
<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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Early morning Nile view at the
Sheraton Hotel

Our bus at the border


Damascus Gate at night


The Dome of the Rock Mosque from
roof of the Austrian Hospice |