I spent break in the Promised Land. Eretz Yisrael. Camel Central. Whatever you want to call it, that’s where you would have had to go to find me for the past two weeks. Why? Because I was in Israel, if you haven’t picked up on that already. At the risk of offending those of you who are more religiously devout, I would like to tell you about it, or at least give you the highlight reel, with a hint of zesty lemon. After a twelve hour flight direct from Newark, New Jersey to Tel Aviv, we met our tour guide. His name was Tzvi. He lived in Israel and knew a lot about the country. Of course, he might as well have lived on the edge of the Forbidden Forest and have known a lot about hippogriffs, because he bore a striking resemblance to Hagrid. Our first full day was mostly spent overcoming jet lag. However, we did manage to book a “sunrise jeep tour into the Ramon crater, which contains geological formations unparalleled elsewhere in the world.” Translation: we had to wake up at 5 to drive jeeps into a big crater full of brown rocks. Fun. I did, however, learn some valuable life-lessons that day. Number one: the brochure was very wrong. Number two: in Israel, gerbil is pronounced with a hard g. At least, that’s how our jeep driver pronounced it as he explained that the only animals other than scorpions that lived in the crater were small and furry. Number three: In Hebrew, “Ani ohevet tinot sheli” means “I love my baby.” On the contrary, “Ani ochelet tinot sheli” means “I am eating my baby.” I did not learn the Hebrew for “Now that’s what I call a sticky situation,” but I’m pretty sure it would have been appropriate just after I discovered that subtle difference. The next day we embarked on a one day escapade into Jordan to visit Petra, an ancient Nabatean city carved into solid rock. It was featured in Indiana Jones: The Last Crusade as the temple in which the Holy Grail was located. Admittedly, I would have been reluctant to participate in such a venture, especially after the hotel bombs in Amman last November, had there not been a “peace” treaty between Israel and Jordan. Fortunately, it’s “safe” to visit. This became clear as we crossed the friendly border between the two countries, which was fenced off with amicable barbed wire and friendly signs that happily proclaimed “Caution: Mines.” As Tzvi did not accompany us on this excursion (he was unwilling to risk his life), our group was assigned a new Jordanian tour guide once we had crossed the border. His name was Kamel. All jokes aside, he claimed that his name was Arabic for “perfect.” Go figure. Kamel was kind enough to explain that the main industry of his country was children. This became obvious as soon as we disembarked from the bus, and a barefoot three year old attempted to sell me beads. “What country are you from? America?” she asked. Taking my averted eyes as a sign of affirmation, she exclaimed, “Blue Light Special: 1 dollar.” This led me to believe that the Jordanese government may be better off supporting some other industry. Maybe the camel industry. Back in Israel, our tour group spent much time cavorting about the desert. I won’t bore you with the gory details, but suffice it to say that nothing particularly interesting happened, aside from my older brother, Meade, class of ’04, getting into a fight with a 60 year-old woman who was angry at the world. Long story short, the fight was mostly verbal and never actually escalated into fisticuffs, but, between you and me, my money would have been on the woman. And speaking of angry 60 year-old women, I would just like to add that, in the Arab market in Jerusalem, I wasn’t paying attention to where I was walking and at one point I totally plowed over this five foot tall Orthodox Jewish woman. She walked away, limping and muttering under her breath in Hebrew to the effect of “this is a market, not a thru-way.” The Orthodox are crazy like that.
