<The stamp in my passport

OUR WAKE-UP CALL was at 4 a.m. By 4:45, still pitch dark, we were in a taxi on our way to the Sheraton Hotel across the Nile, from where our bus to Israel would depart. Already there were around twenty backpackers waiting along with an assortment of locals and other Mediterranean types. We barely had time to get a quick coffee-to-go before a large bus with an Egyptian courier appeared and soon we were on our way, every seat filled, through quiet, calm, pre-dawn Cairo.

Apart from the frequent stops in obscure villages so our driver could have coffee, it was an uneventful trip through barren scenery. Nobody spoke except when absolutely necessary. We all seemed tired—too tired to strike up new relationships. The girl sitting across the aisle from us had just torn herself away from a passionate farewell with her Egyptian lover and she spent the day staring out of her window in a melancholy stupor.

Crossing the border into Israel was—as we expected—a bureaucratic nightmare. Our bus waited its turn in a long line of other buses, some loaded with colorfully clad and veiled Arabs. Inside the terminal we showed our passports over and over to teenagers in uniform, who eyed them—and us—up and down with suspicion. By the time we reached “freedom” in Israel we were famished. (We hadn’t brought along any food and all we’d eaten all day was a bag of cookies.) Waiting for us on the other side was a restaurant, aptly named Terminal Café, where we split a falafel-type dish.

Riding through the Israeli desert it began to grow dark, so there was little to see. At around 8 p.m. we arrived in Jerusalem where the bus dropped us off at one of the gates to the old city, the Damascus Gate, as no vehicles are permitted inside the walls. Old Jerusalem is a bit like Disneyland—a small, old fashioned microcosm of a town surrounded by high stone walls within the huge, teeming metropolis of modern Jerusalem. It is divided into four quarters (Jewish, Armenian, Christian and Islam) and has winding, narrow cobblestone streets normally bustling with tourists, shop owners, local residents, and religious practitioners. Now, however, they were practically empty and most of the shops were closed.

The hospice that had sounded so perfect in our Lonely Planet book turned out to be disappointing—$65 for a claustrophobic, austere room with a small shower—and we left after a quick glance. With our packs on our backs we trod through the narrow uneven streets to a café whose owner said he knew of a hotel. Leaving Joy behind at the falafel buffet, I followed the owner’s little boy to the place which was only $35 for two but bare and very noisy, with lots of attractive young foreigners just beginning their evening revelry. I felt we could do better. Looking again through our guidebook, we decided to try—at least for one night—the Austrian Hospice, even though it would cost us $36 each, breakfast included, since it was getting too late to quibble.

What a great place we walked into! After entering through a heavy, locked door built into a stone wall surrounding the building, we found ourselves in a sanctuary of beauty and peace, of gardens, vast stone hallways, a chapel, a comfy dining room, and friendly help. Our room was enormous and well-appointed, with a large balcony with a sweeping view of the old city.

After we settled in I bought a bottle of wine downstairs in the restaurant and we drank it on the balcony, with the stars above and the unusual sounds of Jerusalem in the background. We felt very close to Jesus in this place where he had spent so much time.

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