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.

Hearken, O daughter, ... forget also thine own people and thy father's house (Psalm 45:10)

You can take the girl and her father out of Mansfield, Ohio, but not the Mansfield, Ohio, out of both, as proven by these photos of my dad's recent visit to Israel, particularly our shared penchant for funny hats. Is fashion sense genetic? You can decide after checking out a few of these images.

Despite my best efforts to offer him a floor matress, my dad opted to rent his own apartment, which was right around the corner, at the end of February. With horror stories of high-speed traffic and high-priced gas, I did manage to talk him out of renting a car, which basically meant, unfortunately for him, that he played victim to our traveling whims for two weeks. I did have to work while he was in town, but I took enough time off that we nearly hit every corner of Israel -- the Golan Heights, the Negev Desert, the Mediterranean Sea, and the Dead Sea -- with Jerusalem and Tel Aviv thrown in for good measure. In the windy Golan Heights to the north, near Mt. Hermon and the Syrian border, we demonstrated our headgear homogeneity:

By the time we finished surveying even windier Mitzpe Ramon in the southern Negev Desert, I had even convinced him to share in my affinity for the toboggan:

It was back to the full brim by the time we got to the Caesarean ruins on the Mediterrean, where Tim and my dad re-enacted a scene from Ben-Hur:

After all that exertion, we headed over to the Dead Sea. Tim and I took a dip later, but my dad stayed on dry land, head protected (unlike me, who left her trusty sun visor at home), as we hiked up by the waterfalls at Ein Gedi:

I was thankful for my dad's Stetson when he shot off into the souk in Jerusalem after we walked the rampart walls. It was easier to find him (i.e. not the person in the burqa):

Always the gentleman, though, my dad shed his chapeau when he treated us to a last supper in Jaffa before his flight home:

People could not go about their business safely because of conflicts (Zechariah 8:10)

My deepest apologies: Sometimes living your life gets in the way of blogging about life. In the past couple of weeks, my dad was visiting, but I was still doing my day job, including writing comments for midterm grades, planning a Poetry Night, and reviewing proposals for my school's new Web site. Plus, there is always the "nightlife" to contend with, including going-away parties, intramural floor hockey games, and Hebrew lessons.

So I guess the title of this post is a bit of a misnomer. Despite all of the recent escalations in the Middle East conflict, I am still going about my business. But I will admit that "safely" is becoming a relative term. At the beginning of the week, the embassy sent out a message urging Americans, including workers at the international school, to stay away from east Jerusalem. Normally, I would dismiss such warnings as overly cautious. After all, embassy workers also are encouraged to avoid buses and trains, which Tim and I ride regularly with no qualms. A day after that message, however, an east Jerusalem resident opened fire in a seminary in west Jerusalem. Obviously, I am one of the last people you would catch at a religious school, but this was yet another in a series of ominous situations.

Just five days earlier, more than 50 Palestinians were killed in the deadliest day of fighting in Gaza since 2005. And a day before the Jerusalem shooting, it was revealed that the number of deaths from that offensive had more than doubled. One of the main provocations for this incursion was Hamas' launching of rockets from Gaza Strip toward Sderot, including one that killed a university student at Sapir College. Despite the fact that this was a rare Israeli death from rocket fire and college students and professors were mostly unified in their plea for no retaliation, Israel launched air strikes on the Gaza Strip border and raided a refugee camp in the West Bank, on the other side of the country.

All this news happening, in two areas both a one-tank trip away from my home, and yet my life continues normally. It's like living in Cleveland and not noticing a war going on -- even if that war is in Columbus. Certainly, there have been murmurs of heightened concern from the long-term Israeli residents at my school. It is worse than in the past: More Israelis have been killed so far this year through acts of terrorism than throughout all of last year. But I wouldn't say these people seem to be caring any more, and why?

My reasons are not going to be deep, let me forewarn, but I'll take some stabs. Israelis don't care because they don't know what to care about: There is a media blackout in the Gaza Strip, meaning Israeli journalists can't enter with the intention of reporting on the situation there, and if they manage to sneak by, they can be fined or jailed. The more academic press, like The Jerusalem Post and Ha'aretz, give detailed -- and often insightful -- accounts of the conflict, but they are not the popular press. Just like in the United States, more Israelis read the equivalent of the Metro tabloid than the full Washington Post.

But even those who are well-informed seem to find the conflict more surreal than real, including myself. Unless your daily life is governed by unemployment and food aid and disrupted by water and medical care shortages, it's simply hard to give a damn. And even if you're a lot more empathetic than me, it's easy to get desensitized when your interests don't follow the extremes that drive the dispute: You neither fully support the Palestinian hard-liners or the Israeli settlers, and all you want is compromise -- a peace that never seems to come. No matter how many speeches by George Bush or visits from Condoleezza Rice. And it's certainly not going to help that the new U.S. ambassador has no "significant experience in issues related to Israel or the Arab states."

So you give up, decide to stop devoting your thoughts and energy to an issue that you can't control. It reminds me, dare I say it, of a little thing called the Iraq war (with a little "w," thank you very much). If we aren't careful, this war could easily turn into a second long-standing "Middle East conflict," with Americans dutifully sending their sons and daughters off to service without really understanding how it helps get anyone closer to resolution (but hey, at least it's not conscripted like in Israel -- yet).

Trust me, I have no right to feel superior. I, too, can't seem to care about rockets that are killing people an I-71-ride away. And I'm finding it harder to care about those Americans being killed now two states over from me. But I now realize that every Middle East story I edited or read for the newspaper was not just the daily "bleading lead." Each one is a warning blast, its siren stifled by apathy.