Picnic in Israel

            I stared out over a yellow grass plain stretching for miles in three different directions. With the black top road to our backs myself and my German equal Julius marveled. Mordechai, our guide and personal family friend of thirty years, opened the tea-blotted road map. We followed his pruny finger slide across the canvas as it alighted on three scarred regions.

Mordi and Julius

            “That side is Lebanon. Over there is Syria, and here are we, in Israel.” This was 2012. Julius and I both finished a year of college. As a freshly turned nineteen year old geopolitics escaped me. Instead, I casually daydreamed about my next student film or ruminating over the breakup I still felt, nine months later.

            I don’t recall the minor pleasantries we exchanged. I’m sure they amounted to short platitudes like: “This is incredible.” Or “I’ve never seen something like this.” Truthfully, even though we were at the nexus of a thousand-plus year old conflict the view did not impress.

            I didn’t want to say the view was unimpressive. Small towns dotted the landscape interrupting the Midwest-Kansas feel of another unending plain. As far as meadows go they weren’t voluminous or expansive. They were there. Still, having just come from the River Jordan and Jerusalem it’s tough to compare grassy seas to the potential tomb of Jesus of Nazareth.

            Mordi brought out the bottle of red wine we purchased at the market in down town Jerusalem. Fifty shekels bought us the small cabernet sauvignon, a loaf of honey wheat bread, a pepperoni stick, some mozzarella cheese, olives dipped in olive oil with sun-dried tomatoes, and the classic pita and hummus. If only we had a straw basket. Then we could have a picnic  with a view.

It's common for soldiers to pose for photographs

            While Mordechai cut into the fragrant bread a camouflage colored military jeep pulled up next to our rental Toyota Camry. Nobody got out. The soldiers’ visages scanned past us, out into the open fields. Nobody hailed us, even though the mounted fifty-caliber machine gun spoke volumes. Nobody in our camp blinked. This was Israel. Armed guards were common.

            Quietly avoiding attention I poured us all wine.

            “They are here to protect us.” Mordechai sawed slices of pepperoni for the bread.

            “Protect us?” I glanced back up at the convoy, almost spilling wine on myself.

            “Of course. This is dangerous spot. On that side is Hezbollah. On that side – pfft – this is not safe. You see that town? There are terrorists.” I’ve never seen anyone point ominously with a pepperoni stick until that day he pointed to the small town immediately east of us.

            “There is Hezbollah. Snipers watch these cliffs looking for people to kidnap. Right now there is someone watching us with a rifle. He sees us. He sees the soldiers. He tells them ‘We cannot capture them. They have Israeli military.’ We are safe. Do not worry.” To conclude his argument Mordechai proudly laid mozzarella on his sandwich, and took a bite.

            Julius and I both took two full gulps of wine to wash the news down.

            “Did you just say Hezbollah is watching us?” Julius sipped once more from the plastic cup of wine.

            Mordi’s eyes rolled.

            “Yes. Just last week they kidnapped two of our soldiers. We pay the ransom, they give us back the heads. Right here.” Smile lines turned to frown lines across Mordi’s chin. Bushy salt-and-pepper eyebrows furrowed in frustration accumulated over sixty years’ worth of modern history. Just like every Israeli we met on that trip: he shrugged, but the frustration never really left his eyes. Such is life.

            “Who wants to eat?”

            Supposing that I’m more likely to die of hunger than Hezbollah kidnapping me I reached for a sandwich. I poured myself more wine. Out across the meadow a rifle barrel might glint in the sun. Could I see the slight optical flare? Would I recognize it for what is? Where does a sniper sit? Can these soldiers keep me safe? Am I overreacting? Is Mordi messing with me? The military convoy conveyed the gravity of the situation, but a pepperoni and mozzarella cheese sandwich under the soft Israeli sun soothed my wide-eyed glare. The wine helped too.

            The five days we spent in Jerusalem prior to our Kerouac-meets-Call-of-Duty travel taught me to trust the military guards. On the cobbled streets of the Old City guards smiled for pictures while carrying MP4s. A guard stationed every twenty feet prevented danger at Jaffa Gate. Hundreds of people crossed back and forth through the high stone walls of the Lion Gate. Expecting violence, how could the Israeli military not monitor the entry and exit points of their most important neighborhood?

The Wailing Wall

            The Church of the Holy Sepulcher, the Western Wall, the Mount of Olives, the Western Wall tunnels, the Jewish Quarter filled my diary for pages. Those old entries describe men and women bowing before a stone slab, deigning to touch the smoothed rectangle, and even kiss it. Under the rock foundations of the Temple veiled women sobbed quietly in ancient hand-carved alcoves lifting up alms to the God of Israel. White grave stones lined the trailing hills best seen from high above in a double-decker tour bus. I’d never before witnessed the kind of worship a genuine holy site merited. That forehead-to-the-ground-not-pure-enough-to-touch worship only existed in National Geographic documentaries.

The Burial Stone of Jesus of Nazareth

            We traveled south as well.
         

            The desert that lifted and sank all the way to the horizon; white sands bleaching your corneas. The smell of roasted thyme chicken and tahini wafted past the three of us. A stop at Qum’ran enlightened me to the mysteries of the Dead Sea Scrolls. If I could reach out and touch those scrolls they would fall apart.  The clay leftovers of a Jewish monastic order too strict for John the Baptist lay before me, with the cliff caves behind inviting new discoveries.

The Snake Path up to Masada

Even further south to Masada. Julius and I hiked the snake path up to the fortress itself, mostly because we were too broke to afford the lift. Looking out from the plateau’s edge Romans struggled to penetrate, you can peer straight to the Dead Sea. Why did everyone at Masada kill themselves? The stone steps of the forum and market bore recent dust from the influx of visitors. No one knew the answer.

Finally south to the Dead Sea itself. The greatest geological marvel I’ve ever witnessed tantalized me. I nearly salted the inside of my nostrils trying to swim laps. Simply sit back and fall gently into the Sea. Let the Sea’s natural buoyancy carry you wherever you choose. The healing effects of the mud and the water wiped away our scars from hiking to the top of Masada. A sixteen-year-old girl used her Grandmother to convince me we should trade phone numbers.

            Israel guards the mystery of every nook and cranny with armed guards. Mordechai’s recount of the Six Days’ War included snipers on the streets of Jerusalem, dropping wine barrels that imitated the sound of bombs falling, and every Israeli pushing back against forces closing in on the potential borders of a nation-state. He walked the streets of Jerusalem at seven years old, he told us,, ducking and dodging potential sniper bullets. I couldn’t help but sympathize.

            The sandwiches tasted delicious, despite the appetite-reducing threat of a bullet  impacting my body. In fact, once I got past the initial fear I recognized something odd: our protectors were our age. Mordi told me once about compulsory military service for Israelis. The ramifications sank in on that hilltop while I snacked on an olive.

            I approached, sandwich in hand, offering a bite.

            Despite their polite decline to share food several soldiers got out, not to aim their guns or point it at anything in particular, but to chat. It turns out one of the soldiers lived in New Jersey before returning to Israel for his stint in the army. Like most teenage boys we agreed on a few things: Israeli women are beautiful, some of the best pizza is in New York, and the view was not impressive. Mordi joined Julius and I at the sound of our laughter. Finally I felt comfortable. Maybe there were men staring down riflescopes aimed at our bodies, but these soldiers agreed that English is a difficult language to learn.

            We finished our lunch, Mordi smoked a hand rolled cigarette, and the convoy followed us all the way to the Israeli-Syrian border. Julius fell asleep in the back. Mordi rolled another cigarette, while driving, and smoked it. The plains stretched on, a single road dividing Syria from Israel. I passively gazed out on to the uninspired scenery. I sat up, prompting Mordi to notice.

            On the Syrian side of the road several tanks perched, barrels facing Israel. We drove right past those tanks. I didn’t wake up Julius. A simple message: Do not enter. I had no idea of the implications those tanks carried years after we left Israel. Only in hindsight can I admit the eerie imagery carried ill omens, not for our road trip but for the country of Syria.

            Our road trip passed more eventfully, although with less danger involved. We slept on the banks of the Sea of Galilee. The soft sand soothed our misaligned backs after two nights of sleeping on the ground. I woke up to a rosy sunset, and swam from the shore to a buoy out in the distance, the waters quiet and calm around me. By the time we got back to Mordi’s apartment in Jerusalem everyone crashed. Only three days traveling the northern border of Israel, but more than enough to exhaust each of us. Julius and I debated leaving the apartment to buy dinner, but ultimately stayed in. We needed to process a lot. Mordi slept fourteen hours.

            Israel exists in a state of extremes to me. Extreme beauty, both in the people and in the land, and extreme danger. Israelis claim that because of it’s superb beauty it’s highly coveted making it the most dangerous piece of paradise ever. I would go on to argue with Mordechai about whether or not to nuke Syria, the benefits of organized religion, and the merits of pita bread without hummus (Mordi’s stance: you can’t eat pita bread alone. It’s sinful.) Combative, delightful, and selective describe Mordi the best. As a representative of his nation he’s a fine example of a people born into conflict for thousands of years. Despite the incredible dissonances the people of Israel live, work, and play like the rest of us. They, just like us, enjoy pepperoni and mozzarella sandwiches on a nice hill top view even if they can’t accept them from American tourists.

The Grandio

The Grandio

            You see advertisements in every city you go: Party hostel! Don’t plan on sleeping! Free shots for guests! Different pub-crawl every night! So on and so forth. Every city you backpack in has at least one. Amongst all the different party hostels in Budapest one stood miles above the rest, or it did on TripAdvisor. According to their website inebriation lasted all day. Maybe see the city, maybe stay in and drink. Go caving! Take a beer bike! Drink “strawpedoes” or knock back a couple jaeger bombs! I found it a little unnerving, but equally exciting to stay in the greatest party hostel of them all: The Grandio Party Hostel.

            The first thing we noticed when we walked in early that morning: the cult of personality writ large. A two-story apartment-complex-turned-hostel wrapped around a gravel courtyard dotted by several witch hazel trees. Glass tables filled the courtyard covered with all manner of half-empty shot glasses, beer mugs, and solo cups. Mismatched red and white chairs lounged chaotically throughout the space.  Power lines snaked overhead from all corners of the building. Several gifts hung amongst the corded spider web: a ruined keyboard, a broken ukulele, women’s underwear (of multiple sizes and varieties.) We were in the right place.

            A British expat named Pixie signed us in. We sat there across from what can best be described as a twenty-first century British Jack Sparrow. Pixie handed four full beers to us, wobbling a bit to sit down. We sipped the cold beer at ten in the morning while Pixie laid out the rules:

1.    You must wear the wristband to get into the hostel at night so don’t lose that and bring your hookup buddy during the day.

2.    The bar is open at all hours. No tabs. Get weird with it.

3.    Parties happen every night. They require a small registration fee, the rest is up to the hostel. Trust him, go with the flow.

4.    Check out is at eleven o’clock in the morning.

The first thing we did after signing in: take a shot. For free. We waited so long (several months) after booking our reservations we could taste satisfaction in the bottom of our glasses. Here we were, in the flesh. The website promised ‘the best parties in Budapest’ and already The Grandio lived up to it’s standards. The thin, bearded Brit showed us to our rooms.

Keenan and I shared a bunk bed in a room marked by the perfectly graffitied Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle Donatello on the second floor. Garrett, and Matt shared a room in the Michelangelo dorm.  To get to their room we had to pass by the two-story garden hose beer bong taped to the railing. Dillon slept on the first floor. Tin sheeting covered us overhead and letters spray painted into the wall spelled out Grandio, with all manner of comments sharpied into the white lettering. There is no courtesy breakfast, tiny bathrooms, and would we like to go on the jaeger train tonight? Don’t ask what it is. Everyone’s going. It’ll be fun.

            We reconvened, mouths still agape at the laidback vibe. Dillon, it turned out, neglected purchasing our train tickets to Split. Garrett, furious at this revelation, volunteered to go to the train station himself and get the tickets himself. Keenan and Matt joined him leaving Dillon and me to wash clothes. Dump clothes in washing machine, add detergent, close door, push ‘start’, then wait. Simple.

            Dillon and I sat there at a table in the courtyard, drinking a morning beer. Something light. The woman tending bar notoriously never smiled and never talked. Pixie stayed in the office to check in newcomers. A second worker, a shorter stockier man with a mop of hair, introduced himself as Avril. Apparently everyone goes by his or her nicknames here. Dillon and I chat with the slow-witted, stocky Scotsman. Before we can learn the source of his nickname we catch a group of people filling red solo cups with cheap Hungarian ‘sör.’

            Dillon and I approached the ping-pong-table-turned-drinking-platform, our duty long neglected. It may be ten in the morning, but that meant the games had started late for the day. Yes, we were invited to join, encouraged even. We had yet to prove our American mettle. Even as we divided into teams and forced cheap light beer down our throats I could tell this hostel was special.

            It wasn’t just the bras that hung in the air or the incredible egg, bacon, and cheese breakfast sandwich you could get from the kitchen. The hostel made a business out of dingy fun. Bar crawls every night. Karaoke parties. Boat parties. Roman Bath parties (those were the most infamous ones.) The painted murals started conversations: Wonder Woman or Cat Woman? You can rest when you’re pissed. In each dorm rested one condom dispenser with a list of ten different alliterations to describe the ‘Pregnancy Prevention Tool.’ The cracked concrete walls acted as notepads for the artistically inclined giving the whole hostel the impression of a much bigger, much nicer well-graffitied bathroom.

            Our first night there we celebrated the retirement of the manager. A man eerily reminiscent of Tito from Rocket Power burrowed out of the manager’s room and drunkenly greeted all of us. In turn he knocked over the shot glass that knocked over the remaining fifty shot glasses of jaeger into their respective glasses of red bull. Jaeger Train.

            We only stayed there two full days but those two days easily could’ve stretched into seven or eight. During the day Dillon and I went spelunking in a cave system outside of the city (an hour by bus.) Frodo, our guide, helped us navigate into holes we never imagined any amount of contortion would get us through. At the Roman baths everyone from toddlers to teenagers to geriatrics take a swim in the blue waters. One tiled-floor bath offers hot water and the other offers cold water with an Olympic sized workout pool in between.

            The Grandio, as it turns out, not only attracts tourists from all over, but also merits regulars. I sat down at a table, hungover, one morning next to a young backpacker. Messy hair, clothes a-tangle, and the light fog of an early morning bender crossed her eyes. She explained to me she’s visited the hostel four summers in a row now. She was due a job. In fact, Pixie lived at the hostel for several months before he started.

            “Oi! Avril!” The Girl spotted Avril slinking away from one of the dorm rooms. He froze, and then smiled as he walked over to join us.

            “Avril, how’d you get started?” I asked. The Girl drunk-giggled.

            “Well, I was hanging around the hostel one day. Some folks invited me to play beer pong. I just kept playing. Then, after a few hours the hostel owner asked me if I’d like a job. So I said yes.”

            Well said. The Girl chuckled. She gauged his lack of shirt or shorts and smiled widely.

            “You’ve been with my sister last night.” She shrieked excitedly.

            Avril smiled sheepishly before putting a finger to his lips. Quiet hours were in the morning until noon.

            “You have! I can smell her on you!”

            Avril shrugged.

            “Good on you! You bastard!”

            I, for my part, stood up very slowly. Grabbed my glass of water. I stepped quickly away from the conversation before any other slightly disturbing sentences could be uttered from the drunk girl in the corner.

           

The hostel intimidated me with it’s Devil-may-care attitude. Nothing could be more Laissez-faire than a bartendress who doesn’t talk or a British expat named Pixie. The Grandio hostel may be a party hostel to some, but it’s a whole lot more to the rest of us. It’s a true vacation. It’s summer camp. It’s a place you can go to be someone else. It offers all the trappings of bacchanalian life, but erases the deep worry of your daily life. It’s intoxicating. So much so that I had to forcefully convince Dillon to move on to the next city. It sinks it’s teeth in playfully, but deep.

Budapest offers much for the casual tourist. Ancient Roman Baths, Communist dictator statues, Hungarian goulash, vast cavern systems, and bars with fish tanks full of disco balls. Yet, despite all it’s charms the Grandio remains in my head. Like when you close your eyes after staring at a bright image the Grandio burned itself into my eyelids, seared into memory. Which is ironic considering we drank a lot at the hostel. Or not. Drinking there, after all, is a way of life.

Border Crossing

Border Crossing

I knew I was screwed before I even got on my bus. One hundred and sixty dollars? I thought it was only one hundred and forty!

My bus conductor stared at me expectantly. Mumbling, I reassured her I was completely prepared to get my visa at the Bolivia-Peru border. “Okay. But if you don’t get your visa on time the bus will leave without you.” Normally I would panic and fret, but seeing as how it was still three hours to the border I took a stress nap while our bus wound around sapphire-blue Lake Titicaca towards Copacabana.

 

Beautiful Blue Lake Titcaca

The problem wasn’t simply that I had to pay to get into Bolivia. The problem was that I also had to pay to leave Peru. I’d spent eleven months living and working as a volunteer in the San Martin region photographing and recording native tribes. I stayed eight months past my tourist visa which meant at a charge of one dollar a day I owed the Peruvian government roughly two hundred and forty dollars as well as a decent excuse.

For anyone familiar with border crossings they’re not normally stressful. I envied the Canadians and Brits surrounding me as they stamped out of Peru and stamped into Bolivia. Only my government, I complained, would have a contentious relationship with the beautiful Andean nation. The line filed ever-onwards with me swept up into it’s lazy-river current.

At the Peruvian exit desk the border agent eyed me. “You’ve stayed way past your tourist visa.”

He raised an eyebrow at me. Dry-swallowing I humbly blushed and smiled back. “Yes sir.”

 He had to pull out a calendar and calculator to figure out just how many dollars I owed the Peruvian government. Meanwhile, the bus driver loomed over our bus group as a Polish woman walked in and out of the office, getting her exit visa in what felt like an eye blink.

I handed him the two hundred and forty three dollars owed as well as my Andean card stating my initial entry. He looked up at me as I watched another of my group move from the Peruvian exit line into the Bolivian entry line. Sweat hadn’t formed on my brow, but my hand wouldn’t stop shaking. I could get deported, I rationalized.

“What were you doing in Peru for so long?” The customs officer asked me.

“I’m not going to lie sir. I was working as a volunteer in northern Peru and- “I began in perfectly accented Spanish. (You don’t spend eleven months in Peru without learning the language. At least I had that going for me.)

“No no no.”

He raised a hand out to stop me. My throat constricted. I surmised my excuse wasn’t valuable enough to free me from the bureaucratic chains. I was going to be sent back. At least I still had some Peruvian currency to take care of my needs, I thought. My visa money could be put to use. I wasn’t totally screwed.

“You met a beautiful Peruvian woman and decided to stay an extra couple months for love.” He nodded contentedly. In the space of a pregnant pause I realized what he was saying. I nodded vigorously.

“Yes sir! Absolutely sir!” He stamped my exit visa. I let out a half-deep sigh. The first part was over with. I even let out a stress-laugh. Love, it seems, had literally set me free.

What happens if you exit one country, but you can’t enter another country? Do you technically exist outside of international laws? I pondered this as I hopped in line to enter Bolivia.

This part of the process I had prepared for. I had all my paperwork: my shot record, the visa application filled out, a passport-sized photo, and something close to the amount of money I needed. While in line I kicked myself for not withdrawing more money from the ATM the night before. I counted my money while in line. One hundred and sixty dollars exactly. Not a penny more. I let out the other half of my deep sigh.

The visa office called me forward. I presented everything. The agent smiled and nodded. This wasn’t the first time an American had applied for their visa while on the border. Over my shoulder I could feel the burning gaze of my bus conductor. Her attention singularly focused on my exposed back through the clay walls of the customs office.

The Agent filed my paperwork. They took their own photo of my smiling face. The process was flying by. No calls were made to the American consulate. No bag inspections occurred. Easy as one-two-three. I found myself humming the Jackson Five’s tune and laughing at the bus driver for rushing me. The elation I felt at successfully navigating the labyrinth of paperwork in such a rapid manner bubbled through my entire system. I must be some kind of backpacking hero.

“I’m sorry we can’t accept this bill.”

The earth stopped moving.

“Do you have a different bill? They have to be free of wrinkles and tears.” The agent continued.

No. Shit.

“Unfortunately it’s Sunday and the banks are closed. You will have to try the money changers.” He suggested. I raised a pointer finger.

“Just- hang on. One second!” I dashed outside with my ever-so-slightly-torn twenty dollar bill.

Every money changer gave the same story. They had too many ripped bills. They couldn’t trade one of my bills for one of theirs. Please, I begged, if I don’t get a clean twenty then I won’t get into this country. I had already given up all my money, I said. If this didn’t work I’d be left at the border with no money, no entry visa, and no means of getting back to anywhere. Existing in a bureaucratic purgatory between two countries was my backpacking nightmare. Sorry, they all said, they just couldn’t make that trade.

With no other choice I walked up and down the line of entering tourists. I explained my situation to them. Several Canadians stopped and empathized. They offered to pay in Canadian currency. No use, I explained. I’m American so it has to be dollars. Two British women in front of me turned around.

“We don’t need our money to get in. Would you like to use our twenty?” They lifted a plastic bag filled with paperwork, passports, and several currencies.

 

I practically cried as we switched out my bill for theirs. I ran back into the office, presented the bill. The agent took one look at the bill and shook his head. That’s when a cold sweat ran down my forehead. The Bus Driver disappeared. That was a very bad sign.

I apologized and thanked my British friends. Incensed, they handed me a new bill. I immediately went and offered that to the agent who smiled, nodded ‘yes’, and finished my Bolivian visa. No relief followed as I wished my agent to speed up the process of sticking a visa to my passport. The Bus Driver might, even now, be taking off. All of my hope and money went into this border crossing.

The moment the agent returned my passport to me I thanked him and bolted out the door. I slowed down only to thank the British women for helping me. It was more of a quick shout than anything.

I found my bus. Gasping for breath and sweating heavily I stepped up on to the bus steps. Inside, barely a quarter of the bus was full. People continued filing through customs. I lowered my backpack onto my seat and sat there breathing through all the angst. The tension in my body released slowly, muscles I didn’t even know were tense unclenched.

The ride into La Paz passed in a dreamy state for me. Our very first stop in town I ran straight to an ATM and withdrew several hundred bolivianos. Never again, I vowed. Even as I cursed my lack of preparation pleasure filled my brain.

I smiled as the Bolivin alitplano flew by my bus window. Chatter boiled up within me. The poor Polish woman next to me smiled her way through all the menial conversations I could invent, stress practically pouring out of my mouth while I spoke. As adrenaline faded and the sun set my eyes closed of their own accord. I slept while my bus twisted and turned it’s way into La Paz. That was how I almost got stuck at the border of Bolivia with no money in my pocket and no way of getting home. That was how I became, in my own eyes, a backpacker en veritas.