You will surely ask what can go wrong on a tour to the north? The sun smiled, the weather ideal, the gas free and despite the early wakeup call (I heard Martin pack his CK bathing suit as early at 8 a.m.), I was in a good mood. Seems I got used to the young Canadian. I looked in the mirror "you must be growing up" I said to the tired face I saw reflected.
This time, I decided, I'm giving Martin the works: A perfect trip including anecdotes, stories, coffee cooked on an open fire, and shopping in a Druze village on the Carmel Mountains. No more cow dung, belching contests and annoying Tel Avivian women. By the end of the day, Martin will know the country like the back of his hand, including the difference between the tracks of the wolf and those of a jackal.
A hummus-expert is born
When I drive north I always stop at a far-flung hummus restaurant that serves the best hummus in Israel. I know every Israeli swears by his own best hummus place, but Imad's in Nazareth is mine.
The Yahudiya stream - blossoms and garbage
We drove into Nazareth and Martin's expression changed to terror. He claimed he wasn't hungry but I didn't pay him any attention and ordered two plates of hummus with ful. As I devoured mine like a refugee from Darfur in a buffet, Martin used his knife to spread hummus over his pita bread. What an embarrassment! I glanced shamefully at the waiters. "Martin!" I whispered in rage, "they know me here! Drop the knife and wipe!..." Martin was alarmed and took a little mirror and a tissue from his bag and looked for hummus crumbs on his face. I can't believe we're related.
Was there a sandal?
On a full stomach, we continued driving. Nest stop – the Yahudiya stream. Spring welcomed us with green fields and mustard-yellow flowers, buttercup red and the orange of the empty chips bags by the side of the road. I showed Martin a hidden path between the rocks from which he'll be able to jump straight into the pool's chilly water. He asked me for my sandals. "Oh, no," I said, "you'll lose them in there." Martin explained that his mountain climbing shoes cost $400 so he can't get them wet. That made sense, so I gave him mine after he promised to guard them with his life.
As Martin was getting ready to jump, I lit a fragrant joint, looked at the blue sky and tried to convince myself nothing could go wrong on such a beautiful day.
A few minutes later, I saw Martin approach soaking wet and shivering with a single sandal on. Only those who lost their best possession could understand how I felt. By the way, dear rescue unit people, "the chopper is busy right now," is really, really, a poor excuse.
With bare feet, and a foul mood I made my way through the Golan Heights' rocks and thorns back to the car. Martin tried to cheer me up but it's common knowledge that the Canadian sense of humor is not something to write home about. I knew there was only one thing in the world that could life my spirit in this hour of despair – knafe (a sweet, cheese and noodle Arab dish). We arrived at the restaurant and each of us finished a pizza tray size portion of that orange-colored delight. This time Martin did not insist on a fork and ate with his hands like a normal person.
The first Zionist geyser
With blood-sugar levels that could kill a horse, and a much better mood, I was intent on showing Martin a real natural wonder: the first Zionist geyser. As a few of you might know, a geyser gushed out from the ground next to one of the kibbutzim in the area after a practical kibbutz member shoved a hose in the ground several years back. At least that was what I remembered.
We arrived after a long off-road drive. What a disappointment. While the "Old Faithful" works like a clock, shooting boiling water 35 meters in the air every hour and a half, our own geyser – less than two years old – was barely dripping. On the spot I named it "Young Disappointing."
"Winds of war"
Martin, who has seen a geyser or two in his life, looked at the group of Israelis soaking in the stinky, shallow water as if they were in some fancy spa's jacuzzi, and chuckled. Once again we were beaten by America. I stepped into the car angrily.
It was 4:30 in the afternoon so I turned on the radio hoping that the scheduled hour of Hebrew songs will calm me down. But, some old guy, Winograd-something, decided to give a lengthy speech exactly at that time.
What can I say, my friends? Listening to that speech, I felt that mourning the loss of a sandal was somewhat childish. Even Martin with his very basic Hebrew managed to understand the key points of the speech. We drove on in silence.
Mighty winds began to blow rising dust that colored the sky a shade of apocalyptic metal-grey. We looked at the Syrian territory just a mile across the road from us. "Do you know how we call this type of wind in Israel?" I asked. "Eastern winds," Martin tried. "No," I answered. "Winds of war."
Next week: No way around it. Jerusalem, here we come.