We utilized the second half of our Holiday Break to take our first ever trip to Israel. In contrast with our time in Morocco, we consciously tried to slow down and focus more on less-scattered places. It’s easier given the size of the country. However, the depth of the history in seemingly all directions meant our heads were on a swivel for fascinations throughout. As I’m now back and writing in Addis, I’ll surely forget some of the lessons learned. The larger impressions, however, won’t be forgotten and provided us with a wonderful introduction. As usual, photos from our trip follow below. There will be more to come in the next hunks of this three-part posting. Consider this Part One, which encompasses our late night arrival in Tel Aviv and the next three full days spent outside Haifa (the largest city in the northern coastal part of the country).
We chose to head that direction for a simple reason - that’s where Israeli friends we’d met in Seattle currently live. Anyone arriving in Israel learns quickly that most necessities are expensive. Food, lodging, transportation. Easily double what we spent respectively in Morocco. The benefit of saving major sheckels by staying with friends still proved secondary to the value of our Israeli friends’ skills as hosts. Karen (a doctor who worked with Sarah), Uri (a businessman and former Captain in the Israeli military), their three vivacious kids, and an extended family in the area all showered us with kindness. You can never take back a first impression. Luckily, our introduction to Israel will forever be tied to this talented crew and the panoramic window they opened for us.
We’d arrived in Tel Aviv with no airline drama, but soon plunged into a massive backup with rental cars. Every company overbooked and the unruly masses were being instead offered taxis to destinations across the country. Thankfully, we got our Caspar-white Hyundai after just an hourlong wait. Which went down even easier after being given our first “sufganiyots” (traditional Hanukkah season jelly donuts). It was actually a Hertz donut. Sadly, they missed the opportunity to deliver it with a punch in the arm like a middle school bully (rimshot).
It was great to be back behind the wheel, even the one in our gutless, mid-sized sedan. Israel doesn’t buy into the “English as a universal language” way of thinking. It’s all Hebrew, all the time. Which I respect, aside from being consistently clueless. It made me think of how non-English-speaking visitors to America must feel when encountering our English-only stubbornness. Waze (the most universal mapping app that provides real-time updates on traffic patterns) became my new best friend.
We arrived at Karen and Uri’s just before midnight. Their home is on the edge of a farmland-y area I still have trouble pinpointing. Some say it’s Giv’at Ada. Waze tagged it as Binyamina. Everyone would agree that it’s a quaint, somewhat-posh town in the Haifa District a few dozen kilometers south of that namesake coastal city. There was soup on the stove waiting for us. Which is now something I will forever endeavor to have awaiting visitors, given what it did for our collective spirits. Best arrival food ever, hands down. As with everything else we’d encounter in Israel’s north, the ingredients were bursting with vibrant colors and the amplified flavors made me think we were being taunted (Karen and Uri are indeed incredible cooks). After eating our fill, Sarah and I were given their three and six-year-old kids’ single beds and Maya got a mattress on the floor in the ten-year-old’s room. We all crashed like polar explorers off the icesheet for the first time in months.
Our next morning’s run perfectly shot a gap in the day’s rain. After that, Maya helped make challah for shabbat dinner (as seen in the pic above). We visited their neighborhood market. Later in the day, we toured the area and then lit the menorah with their extended family. Conversation flowed through politics and into other gap-bridging areas without conflict. The kids played video games and everyone ate too many sweets before dinner. The textures and glow of that first full day in Israel will never fade from my memory.
Our next day’s ambition took us to the Golan Heights, which is the famously disputed region to the North that’s been under Israel’s control since 1967’s Six Day War. Proving the claim that there’s religious and real world history at every turn, our first stop was at Tabgha Church on the northwest shore of the Sea of Galilee. That site’s where Jesus Christ made the story of multiplying fish and loaves of bread a thing. Along with the appearance of the post-crucifixion Jesus, there were also multiple periods of occupation and settlement by the various peoples in Palestine (pre-State of Israel). There’s now a German church of Benedictine monks on that site. Please excuse me if I step away from trying to explain any more of the disputes and handovers lest I make any more missteps in my understanding of the area’s history.
Uri was a tank commander and retired a Captain after his nine years in the Irsaeli military. Before that, he studied military history. We had to take two cars up into the Golan. Uri rode much of the way with us. He delivered stories of the Six Days War, the Yom Kippur War in 1973, and the ongoing disaster in Syria (who the international community aside from the United States believes maintains historic claims to the region). Our ascent to the rocky plateau that provides such an imposing position for targeting people with guns and mortars took us into a comically-thick fog. As we traveled on it became obvious - there would be no distant viewing for us that day. On a clear day, they say you can see all the way to Damascus. Instead, we enjoyed close-up views of de-commissioned tanks near current bases just off the winding, picaresque highway.
We stopped for lunch at a brewpub that would be better-than-average for any American suburb, followed by a commerce and history exhibit that would make even the most overstated American Chamber of Commerce blush at the superlatives. We saddled up and drove onward and upward. Our last sightseeing stop atop Mount Bental became a hot chocolate refueling break at the hilariously-named coffee shop Coffee Annan. Hazard lights proved necessary as the fog somehow continued to thicken. We’d seen what we could, learned plenty, but admitted defeat by the soupy mix as we headed home. I hope to return someday to see what we couldn’t the first time out in the Golan. Whenever it comes up from here on out in geo-political conversation, I know my ears will perk up like never before.
On our way back to Binyamina-Giv’at Ada, we stopped in a “Druze” town named Mas’Ade in the northern Golan. As Uri explained, Druze communities are populated with Syrian citizens who have special long-term residency rights in Israel. Their cultural history is to be loyal to the local political leadership while still being Muslims. So they are pro-Israel Arabs. They serve in the Israeli military. They also make the impossibly delicious pastries. Like baklava, only better. We stopped in their favorite bakery, which was jam-packed and boisterous. Free samples and rich Turkish coffee washed away any chance of being annoyed by the long lines. I would try very hard during our time in Israel to gain back all the weight I lost in our first four months in Ethiopia. If we’d stayed close to Mas’Ade and other Druze towns, I suspect I’d have already succeeded.
Our remaining time in the Haifa District featured more of the same. We enjoyed the comforts of a fun, antic home. We stopped at a local hospital with a travel clinic to get the first of the series of rabies shots we’d not gotten before moving to Ethiopia. I marveled at the grumpy yet warm efficiency of Israel’s medical system. We then headed to the coastal city of Netanya for a final night in Israel’s North. The so-called “Israeli Riviera” is bursting with new construction and fanciness at every turn. Our last night of Hanukkah celebration happened in the lobby of the top-notch beachfront hotel we stayed at thanks to a recommendation from Karen and Uri. We enjoyed one last blustery run along the Mediterranean the following morning. We shopped. I even got an education on the way out of town from the one gas station stop we made in Israel. An attendant who didn’t speak English led me through the “pay at the pump” process, Israel-style (two receipts, a lot more steps than usual, and my tip for the full service generously refused). It was all randomly delightful. What followed was a straightforward but all-Hebrew-signs drive to Jerusalem. More to come in Part Two. Thanks for reading. Ciao.
