I proclaim to you new things from this time, even hidden things which you have not known (Isaiah 48:6)

In case you didn't check Facebook on the right day, I have fulfilled my two-year contract in Israel, and Tim and I decided not to extend for another year. The reason is simple: Tim was basically living there as an illegal immigrant. He played the three-month visa game well enough, but we started to worry when a person in the same situation was told that if she left the country again, she would not be allowed to return. Although Tim was never given this ultimatum, Jewish last name withstanding, I didn't like the idea of potentially being trapped in the Mideast without my boo.

And so we issued an ultimatum of our own, but to the school: We would stay only if there were a position for Tim, one that was more clearly legitimate than his subbing arrangement, the economics of which remain legally suspect to this day. Many ideas were tossed about, and Tim even had some interviews with principals, but when nothing substantial was offered before the job fair, we decided to take our chances. Said job fair was less than a week after I had to turn in my declaration of whether I was staying or not, and the school wouldn't give me an extension, so with one yellow paper put in a mailbox, I said goodbye to Israel.

As a country full of ironies, there were many for us even at the end. Within a month after the job fair, quite a few positions that would've suited Tim opened up, including a Spanish teacher spot. Presumably, this departing teacher should've handed in her declaration before the job fair as well, but she just claimed she didn't know she had her new position yet. She was in the clear, because the letter of intent is not legally binding, only the contract is, and she hadn't signed that yet. Live and learn, I guess. And now, the school probably is planning to fill this job with a local part-timer for a year -- instead of a sought-after sub and tutor who fulfilled obligations to a school that he wasn't even officially employed by.

Indeed, the school never truly recognized Tim's contributions, even if some were at my behest. One principal, for example, refused to fill out a job fair evaluation for him because he hadn't observed Tim (apparently, that doesn't bar you from being alone with 20 kids in a classroom day after day). In another ironic twist, at the end of the year Tim was asked to take over for a teacher who was asked to resign. As part of this subbing period, he was not only supposed to develop, explain, and coach students through the final, but he also was asked to grade the end product. About 100 essays in all. Indeed, the guy who was not deemed good enough to be offered a position at the school next year was relied upon to replace a teacher who was allowed to be in the classroom for this entire school year. And don't even get me started about how this teacher was given a "favorable" recommendation letter for agreeing to depart gracefully.

This treatment, along with a 6 percent pay cut and the mutual moving-on of good friends, didn't make leaving the school very hard, actually. But leaving those friends who are staying did. I can only hope I find some people as nice as those in Israel as I start at a new school in Costa Rica. Read and see on my new blog.

What is wrong cannot be made right; what is missing cannot be recovered (Ecclesiastes 1:15)

Much to my surprise, I have spouted forth my opinions in 46 posts on this blog. In looking back on them, I must admit that -- although my boyfriend thinks I can't say it -- I was wrong. Of course, I didn't lie to you, but upon further analysis and reflection, I can see that I should adjust my attitude, which I have been told to do many times in the past (mostly by teachers). Here are just a few things about which I was mistaken:

• Tel Aviv is not at all like Athens as the bars do not have the much-needed discounted "Aquarium Nights" and the streets are severely lacking in burrito buggies. (And this shall be the sign to you)
• Tim's messiah-like beard did not land him a job in ESL teaching, telecommuting or tour guiding, but he did almost grow awe-inspiring dreadlocks. (Walk worthy of the vocation wherewith ye are called)
• After being told not to walk on our lawn at all, we encouraged Sage to pee on the birdbath. (He abode two whole years in his own hired dwelling)
• Israel is the farthest thing from consistent, unless you count everyone believing consistently that everything should be how he or she wants it, no matter how inconsistent those desires are. (Wisdom is better than weapons of war; but one sinner destroyeth much good)
• Not only do people drive Hummers, but they have the audacity to block two gas pumps at a time with them. (The camel, for though it chews cud, it does not divide the hoof; it is unclean to you)
• The doctors here are hardly put upon; they gladly work late into the evening to be able to milk insurance companies for writing illegible prescriptions for medicines that won't be in stock at the pharmacy for the next three months. (A cheerful heart is good medicine, but a crushed spirit dries up the bones)
• Road construction appears to be done merely for the recreational needs of the workers, not to aid in easing traffic congestion (unless you call closing down a highway lane for two years helpful). (There are different kinds of working, but the same God works all of them in all men)
• The school campus lost its astounding effect on me after bad drainage, tainted water, loose roof tiles, and slippery stairways helped inspire a salary cut. (Now it will spring forth ... I will even make a roadway in the wilderness, a river in the desert)
• Although the buses might have regular and efficient routes, you have to be a Mossad agent to find out the timetables and stops. (This is the best of the land ... because it is holy to the Lord)
• The cycle of conflict is a wider gyre than I would've thought; not only does the circle of offensive-defensive continue, but the school has started over at step one: hiring more people and approving more projects even though the debt is unresolved. (There shall they offer sacrifices of righteousness: For they shall suck the abundance of the seas)

So let this be list of corrections to my experiences here. After two years here, I feel I have a better sense of Israel, but if I stayed two more, I'm sure I would have an even longer list. Indeed, history sometimes should be revised. But I know history will prove me right when I say that I will miss these things:

• Smelling those flowers that bloom only at night, with the heavy scent of SweeTarts
• Wearing flip-flops and/or shorts to school without getting a single sideways glance
  
• Drinking the ubiquitous mocha milks and iced coffees, and not one a Frappacino
• Swimming in the pool at the school, even if it meant my students seeing me in a swimsuit
  
• Eating boureka and falafel, perennial favorite morning and afternoon snacks, respectively
• Biking on the highway to Tel Aviv on Saturday, when the roads are quiet
• Having my sun roof wide open in December
  
• Downing weekly beers at the beach, where buying one Tuborg gets you a free pass to drink your own cooler brews for the rest of the night
• Renewing my caffeine addiction with offerings from the free coffee maker
  
• Parking on the sidewalk simply because everybody else does
  
• Loading up on extremely fresh and cheap produce, especially on 50%-off day at StopMart
• Seeing (but not breathing) the eerie brown fog and clouds created by the khamaseen
  
• Being close enough to Europe that it can be a three-day weekend getaway

And most important, making new friends -- who will let me couch-surf in their own future far-flung homes.

And without all contradiction the less is blessed of the better (Hebrew 7:7)

Oh sure, I had the same experiences as many have had in Egypt: I alternately loved it and hated it. Sometimes I loved what I hated about it, the friendliness that borders on intrusiveness, gritting my teeth as I graciously got my picture taken with a stranger one more time. Sometimes I hated what I loved, the inexpensiveness that transforms into constant expectations of "baksheesh," getting fired up for being charged 10 cents more as a tourist tax.
I hated that I was not at all awed by the pyramids of Giza, and certainly not the Sphinx, which is much smaller than it even looks here, with the help of those wily geometrically-minded Egyptians. It's hard to take their mathematical genius seriously when there are motorized, stuffed camels for sale 20 feet away and a KFC across the street. But I loved being able to wander wherever I wanted, even out into the desert, away from all the touts and monetary favors, including the keeper in the Pyramid of Khafre, who wanted some change for him telling others not to take photographs after I was required to surrender my camera with Tim before entering.
I loved the amazing breadth of information available in the dusty confines of the Egyptian Museum in Cairo and the slick structure of the Bibliotheca in Alexandria. At the library, one of its initiatives is to archive every single page of the Internet since 1994. That's not every URL address, that's every page of every Web site, including the Flying Spaghetti Monster. But I hated the lack of a clear organizational system for this vast knowledge. After looking at the umpteenth sarcophagi, I still had no clear understanding of the meaning or importance of all those Ramses dynasties.
I hated how Luxor was a boiler, both in terms of the temperature and the pressure on tourists. We spent three hours in a bar one afternoon to escape the heat and rackets; we were so happy with our cold beers that we didn't even care about getting to Karnak, purportedly one of the most stunning sites in the Nile Valley. But I loved Luxor and its temple -- which we also didn't go in to see, bad travelers that we are -- at night, when the place seemed like a real city, not just a port for cruises. It took us only a few seconds from the train station to be offered hashish and find falafel for less than 25 cents (the food, that is, not the drugs).
I loved how I was finally impressed by the Valley of the Kings and the Necropolis, both for the reconstruction of the Temple of Hatshepsut, which showed the architectural excellence of the society, and the preservation of the drawings there and in all the tombs, which held their colorful grandeur for over three thousand years. But I hated how the "traditional" show at the alabaster factory was clearly orchestrated, with each guy acting on cue when his part of the carving process came to light. And of course, our guide was in on the performance; had we bought anything, he would've got a cut of the proceeds.
I hated leaving Dahab, plain and simple. After more than 10 days of constant negotiating, being at a place where the costs were set, albeit pricier, it was nice to simply relax between eating a huge $2 breakfast and snorkelling to see some tropical fish. Oh, I loved opting to walk around, read a book, and drink some beers rather than hike up Mount Sinai, where I'm sure some helpful soul would've wanted an offering for taking a photograph of the view.

There shall they offer sacrifices of righteousness: For they shall suck the abundance of the seas (Deuteronomy 33:19)

Not that I should care, considering that I am leaving for Costa Rica next year, but watching the reaction to a proposed an across-the-board 6 percent pay cut at my school has been an interesting micro-study of the psychological factors that might contribute to the prevention of Mideast peace on a macro-level. 

First, let me establish a few facts that everyone agreed upon as the pay-cut proposal was raised. 1) The school is in financial dire straits; both school and teachers union auditors agreed that strong measures needed to be taken immediately to prevent the school from having to declare bankruptcy. 2) If the pay cut were not accepted, costs would have to be trimmed in some other way. 3) The area that could put the biggest dent in expenditures is salary (both internal staff and external contractors). Therefore, 4) if a broad-based pay cut was not instituted, entire positions would have to be cut, meaning people would be fired. 

In general, the reaction to the facts fell upon party lines. A lot of local hires did not want to approve the pay cut. Quite a few local hires also supported the proposal, but I don't know of a single overseas hire who was against it. And this, I believe, is a result of the fact that the did not suffer the same conflicts of psyche. To name a few, one for past, future, and present: 

Never Forget: Perhaps the main agreed-upon fact is that a primary reason the school fell into financial ruin was the poor timing of the decision to build the new campus. I'm no accountant, but even I know that you don't pull money out of your contingency fund to cover unexpected extra construction costs, especially when a high COLA based on the dollar-shekel exchange rate is indicating currency instability. Thus, although the board and administration never admitted to it, there were many allegations of prior financial mismanagement. True or not, the damage had already been done, and although I think awareness as a result of past wrongs is good, I do not think stasis borne out the necessity to correct unfixable failures is. And yet, I signed a letter to the board containing the following the line: "True, one can never go backwards in time, yet, sometimes, doing the right thing takes the wisdom, strength and courage to undo the wrong thing." I took this as a plea to try to do better in the future, but I'm not so sure. I think some people will wait until the wrong thing is undone before they cooperate any further. It makes me wonder if some Mideast mediators are waiting on the same thing. 

Never Forgive: And some people are even making it clear that, even if the wrongs can be righted, they won't ever forgive the board for their problems with process: "We expressed great concern about the coercive manner in which the package was presented with a 'take it or leave it and be ready to accept the consequences' approach. ... This threat created a feeling of a 'hostage' situation that brought unbearable pressure on teachers and divided the faculty in an untenable way." Did I really sign a letter that called the board hostage-takers? Indeed, the board did offer a lesser-of-two-evils choice. But its alternative was to not offer us a choice at all; the members could've decided to start firing people without asking if we'd rather take a broad pay cut instead. This is perfectly legal and highly likely; just ask anybody in a U.S. public-school system. In my view, the board does not deserve forgiveness, but thanks. But even if there is some culpability, how is it going to encourage better negotiations in the past when one side continually attacks the other for not living up to their standards for the negotiation process? I'm talking about my school here, but some Gaza political groups might know what I mean, too. 

Never A Frier: The refusal to forget and/or forgive both seem dedicated to an ever-present phenomenon: the refusal to be a frier, or sucker. Any attempt, perceived or real, to pull the wool over people's eyes will get them itching for a fight. In this case, some teachers saw the cutting of sabbatical for new hires as not just another way of tightening the pursestrings but as a method of insulting their intelligence: "We were told that the school is in an emergency situation, yet the package included a non-emergency contractual item, sabbatical for new hires. We can only see this as the Board taking advantage of the situation by linking these two issues together in the same package." If I had line-item veto powers on the letter, I would've deleted this for sure. Another non-frier allusion in the letter is to the teachers' beneficence, or "willingness to help find solutions and make sacrifices." In actuality, when the teachers union requested suggestions to trim budgets, it received few besides mine. Some said they were afraid to submit proposals, fearing they would face those cuts along with the salary reduction. The fact that any extra eliminated expenditures would probably benefit the school nonwithstanding, these people hardly demonstrated the same "good faith" they sought from board members. In a compromise situation, someone always has to be the first to give, which certainly puts that person at risk, but without that risk, little reward can be received. Not a bad reminder as the new Israeli legislature starts its work. 

To be fair, the response from the board wasn't exactly stellar: "The Teachers’ Association letter, however, suggests the Board failed to act in good faith while negotiating. ... The facts do not support this claim." It, too, was laced with tinges of anti-forgetting, -forgiveness, and -frierhood. But when faced with such an offensive, it's hard not to be, um, defensive, which itself turns into a form of an attack. And thus, the cycle will continue, long after my part in the close 33-31 vote is forgotten.

... an image formed by the art and thought of man (Acts 17:29)

Perhaps Montenegro could've been just as colorful as Croatia, but we had some bad luck, making it feel imbued with the overcast-day dreariness of "Rain, Steam, and Speed" by J.M.W. Turner. The same muted smears covered the walls of our hotel room in Bar, an overpriced accommodation we suffered through when our plans to go into Albania didn't pan out. But in the painting, as in my image, there is a subtle hint of light shining through. Through the window behind the bleak beds in my vision, I see the glint of the Ulcinj shoreline sun prisming through a beer glass resting on the table in front of Tim, a glowing reminder that although we didn't get a true sense of the country, we at least glimpsed the positive while passing through.
The light is more pivotal in my view of Kosovo, as in "Philosopher in Mediation" by Rembrandt. Indeed, Prishtina is in the spotlight right now after the country declared its independence more than a year ago. Individuals, like the philosopher, are spotlighted in my three-dimensional perspective of Bill Clinton Boulevard. In the closest and brightest streetlight is the professor whose hostel we stayed at; he is encouraging travel by opening up more and more rooms throughout the city (albeit some of them are used for less-than-noble pursuits). In a slightly more distant streetlight is your typical Kosovar, a macchiato in one hand and a hamburger in the other, showing the infiltrating Western sensibilities. Smaller and less distinct is a KFOR (Kosovo Force) officer maintaining a clear but subdued presence. Farthest in the distance and least in the light is the NATO guard, trying to stay in the shadows but still clearly visible, like the fire tender in the painting.

From our quick visit to Albania, a bus ride from Macedonia, my only impression is a collection of characters. And although our cast, crammed in a small coffee house, would've looked routine from the outside, there was much going on inside, as I've always interpreted "Nighthawks" by Edward Hopper. I see our waitress stealing our Lonely Planet book over and over again to express shock that her beloved Pogradec isn't highlighted. The town-drunk fixture seemed to share in this consternation, although some of his muttering and gesticulating was less comprehendable than his companion's; the off-color remarks still came through, though. In my perception of the cafe, our taxi driver Mario and the lazy-eyed border dog are also there, doing their part, through benevolence only, to help us negotiate this very non-tourist-friendly part of the country.

Between Lake Ohrid and Skopje, Macedonia melds into a distortion similar to "Print Gallery" by M.C. Escher. My optical illusion stems from a combined pedestrian street forking into two disparate directions. To the left is the wide, marbled promenade of Lake Ohrid leading to the Church of St. John the Theologian, a tiny, mosaic-filled altar situated on the perfect hill to look back peacefully on downtown. Our Serbian friend Luka, who jabbered us into the new year, beckons us to join him. To the right is the crammed, puddle-filled path of the Turkish Quarter in Skopje, leading to the all-male tea shop that accepted my female self for a drink. But in our way is a Roma gypsy and her son, who literally felt us up as they tried to pickpocket us. This disconnect reflects my overall feeling toward Macedonia: There, I had the best and worst times of our trip. It also reflects the overall ethos of the Balkans: The positive aspects will bring tremendous joy, but the negative aspects will creep in, reminding you of the hurt that has pervaded the place.

(As a footnote, I finally bought a new camera, but upon taking it to Greece, I realized that the memory card held unbearably few pictures. So when I tried to re-format the card so I could take more, I erased all the pictures I had taken in the three days so far. I decided to call the vacation a wash, in terms of photos. After all, you've seen one photo of the Parthenon, you've seen them all. And then I took my completely empty camera to Jericho, but I couldn't get in the photographic mood. But I make this solemn vow to all of you: I will be back in full snapshot shape for our spring break in Jordan and Egypt.)

We ought not to think that the Divine Nature is like gold or silver or stone ... (Acts 17:29)

Gold, silver, and stone are reliable. Divine Nature is not. Despite my best efforts to fix my camera by buying a new battery, it finally died at the beginning of our winter break trip to the Balkans. Sure, I could've borrowed Tim's whenever I wanted to take a picture, but that just seemed too complicated. Besides, it would ruin the spontaneity of capturing a moment. At first, I was extremely angry that I wouldn't be able to record the images of this trip in particular, where I felt like I would see things different than anything I had ever seen before. But every time I longed to take a picture, I realized that it reminded me of something I had seen before anyway: artwork. We started the true part of our trip in Serbia (after flying into Istanbul, Turkey, and taking the train through Bulgaria to Belgrade), which reminded me of "Village Wedding Feast" by Pieter Bruegel. The noisy friendliness from this painting is what I see in my own conjured picture, except mine is more focused on one jocund and rotund bartender near the market in Zemun who served us huge pints of dark beer. (Incidentally, I also picture him serving us a full pig, mouth stuffed with an apple, even though we didn't eat at his bar, because I remember eating so much pork, especially in the bohemian neighborhood of Skadarlija.) Behind him, through the bar window, is Kalemegdan Fortress, which now guards nothing but the river-raft nightclubs below, and a bombed-out downtown building, a strange juxtaposition of the country's dominance and submission. The friendliness continued into Bosnia, but the reality was much starker and superimposed, like "Church Aisle" by Scott Mutter. We met a woman at one train station who spoke to us at length, ruing her countrymen's attitude, dependent on falling back on a false identity that doesn't exist and that has led to many deaths already. She had high hopes of escaping the country, yet our conversation was tinged with the sadness that comes from being trapped. She is the central feature in my own Mutter creation: In a long dark coat, she walks past a cemetery, her shadow cast on gravestones that grow into four different apexes -- an Orthodox dome, a Christian steeple, a Moslem mineret, and the Sarajevo Brewery smokestack, representing the singular, hopeful unity amid a convolution of asserted traditions. In moving on to Croatia, we headed straight to the beaches of Dubrovnik, once again full of color and light, plus the breeziness found in "Interior with Phonograph" by Henri Matisse. The hues of the town lingered together like its influences. As we walk up the steep, stepped streets, I turn to look below. I see the country's native fish on a plate outside one door and the adopted Italian staple pizza outside another. The attempts at internationality are more palpable here, as my vision includes Tim taking a photograph of our new Japanese friend Hirosh, who shared mussels and calamari with us in Dubrovnik after catching up with us after we toured Mostar together the day before.

Shall two walk together, except they have agreed? (Amos 3:3)

Just in time for Tim's and my next adventure, to the Balkans, I'm finally getting around to posting pictures of my last trip, sans Tim. Traveling with Tim is a certain type of experience, which I enjoy very much. So it was interesting to see what it was like to have different traveling companions when I went to Budapest, Hungary. Because I took the lead a lot of the time, my co-workers and I did a lot of outings similar to what Tim and I would. But we also made some forays into places that Tim would probably only tolerate.

For example, Tim and I would trek across town to see train stations, like the main international hub Keleti, which in our case was about a block from our hostel:
But we probably wouldn't bail on a whole day of sightseeing to just relax in the park (of course, perhaps if I offered beer ...):

We would wander around the city to take unsuspecting photos of people, like we did at Margaret Island while eating some of the cheapest (and therefore most delicious) ice cream around:
But we probably wouldn't stop on the way back to take such a touristy photo of the sun setting over Buda:

We would make use of public transportation for day trips to take more unsuspecting photos of people, like this one of a little boy getting a horse ride in the artists' haven Szentendre:
But we probably wouldn't be taken in by overpriced touristy garb, like this dyed fabric made in the traditionally time-consuming way for years by the Kovacs family:

We would seek out cultural activities, like watching the old boys' club play chess in the Szechenyi Bath, where tourists and locals mix in the middle of the city park:
But we probably wouldn't consider the Marzipan museum, in Szentendre, a cultural activity, with or without a life-size almond-paste Michael Jackson statue:

We would plan to eat lunch at the food market, like platefuls of sausage at the Central Market Hall:
But we probably wouldn't hunt down a place I saw in a guidebook, even if it does have rustic charm and a true Hungarian name, Paprika:

As much as I harp to Tim that he doesn't let our vacations actually be vacations, as in relaxing, I discovered that I am just as addicted to wandering around a town and venturing beyond its boundaries as he. Perhaps it's time for me to admit that Tim's version of a vacation is just as relaxing, mainly because he is with me.

Thus saith the Lord Jehovah ... I will give you Israel (Ezekiel 11:17)

The other day in yearbook class, I heard one student say to another: "You can't not believe in God and still be Jewish." (I swear, my staff members often have this level of conversation; I've heard better discussion on the U.S. election -- among non-Americans, I might add -- in the last two weeks than I've ever heard on Hannity and Colmes.) The student in question replied, "I'm culturally Jewish." A former co-worker of mine would agree. When one of our mutual colleagues declined a Hanukkah card, declaring that he was a practicing atheist, she told him that he was still Jewish -- by default because of his parents.

I'm not sure what precipitated the discussion in my class, but it was suspiciously close to Yom Kippur, which was the very next day. On that day, a friend and I discussed how little we actually knew about the holiday before we came to Israel. Because of the aforementioned co-worker, I actually knew it was the Day of Atonement; I knew that traditional Jews would fast and reflect at home, except for walking trips out to ask or pray for forgiveness. However, this is the religious American Jew's version of events. If this person were in Israel, he or she would be surprised to see the streets full of families bicycling on the empty streets. Surveys find that two-thirds of Israelis declare themselves as religiously Jewish, in either a conservative or traditional sense (The difference between the two, I gather, involves whether you go to synagogue on holidays and keep kosher). So I have to assume that at least some of these people, at least for this day, are focusing on being culturally Jewish instead of religiously Jewish. At least I hope they are not fasting while out bike riding in the desert sun and heat.

And this, it seems, is part of the crisis of the Jewish State (besides the fact that this official name is not included in any government documents; officially, Israel is the "national home for the Jewish people," not exactly a phrase ringing high with property rights). Some people would prefer to emphasize the culturally Jewish and others the religiously Jewish. In my observations, the latter is more often asserted by immigrants than the people who have been living here since the advent of Zionism, which makes sense considering the fact that the freedom of religion is probably a bigger impetus to leave your home country than the freedom to play paddle ball in Speedo-like underwear.

When American interests insert themselves into issues of Israeli nationhood, this conflict comes to a head, literally. By Israeli law, to make aliyah and therefore get a passport, Jewish identity can be established either culturally, through being born to a Jewish mother regardless of whether she or the child practices, or religiously, through undergoing conversion per Jewish law (read: circumcision). However, an Israeli citizen cannot get married in the country unless the Orthodox Israeli Chief Rabbinate approves. Typically, this means that conversions (circumcisions) done outside the country are not enough all by themselves. As you might imagine, American Jewish movements believe that religious conversions in their country should be plenty to get married, but in an ironic twist, they say Jewish identity should not be established culturally if the parent does not claim Jewish identity.

Are you confused yet? Me, too. Is Judaism a culture or a religion? Yes and yes. As crazy as it seems to have a culture encouraging a horde of training wheels to overtake a six-lane highway, it's even crazier to envison a religion provoking a mob of stoners to attack any wheels of the non-training variety -- all on a single Jewish holiday.

There was a rainbow round about the throne, like an emerald to look upon (Revelation 4:3)

When I started packing for our trip to Ireland, the first thing that came to mind was rain. I wanted to make sure I brought enough waterproof gear. But the first thing that normally comes to people's minds -- which, incidentally, is related to rain -- is the green landscape that gives the country it's "Emerald Isle" nickname. My trip to Ohio was verdant enough, but after spending a week in tan and dusty Israel, the lushness of St. Stephen's Green in Dublin was admittedly quite striking:
But the colors of other jewels were just as evident throughout the country. Despite my fears of downpours, we had plenty of clear weather, including this sapphire sky in Bray, a southern suburb of Dublin that was hosting a summer carnival:
The Salthill promenade near Galway on the west coast also had a carnival, but the main attraction was the silver sea instead. The rare sun brought people of all ages out to test the waters. My wussy self only waded, but Tim took a dip long enough to make his teeth chatter. The Atlantic Ocean is no Mediterranean Sea, even in summer:
Tim was also brave enough to bear the 40 Foot natural pool in Sandycove right as the amber sunlight was beginning to fade. The pool is only steps away from the Martello Tower that houses the James Joyce museum. Joyce was inspired enough by the local scenery that he describes it in detail in the opening chapter of Ulysses; it's easy to see why:The filtering of rays through the clouds gave me an inspiration of a different kind: Time to drop in a pub. No trip to Dublin is complete without the obligatory trip to St. James's Gate Brewery, home of Guinness. The tour, although somewhat hokey, is worth the final reward: a complimentary topaz pint with a 360-degree view of the town and, if you're as lucky as me, a shamrock head:As much of a cultural institution as Guinness is, Ireland is rich in the slate of history. We saw Muiredach's Cross on the way to Newgrange, a Stone Age passage tomb built before the Egyptian pyramids. The 10th century cross at Monasterboice, where the remains of a monastic round tower also still stand, is considered the best example of a intact high Celtic cross in Ireland:
In keeping with the color of history, we had a few gray days, including during a trip to Howth. But the fishing village north of Dublin was dotted with jewel tones. When we did our one and only "hill walk" south of the harbor, I realized that the boats and houses resembled a collection of birthstones: The Irish landscape is full of gems, to be sure, but the true pearls of the country are its characters. The seals in the Howth harbor were happy to get leftovers from the wharf fish mongers. But Tim's oysters and my Dublin Bay prawns, we decided, were too delicious to throw to the seaborne beggars:
Much more intrusive and much more scary were the Close-Act performers roaming the streets at the Galway Arts Festival. I managed to get wrapped up in their antennae on our way to one of the most famous fish-and-chips establishments in Ireland:
The sights of Ireland were undoubtedly gorgeous, but truly, I got most caught up in the people, including the Belfast couple who bought Tim and I so many pints that we nearly missed our train back to Dublin. It saddened me that we only had enough time to merely scratch the surface of the country's many facets. Rain or no, we will return.

I have been a stranger in a strange land (Exodus 2:22)

I know, I know, I can't believe I haven't used this title yet. But until now, I hadn't really felt out of place in Israel, well at least more than expected. Recently, though, I had an experience that makes me feel like an unwanted immigrant. In general, I'm pretty liberal on immigration to the United States. When Americans represent only 4 percent of the world's population, but use more than 30 percent of the world's energy resources, for example, I feel the country is somewhat obligated to open its doors. Yet I also sympathize with those people who feel that new immigrants should make attempts to integrate, even in terms of language. But we could be more accommodating during this transition. Consider my recent experience trying to fix my car embellished as a little fable, with the following roles:
Me = Recent immigrant
English = Spanish (native language)
Hebrew = English (new language)

So a young Mexican woman immigrates to the States, and one day her car is hit while parked on the street, leaving damage to the front driver side of the car. After calling her insurance company numerous times and never hearing back, possibly because it's too hard to find someone to speak to her in Spanish, she just decides to take it to the shop anyway. Upon arriving at the garage, the employees are nice enough to act as translators in dealing with the insurance claim, which must be filed in English. This takes almost half a day to negotiate, causing her to get reprimanded by her employer for taking too much time off.

A few days later, the shop calls to say the claim has been refused. So the woman goes to the shop to see if she can find out why. The employees there are not nearly as helpful this time because it seems she wasted so much of their time before, but they still help her get in contact with the insurance company. A representative there tells her in Spanish that her policy covers only "body damage." This woman, who has taken enough English to buy groceries, get gas, and pay bills, clearly does not know enough to understand her insurance policy; apparently, she didn't really understand her insurance policy in Spanish either. Although her car is merely dented, requiring no repairs beyond structural, this does not qualify as "body damage."

Now the garage and insurance employees are both frustrated with her. Her claim isn't going to be covered, but the parts have already been ordered. Luckily, the woman has enough savings to pay for the repairs, which is a good thing because now that she has missed another day of work to deal with the problem, she will probably lose her job. After feeling like a burden to everybody and an idiot to herself because she was ignorant of how bureaucracy works in her new country, she just wants a cigarette and a stiff drink.

So the woman is now out of a job and out of money, so she just keeps coping by smoking and drinking, which eventually puts a strain on her new country's social services: She has to draw unemployment because of her poor work record, and she has to apply for Medicaid to cover her tobacco- and alcohol-related ailments. You see where this slippery slope is going, right? The open-door immigration policy is now hurting every honest taxpayer.

And so the critics have some validity to their claims. But all of this could've been mitigated and perhaps even avoided if someone, anyone would've helped the young woman negotiate a system that even native Americans oftentimes have trouble navigating. It would've taken only one person -- from the insurance company, from the car title office, from her job -- to tell her that her insurance policy was not complete, and she would've fixed the mistake before she had to face the consequences. And this is only one of many bureaucratic nightmares she will have to endure. Changing the initial cause of the effect -- refusing immigrants, period -- certainly takes care of the issue, but addressing some other causes -- like new-immigrant assistance -- might achieve fairer results.

Though he knew it not, yet is he guilty, and shall bear his iniquity (Leviticus 5:17)

I don't like to proliferate stereotypes, so I am going to try to dispel one, that of the Jewish mother, accused of laying on the guilt so thick that her children have mental breakdowns, ala the stock character in Portnoy's Complaint. 

I am here to say that Jewish mothers are not to blame, for this is an Israel-wide phenomenon -- parent, child, sibling, spouse, significant other, friend, landlord, neighbor, boss, co-worker, and stranger alike. Almost all of these have guilted me into action within the past year: 

I park my car elsewhere after neighbors told me that specific spots on the public streets belonged to them. 

I walk my dog twice a day after my landlady told me that Sage's pee and poop (the latter of which was not his, but her own dog's) was killing her plants. 

I go to Monday morning meetings after my principal said all staff were required to attend even if they have no responsibilities there. 

I grade homework on weekends after students told me that they didn't have enough time to revise them by the end of the quarter. 

I sub for my colleagues after a few requested me specifically to fill in for them, knowing I could actually teach in their absence. 

I took on students for independent study classes after guidance counselors told me that students just couldn't fit my class into their schedules. 

I move my stuff between Herzliyya and Even Yehuda on a near-daily basis after the children of friend told her that they didn't appreciate the intrusion of their privacy through our voluntary house- and dog-sitting.

I go the gym more after a trainer told me that I could be in even better shape if I just a little more cardio and lifted a little more weight. 

I call my dad every Sunday to let him know I am okay after my uncle told me that bombings are the only Mideast news in the Mansfield paper.

I drink more beer at the beach with my boyfriend after he told me that my stress level was affecting our relationship. 

I drive to Haifa to drop off the school yearbook after the printer told me he felt disrespected that I shared his bid with another company to get a counteroffer. 

I carry my contract and a business card after a security guard told me that my work visa was not enough to prove that I am allowed to live in Israel. 

To be honest, I'm not against using guilt as a tool. My parents were pretty adept with this skill. Disappointment was always a more effective motivator than punishment in my life, and I turned out pretty well, albeit as somewhat of a perfectionist. I think I am just jealous that, despite all this training, I have not mastered the art myself. If I had, things would've went much differently here: 

I would ask my neighbors to call the eyewitness who left me a note after my car was hit while parked in one of the "non-reserved" spots. 

I would respond to my landlady that, if the plants bore vegetables, we would be more careful, considering we can't fit more than three apples in our mini-fridge at a time. 

I would suggest to my principal that I use Monday morning meeting time as my planning periods, considering two are eaten up by voluntary independent-study courses and the other is spent on cafeteria duty.

I would tell my students that since they whine about too much work, I am taking away the option of revising essays to raise their grades.

I would request my own personal sub to see if they could teach, say, how to download a photo to my newspaper class.

I would refuse the guidance counselors' intention of adding a fifth prep to my schedule simply because they won't tell parents "no."

I would agree when my friend told me that perhaps her child-rearing skills are to blame for her son's and daughter's attitudes.

I would declare to my gym trainer that I am, in fact, in as good of shape as most of the other female members -- even though I don't flaunt the cleavage to prove it.

I would e-mail my dad that get-aways from all the violence are exactly why I can't call every week.

I would send my boyfriend to the beach to imbibe alone yet still expect him to bring me back food and a bottle of wine.

I would demand that the printer give us 100 more yearbooks for free because it was the rush to do changes for him that made me mis-add the total order.

I would reply to the security guard that perhaps he or she should check with the Ministry of Education about my credentials, considering it still has my diplomas and teaching certificate.

And yet, I am building my talents of manipulation. Within the past month (which is how long this post has taken to write because of my succumbing to guilt), I have made some progress in using guilt to get what I want:

I helped ensure that my neighbor next year will be another teacher from the school, which won me favor with both the administration and my landlady.

I took pictures of a bruise left by a bite from the landlady's dog, which I plan to use as leverage (along with the new tenant) for a new refrigerator.

I suggested to my principal that, considering I have five different preps next year, I don't think I should have to have any duties, homeroom, cafeteria or otherwise.

I stuck to my requirement of an 80 percent to get my recommendation for AP Literature, and all but one student revised multiple essays by the deadline to get in.

I started assigning staff members as responsible for various parts of the new Web site, implying that they will now have to download their own photos if they want them online -- unless I have time to do so while I am subbing for them.

I decreed to the guidance counselors that I will not entertain any requests for students to switch in or out of my class next year.

I split from house-sitting for my friend, telling her that the disrespect, no matter its cause, was interfering with my personal well-being.

I alluded publicly to the fact that I know my gym trainer, who happens to be my landlady's son, had a nose job to fix his physical flaws.

I told my dad that continuing to talk every other week, which happened accidentally for a while, was a good idea.

I asked my boyfriend to drink his beer with me at seaside restaurants instead of at the local kiosk.

I created a purchase order with the newly contracted printer and accurate total for next year already.

I piled three yearbooks and a newspaper on the security guard, just in case she really needed to see them for verification of my work status.

Am I proud of these things? Some, yes, a little, and others, a lot. But more to the point is that I have learned to fight fire with fire. As someone with a Superwoman complex, guilt is my greatest kryptonite, as all my arch-Israel enemies have discovered. What they didn't realize is that they are not immune to guilt either. And this tragic flaw is the stuff all good comic books and novels are made of. After all, even Philip Roth, through his Portnoy, turned his guilt around: into a writing career. I wonder if perhaps, just perhaps, those printed words have put the guilt back on his mother.   

Jehovah made a covenant with Abram, saying, Unto thy seed have I given this land, from the river of Egypt unto the river Euphrates (Genesis 15:18)

All good historical holidays and lessons come served with beer, so let us commence. Last Saturday, I took part in a tour to Taybeh, in the West Bank, where a factory there makes a beer that is "the finest in the Middle East." Five days later, on Thursday, I drank this aptly-named beer at a BBQ during my day off for Yom Ha'atzmaut. Israeli Independence Day commemorates when David Ben-Gurion proclaimed the establishment of the State of Israel, realizing Theodor Herzl's Zionist dreams, on May 14, 1948. This same day is called the Nakba, or catastrophe, by Arabs and Palestinians, because although their lands became free of the British Mandate, they were soon to be controlled by another nation. Israelis believe they were only recovering the land that had been promised to them by Jehovah and that their ancestors had been ousted from; meanwhile, of course, a new population would be displaced.

According to the International Herald Tribune, 1.3 million Arabs, or 20 percent of the population of Israel, are being restricted on land where they once had independence. To ensure the security of the Israeli (not Jewish, I must say) state, some rabbis dictate that Jews may not rent apartments or give jobs to Arabs. The larger key to this security, though, is land. Arabs are not allowed to work on about 120,000 hectares of their land, even though it might be just sitting idle. And I'm not even talking about the West Bank and Gaza Strip yet.

So where does beer come in, you ask? Taybeh is located in Area A of the West Bank, which is under complete Palestinian control and is supposed to be legally inaccessible to Israelis. Area C is under complete Israeli control and is the base for many settlements. Area B is under joint Palestinian-Israeli control. Here is a good map of the situation. It is not just the West Bank that is partitioned off by the separation barrier, but each of these areas is isolated too, with parallel highways on each side of many walls, one for settlers and one for Palestinians. Therefore, even though Jerusalem is only a 15-minute drive from Taybeh, any of the beer that is sold in the city is likely bootlegged; it is not legal for Israelis to transfer goods from Area A to Israel proper. And if the beer is to be shipped through Israel -- which it must be to get to, say, Jordan -- the taxes are incredibly high.

So at his grandfather's urging, in the early '90s, Nadim Khoury (above at right) came back to the West Bank to open his brewery, instead of staying in suds-central Boston. Granted, things were looking good: In the year the brewery opened, 1994, Israel signed a peace treaty with Jordan that, among other agreements, stated that "normal relationship between them will further include economic and cultural relations." Since then, though, Ehud Barak's "generous offer" was rejected by Yasser Arafat during negotiations at Camp David in 2000. This offer would have ensured Palestinian control of portions of the West Bank and the Gaza Strip, about 80 percent of the green-line area you hear talked about. But even if this deal would've been struck, Khoury would've been left in the lurch, because only small strips of land would connect three patches of Palestinian property, surrounded by Israeli-controlled estate. And the "generous offer" didn't include any specifics about "economic relations," including non-exorbitant export procedures and taxes.

The Gaza Strip, of course, is a whole different ballgame. Its residents aren't worried about exporting; they are worried about importing. Israel does not allow the territory to have its own port, and the state also controls incoming goods across the land border, which often aren't much. Some aid groups have pulled out of the area, because negotiating through restrictions is difficult. Just last month, the United Nations Relief Works Agency suspended aid to 1.1 million refugees in the territory because of fuel shortages caused by Israeli sanctions on Hamas. It's no wonder that desperation led to the storming of the border with Egypt.

Okay, but back to beer, with an analogy: You're Coastal Extreme Brewing Co. in Newport, Rhode Island. You're trying to make your livelihood with your latest stout, but you aren't allowed to export anywhere outside of the state borders, not into Connecticut, not into Massachusetts, without paying the price. And anyway, your production depends on whether you can get the shipment of Canadian malted barley into the state, because your truck has been stuck at the border for a day now because the crossings were closed and security is investigating your supply. And your Bavarian hops couldn't come in by plane or boat because you're not allowed to have an airfield or port.

I say all this because I want to show that statehood is not the issue. The constituents in Israel already understand statehood; they can draw and re-draw borders with proficiency and on a daily basis. What the area is lacking is an understanding of nationhood, where individual states cooperate with one another, including shared authority over security and trade. A two-state solution can't be a solution until this is realized. Giving the Palestinians, or even Arabs, their own state would mean little if they are going to continue to be partitioned off like my hypothetical Rhode Island, unable to participate in the broader country -- and even world. Perhaps, just perhaps, younger generations of Israelis will consider this as they sip beers on the beach during their Independence Day BBQs. And maybe one day they'll even drink Taybeh.

An unhealthy interest in controversies and quarrels about words that result in envy, strife, malicious talk, evil suspicions (1 Timothy 6:4)

Although Turkey is perhaps one of the friendliest countries I have ever been to -- even the free-roaming neighborhood cats and dogs would let you pet them -- at times during the trip, I undeniably felt conspicuous, if not suspicious. Despite Istanbul's reputation as a party city, drinking beer was not as accepted as you might imagine. Although Istiklal Caddesi, which stretches from Taksim Square to Galata Tower in the newer Beyoglu district, serves as an eastern European Bourbon Street, imbibing was not as prevalent in the older Sultanahmet area. 

When Tim ordered a beer at a tea cafe near the Spice Market -- and, granted, in the shadow of a mosque -- it was brought to him in an opaque glass and announced loudly as a cappuccino. I have to admit that the beer foam did look like milk froth. We debated the need for secrecy. After all, a hawker enticed us to the cafe by pitching beer. If the establishment had moral qualms about serving quaffs, it shouldn't mention beer on the menu, orally or otherwise. We concluded that it was probably more about not offending the more conservative clientele. Indeed, none of our fellow patrons, many of whom wore head scarves or ran off to the mosque after the call to prayer, were having alcohol. But then again, no one was having cappuccino either. So we were, um, obvious. 

But the stares weren't as evident as when we sat down for tea in the bazaar area of Erzurum. In the West, drinking tea is a non-gendered equal opportunity, but in the East, it is more reminiscent of the old boys club. I felt like Tim was the stupid guy who brought a girl to his friend's stripper-filled bachelor party, and I wasn't there to show off my G-string. Once again, the proprietors cheerfully served me, but they weren't as inviting with the refills as they were with Tim. I tried to be casual as I sucked down my spot of tea. They are small glasses, so we got out of there quickly, but I felt extremely disconcerted, so much so that I didn't mind wasting four hours at the supermarket and train station instead of wandering more around the city. 

Surprisingly enough, it was an American -- or so he said -- and not a Turk that made us feel most suspect. As we headed in to check out Istanbul's Sirkeci Station, once a hub on the Orient Express, a pedestrian asked me, in English, where I was from. Trying to keep up my resolution to be more open to talking to strangers while traveling, I answered him. We chatted for a good 15 minutes before he asked us if we wanted to join him at a whirling dervish show at the station that night. I didn't mind talking or even going to the show, but I didn't want a third wheel for the night, so I mustered up as much diplomacy as I could to extricate us from the dialogue. 

It was only after we parted ways that Tim expressed doubts about the numerous coincidences that came up in the conversation. Okay, so he said he was on business in Ankara -- which we were planning to visit in a few days -- but taking a break in Istanbul. Believable. He said he worked in counter-terrorism and lived outside DC -- where we used to live. Still believable. He said he had recently visited Berlin -- which we just visited in December. A little scary. He said he had traveled as a Fulbright scholar -- which Tim applied for last year. Getting scarier. He asked Tim if he was a international politics major -- which he is, well, international relations anyway. Definitely strange. He said he had taken a tour of Israel where he had visited the Interdisciplinary Center in Herzliya -- which is about a mile from our house. What the hell?!? 

The most disconcerting part, though, was all the information he got out of us: our current location, our previous homes, our hometowns, our professions, our educational backgrounds, our previous travel, and our current itinerary. The near-cross examination almost made me feel I was worth being interrogated. Of course, we had no need to worry because our intentions were pure. We were heading to the East, but with no malevolence. In fact, we managed to avoid an outbreak of fighting in Kars province, in which a Turkish soldier and five PKK members were killed, two days after we left. We dodged another bullet, literally, by skipping our treehouse stay in Olympos. The morning of the day we were scheduled to arrive, two nearby hostel owners engaged in a shootout that wounded a dozen guests. And still, this guy made us feel suspicious. But if you ask me, inviting two strangers to attend a show where men in fezzes and dresses twirl around to honor Allah is much more eyebrow-raising.

What thou seest, write in a book and send it to the seven churches: unto Ephesus, and unto Smyrna ... (Revelation 1:11)

The whole time I was in Turkey, I just couldn't get Israel out of my mind. After all, the two countries have a lot in common: an abudance of feral cats and mangy dogs, a domination by small children, an affinity for ice cream, a network of confusing shared taxis (sheruts/dolmuşes), a proliferation of gas-station restaurants and cafes, a peculiarity of trash-littered remoteness, a defiance against Arab associations, and a denial of minority oppression. But mostly, the diversity of geography was cause for comparison: Both contain seas, lakes, rivers, mountains, forests, deserts, pastures, fields, groves, and of course cities.

We started our 12-day tour in Istanbul, the Tel Aviv-like hub of commerce and entertainment. First on our agenda was a cruise down the Bosphorus Strait to its mouth to the Black Sea, along which there were great views of the waterline from the boat, including Rumeli Fortress, and of the area from an old castle at the final stop. But being that it was on a public ferry, it was hardly the relaxation of trolling on a sailboat in the Mediterranean, where one can stare all day at the gleaming coastline. One point Israel.


The castle at the end of the Bosphorus cruise was rather crumbly, but Istanbul proper had some more solid -- and stunning -- architecture. The grand dame of the city is Aya Sofya, a cathederal ordered to be built by Constantinople as the largest at the time of its construction. The sixth-century structure was overwhelmed with renovations, though, so we headed instead to the 17th-century Sultan Ahmed Mosque, named after the man who built it to rival the Aya Sofya and nicknamed the Blue Mosque for its decorative interior tiles. The interior of the Dome of the Rock in Jerusalem is off limits to non-Muslims, but its gold-plated dome is awing enough; plus, the seventh-century mosque is the oldest Islamic building in the world (The Aya Sofya was originally created as a church, not a mosque). The serenity of the mosque's surroundings on the Temple Mount, as opposed to the loud tourists and incongruous vacuum in Sultan Ahmed Mosque, gives Israel another point.


Another major attraction in Istanbul is Topkapi Palace, the home of Ottoman sultans for almost 500 years. As intriguing as it sounded to take a tour of the palace's harem, we didn't have time for more than a stroll around the palace grounds. We hit the very end of the city's tulip festival, so it was in incredible bloom. Tulips, though, are hardly a match for the conscientiously groomed flora at the Bahai Gardens in Haifa. But at least you can picnic near Topkapi without arranging a tour months in advance, like you must do for Bahai. This one's a push.


Tranquility is nice, but there's something to be said for frenzy as well, which is why we dove into the Grand Bazaar in Istanbul, which claims to be the largest shopping mall in the world with more than 4,000 vendors. As you might imagine, the bazaar is easy to get lost in. The shopping quarters of Jerusalem's quarters are no different, but at least there, you -- literally -- run into a wall. In Istanbul, it's hard to even tell when you've left the bazaar and wandered into nearby streets, perhaps even all the way to the Spice Market, which is blocks -- and I mean blocks -- away, by the Golden Horn. In terms of wares, the markets both have the requisite souvenirs and knock-off designer goods. Jerusalem edges out Istanbul because of its food offerings, which are more diverse than doner kebab and tea. Israel is in the lead with three points.


After only a few days in the secular West, we hopped on a plane to the more religious East. From Trabzon, our base on the Black Sea, we took a dolmuş to Sümela Monastery, built on a cliff after a Virgin Mary icon was found in a cave there in the fourth century. The dolmuş, however, did not drop us at the doorstep. We had to take a steep, 30-minute hike, with backpacks, to witness the site's glory. But glorious it was. The way the buildings are built seamlessly into the rock showed me that these people must have figured out how to commune with nature. And the spectacular frescoes surely put it above the Masada, a Judean fortress where Jewish fugitives elected to commit suicide rather than be captured by the Romans in the first century. I wouldn't know, for sure, since I didn't have time to make the hike up to the top of the cliff. But then again, there is a cable car to the top, which proves that the hike must not be that worth it. Turkey scores its first point.


We spent a short night in Erzurum, a valley town surrounded by snow-capped mountains, including Palandöken, a ski resort. From a clock tower in the city's citadel, you could turn 360 degrees and continuously see pallid peaks. Mount Hermon has a ski resort too, but I was barely able to get some proof that it does actually snow in Israel. To show the powder-covered slopes, I would've fell off an outcropping at Nimrod Fortress. The mere specks of white just beyond the hills give Turkey a second point.


Erzurum was mainly just a stopover point on the way to Kars, which we decided to visit after reading Orhan Pamuk's Snow, a novel about the East-West conflict that is set in the town. The book is very atmospheric, with foreboding descriptions that we witnessed from a lookout at Kars Castle. The clouds, in the book and in the city, intimated the sense of oppression coming from the never-ending battle over the wearing of head scarves, one among many religion-secularism debates. From the ramparts of Jerusalem's old city, the same battle is represented in the meshing of crosses and antennas, similar in shape and symbolism. Whose struggle is more interesting, illuminating, or important? It's another push.


Kars itself was even more intriguing than we might have thought, but the highlight was a day trip to Ani, the fifth-century capital of an Armenian kingdom. Now, of course, it is just ruins opposite the border with present-day Armenia. You can even see military watch towers beyond the remaining city walls. Israel has a similar ancient site: Nimrod Fortress, a 13th-century stronghold built to defend Damascus. Now, of course, it is just ruins opposite the border with present-day Syria. Both land grabs are equal in significance, but when it comes to feeling that magnitude at the site, Turkey ties up the score.


Just in time, after the clear connection of land to politics, we jetted off to the capital, Ankara, Turkey's Jerusalem-like center of government and patriotism. One of Tim's former students, Sinem, took us on a tour of the must-see site: Anıtkabir, Atatürk's mausoleum. The park is a shrine to the first president, admired by many for his transformation of Turkey into a secular nation-state and therefore world player. Crowds throng the memorial, just like at the Church of Nativity, recognized as a shrine by Christians and Muslims, both of whom view Jesus as a messenger of God. Incidentally, that same shrine was where nine Palestinians were killed in a siege by Israeli forces in April 2002. Both places -- and people -- are not necessarily as revered by everyone as their proponents might think. But when it comes to putting on the best show of deference, Turkey goes a point ahead.


From manmade wonders, we proceeded to the natural wonders of Goreme, where large mounds of spewed volcanic ash have been eroded into precarious towers of rock. These "fairy chimneys" are nearly indescribable, perhaps most similar to the geological arches in the national park in Utah. Israel's greatest natural wonder is Ramon Crater, the country's equivalent of the Grand Canyon. The crater is surrounded by native Israeli fauna: the ibex and the Jericho missile. On the way to the crater, I nearly drove off the road when I heard a blast from the nearby military zone. The overwhelming tourism of the Cappadocia area was almost as disconcerting, but once you got hiking away from the tour groups, it was no contest: Turkey is now two points ahead.


The many residents of Cappadocia -- including Persians, Romans, and Selçuks -- all carved living and worshipping rooms into the pillars of stone. Some even created entire underground cities to escape religious persecution, such as monks in the fourth century before Christianity was recognized. In the 13th century, the Knights Templar used an underground tunnel from the port to a fortress in Akko to help secure pilgrims coming to Jerusalem when the area was under Muslim rule during the Crusades. Both notable pursuits to be sure, but the monks get credit for working within the constraints of their environment. Turkey takes over Israel's once three-point lead.


We had planned to spend a night in a treehouse on the Mediterranean coast, but because of limited bus schedules, we had to settle for a morning in Antalya, a popular port for gulets, wooden tourist boats. A common pitch for the tours is the offer to swim in some nearby coastal waterfalls, such as the one right around the corner from the port. In Israel, it's an annual summertime tradition for many to cool off in the pools of Ein Gedi, created by waterfalls that eventually flow into the Dead Sea. Israel earns a point for its less logistical -- and less expensive -- option.


If we had taken a dip, it wouldn't have been in a waterfall, but at the beach of Bodrum, a relax-by-day party-by-night coastal retreat. The water and weather wasn't quite warm enough for my taste, but it was still nice to sip tea while taking in views of the Aegean. We couldn't deny the opportunity to float in the Dead Sea when we had it, despite even cooler weather. Experiencing the weird sense of weightlessness was definitely more worthy than wading into your only typically salty sea. Israel has brought the tally back to a close 6-5.


From Bodrum, we spent a long morning of dolmuş hopping to get to Ephesus, the former capital of western Asia Minor, second only in prominence to Rome during the Classical era. Not much remains of the city's temples and harbor besides some attempts at reconstruction, but individual details, such as statues and carvings are well-preserved. At the same time as the rise of Ephesus, Herod the Great, the Roman kind of Judea, was building Caesarea as a tribute to the emperor. The foundations of the city -- the amphitheater, the hippodrome, the palace, the baths, the aqueduct, and the harbor -- are much more clearly recognizable and explained than in Ephesus, but the details aren't as stunning. Overall, though, Caesarea is a better place to spend a couple hours. The score is tied once again.


After a grueling schedule of ferry rides, plane flights, bus hauls, and sidewalk hikes, I was ready for a good bed in Izmir (known as Smyrna in Homer's time), Turkey's Haifa-like center of industry and transportation, on Tim's Hilton points. Much to my surprise, when we arrived, backpack- and sweat-laden, we were immediately whisked to the executive lounge, where we ate a buffet dinner as they checked us in. With a free breakfast, including pastries, until 11 a.m. and free drinks, including alcohol, until 11 p.m., we didn't wander the town for much of the day. I have only had a drink at the Hilton in Tel Aviv, so Vered Hagilil, a ranch overlooking the Sea of Galilee, is my only source of the Israeli resort experience. The cheap Thai massage with jacuzzi cooldown was great, but it can't beat free booze and bacon. Drinking bought beer while playing the pig game just isn't the same.


So Turkey wins by a point, but perhaps one bought with complimentary slippers and toiletries. In the end, though, we barely scratched the surface of Turkey. More than half of our guidebook could still be gobbled up with more trips. On the other hand, the unexplored regions of Israel are dwindling fast. If traveling were a seven-game series, Turkey would definitely win the championship. After all, it is about 30 times the size of Israel.