The Departure Diaries: January 2013

Wednesday, January 30, 2013

All Evidence Points to...

There is nothing like going on holiday while you're sick. Nothing.

If you read this blog regularly, you'll know that I wrote a post about a similar (or the exact same subject) not so long ago.

This new post is not redundant. Rather, my being ill is redundant. You see, I've been sick since November. Truly.

I left for Israel while in the last stages of developing a full-blown (pun intended) apocalyptic head cold.

By week two in Israel, I felt decent. By the time I got home, it was gone. BUT, within four weeks I caught not one, but TWO more of the same. TWO more drippy, coughy, fevery, nasty head colds.

And then the drippy part never went away.

That was November/December. It's now the end of January. And this past weekend, I had a weekend away in Monterey scheduled for my sister and I. Wednesday my teeth began to hurt and I lost my appetite. Thursday the fevers/chills/night sweats started. My body temperature just couldn't regulate. And all the while I still had energy. I wanted to go for walks. I needed to exercise. But I tired very easily, and I couldn't commit to long activities out in windy, cold weather. I wasn't exactly sick. Not precisely well.

So our girl's weekend transformed from a getaway of exciting things like hiking, sea kayaking and sailing to a non-adventurous weekend of massages, lounging around a spa sipping orange infused water in alcoves filled with over sized sofas, jacuzzi soaks, watching season one of The Newsroom (which is AMAZING, BTW. Mares & Luis, I owe ya!), sleeping in until the middle of the afternoon and going for long walks along the coast.

And somehow we came to Saturday night, which found me blazing hot feverish and basically incapacitated, lying in bed, unable to get warm. And around 1am, when my alarm woke me to take antibiotics (and also ibuprofen and colloidal silver) I found that my fever had broken, finally, and I was basically a puddle of sweat, finally warmed through and cooling off to a normal body temperature for the first time in nearly a week.

Which brings me to my point, which is this: For some reason it took FOUR WEEKS of being slightly ill while in my normal work schedule, and so stressed out that the gunk wouldn't go away and yet couldn't come to a head because I didn't have the energy to devote to it, but it only took TWO days of being out of my normal life to get me to relax enough to really get over being sick.

Does your life do this to you? If so, perhaps you ought to consider joining me in the whole leaving-my-job-and-traveling thing, or at least in making a change of some sort.

Who's with me?

Monday, January 28, 2013

Duct Tape, Ideas and Paradigms

A boy, not much older than sixteen swept up and down the aisle of the bus, checking passports and eying everyone suspiciously, trying desperately to not look as nervous as he did. When he reached the last third of the bus and came across three American girls, his eyes flashed briefly with panic and it made me ridiculously nervous. The situation in Bethlehem had just begun to escalate to the point of protests and gunfire as we left the town only twenty minutes prior. To say the air was fraught with tension would be putting things very mildly. And when I saw the checkpoint patrol kid's gun, my insides went all ping pong ball-ish and agitated, but I tried with my might to retain my cool, to not become the problem.

You see, the gun he cradled tensely in his arms wasn't quite up-to-snuff. Every soldier we'd seen in Israel up to that point had been polished, precise, professional and beautifully put together. But THIS particular boy, who I must assume was not an Israeli soldier, but rather a Palestinian soldier/representative of the West Bank at the West Bank/Israeli checkpoint outside of Jerusalem, near Bethlehem, was carrying a gun patched together haphazardly with silver duct tape. He wore no uniform. He looked as though he hadn't had a day of training in his life Nothing felt official about this supposed official, except the fact that he had a gun, and I didn't. And in this particular situation, that felt like a very dangerous thing.

If you were carrying a machine gun patched together with duct tape, wouldn't you be nervous as well? Wouldn't you be praying, with every bit of every part of your body that nothing would happen on that bus, that no one would make you need to raise that questionably functional gun and defend your border/self?

What exactly was he defending? I'm not certain. There is a set of rules for who can enter Jerusalem that is seemingly ridiculous, but actually specifically targets the greatest threats to the city: Israeli/Palestinian men between adolescence and the age of forty. The boy was in the West Bank, not Israel proper. So, what exactly was the point of that checkpoint? Was the boy defending Israeli territory from Palestinian insurgents? I would be lying if I said I understand the complexities of Israel. All I can tell you is that in that moment my life lay in the hands of a nervous teenager with a janky gun.

Normally I have photos to accompany my posts. But normally I don't have a nervous teenager with a patched-up gun making life and death decisions about me and my companions hovering over me.

It was one of those moments when you first say a silent prayer, and then take stock of your life and perhaps re-evaluate your decision-making paradigm; the same paradigm that had led me to that point, of being in Israel during a war. Of hearing rockets being fired at Jerusalem, toward ME as I lay in bed in a convent in the Old City. Of flying into the city where bombs were falling and actively killing people.

Two minutes later the boy climbed out of the bus and we drove off, back into Israeli territory, leaving behind Bethlehem and the West Bank. And we FELT safe again, whatever that feels like. Because it's only a feeling, safety. It's only an IDEA, like lanes of traffic on the freeway.

But that feeling is pretty important.

The Bethlehem/Jerusalem security checkpoint

photo from: http://nzconservative.blogspot.com/2011/01/trip-to-bethlehem.html

Friday, January 25, 2013

My House Featured on KellyWestover.com!

My little sister authors this crazy cool blog, kellywestover.com. A few months ago she asked if she could come over and snap photos of MY house to feature on her blog. "It'll be a blog about the traveler's house!" said she. "Heck yes!" said I! And here it is, Kelly's uber-creative take on my abode (originally posted here):

these four walls // christy warnick | westover manor

these four walls // christy warnick | westover manor

My dear, sweet, beautiful sister has opened up her home for this little feature-tte. I asked her if I could write up a little something about her and her amazing home. She has been traveling since the age of 18 and has such wonderful knick-knacks and images that inspire and delight everyone who walks through her door.

Come take a peek at some of the things in her well traveled home...

A few places she's been //
Italy, Norway, England, France, Denmark, Russia, Israel, Bahamas, Nicaragua...
see more here

On her bucket list //
Spain, Portugal, Morocco, Australia, Thailand and many more...

What's on your travel bucket list?

Wednesday, January 23, 2013

On Choosing the Right Taxi Driver, Part 2

As our day in Bethlehem began to wind down, our driver, Al'a, happily obliged us with a couple of "extra" stops to places he'd mentioned to us during the day: An olive wood carving factory, a spice shop (where he purchased each of us a packet of seasoning to make chicken schwarma at home) and the Palestinian border wall.

Looking at that wall, I couldn't help but reflect on another wall I've seen of the same sort, perhaps you've heard of it, The Berlin Wall. Berlin's wall is now "fallen," it's remnants now serve as a reminder, a piece of painful history.

Perhaps the Israeli/Palestinian border wall IS the best option for now. I couldn't say with any kind of authority, or even a well-educated guess. But my gut tells me that any wall of the type isn't good. It made my soul weep to see it. And as we sat there, parked on a street looking down at the wall from the West Bank side, Al'a pretty much summed up what I was feeling:

“This is not the way to make peace,” he motioned to the wall in front of us. “This killing of children and families and making a wall."

Only several hours before, a Palestinian family in Gaza had been brutally killed. Al'a pulled up news photos of the bodies on his phone and showed them to us, photos we would never see in Western media.

We stared somberly at the wall, thinking, reflecting, mourning for that family and suddenly gunfire rang out. Staccatto machine gun shots pierced the silence. We looked to our driver, "It is the protests. Over the killings."

"We need to leave, now." I replied, nodding my head at Al'a in acknowledgement of both the killings and the danger of us staying any longer.

We zipped precisely around the hilly streets and came to a sudden halt at a military blockade that had been erected in the past hour, blocking our route to the bus stop. We three travelers watched as Al'a looked questioningly at the soldiers, all young men and women, so very young! One soldier standing in the middle of the street, brandishing a large gun motioned us nearer and when we were within earshot, he began screaming at us in his native tongue. Al'a's healthy brown complexion paled and he reversed the car quickly and turned us around, taking us back the way we'd come, having to traverse up and around mountainside to circle back to the bus stop.

"If you tourists had not been in my car," said he, "the soldier would have killed me. He screamed at me, 'why are you so stupid? Can't you see the way is closed?' These soldiers are crazy!"

One of our group asked, "Why would our being with you make such a difference?"

"Because you are Westerners. No one wants this. Our situation is bad enough already. If you were to be harmed, it would be very bad for the news, very bad for Israel."

When we arrived at the bus stop, there was no bus to be seen, but large groups of angry people were beginning to form, and soldiers and police had taken up positions opposite them.

Instead of waiting for the bus, Al'a turned the car around and drove us up the street, stopping in front of a pastry shoppe. "This is a very famous palestinian sweet shop. During busy times of year, people line up out of the door for these things. It is very good!" Several shopkeepers ushered us in and seated us, and Al'a ordered us each several things, honey-drenched flaky pastries filled with nuts and cheeses. One dish, Knaffa was the house special.

As I looked anxiously at the door, Al'a said, “Don't worry. If there is problem, I will take you home. My wife will feed you more sweet.”

We ate until we could eat nothing else, and then Al'a received the "all clear" from a boy who had been standing outside, watching for the bus.

We said our goodbyes in a hurry and boarded the bus. As we drove away through the city streets, we could better see the extent of the gathering crowds and soldiers. We left Bethlehem unscathed, we were very lucky, very blessed to have found the driver we did. I will always remember the kind heart and the goodness of Al'a.

Sunday, January 20, 2013

On Choosing the Right Taxi Driver, Part 1

Bethlehem is not a place I'd planned on visiting while in Israel. Why not, you ask? After all, it was the birthplace of Christ, and it is only a few short miles from Jerusalem.

Well, there's this wall. Build to separate Israeli and Palestinian territories. It starts just outside of Jerusalem and goes for miles. It's tall. Really tall. And sure, you can cross into Palestinian territory and go into Jerusalem, but in times of war, and there was a war going on in November during my trip! (If you recall, Israel was firing rockets daily into Gaza, and Hamas fired back into Israeli territory, including firing a rocket at Jerusalem!) In times like those, you literally take your life into your own hands crossing that border. It's dangerous, crossing into the West Bank or Gaza.

So off we went, from Old Jerusalem, after receiving strict instructions from the lovely Israeli woman at the front desk:

"You walk to Damascus gate. Turn left. There is the bus depot. Take bus 21 to Bethlehem. It will cost 7,30 Shekels. Turn right after you get off the bus and walk 20 minutes to the manger church. Try not to act like Americans."

Right.

And so it came to pass that two of us were dubbed Swedish, the other French or Irish, for the purpose of our trip to Bethlehem. (The middle east seems to bring out my Swedish doppelganger quite often, no, ya?)

We managed to make it through all of the steps but the last, being immediately accosted by a very, ridiculously aggressive taxi driver even before exiting the bus. Into the bus popped the shrewd face, "YouwanttoseeManger? MilkChurch (MILK CHURCH?)?Holy sites? I takeyoo, 120 shekels each! Herod's palace extra!"

No thank you, came our firm reply, and we walked away down the street, to the left.
And the crazy cabbie followed us, dropping his price to 100, 90, 80, all the way to 40 shekels. But we just didn't like the pushy, mean man.

"La! La! Shookrun. NO, thank you. We will walk." I replied, walking away in the wrong direction. A few steps later it dawned on me that we were, indeed walking the wrong direction and that I had no clue where to go.

A much kinder voice rescued us. "Hello, you are going the wrong way."

Yes, it WAS that obvious.

I stopped to listen to the man's instructions and offer to take us to the Church of the Nativity for only 20 shekels, total. Much better. I looked to confirm with the girls, who consented, and away we went, driving up a MASSIVE hill, through a windy-roaded city that would have taken MUCH longer than 20 minutes to walk through. The man was very congenial, but very real with us. "My name is Al'a. No, I am not god." He joked, his name undoubtedly the butt of many quips throughout his life. "I will take you to the church. But there are also other holy sites to visit..." Including one site that we'd known nothing about, but when he showed us the photos of the site all three of us were smitten: Herod's palace fortress. So we arranged to have him take us around, far and near, to four or five sites including the palace fortress, for 50 shekels, about 13$, which isn't very much for a private guided tour for the day. It wasn't about the money, it was about finding a driver we trusted to be a decent escort for a day in Israel's West Bank.

And you can't get much better than ~~Allah~~ Al'a, right?

Wah-wah.

Truthfully, it was the best decision we could have made because things were about to go become explosive, literally...

(For Part 2, CLICK HERE)

Manger scene @ Shepherd's Field

Shepherd's Field Church

Church of the Nativity

Byzantine mosaic detail

Check out the staining on the columns from centuries of incense burning!

The back way into the Nativity Room. Al'a gave us a great tip: Go into the church, then go to the left. Don't follow the crowds to the right, they take all day. Go to the left and you'll be let into the Nativity room almost immediately. (Warning, this place can be CRAZY crowded, and the tour guides are insanely pushy.)

Inside the Nativity Room.

In the main chapel in the Church of the Nativity. Under the big altar is another room, (I keep calling it the Nativity Room) wherein lies the spot Christ was supposedly born, marked with a large silver star inlaid into the ground:

(For Part 2, CLICK HERE)

Wednesday, January 16, 2013

Small Changes

When I was a kid, perhaps ten years old, I caught a glimpse of myself in passing, and in that moment I saw myself with long, wavy hair. It was a vision. A glimpse of the future. Perhaps it was simply my eyes playing tricks on me. Maybe not.

I'd always been a girl with short-ish hair. I determined in that moment that one day I'd grow my hair out to be like that, long and flowing and wavy.

Well, the wavy part never really happened. I wasn't blessed with curl. But at the age of twenty-seven, I determined that I would finally do it. I'd grow my hair out. That was five years ago. For five years I've kept up those tresses, believing in that glimpse from childhood, secretly fulfilling that longing for a one-beauty, like Jo from Little Women.

This weekend, I walked into my stylist's salon with every intention of simply trimming the ends of my hair and walked out with short hair. It was surprising, how little time it took to chop off five-years worth of work. And liberating in the respect that what is left is much healthier, and more vibrant than it had been. That one-beauty hadn't lived up to my expectations for a while, and yet I clung to that long hair for months longer than I should have. It was security. It was inertia. But it was holding me back from the vision I have of myself for the future. You see, the me I envision for the future is a traveler. She lives out of a backpack and goes where the wind takes her. And she doesn't care to spend an hour, or even thirty minutes each day tending to things like the fixing of crazy-long hair because she'd rather be photographing Angkor Wat. Or kayaking over a sunken city in southern Turkey. Or riding an Elephant in India. You get the gist. I'm not advocating going granola, growing dreadlocks and giving up showering. Just re prioritizing.

I think I have some more "hair cutting" to do in my life. It's time to get to work, downsize and sell my stuff in preparation for my move, actually finish my online course...

The haircut was never intended to be a life lesson. It was never meant to be more than doing a mundane thing to keep my hair healthy. And in the end, that's exactly what it was, but it was also much more. While it's fun to fulfill our childhood dreams, we must also make room for the dreams we dream in adulthood. Make them happen.

*On another note, also on the same subject of change, I've pushed back my tentative departure date for my move cross-continents to September. April was always tentative and now that it's January, I've a few things to take care of that will take a bit longer than three months. Also, I'm constantly revising my tentative itinerary. Exciting things are in store, my friends.

Monday, January 14, 2013

Acting Our Age

"Do you want to come over after your kids are asleep and get caught up on Downton Abbey?" I asked my sister. It was 7:30pm on Friday.

"YES!" came the exuberant reply.

At 9pm we began our marathon of Downton Abbey, season two, complete with sparkling water and a massive slice of yummy chocolate cake from the Cheesecake Factory. (If you like amazing, rich chocolate cake, try their Chocolate Tower Truffle Cake!)

It was going to be grand! It was going to be like when we were teenagers and we'd sneak the tiny tv/vcr my parents bought for road trips down to my room and watch the five-hour BBC version of Pride and Prejudice until the wee hours of the morning and then get up and have an adventurous weekend. Glorious!

Five and a half hours and two aching bellies later, we'd made it through episode 7, and the cake, with only the Christmas episode left to watch. 2:30 AM, and we were both straining to stay awake.

"I can't do it. I'm out," was the communal consensus and I staggered to my bed and she to her car.

It's Monday now and we both have yet to recover, she because she has kids that wake up at 7am no matter when she went to bed, and I because I had appointments and commitments that prevented me sleeping in, or napping the entire weekend.

And all of you twenty-somethings, enjoy the boundless energy while you can, because it goes.

I have a theory. I have a theory that we're born with a certain supply of energy. And as a child, not knowing any better, being so full of that energy and rearing-to-go, we use it as though it will never wane. This energy inhibition lasts through your twenties, after which, you slow down and you just keep getting slower and slower. That's my theory. It's not scientific. But I'm not a scientist, so what did you expect?

The sis and I laughed and laughed when we read this meme this weekend, because it's just oh-so-fitting. Except for the being nearly 40 part. That's a decade premature.

All late-night activities may now be postponed until sister can once again sleep in. It's gonna be a while.

Wednesday, January 9, 2013

32 and Counting...

I've written before about how I grew up thinking that when I turned 32 it was going to be the *BEST*YEAR*EVER.*
I'm not sure why I always thought this. But I did.
And now I'm 32. I have been for more than six months. And these past six months have been no picnic. Not even close. Sure, life has it's ups and downs. They're to be expected. But this year has sure been loaded with downers and hard times!
First, the 'sis had her twins three months early. They were in the NICU for three months and are doing splendidly now, but those three months were CRAZY. Like insane. Like every extra minute spent either driving the 20 miles to the hospital to see the twins, or driving out to watch my two-year-old nephew so that my sister or her husband could be with the babies. Once the two darlings came home, there was a bit less driving, but oh-so-much insanity. The sister has three kids at home under the age of three! Can you even comprehend how many diapers that is every day? Zoinks!
There were several months of feeling poorly and suffering through sinus infection after sinus infection and fevers of 103F, culminating in the re-doing of a root canal which hadn't been done properly in the first place.
There was job instability and loss in the family.
An extended family member had a heart attack (a very young family member! like 34 years old!)
Just before the twins came home, my sister and her little family moved to a new home.
Anyhoo, once we all made it through that, my Uncle died.
Then just before Christmas my Dad was hospitalized and had to have surgery for a massive infection. (His health has been horrid the past couple of years. Strokes, etc.) He had a stint put in and that resulted in a second surgery on New Years' eve. The results of which were abnormal and he had to be hospitalized overnight, but no one would say what the abnormality was. Until today.
Today I found out that my Dad has cancer.

32 and I are not on good terms.

But just to prove that amidst all of the heartrending things, there are happinesses, this little love note was left on my desk the other night by nephewQ, which is all kinds of adorable (He's only two, you know. And brilliant.):

It's the little things that really get us, don't you think?

Monday, January 7, 2013

Bethlehem: Herodion

"I won't advocate going, but I will go with you if you're determined to do it."

That's what I said to my travel companions who had decided they wanted to venture across the checkpoint into the West Bank to go to Bethlehem.

The "War" had been raging between Hamas and Israel for nearly two weeks. We'd been in Jerusalem three days and were ready to venture beyond the confines of the city and explore a bit more of Israel. Bethlehem is only an hour's bus ride from the city and seemed a good first expedition. Except for the fact of it's location being firmly inside of the West Bank.

The nuns working at the front desk of our convent/guest house shared my hesitation for going to the West Bank, but told us that other guests had been to Bethlehem in the past few days with no problems. We left my cellular number and travel plans at the front desk just in case anything should happen and walked out of Damascus gate for the bus depot.

Soon enough the bus rolled on through the stony hills and pulled up to a curb along side a bland, non-descript street and everyone got off the bus. There was no sign, nothing to tell us where we were, so we sat on the bus a few minutes, looking around in confusion, until a pushy taxi driver popped his head into the bus and declared "This is Bethlehem. You are coming off the bus now." And we knew we were in for a bit of a battle against pushy taxi drivers, then. And that is not uncommon in the Middle East.

Suffice it to say that we offended a few of the nastier taxi drivers in the process (offense is average as well, too), but we finally ended up with a driver who didn't make us want to punch him and gave us a decent price.

Away we shot, our first stop taking us a ways outside the biblical city to a place I'd never heard of before, but holds significant historical importance (if not biblical), Herod's Palace Fortress.

King Herod was a very industrious man. He built palaces all over the region. Herodian, near Bethlehem is quite a sight. Perched high atop a hill in the middle of a valley, it has an amazing view of the region. As we exited the taxi at the site's parking lot, the call to prayer rang out, echoing through the valley from minarets all around, filling the region with waves of sound and life.

A short hike up a steep hill later and we were surrounded by Roman ruins and a part of Herod's legacy.

About Herodion:
Herodium, located south of Jerusalem and east of Bethlehem, on the edge of the Judean Desert, is one of the most fascinating antiquities sites in the country, it was built by King Herod the Great between 23 and 15 BCE, as a combined palace and powerful fortress. The complex was surrounded by a double wall 63 meters in diameter and seven stories high, within which Herod built a palace that included halls, courtyards and opulent bathhouses.

Earth was heaped up around the walls, which created a cone-shaped artificial mountain. At its foot, Herod built a kind of royal ‘country club,’ including a large pool, a bathhouse and a roofed pool.

Despite its desert location, the complex was surrounded by magnificent gardens irrigated by the pool. A special aqueduct from the area of Solomon’s Pools near Bethlehem brought water to the palace.

The importance of Herodium to the king is clear from the fact that it is the only place he constructed to which he gave his name. The discovery of Herod’s magnificent tomb there after long years of searching strengthens the understanding that the Judean “builder-king” had a special attachment to this site. Its special charm is also revealed in the breathtaking view from the top, which takes in Jerusalem, Bethlehem and the unspoiled Judean Desert.

During the Great Revolt of the Jews against the Romans the rebels had a base at Herodium, constructing a synagogue there that can still be seen. During the Bar Kokhba Revolt, Jewish fighters hewed tunnels within the artificial mountain, part of which are lit and accessible to visitors.

(Information from the website listed below)

Entrance Fee: 22 NIS (About $7.50 US)
Getting there: Take a cab from Bethlehem.
Plan on: An hour on site, at most.
Fun: There is a tunnel that runs from the base of the hill all the way to the top. Part of the tunnel is open to the public. Our taxi driver said it was possible to hike all the way to the bottom, but we didn't.

Website: http://www.parks.org.il/parks/ParksAndReserves/gerodium/Pages/default.aspx

Friday, January 4, 2013

Jerusalem: There are Rules!

What (almost) no one tells westerners before they go to the Middle East is that there are rules. There are regulations. There are ways of being that differ from Western Civilization. No one says much about them because they are confusing. And some of them are always changing.
Here are the rules I've gleaned from my travels in the Middle East:

1. The call to prayer happens five times a day, starting at 4:30 AM, ending at Sunset. Get used to it. If you're a light sleeper, take earplugs.

2. You will not find pork or pork products in the Middle East. Consumption of pork goes against both Muslim and Jewish law. Unless you want to be glared at, don't ask for a bar-be-que sandwich for lunch. Don't ask for sausage/bacon for breakfast.

3. In predominantly Muslim areas you will most likely not find alcoholic products.

4. If you're a woman, carry a headscarf with you. Don't even bother packing sleeveless shirts or shorts that don't reach your knees. Be modest, or be not welcomed into churches and holy sites AND be treated like a hooker by the men on the streets.
Gentlemen: Wear pants. Full-length. If you wear shorts, you may find yourself in a situation much like a fellow in line behind us for entering the Temple Mount. We waited on line. Passed security, proceeded up the ramp and at the TOP of the ramp, at the gate, the security guards denied this fellow entrance because he was wearing shorts. "No short pants allowed!"

5. There is no set best route around Old Jerusalem to get to holy sites/and hours of opening. There are no set rules for getting in, either. While I was there the rules concerning Muslim men were changed and then changed again, ending on: Muslim men over the age of 40 are the only people allowed on Temple Mount on Fridays for prayers. But we saw some younger men exiting, too? So, I have no clue. (The rules are always changing in order to protect the sites. There have been many attempts to destroy Al Aqsa and the Dome of the Rock by various extremist organizations and individuals.)

6. Don't be in the streets in the Muslim quarter after prayer time ends on the Temple Mount. You will be trampled.

7. On Fridays, go to the Jewish quarter and get a loaf (or seven) of fresh, steaming hot Challah bread. YUM!

8. No price is fixed in the Muslim quarter. But don't even think about trying to haggle in the Jewish quarter.

9. The people in the Muslim quarter are among the friendliest I've ever met. If you even look like you might be lost, it won't take 30 seconds before someone asks "Where are you going?" and they'll happily give you directions.

10. Don't ask a devout Jew for directions to anywhere in the Muslim Quarter. They don't know. Or they pretend not to know. I don't know which.
(We asked a Jewish kid for the fastest directions back to Damascus gate, in the Muslim quarter.
"Damascus Gate? You mean Jaffa gate?"
"No, Damascus Gate."
"I do not know Damacus Gate."
(Say Whaaaa? Old Jerusalem is like, tiny! This is comparable to living in a town of 100 people and not knowing where the only restaurant in town is.)

11. The Old City pretty much shuts down Sunset on Friday through Saturday afternoon for Shabbat. Bring a book.

12. Be flexible as a traveler. Give yourself ample time to do things. You will get lost. You will be confused. But if you go with a good attitude and are open to deviations, you'll have an amazing time.

13. Ladies: In churches, while sitting, don't cross your legs, cross your ankles. I'm not sure why. It is what it is. When we asked a woman caretaker of one church in the Armenian quarter why this was, she said "We must give praise to Him." ? Again, it is what it is.

What should travelers know about visiting YOUR city?

Wednesday, January 2, 2013

Exploring San Francisco: The Golden Lady

Happy New Year!

And now that's done, back to blogging:

One time when I was a teenager my Mom made me join the Girl Scouts because the lady up the street was the Den Mother, or whatever they're called.

Holy terrible idea, batman! I hated it. The snotty girls in the group hated me. It was a mutual hate-fest. BUT, we did a couple of things that were good life experiences, and then I never went back to Girl Scouts again. Oh, and I sold A LOT of cookies because I was that kid whose Dad took her sell-sheet to his chiropractic office and all of his patients bought cookies. Yup.

But I digress...

Thing one that I remember doing with that crazy group of scouterly girls: Filming a fake news spot at a local news station. I wanted to be the camera-woman, but I didn't know the lingo, so I thought the cameraperson was called the Anchor-person. Uh, yah. So I was stuck doing what I REALLY didn't want to do - being ON camera instead of BEHIND the camera. Yuck. I learned that I did NOT want to be a news anchor that day. Amen.

Thing two I remember: walking across the Golden Gate Bridge. It was probably for some kind of fundraising thing, but the point is, that was my first up-close and personal experience with the Golden Lady! And let me tell ya, that is one long bridge! Or at least my thirteen-year-old self thought so when I was walking across it and then back again.

Nowaday, as a bay area local once again, The GG is something I don't cross unless I have to, for three reasons: Traffic. Toll & Tourists.

But I do admire her from a distance, from Crissy Field or emerging from the Caldecot Tunnel on the Berkeley side, or from the deck of a sailboat on the bay or from Alcatraz. GG is a San Francisco fixture, an icon, a warm-fuzzy on a foggy day.

Sunset over GG. Shot taken from Alcatraz island.

The Facts on the Grand Ol' Gal:

-Named for the Golden Gate Strait, which the bridge spans, or "Chrysoplae"as Captain John C Fremont christened it in 1846. The Strait reminded him of the Golden Horn Harbor in Istanbul, Chrysoceras.

-It took four years to build the bridge, which opened in 1937.

-19 men fell into a safety net that was suspended under the floor of the bridge during construction. Those 19 men unwittingly joined a club called the "Halfway-to-Hell Club."

-There are 600,000 rivets in each tower.

-GG is the 9th longest suspension bridge in the world

-Contrary to popular belief, GG is NOT painted every year. It's orange lacquer is, however, continuously "touched-up."

-Sadly, GG is the #1 place for Suicide in the world! The count was over 1200 by 2006. In 2008, voters approved a measure to install safety netting under the bridge, but it has yet to be completed for lack of funding ($40-50M)

-The bridge has been crossed by nearly 2 billion cars to date.

-The Bridge was not originally intended to be orange, but silver. The orange color was originally the primer for the bridge. Once the primer was finished, the architect liked the way the color complemented the hills so much that he convinced locals to keep it. The color not only complements the surrounding hills, but it also aids with visibility on foggy days, which are very common in the Bay Area.

Facts gleaned from: http://goldengatebridge.org/research/facts.php

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