On Going to Jerusalem

Going to Jerusalem should not be easy.  One should not be able to just “pop into” the holy city.  One’s arrival in Jerusalem should be the result of difficulties overcome and dangers averted, the kind of trip that turns the traveler into a weary, thankful pilgrim.

That was why our car was covered in bird poop Sunday morning when we emerged from the hotel in Tiberias.  We had parked it at the only available spot near our hotel when we returned from our Kfar Kama/Nazareth odyssey.  Since it was Shabbos, no one had moved their cars and we felt lucky to get the space.  But it was under the pedestrian crosswalk from the hotel to the swimming pool and the local birds make it their motel.  I was reminded of Mel Brooks’s parody of Hitchcock, High Anxiety.  We searched in vain for a car wash despite the directions we were given and wound up cleaning the car ourselves at a nearby gas station, using the squeegee and plenty of paper toweling.

In a streaked and encrusted car, we left Tiberias looking for Jordan River water to bring home to a couple of friends.  We first tried Degania Bet, one of the oldest kibbutzim in Israel and built near where the river flows out of Lake Tiberias.  The receptionist at the guest house directed us to Kibbutz Kinneret, a short way back north along the lake.  The kibbutz has built (or someone has) a tidy, well-organized access area, with multiple ramps for pilgrims to step into the water.  A biblical verse referring to John's baptism of Jesus, translated into many languages (some quite esoteric), was written on tiles inlaid in the limestone walls.  Yes, there was a gift shop, but one could easily ignore it.  When I got my first look at the narrow river, bright green between low-hanging trees, I was moved in a way; I did experience a spiritual moment.  I then realized that for me, spirituality is more connected with natural surroundings than with, say, the venerable streets of Sfat.  A couple of bold muskrats crawled right up the steps that led into the water and stared at us, hoping for treats.  Two very large catfish swam near the steps, among many smaller fish, minnows maybe among the others.  A turtle swam by.  A kingfisher swooped back and forth along the farther bank.  A pigeon and a dove fought over space in the rafters.  I filled my two bottles and watched a group preparing for total immersion.  One man alone, somewhat off from the group, was sunk in the water up to his neck, just contemplating.  I thought of spirituality, how it originates, whether it is intrinsic to the place or whether the place becomes important by chance and the successive generations of people who venerate the place pour their spirituality into it, leading to a feedback effect.

Thus inspired, we resumed our trip.  But Jordan River water was not enough to ward off the challenges of traveling to Jerusalem.  On highway 65, I gradually became aware of a strange noise from the car.  It didn’t fade, even when the road surface changed, and I finally pulled over.  Our right front tire was shredded.  Oh great, tires aren’t included in our insurance, I thought.  And here we are on a busy main road, on the shoulder, trying to change a flat, with cars and trucks whizzing by…just what we’ll need, a careless driver to smash into us and we with no flares….  Such were my cheerful thoughts as Kevin jacked up the car and changed the tire. And we had run out of Handi-wipes, so we made ourselves as clean as we could with Kleenex and spit.

I re-took the wheel gloomily, wondering what next.  Every whine of the road sounded to me like another tire blowing.  I suddenly became aware of the “idiot light” glowing – now what?  Again, I pulled over to the side; Kevin checked the oil (after puzzling out how to open the hood).  No, the oil was fine.  That’s a relief, but let’s get to the next gas station, he said, there are a couple of other things I can check out—this car’s a Ford Escort; I have some familiarity with it.  We pulled off the highway to a hotel with gas station attached and parked in front—and at that moment I realized the emergency brake had been on while I was driving and that was the reason for the warning indicator.  We didn’t say anything to each other; words would have been futile.  We just exchanged sickly grins and headed back out onto the highway.

Still worrying about car trouble, I drove west, then south, then east, skirting the West Bank to get to Jerusalem.  My cousin had reminded me that morning that today was Jerusalem Day, when Jews celebrate the re-unification of the city; she said traffic would probably be heavy.  We decided not to try any detours; we’d had enough trouble already, so we stayed on the main highway all the way to the city.  Fortunately, we did not hit any serious problems.  In fact, the only real delay was way back at Afula, where construction reduced the road to one lane and we crawled agonizingly slowly.

Highway no. 1 to Jerusalem climbs through hills full of pines, planted by the Jewish National Fund as a reclamation project since the beginning of the century and subsidized in part by little Jewish kids like me selling coupons for 10 cents a piece in the ‘60s.  If Nazareth is spread out over three hills, Jerusalem seems to be spread out over a handful.  Arab villages cluster at the bottom of the mountains.  Apartments and other buildings spill over every hillside.  I said the prayer of thanksgiving, the shehechayanu, as we entered the city on the ring road curving north.  And a prayer for not getting lost or having any more car trouble as we negotiated the maze of streets near the Old City.

We could not wait to turn in our accursed car, but one last task remained: to find a gas station.  Our contract required us to return the car with a full tank, and what with the excitement of the flat and emergency brake and trying to thread our way through the streets of Jerusalem, we forgot to look for gas.  Well, we found it: right across the street from the rental agency.  No fool, that gas station owner.  We handed over the car and with great relief schlepped our suitcases to the hotel a couple of blocks away.

We passed through the thick of Jerusalem Day partying.  Our hotel was on King George Street, a major thoroughfare that was blocked off to traffic.  A band was playing.  Around the corner, at Independence Park, another band was playing.  Young men, virtually all Orthodox, were dancing horas.  Everywhere kids carried flags.  At 6:30, the parade began.  We watched from our window as the line moved from King George to King David Streets.  The Old City and the King David Hotel were a far backdrop; the gold of the Dome of the Rock barely visible.  I looked over the roofs of the city out to the Mount of Olives, over to Mount Zion, hard to distinguish from the buildings covering it.  I saw the far, bare hills to the north and east.  The parade continued below my window along G. Agron Street connecting King George with King David Street.  After almost 2,000 years, I thought, Jerusalem is back with whom it belongs; politics be damned.