to stop a car when we spied a small coffee stand just down the block from the Chuch of Annunciation. Even these little sidewalk stands serve the best coffee and milk (not quite cappucino) that I have ever had. Gone are the days of my ever being able to appreciate coffee from Starbucks or Coffee Bean again.

We then parked the car, in the rain and under the gray skies, with the intent of walking up to the huge structure that is the Church of Annunciation. This is where the angel appeared before Mary and announced that she would be having a baby, and his name would be Jesus. Well, as we were about to get out of the car, this Arabic shopkeeper pounded on the car and demand we move because that is “spot for taxi.” David dismissed him as you usually need to do in these situations, but he kept pounding on the car and yelling was exchanged and we finally moved — but it is very common in this culture apparently to have two grown men yelling over matters, both being forceful, but very rarely do things ever become violent. In a way I think it is much healthier then our American stance of keeping everything pent up and held in for so long. We moved, turned up “Faster” from Jimmy Eat World, and moved to a new space.

Once in the church, we walked to the bottom alter, where the spot was still exposed that the angel appeared to Mary, and witnessed as Mass was conducted and “El Maria” was sung by a volunteer with a dramatic voice worthy of such a cathedral. We were then tapped on the shoulders by a young volunteer and asked to remove our caps, which we didn’t think about as most Jewish holy places in Israel require your head to be covered; however, this was a Catholic site and your head must not be covered. We then went upstairs to the basillica where the alter was and some other amazing paintings and stained glass, and then a monk tapped us on the shoulder, shaking his finger “no” at us, because we were wearing shorts. He did not ask us to leave though, but made it clear we shouldn’t be hanging around long. We weren’t really on planning on coming here today and were just wearing shorts because it has been so hot, but today turned out be cold and rainy, so what can you do? Plus, I don’t neccessarily agree with the monk’s value system on formality and such, but that’s another discussion.

Then onto Sea of Gailee. You may recall this as the spot where Jesus walked on water and Peter freaked out during the storm. Now, while the Sea of Gailee is not huge like say, Lake Michagan, it is deffinitly large enough that it could be a pretty intense place during a storm! We stopped to visit some friends and helped them carry boxes up five flights of stairs, and that worked us up an appetite pretty effectively. So, a few minutes later, we pulled up next to a falafal stand and ordered the best falafal in pita with all the fixings I have ever had. Again, I am spoiled as American falafal and pita is no longer acceptable.

So, I continued trying to eat my messy concoction while Dave drove rapidly through the countryside of Israel, up and around curves and mountains, and finally out of Tiberias. Dave and Jamie were engrossed in deep conversation in the front seat so I put my iPOD in and looked out the window at the gray Israeli skies, rocks, and hillsides listening to “Shekina” from Blindside. We eventually arrived at the Church of the Beattitudes, where Jesus gave his Sermon on the Mount. It was closed for another hour, and so we sat in the car talking, walked out of the car to take pictures of Carperneum down the hill, and then read the entire Sermon on the Mount out loud, and then I continued reading silently, about where Jesus walked around here and what happened and all that. Very interesting to read such a narrative in this place. We then walked into the Church of the Beattitudes, and it had a very different feel from the Church of Announciation.

The place wasn’t as magnificent, it was much more humble, but the tackiness of some of it and the contradictory messages this place was sending made it all very contradictory to the actual Sermon on the Mount that this place commemorated. Most of the first potion of the Sermon is about not needing to acquire things or worry about things, and do not worry about having expensive or nice garments for the Lord will make sure you have these things. Then, on main display near the entrance, was a full papal outfit in all its glory that Pope John Paul II donated during his visit here in 2000. There was also a tacky souvenir gift shop about 20 feet from the chapel entrance, adjoined, and the Arabic lady in the restroom didn’t seem to happy when you didn’t donate a shekal or two for us of the toilet. However, my Uncle Jim had visited this place nearly 30 years ago and was very moved by his experience here; I suspect it was a bit dfferent. But, it was nice to know that I was able to visit a place in Israel that had been so special to my uncle.

We then left and drove another ways towards Seh’vat, or Sefat, a mystical/artsy town set way up in the hills. We didn’t do much here except walk in the rain, and look at some overprices Jewish art, but the setting of the place and the architecture of the old stone pathways and buildings was absolutely amazing. Many of the buildings were damaged and rebuilt, or just left damaged, during Israel’s War for Independence. Also, the place was set up in the hills and the fog was low and the rain was light, so it had a very American Pacific-Northwest feel to it. The people here are a mixture of Orthodox Jews and Kabbalah Jews, a form of Jewish mysticism that Orthodox reject on various grounds, considering it a very pagan form of their religion. You may recall that Madonna and Will Smith practice Kaballah, and they have visited here. I also heard before that this was the origin of Wiccan, but I didn’t see any of that, but the town was large and we only walked a nominal area, so maybe it is someplace else.

On a final note, sundown tonight marked the beginning of Holocaust Rememberance Day, so keep an ear out on the news in America to see if they mention it at all. It is supposed to be a very emotional day for the State of Israel, and tomorrow Israel will sound all of its air raid sirens so that the whole country will be filled with the sounds of alarm and war, to remember what happened to the Jews at the hands of Nazi Germany. Also tomorrow, I will leave Haifa and Northern Israel for awhile and will not return until about a week from now, so I do not know what my internet access will be like from this point on, but I will try to update as often as possible! Tomorrow morning we are all boarding the 9am train at the bottom of Ben Gurion Street at the Port of Haifa and taking it to Tel Aviv, and we will hang around there for a bit, then take the train up to Jerusalem, where we will find a hostel and visit the Holocaust Memorial.

Hope all is well with everyone! Talk to you all soon!

We took off with some friends who were going to their jobs on the other side of Mount Carmel, at the top. Jamie and I were then going to spend the next several hours at a pub that was “just around the corner” at the French Carmel district, and we were planning to read and journal there while our friends were busy. Instead, we ended up walking for an hour straight at a steady pace to the very top of Mount Carmel, to where the Ba’hai Temple Gardens met with the peak of the Mount. If you Goggle “Temple of Bab” you’ll see the gardens above the temple; just imagine that long walk, especially after this morning’s long hike!

We eventually, about an hour and twenty minutes into the evening, found our first beer establishment in Carmel Center, an area we thought was French Carmel. So as we sipped Jewish beer in a cave-like building of the Beer House at the mount’s peak, we joked about how our friends gave us such horrible directions and instructed us to take an hour walk uphill.

Later in the night we attempted to meet them at our designated spot, but we were running late coming down from the peak so they drove up to look for us, and we met at a corner. We then realized that all the signs for French Carmel were facing the opposite side of the street that we saw while we were walking; and that French Carmel was merely a few blocks away. Good excercise though!

Finally, we were driven back a bit later and four of us had drinks at the Bear Pub, an Irish pub that sits just above the Mediterranean about a mile from the top of the gardens. And with that, I am sore and tired, but still pleased to be here, and I will bid you a goodnight.