Part Four: Aqaba, Petra, and Feynan Jordan

Aqaba and Wadi Rum
March 7, 2018

Aqaba beach and Red Sea at sunset

Wednesday was a travel day. We flew out of the small airport north of Tel Aviv to Eilat at the southern tip of Israel. Airport security gave us a hard time about having binoculars—a supervisor had to be called.Weeks ago, John had arranged for a driver to meet us in Eilat and take us across the border all the way to Aqaba, smoothing our way through customs. However when we got to Eilat the driver claimed he was only supposed to take us from the airport to the Israeli side of the border crossing, which for us meant navigating both Israeli and Jordanian customs on foot, walking quite far with our bags, and getting a taxi in the middle of nowhere to Aqaba. Not what we were expecting, but we managed. They held us up for quite a while at the entry point to the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan because of the damn binoculars—a supervisor had to be called. There apparently is something very suspicious about binoculars. I should have carried a bird book, though I’m not sure it would have helped. 

Mosque at dusk

After a hot and dusty cab ride past date palm orchards, herds of camels, and new suburban developments, we made it to downtown Aqaba. The afternoon call to prayer resonated from the minaret across from our hotel balcony. It was different than others I’ve heard, almost lyrical. Aqaba is pretty.

Gulf of Aqaba

We walked along the waterfront of the Red Sea at sunset where people were swimming and boating. We came to a huge pillar commemorating the Arab Revolt against the Ottoman Empire.

Huge pillar

The uprising was exactly one hundred years ago (parts of our travels in Jordan would take us to scenes of the exploits of Lawrence of Arabia in 1918). Before returning to our hotel, we stocked up on wine—we would be in remote areas over the next few days and this city might be the last place we could buy it.

Thursday morning John picked up our rental car. He had to negotiate for a half hour to get the high-clearance SUV we had reserved and needed for driving on rough roads in the desert. We headed east on a freeway through high, jagged, barren mountains with dramatic stripes of black and green mineral intrusions.

Lawrence's victim

Along the way there were herds of goats and camels, Bedouin tents, huge fields of tomatoes, and the old Turkish railroad. At the turn off to Wadi Rum (featured in the movie Lawrence of Arabia) was a replica of the dynamited train. It flew a Turkish flag.

 

Wadi Rum: David Lean's ideal epic stage

Wadi Rum is now a protected desert wilderness in southern Jordan. We checked out the visitors centre, then parked in the tiny village on the edge of the preserve where the pavement dissolves into sand. There is an expectation (and a lot of pressure) for visitors to join a tour that drives you into the desert by Jeep or mounts you on a camel. John and I resisted the pitches and just walked about two kilometres across the sand to Lawrence’s spring.

Photos of the vast expanse of cliffs and dunes and do not capture the scale and awesome beauty. Ancient civilizations have occupied this place for tens of thousands of years. The Seven Pillars, named fairly recently for Lawrence’s book, form a stunning rock face on the other side of the wadi. A wadi is a valley, ravine or arroyo that is usually dry, but experiences flash floods during heavy rains. Distances here are deceiving—things are much farther away than they seem. Looking through our cursed binoculars, we realized the tiny specks we could see with bare eyes across the wadi, which we assumed were small plants, were really several Bedouin goat herds and their flock. Desert flowers bloomed in our path.

The climb to the spring  

At Lawrence’s spring—a rare source of water—a few dozen tourists sat under canopies, eating lunch and waiting for camel rides. The spring was quite a ways up a steep cliff littered with huge boulders, marked by an ancient fig tree. We saw several people struggling up the boulders and considered making the climb, but it was too hot, too steep. A sand storm kicked up as we walked back to our vehicle and continued north to Petra. It was dusty all afternoon.

Desert flower in Wadi Rum

Petra
The road to Petra took us up a high winding, breezy mountain studded with wind turbines and small plots of planted grass just starting to sprout. About the size of a large backyard garden, these grass plots dotted the mountainsides, presumably planted for roaming herds of goats. There were spectacular views down several deep wadis. We drove past major archaeological digs, then switch-backed down through the modern town of Petra.

Petra is vertiginous, wending its way from mountain top to the ancient ruins below. Our hotel, Petra Guest House, was mere steps away from the park entrance, saving us for the long walks ahead. The pub at the hotel was in a cave in the hillside, a hint of the sandstone tombs we would visit tomorrow. We had lunch on the terrace within earshot of some Americans extolling their president, which severely curbed our appetites.

When one tours Petra’s ruins, we heard, it was best to start early. Very true. The crowds get massive in the afternoon. A wide road leads into the park along a hillside for a kilometre, then drops into a narrow, undulating, high-walled canyon—called Al Siq—for another 1K. So it is well over a mile walk before you get to the main ruins. You encounter occasional small tombs and niches and a few elaborate carvings in the rose-pink sandstone walls.

Al Siq

Thigh-high canals about a foot wide were carved by the pre-christian Nabataenans into both sides of Al Siq’s walls to carry water through the narrow canyon. Periodic flash floods swept through, so a couple of dams were built in small side channels. The floor of Al Siq  is now a stone-paved roadway that snakes toward the centre of ancient Petra. 

One last narrow, curvy channel and you glimpse the first massive pink façade—the Treasury.

Emerging into the ruins from the Siq

Breath-taking. It was not 'constructed,' but was carved from the stone cliff. Nabataean architectural style was Greek-ish (columns and such) but with its own north African flair, incorporating geometric and flora designs. As we neared the opening into the main square, we kept hearing a strange sort of roaring noise, it was like walking through a cave toward a fire-breathing dragon. It turned out to be two hot air balloons being inflated by gas-flame jets in the plaza in front of the Treasury. It was interesting to watch, but also kind of intrusive (and because of our long walk in the deep wadi, we never saw the balloons launch). We would be back here tomorrow to get an unobstructed look at the Treasury. Dozens of local merchants arrive each morning from the end opposite the park entrance. Some leading camels and equines to rent to tourists, others setting up trail-side displays of crafts and tchotchkes.

The Monastery

We decided to walk the furthest distance possible in one direction: the main trail, then up a zillion stairs to the Monastery, about 10K or seven miles round trip. The Siq opens up into the wide bottom of the wadi. You walk past all these huge stone-carved building fronts, some partially buried. The ‘Street of Facades’ includes the Treasury, the Theatre, and Royal Tombs. Truly awesome. The Great Temple, a free-standing (as opposed to carved), 2200-year-old structure is now a roofless ruin.

The Theatre

I loved the Theatre—20+ rows of stadium seats smoothed from solid rock, room for 4,000 people, with a big stage and 'green rooms' from which actors and speakers made their entrances.

The climb to the Monastery (another stone-front building later used by Christians, hence the name), was challenging. Some people hired donkeys to ride, but this was discouraged by official park literature because the animals are sometimes abused. Up and up, pant, pant, pant, but what a view at the top.

Reluctant to climb stone steps

You could see across to the Negev Desert into Israel. At the summit a herder drove 20 goats through a narrow gap in the rock along the edge of a cliff. The goats had to tiptoe down a nearly vertical 2x4 board used as a bridge, to the sheer cliffs below us. We stared in awe as the sure-footed goats scaled the steep rock face. I believe it was goats who first invented extreme sports.

Goats at summit, Negev in distance

 

Trail-side merchants cajoled us on the way up with “Where you from…ahh Canada, nice people…everything one dinar…be my first customer.” On our descent they got more familiar, “I remember you. You promise you stop on the way back and buy t-shirt.” John eventually relented and bought a rainbow keffiyeh.

John's keffiyeh

In the late afternoon some of the older people and families with small children were tuckered out and they hired horse-drawn buggies to take them the 2K back to the park entrance. It’s a scream to watch them holding on for dear life, jiggling and bouncing up the uneven stone highway, careening through the tour groups in matching hats and shirts.

The Treasury

The Siq is cleaned and hosed down each night. Considering the number of people and animals that come here every day, Petra’s 2,500-year-old ruins seemed well cared for and in good condition.

Day two, and a thousand more stairs. We were the first visitors to enter the gate at 6 am, walking through Al Siq by ourselves, past the Theatre, and climbing to the ‘High Place of Sacrifice’ as the sun rose. At the top we went off trail and hiked along the crest of the mountains—a broad, rounded plateau—to near a Bedouin camp, then back. At the high altar an early-rising merchant was setting up his wares. He called to us to come look at the views and various features we may have missed. He didn’t try to pressure us to buy anything, just wanted us to see it all.

High Place of Sacrifice

Studying our map, we realized we would not be able hike the other major trail. Two days in Petra is probably not enough. But what you experience is amazing—the ancient ruins, the incredible landscape, the local tourist culture. We got back to our hotel in time for breakfast, showered, and packed up for the next leg of our journey.

Feynan

Down the winding road from Little Petra to the Jordan Valley Highway

We drove a back road to Little Petra—a town where many of the locals live who rented donkeys, horses, camels, and sold trinkets—and stopped to buy water before driving deeper into the desert. The road was narrow, switch-backed, often washed out on the edges. There was an archaeological site dated at 7300 years old with interpretive signs describing the dawn of agricultural practices. We dropped down out of the mountains to the desert floor. This is the long, straight stretch of Jordan’s border with Israel. The road is the Jordan Valley Highway. We stopped to take pictures of a lovely solitary tree and a camel, which stuck its fly-infested nose into our car window.

After about 20 miles we turned off to Feynan, a tiny village on the edge of the Dana Biosphere Reserve. This village is where visitors have to park if they have low-clearance vehicles and need to be driven to Feynan EcoLodge, another eight kilometres into the Dana Mountains on a rocky track through deep wadis. Since we had a SUV, we were able to drive all the way to the lodge.

Feynan EcoLodge interior courtyard

The 26-room EcoLodge is run by a Jordanian NGO that is devoted to protecting the desert/mountain environment. It is located between two wadis—Ghwayr and Dana. The rooms have no electricity and are lit by candles at night. Water is piped in from streams running higher in the mountains. The kitchen operates on solar power. All the meals are vegetarian. One corner of the lobby has wifi during the day, and we found some of the other guests huddled there around their phones and computers. The lodge is staffed by local Bedouins who live in several encampments in the hills nearby. They are travel agents, maintenance workers, cooks, plus they lead hikes and conduct different cultural demonstrations every day. At night there is incredible star-gazing from the roof.

Water jug in our room

Before dinner we went on a sunset hike. Our guide was Suleiman. He was about 30, handsome, slim, spoke English, and had a wry sense of humour. I noticed he took short steps, but walked much faster than any of us. The hike took us past his extended family’s winter tent camp where they kept their young goats and sheep in pens to protect them from the occasional wolves and hyenas that roamed in the mountains. Suleiman explained that this whole area had been a huge copper mine and smelting operation during the Roman occupation some 2000+ years ago. The Romans cut down nearly all the trees to fuel the smelters and forever changed the environment. You can still see piles of black slag strewn across the landscape.

Tea on the hike

Also along the road was the local school (where ten teachers instructed about sixty Bedouin kids of all ages), and a small mosque. The loud speaker in the mosque was not working very well so the call to prayer was jerky and full of static. Our hiking group included a couple from England, staying at the lodge with their son, who worked for an oil company, daughter-in-law and infant grandson from Amman. 

Suleiman stopped and rested on a rock. He encouraged us all to hike to the top of the next hill where there was a small ruin. I discovered several abandoned shells of what our guide explained were desert snails—it seems far too dry here for such creatures. When we returned Suleiman served us sweet mint tea. I asked him about a bird we had seen from our balcony—it was shiny electric blue, a little bigger than a hummingbird but not as frenetic. He said it was a Palestine sunbird.

Palestine Sunbird

We also talked about a certain abundant, low, broad-leafed plant. Suleiman explained that it is poisonous to goats until it is dried, and because they won't eat it, it is the main surviving green colour in the desert this time of year.

Back at the lodge dinner that night was quite nice— a very tasty pea soup, roasted eggplant, tomato salad, hummus, as well as homemade flat bread, well-spiced potato and rice dishes, and pickled vegetables. 
  
Our bed had a mosquito net canopy, so I lowered it. But we made the mistake of leaving the balcony door open and in the morning our room was full of flies. Fortunately they were sluggish and shoo-able, so I was able to get all of them out fairly easily. 

Sunday we drove as far as we dared up the deeply grooved track in Wadi Ghwayr. Some English-speaking people were camped there in a very nice tent. Later we met them at the lodge—they were archaeologists and researchers studying contemporary Bedouin lifestyles and their Neolithic use of birds.

Huge boulder in Wadi Ghwayr

About a mile up the wadi channel there was surface water, which turned into a decent sized stream. A small dam had lots of 3-inch pipes poking out. They ran along one side of the wadi and carried water to the lodge, various camps, and farms down near the highway. The narrow canyon was green with plant life in contrast the barren desert outside the wadi. Lots of goats grazed the hillsides. We continued upstream a couple of miles. It changed to a very narrow canyon with high walls which was more shaded, cooler, and had palm trees.

I spotted a rare frog species. Our progress was stopped by a huge boulder we had heard about. It formed a deep pool in the stream on the other side. We would have gone swimming, but it was too hard to climb up the sheer face. Up until now we tried to keep our boots dry, but going back it was hot, so we splashed through the stream.

We passed some fellow lodgers coming upstream—coincidentally a young couple from Vancouver (we were surprised at how many Canadian tourists we encountered on this trip). They asked us to tell the staff at the lodge that they would be late getting back and to set aside their lunch. We saw them at breakfast on Monday and learned they were on their way to Petra. I got out the map and showed them the routes we found most interesting. John also talked to one of the researchers who was eating breakfast that morning at the lodge. She was studying the gut flora of the local Bedouin community, getting permission to take bio-samples. It would have been interesting for us to do a pre- and post- gut sampling for this trip to analyze any change based on diet and local water.

'Milkweed' plant: new and old flowers

Wadi Dana is on the other side of the lodge from Wadi Ghwayr. It traverses the entire Dana Reserve. There is a well-used trail that follows it from the northeast to the southwest. We walked a few kilometres up the wadi from the lodge. The largest of the Bedouin camps was here. Typical tents were 15-18 feet wide and 25-30 feet long, covered with a variety of blankets, tarps, or old signs draped on a simple frame. The covering on one end is rolled up during the day. From what we could see there were maybe a dozen or more tents. Lots of goats and a few chickens. 

Wadi Dana looking northeast

Wadi Dana, like Ghwayr, has water, but mostly below the surface, so the sand was damp, but there was no flowing stream as far up as we hiked. There was a big dam at one point in a draw. We couldn’t get a good look at it because it was densely overgrown with bamboo, but it had a dozen water pipes coming out. 

This wadi was wider than Ghwayr and overall greener and more wooded, with lots of wild flowers. A rough road cuts into the hillside, crossing the wadi back and forth depending on how steep and rocky the hillsides are. John went ahead and climbed a huge rock promontory, its surface artistically carved by wind and weather. I found a niche in the shade to rest, but then decided explore a bit and suddenly came up upon a woman who was tending some goats. I startled her. She quickly covered her face and hid behind a rock until I left.

Old tree in Wadi Dana

Back at the lodge after lunch we decided to sign up for one of the cultural activities—making “arbood,” a shepherd’s bread (I kicked myself for not taking the cooking class the first day we arrived, because the vegetarian soups they make here are delicious). John and I were the only ones to sign up. We drove Suleiman to one of the encampments just past the school. A young woman greeted us without speaking and we were invited to sit inside her family’s tent. The bare ground was covered with a huge woven rug and we lay on pillows around the edge. Suleiman told us that in Bedouin culture guests must be made to feel welcome any time, day or night, and should be lavished with food. The only times they eat meat are when visitors arrive (and certain holidays or special occasions), but guests customarily insist that nothing special be served. If a host shows disrespect, he or she is obligated to accompany the departing guests on their journey a distance commensurate to the severity of the disrespect.

Four or five young boys all under age six jostled and teased each other as the bread demonstration began, but they quickly settled down to watch. The bread had only three ingredients, flour, salt, and water. The woman squatted on the carpet and mixed the dough with one hand in a nine inch cake pan, adding enough water to make a pliable ball. A large swarm of flies had gathered and was threatening to get kneaded into the dough.

Shepherd's bread baked on the ground

She patted the elastic dough into a flat circle about an inch thick and took us outside the tent to a spot on the ground where she had built a fire of goat dung, now just smoldering coals. She set half the coals to one side, placed the dough directly on the remaining coals on the ground, then covered it with the other half of the coals. Suleiman explained that it was important for the dough to have a light dusting of dry flour so none of the ash would stick. He said this bread is made by goat herders in the mountains nearly every day and eaten as a snack or as part of midday meal. After about 10 minutes the arbood was uncovered, flipped over, covered by the coals again, and cooked for another 10 minutes. When it was done, the woman picked up the hot loaf in a cloth and vigorously slapped it to remove any ash. It sounded crusty, beautifully browned. We went back into the tent and sat on the pillows as Suleiman tore off hunks of the bread and served it with mint tea. It was really good. The little boys all gathered around. The smallest one began to cry when he wasn’t immediately offered a taste. Suleiman tore off a piece for each of them and they ran away in delight, each clutching their treat.

As we ate our arbood, Suleiman talked affably about Bedouin life. Most cooking is done with goat dung fires, because there is so little wood (we had seen women collecting brush and limbs in big sacks during our hike in the Wadi Dana). Both women and men take the goats into the mountains, but mostly men. They have a summer and a winter location for their tents to protect against heat and wind. It was quite cool sitting inside the tent in the hot afternoon. Suleiman encouraged us to ask any questions. We asked him if this was his family. He said it was the wife and children of one of his brothers. Was he married? Not yet. How large of a community is this? About 150 people. How did people meet others outside their immediate family or camp? They roam over a large area in the mountains, visit several other nearby communities, and attend gatherings.

Suleiman told us that he is interested in travelling to other countries, but can’t get an exit visa because he is unmarried and the government assumes if he left, he wouldn’t come back. This makes me so sad. He was a very intelligent young man and I could tell he has wanderlust. We had more arbood and tea, then Suleiman had us drop him off at the mosque on our way back to the lodge.

Feynan sunset

As the sun set on our last night in Feynan we sat on our balcony, sipped wine and watched Palestine sunbirds with our suspicious binoculars. After sundown I went up on the roof to star gaze. Cushioned mats strewn around the roof allow you to stare straight up and contemplate. Very little light pollution here. Later I went down to see if there was an evening eco-lecture. There wasn’t, but several guest were sitting around the fireplace chatting. I listened to comparative stories about taxes and costs of living around the world. A couple of Americans began to dominate the discussion so I excused myself and headed to bed. 

Dead Sea, Amman
We travel light, just carry-ons, no checked luggage. At this point we weren’t worried about packing. We just threw everything in the SUV. We would have plenty of time in Amman to get ready for the flight home. We decided to drive along the eastern shore of the Dead Sea, maybe stop and go swimming. I looked forward to experiencing the buoyancy of its salinity. Jordan’s border with Israel runs down the centre of the Dead Sea, the lowest point on the surface of our planet. There was almost no access that we could see or any kind of beach along this side. The southern end had a huge potash plant. There were resorts at the northern end, but it was very difficult to find a road from the northbound lane of the main highway. We gave up and drove on toward Amman.

Looking across the Dead Sea to Israel

A steep back road, winding past Bedouin camps and flocks of goats and sheep on the outskirts of Amman took us to Mount Nebo. Judging by the traffic at the summit this is a major tourist site. We kept seeing signs for the prophet Musa (who?), so I looked him up. It was Moses, of course. Duh. Legend has it that Mount Nebo is where Moses got his first glimpse of the Promised Land. The view looking toward the Jordan Valley is pretty spectacular. On a clear day you can see Jericho and Jerusalem. According to some Christians, Mount Nebo is where Moses was buried. Also some believe Jeremiah hid the Ark of the Covenant in a cave up here. All of this is disputed by biblical scholars, but it doesn’t deter thousands of Christian tourists from making a pilgrimage in big buses too wide for the road.

We descended to the old town of Madaba and got a little lost in its narrow, colourful, bustling one-way streets. But eventually we found our way to the airport outside of Amman. Our plane didn’t board until 2 a.m. (yes, a.m.), so we checked into the airport hotel to have dinner and a nap. They displayed bottles of wine in the bar, but when we ordered one, the young staff couldn’t find a cork screw so we had to provide them with the one we had, which was good because we wouldn’t be able to take it with us on the plane. After our nap we returned the rental car, repacked our carry-ons, and got a shuttle from the hotel.

The Amman airport is new and impressive. One last time we were harassed about the goddamn binoculars—they held us at security for 20 minutes trying to find a supervisor with enough authority to okay them in our carry-on luggage. Sheesh. 

On the long flight back, in between watching two movies (Shape of Water and Coco), I pondered all the things we experienced over the last three weeks. Ancient, divided, contentious Jerusalem. Ramallah and the open air prison of occupied Palestine. The Judean hills that will figure in my novel. Micha living his gay life in Tel Aviv. Places Lawrence of Arabia made famous. The Mediterranean diet: ubiquitous tomato-cucumber salad and eggplant. All the seas: the Mediterranean, the Red, and the Dead. Ruins of civilizations centuries/millennia BCE. Bedouin tea and bread baked on the ground. Green wadis and desert splendor. 

Look out. They have binoculars.

Part 3: Judean Hills and Tel Aviv

Judean Hills

Seeing Micha was the main reason for this trip. We would finally meet up with him today. I was excited to see him for the first time in what seemed like years. He moved to Israel about the same time John and I moved to Canada and we don’t always have the opportunity to get together when he visits his moms in the US. I think young people often don't realize how important they are to their elders. 

John, Micha and Don go wine touring

John again hired a guide, this time to give the three of us a tour of wineries in the Judean hills then take us on to Tel Aviv—someone who knew the good places and could be a designated driver. At 9 a.m. we met Barak Yitzhaki outside our hotel in Jerusalem in his new vehicle. He was about 35, very engaging, and quite the wine aficionado. A few minutes later Micha arrived from Tel Aviv. Lots of hugs and kisses. 

Today is Purim, a Jewish holiday that has somehow morphed into an Israeli equivalent of Halloween—we noticed that costume pop-up stores appeared everywhere along Jaffa Street, here in the heart of orthodoxy. Appropriately, Purim is celebrated by drinking mass quantities of wine. So here’s to Purim.

There is a plot line in the novel I’m writing about a young American woman named Esther (no intentional connection to the Biblical persona for whom Purim is celebrated) who visits Jerusalem on the day that Israel declares its statehood in 1948. Led by her cousin, who grew up in Palestine, they escape the Arab League’s blockade of the city to a nearby town from which all the Muslim residents have fled. I had asked our wine guy if he could drive us through this village so I could see it and get a sense of its topography, which is important to my story. Barak had a hard time understanding why we would want to go there. It’s now just a boring suburban neighbourhood called Ora. What I didn’t tell him was that in 1948 Ora was a Muslim town called Al-Jura, just inside the green line of the new state of Israel. The Palestinian exodus known as the Nakba forced more than 700,000 Muslim residents out of Israeli territory, including some 500 in Al-Jura. By 1950 the old village had been demolished and rebuilt as a Jewish settlement. The characters in my story play a part in this colonialist strategy. The practice continues even today across the West Bank, seventy years later.

With Barak on the right at the Forest of Martyrs

 

Barak accommodated my request to see Ora since it was on the way to the first winery. We parked at a high vantage point.We had a view from the northeast to the southeast, Jerusalem to Bethlehem, and I was able to trace in my mind the route my characters would take on foot. Barak also took us to see a nearby park in the Forest of the Martyrs. It has a monument to the partisans lost in the war in 1948, who I plan to work into my story.

Our first winery, Tzuba, is owned and operated by a kibbutz. Before we went inside for the tasting, Barak showed us an adjoining archaeological site that was down a trail below the winery on the flanks of a hill. It was an ancient wine press—a basin carved from the limestone rock, where the grapes were pressed (they think) by a levered plank.

Ruins of ancient stone wine press

The juice ran through a trough and was captured in amphorae. Bowl shapes were carved in the stone to balance the round bottoms of the clay amphora jars. Next to the wine press, partially uncovered, was what is believed to be an olive oil press. These artifacts are dated at 2800 years old. Wildflowers were blooming on the hillside as we walked back up to the winery.

Micha was anxious to start sampling their five wines. All were excellent. The winemaker was originally from South Africa. He and his wife manage the operation with only a few seasonal helpers.

Our next (and favourite) winery was Flam. It was a bigger operation and more along the lines of the European estate model. I think it was also Barak’s favourite. It is run by two brothers. Their father had been a pioneer in the wine industry in Israel. The young woman who greeted us was very fun and chatty. In addition to the wines available to taste, she let us try a sold-out reserve cabernet.

Trying the wine at the Tzuba kibbutz

The third winery was Tzora. The tasting room was surrounded by farm land and animals. It had the familiar aroma from my rural childhood of manure and hay. We tasted one white wine and one red from their 2016 vintage, and an ice wine, which was unique because the grapes have to be mechanically frozen (it doesn’t get cold enough here in the fall for them to chill on the vine).

Barak gave us a wonderful tour. His commentary was informative and he even did some historical research. Our leisurely drive through the hills was lovely, catching up with Micha (Barak pronounced his name Meeka). After the last winery he drove us to Tel Aviv. We dropped Micha in his neighbourhood south of the city center (Barak told John and me that this is a very impoverished part of the city, most of its inhabitants are refugees from Africa, slated to be deported by Netanyahu). Micha’s boyfriend Paul from Germany was arriving soon. He needed to prepare for a weekend of Purim parties with Paul. Hopefully, we would see more of him over the next few days. Barak took John and me to Tel Aviv’s Yemenite neighbourhood to the B&B we rented. It’s an older part of downtown with very narrow streets. It is four blocks from the sea, and two blocks from the busy Carmel market. This would be our home base for the next week.

Late afternoon we walked around our neighbourhood and through the Carmel market. It's amazing—at least six blocks long maybe more, stalls on both sides of the street under awnings and rusty roofs. It’s been here a long time. The merchants have these huge metal boxes, about two meters square and a meter high, that fold out into long tables to display their wares and then are folded back in and locked up at night. Lots of fruit and vegetable stands, small cafes with all sorts of street food, t-shirts and swimwear, bakeries, meat and fish stalls, hardware and knickknack stores. 

Most of the buildings in the surrounding streets are one, two, and three story residences. We made note of several interesting-looking restaurants. 

The side streets in our neighbourhood are so narrow that if one car parks here, others can’t get by. It’s nice if you’re a pedestrian. Our B&B was one room, up two flights of stairs. It was a little funky, but it had a large balcony overlooking the street corner, perfect for sunny morning coffee and shaded afternoon naps. Flocks of swifts darted around the rooftops making shrill peeps. You can see newer high-rise buildings in every direction beyond this old neighbourhood. Here there are small temples, social clubs, and lots of cats. (Did I mention that Jerusalem, too, had lots of cats, but Tel-avivi cats seem fatter and more laid back). Just outside the Carmel market the street opens into a square with dozens of fabric shops. We liked the looks of a sidewalk bistro called Basta and had an excellent dinner.

About 11 p.m. we learned that our neighbourhood was slated as the site of an outdoor Purim party, the first of several around the city tonight through the weekend. The music and festivities were extremely loud and lasted until 4 a.m. Being old guys who rise early, we were too tired to check it out, and we got little sleep that night. I vowed to buy ear plugs the next day.

View of Tel Aviv from Jaffa

Thursday morning we walked four blocks down to the Mediterranean Sea then south to the old Arab city of Jaffa (Yafo to the Israelis). It wasn’t far, maybe 2K. The shoreline is being upgraded with new pedestrian and bike ways and parks. It’s very nice.

Old Jaffa port

There are some lovely views of TLV, the old port, and Arab architecture from Jaffa’s high point. We had shakshuka and tea for breakfast across from a hotel and gallery complex occupying the old buildings, then walked back along the waterfront. Micha and Paul texted us that we should meet for a late lunch around 2. We invited them over for a bottle of wine on our balcony.

Paul and Micha

This was our first time meeting Paul Peter Johann Linder, Micha’s boyfriend from Germany who spoke English quite well. He works as a banking advisor to wealthy clients, but is recently taking some time off to travel. He seemed much more well-ordered than the impulsiveness that is Micha. Paul loves gay Tel Aviv and visits frequently. We uncorked one of the bottles of wine we bought yesterday on our tour, toasting each other, Purim, and the city.

For our late lunch we checked out informal eateries near Allenby Street. They were quite busy. We ended up at a cafeteria-style serving-line offering dozens of classic Mediterranean dishes—eggplant ten ways, hummus, tahini, the ubiquitous cucumber and tomato salad (eaten at every meal), grilled meats, ktsitsot and kofta (meatballs), kibbeh, schnitzel, ful, loads of other spicy vegetables. Micha was a little disappointed that I wasn’t more adventuresome in my selections (I went for comfort foods), but I assured him I was sampling lots of unusual dishes on this trip. We talked about going to some of Micha’s favourite restaurants over the next couple of days, and I suggested we make at least one dinner at his apartment, though he warned me that his kitchen was quite limited.

John and I needed to pick up washing that we had dropped off yesterday. The employees at the laundry didn’t speak much English, so it was good Micha was there, because they couldn’t find our stuff. Our frustration was mounting when the boss arrived and knew where it was. Whew. Micha and Paul were itching to put together their Purim costumes, so we parted company. I got the feeling we might not see much of them for the rest of the weekend. John and I walked around the city and back to our neighbourhood. I was a little worried that our presence made Micha anxious and clingy around Paul.

Tel Aviv is quite different from Jerusalem. You rarely see ultra-orthodox dress here. People are much more beach casual—it could be a seaside city in Spain or Florida. Where Jerusalem is ancient and limestone, much of Tel Aviv was constructed in the 1940s and 50s and is deteriorating stucco. Boxy Bauhaus buildings are white or off-white. Cement plaster repairs are often unpainted and stained, making everything look a little patchy and rundown. Some of the newer architecture is more interesting, but even the Great Synagogue is kind of ugly. Thankfully, the upgrade to the waterfront adds much appeal with its groovy, undulating sidewalks and broad promenade that attracts throngs of pedestrians and beach-goers.

Rosh Tzipor

Friday morning John and I went bird watching at Rosh Tzipor along the Yarkon River. It’s a lovely park full of rose-ringed parakeets, mynas, and Egyptian geese, lots of songbirds and waterfowl. Being naturalists, we always take time to appreciate the flora and fauna of places we travel to. This urban park has had recent habitat restoration work, especially for the birding area.

Rose-ringed parakeets

Extensive trails make it a popular biking site. We walked to near the mouth of the river then turned south along the seawall and had breakfast on the beach.

John had heard that a colony of bats lived in the parking garage of a downtown shopping mall below ground level on floor number minus three (-3), so we tried to find it. Everyone goes through a scanner to enter the mall. We searched but couldn’t find the bat colony. People were out strolling and picnicking in their Purim costumes up and down Rothschild Blvd.— everything from tiny masked tots in strollers to a legion of bare-chested ‘Roman soldiers’ in skimpy gold lamè skirts.

Carmel Market was crazy busy this afternoon before Shabbat. We bought olives and bread, deli meats, cheeses, olive oil, pears, wine and beer, and had our own little picnic. Then we napped on our balcony and read. I was tuckered out. We walked a long way today. Just before sundown I went to a nearby cafeteria (like the one Micha took us to) and got some prepared take-out dishes for dinner.

One day's garbage at Carmel. Locked vendor boxes.

Later John and I took a nighttime walk on the beach then back through the Carmel market which was now closed and piled high with the garbage of the day—an astounding amount of trash that gets scooped up, carted away and the street hosed down. Poor people picked through discarded vegetables, cats scavenged and hunted.

The toilet in our flat had been leaking since we moved in. Tank water from a bad seal. We contacted the manager. It’s Saturday morning—no work is done today. They will come and fix it tomorrow.

We had a nice breakfast on the balcony—olives, bread, cheese, tomato salad—then a walk on the beach.

John found an address online for a gallery of street art (which he knows I love). It’s in the nearby Florentin neighbourhood, so we headed over there, but we couldn’t find the gallery.

Then we realized the streets themselves are the art gallery. Because of Shabbat, all the storefront security doors were closed and they are all painted with incredibly inventive graffiti. During regular business hours we wouldn’t have seen this. The style of a couple of artists stood out. John took lots of photos. I admit I don't know the significance of these images, so I hope they are not offensive. A late afternoon beer, then we trudged home.

Sunday morning we decided to check out spice row on Levinsky Street then go to the art museum. Levinsky was a little like the medina in Fez, Morocco—a couple of blocks of tiny shops displaying pyramidal mounds of red and orange and brown spices—paprika, pimiento, sumac, saffron, ginger, turmeric, cinnamon, cardamom, and nutmeg, plus nuts and seeds. There’s nothing like this in our part of the world.

It’s funny. Telavivis seem to concentrate one type of product in a small area—a dozen fabric stores in two blocks, a dozen spice shops here, graffiti art in one neighbourhood, what else?  It was a long walk across town to the art museum complex. Only then did we learn that it’s closed today. Rats.

So we decided to treat ourselves to a fantastic lunch at Santa Katarina. We got a text message from Micha and Paul. After two solid days of partying (we saw pictured on Instagram), they proposed going to dinner tonight at a Yemeni resto that Micha likes.

At sundown John and I walked along Rothschild Blvd looking for fruit bats. There is a spot in the tree-lined median of this wide boulevard where they are said to hang out. They seem to like these trees, tho it was too early for ripe fruit. Do their leaves exude a sweetness? We sat on a bench and watched them swooping around the heads of oblivious pedestrians.

It was just a short distance to the restaurant where we met Micha and Paul. They regaled us with tales of their weekend parties as we supped on home-style Yemini dishes. Tel Aviv’s cuisine is influenced by many cultures and is really tasty. The Mediterranean diet has far less meat than even I realized, and I loved it. John and I talked about our experiences in Palestine and discussed Israel’s cruel occupation. “What can we do to end this?” I asked. Micha was exasperated and a bit defensive and suggested I save my questions for tomorrow night. He had arranged for us to meet “Aunty Itamar,” a treasured gay friend who had guided him in his first couple of years here and who is among what I perceive as a minority of Israelis—those opposed to the occupation.

Monday we went back to the art museum. The plaza that had been filled with children and picnickers yesterday was now mostly empty. It’s a huge arts centre with a theatre, opera house, art museum with workshops, and a library, all relatively new. The museum had an impressive collection of artists I have recently been reading about: Utrillo, Archipenko, Ernst, Chagall, Pissaro, and Vlaminck, impressionism and post impressionism. But the most interesting exhibit was The Clock—staged in a large room with a 20-foot movie screen and overstuffed chairs and sofas. The exhibit was a 24-hour continuous montage of famous film clips (Hitchcock, Keaton, Spielberg, Chaplin, Serling, thousands more) where a clock was in the frame for the exact moment the clip was being shown. So for example, we got there about noon and all the film clips portrayed a time period from noon until we stopped watching about 12:30. It was fascinating and very suspenseful, since watching a clock often heightens the tension in a film. Christian Marclay was the artist. Afterward, a little sidewalk café called Shmuel adjacent to Carmel was where we had lunch. Excellent kebab. It was on an intersection between the market and a side street to our B&B, a place we cut through several times.

A fat black cat sat on a black motorcycle near my elbow eyeing my lunch selections.

Meeting Itamar was one of the highlights of Tel Aviv for me. Micha admires him. Itamar lived and worked in the mostly Arab neighbourhood of Jaffa, where we had dinner with him, Micha and Paul. He was a teacher here for several years. The place we ate was one of his favourite restaurants. He knew all the waiters. He told us the best dishes to order. He now lives near Galilee and has a B&B. He and his partner are planting a vineyard. He’s such sweet guy (and apparently sends periodic updates to Lynn and Lisa, who rely on him to keep tabs on their boy).

Itamar, Micha, and Paul in Jaffa

Itamar is critical of Israel’s occupation and we talked a bit about what he sees happening. He and I agree that the two-state solution has been effectively killed by Netanyahu and the Israeli settler movement. Racism is rampant. Even if a Palestinian state were to be established, Israel would control it militarily, which offers little hope to Palestinians. I think the question is: can a Jewish state ever accept Palestinians as equal citizens, or will Israel keep them trapped forever in an apartheid prison? (Today as I write this the IDF fired on unarmed civilians protesting in Gaza, killing 18 and wounding almost 800. The conditions in Gaza are appalling and no one can leave). Itamar indicated that he thinks things are unlikely to improve in our lifetimes. 2018 marks 70 years of Israeli statehood and Palestinian occupation—the lifetime of my generation.

My favourite thing that Itamar said, which matches my impression: “Tel Aviv is not a city to see. It is a city to live.” There is little of great beauty here, but TLV is vivacious, there is so much happening, especially if you are a young gay man. After dinner the five of us walked through the streets of Jaffa and took selfies. We said goodbye to Itamar.  Micha and Paul walked us the short distance toward TLV where they were meeting some friends. As we hugged goodbye Micha abruptly announced that this was the last time we’d see him—he had to work tomorrow, they had plans in the evening, and John and I were leaving the morning after. The disappointment on my face must have been obvious. We had not seen his apartment nor made a meal together. Now I was the one who was anxious and clingy.

Later Micha called and suggested a change of plans: tomorrow afternoon we could shop in his Hatikva shuk (street market) and make an early dinner at his place. I couldn’t help wondering if Paul had said something.

A Banksy on the beach

Tuesday morning John and I did laundry at a coin-op on Allenby and had breakfast near the market. We strolled through a large craft fair that was setting up in the square. I couldn’t find any t-shirts I liked. John got a kick out of hand-crafted ‘car mezuzahs,’ intended to be attached near one’s car door for good luck.

We were to meet Micha about 3 pm. John and I got a taxi to the Hatikva neighbourhood early enough to stroll through their market before going to Micha’s apartment. This is said to be the poorest neighbourhood in TLV. There are many more black and brown people than we have seen in the rest of Israel. The dress is African and Arab. The shuk here is newer and wider than Carmel’s and maybe as big. So many vegetables. I looked for butcher shops—I had promised to make lamb chops for four.

Micha lives in a relatively new building. He buzzed us up and gave us a tour. His roommate Oshri works at night and was asleep so we needed to be quiet. Paul was visiting some old friends across town and would be here soon. We surveyed the kitchen implements and larder, then headed to the market. Micha’s a good negotiator and speaks Hebrew fluently. I loved shopping with him. He made us try a Purim pastry. We bought eggplant, garlic, olive oil, tomatoes for a chop salad, wine…and a double rack of lamb—kind of expensive, 3 chops each for 4 adult men with some leftovers for the house.

Dinner at Micha's: I've always loved cooking with him

Back at the ranch we carved the ribs and upper loin into chops. I showed Micha how to “French the bone”—a term that sounds suggestive, but really is just cutting away the sinew and meat from the rib bone to make a sort of handle—he would get another meal from these prime lamb scraps. We marinated the eyes of the chops in olive oil, minced garlic, salt and pepper to pan fry later. John and I had been eating a lot of charred eggplant (a specialty of the Levant), so I wanted to show Micha a different preparation—how my mother learned to cook eggplant in France, dipped in egg-wash and bread crumbs and fried (she had never eaten eggplant before going to Europe in 1944). I fixed the eggplant and he made a tomato, cucumber, kohlrabi, and feta salad.

Oshri, Micha’s long-time roommate, is a waiter and was off to work, but I’m glad we got to meet him. He seems very sweet. Paul arrived and put on some musicfor us—he likes mid-century European divas, as do I. The dinner Micha and I made was fabulous. The lamb was perfect, the salad refreshing. The eggplant turned out okay.

Cooking and drinking and listening to music, the four of us had some tender and confessional discussions. It was the closest I have ever felt to Micha. I think the evening was deeply emotional for all of us, but particularly for him. John and I over-imbibed and needed his help to get a taxi—two inebriated old gay white guys stumbling home arm in arm in a foreign city making inappropriate comments, sheesh. It was good we had help. Our farewell was sad and awkward. 

Later that evening John and I saw a cryptic post on Facebook that Micha had decided to break up with Paul. Oh man. I felt like we’d failed him somehow, but I wasn’t sure the reasons. I texted him over the next few days to see how he was doing. Okay he said, and not to worry. He was needing more sensitivity, less judgment. I got the feeling it wasn't a deep disagreement. Maybe they would get back together. Micha will likely be in the US this summer—he doesn't like the sweltering heat of the Israeli desert. I hope we will have a chance to talk more. I love him to pieces. He is my muse.