Chili Night, Izreal' and impending Palestine

April 05

The next day feels phenomenal in comparison to the hell I have been living!  I gladly state I will be leaving the next morning and ask for the respected instructions.  I redevelop my ability to consume solids and the urge to eat pancakes, sausages, and hash browns overtakes me.  I look to Google and search for such a restaurant; Waffle House, could it sound any more perfect? 

I take off on foot, lose myself, get back to the Abbasi Palace Hotel, and go out again, only to be successful in finding Rainbow street- the hip and westernized area of Amman.  Here they have “cool” and trendy names like Schwarmerize and so on.  I look and look for this waffle place and end up settling for a Chili establishment. 

I enter the establishment and greet the owner with Arabic phrases.  Happily, we continue our conversation in English, I order my food, and he turns on the music.  Familiar, hip, and cool songs begin to play, amongst them Kesha and Lil Wayne.  I look over to him and he is just standing there, staring into nothingness. 

“Do you like this music?”

“Not really.”

“Let’s change it.”

He turns the music off,two patrons enter, and the music continues.  I find this odd.  Clearly he was not enjoying the music- you can tell when someone does.  Time to sidetrack.  I do not know what it is about today.  I feel like we are shaping our lifestyles more towards what we think is successful in the eyes of society, rather than what we actually feel within ourselves.  This man and his franchise of an American product compromises happiness for security.  It may be a rather extreme conclusion, but you can tell when someone is passionate.  I feel as if he was not.  When I travel, I look to enter other people’s worlds, not one I try to escape.  The best part about this rant is that I am the one going to the house of chili.  End of rant.

After spending eight Dinars reminding myself why I did not like American food, I head back to the hostel to prepare for the morning.  I pack and plan, eating my sleep time concurrently.  The next morning I take a Taxi to the Abdali bus station.  The ride, actually serene, lasted long enough for a 1.70 fare.  And since the driver was such a non-demanding asshole, I wanted to tip him.  He even had change for my two and was completely satisfied with just taking 1.70.  I had no more money so I left the rest to him and he expressed his thankfulness.  My experiences with cab drivers have been the complete opposite of this; the driver either tries to coerce me to somehow pay more, negotiate, or not use the meter.  I purchase my ticket to the Allenby Bridge, and of all people there is the German I met from a few nights ago, traveling to Petra.  I enter the bus.  

It’s just me, another American, and an Italian PHD student in this huge coach bus. 

It turns out that the American student had studied Engineering in Aachen, Germany, met his Jordanian girlfriend there, and spoke some German.  He tells us that she moved to Germany to also study and “adapted quickly.”  Her parents were in the “middle class,” but according to him it seemed a lot higher up.  He also tells us that there were definitely social pressures and social awkwardness because of the relationship, although the parents were practically non-religious. 

The Italian man with a rather strong British accent, has actually been in and out of Israel a few times, and was fortunate enough to carry a piece of paper with him so he did not receive an Israeli Entrance- or a Jordanian Exit stamp, which both I and the other American totally forgot. 

The actual border crossing is about 2 KM or so, I do not know the exact number.  So a bus drives you from the Jordanian border through a small portion of Palestine.  Then you take a bus to the Israeli crossing (which conveniently has a palm tree- which we found funny).  Like the internet sources say, you can tell when you’re no longer in Jordanian territory once you see M-16s. 

This is where it gets interesting.  But before that, let’s go through a brief and coarse history lesson. 

Israel, depending on how you view it, is either a young country or disputed territory that is about sixty or so years old and home to about five- six million Jewish population, none of which are truly indigenous, but were brought to Israel from events such as World War II and so on.  Israel is also surrounded by Arabic countries, of which are the following: Lebanon, Syria, Jordan, and Egypt.  All have rather shaky ties except Jordan, but even then, it’s not a relationship like Netherlands-Germany or Canada-USA.  By law, everyone must serve in the military. 

So here at the border crossing, you have girls and boys working security.  We are talking fresh out of high school.  So when you go to get interrogated, you’re essentially talking to someone younger than you that may have just graduated high school.  And for some of us, those high school pains never go away.  The people at the border crossing just do not show all too much respect.  Let’s delve into this further.  Melissa and her roommates would later inform me that their own culture shock in Israel revolved mostly around the fact that the people here are more blunt and aggressive.  Melissa lamented that they have no compassion for other people.  For such an action like holding the door open for someone does not occur here.  I label this bluntness and aggression as entitlement and superiority complex, some of which you do experience in Germany and in the rest of the world- but not as often.  

It’s my turn to go get interrogated.  I walk up and the girl could not have been more than 19. 

“Where are you going?  Who are you staying with?  What do they do?  What is your dad’s name?  What is your favorite color?”

Okay that last one is a fake example, but you get the gist.  Not only do they interrogate you, but they also pick apart your luggage and just seek out every nook and corner your bag has.  In fact, they opened zippers I had no idea even existed, which is kind of cool.  

I must mention that throughout this whole ordeal, I have not fully recovered from food poisoning, so I sort of left a path of destruction…

Anyway, both I and the Italian got through, but they were keeping the American behind.  I notice that the Arabic people with Palestinian keffiyehs always greet one another with respect.  These people who do not even know one another have a mutual kinship.  I suppose with the current events, what else can you do?  I cannot imagine what it must be like for them to go through the crossing.  It must be even more ridiculous and that is from an American passport standpoint.

The Italian and I watch from afar, as they pick apart his belongings.  He tells me,

“I’ve got a friend who just puts his dirty laundry on the top, so when they open his bag, they have to deal with the stench first.  At the airport, they will assign you a number from 1-6 (They will give a one to a person that is not suspicious, and a higher number to someone that is.  Usually non Jewish descent will receive a 3-6.  I would end up receiving a five). This will determine how long you will wait.  I’ve got another friend who has taken a liking to the Arabic robes.  So in the beginning, when he was flying in and out, they would make him lift his robes up to see what he had under them.  He soon caught on and started wearing women’s underwear whenever going to the airport.  After a while, they just let him pass.” 

Our American party member passes through finally.  There’s one thing though, my bag has not come through yet, so I go back.  They open my bag and check it, I go through and we exchange our money- at an awful rate- and take a bus to Jerusalem, which the scenery on the way there is spectacular.  The bus ride consisted of at least five German speakers, two of which were American, one Jordanian girl (who studied in Aachen as well- small world), and two Germans.  The others were the Italian, and a Middle Eastern Nicholas Cage lookalike. 

The bus drops us off at the Damascus Gate- the Arabic entrance of Jerusalem, also in East Jerusalem, where the inhabitants are mostly Arabic.  When looking around, you ask yourself whether or not you are in Palestine or in Israel because everyone around you looks so similar and there are head coverings of all sorts (in this case there was mostly an Arabic presence).  We go to eat some Schwarma; similar to Döner and discuss the political situation between Israel and Palestine.  Our Italian friend delves into the history, the conflicts, and the possible resolutions, but comes back to a rather pissed-off state because of the current situation. 

Then we separate and go our own ways.  I take a Taxi to get to Melissa’s place.  I walk through the security without showing ID and find myself unsecured Wi-Fi at a student café.  I Skype her and an hour later we meet.  We found it funny that I am studying abroad in Germany and she in Israel.  How fitting it was to meet!

We go up to her student apartment, where her “fish,” Diina, is.  She is actually a cat, but the rules are totally against having a pet so they call her a fish.  I get settled, we catch up, and plan the night out.  The Old City. 

Various people in the streets tell her she is beautiful and that I’m lucky.  It’s funny how different you’re treated.  I would come to find this out later at a more extreme side.  To the West Wall.

Souks at night closed.

I had to stash my pocket knife in a drain in order to cross security.

West Wall and Orthodox Jews

Notes written and stuck between the cracks

The next day I go out to see the market, which is similar to the markets in Turkey and Jordan.  I buy about 20 dollars worth of assorted nuts and dried fruits and delve into my addiction of eating oranges.  Later that night I contemplate going to Palestine…

The next day we set out to see the Mountain of Olives.  On the way there we walk through crowds of Muslim people heading towards Dome of the Rock to pray, and end up taking a huge detour around the simplest path.  We end up in the way Palestinian side of Jerusalem, visit a mosque where Jesus’s footprint supposedly is, go to a Monastery, get denied entry, enter with a group of Russians, I try to dodge a nun from seeing me, we leave, and eventually wind up at the Seven Arches Hotel- which is built on demolished graves.  Then we head down the Mountain of Olives and end up at the place where Jesus is said to have prayed before the Romans arrested him.  We get home and I try to mobilize plans to go to Palestine.  Tomorrow hits and I sit inside; a side affect from being comfortable.  I do not recall doing much.  But the next day I do mobilize and try to go to Bethlehem.  One downside, the doors are locked and no one is home, so I’m stuck inside for about three hours. . .  

Some pics of Israel!

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