Jerusalem

Whenever somebody asks if there is a place one must visit, my answer is Jerusalem. Nothing prepared me for the intensity of the sky, heat, colors, silence, vibrance, sounds. It’s a place, a travel destination, a pilgrimage site, but so profoundly much more.

I was a backpacking traveler, having started out in Amsterdam, then making my way with a Eurail Pass and a copy of “Let’s Go Europe” through Belgium, Austria, Switzerland, Italy, Sicily, Malta, Egypt, Greece, and Israel. This was before the Infatada so I moved about freely without hesitation or fear. Although, I have learned that the news about Israel we hear in America is very different from the reality of being there. So much has changed since the early 1980s, including a robust tech economy and vibrant culinary scene. One day I’ll return.

I had arranged a stay at Kibbutz Mesilot in the Jezreel Valley in between Afula, a major bus hub and Beit Shean, a small town at the other end of the valley. The bus station in Afula, so I would later find out, had the best falafel stand on the planet, except maybe the one in Haifa. Before setting out for the kibbutz I stayed in Jerusalem at a hostel run by nuns with THE best showers with fantastic pressure and hot water. Really hot water - a luxury for a backpacker.

A crowd was mulling about at the Western Wall on a Friday evening before Shabbat. The contrast of the deep blue-hour sky and the almost-golden Jerusalem Stone inspired awe and then I heard singing. I looked up from the plaza and saw the men from the Yeshiva coming down the steps. They were a mass of bodies, pulsating along with the melody. They came down the steps, into the plaza and moved about in a swirl and soon the whole plaza was throbbing with bodies, song, and devotion.

I can still sense the power of that moment - the worshipers in near ecstasy and the colors and sounds. My memory, like how I felt while there so long ago, is suspended in time.