Zion, part I

When people hear the word “Zion,” the thought that most likely enters someone’s head is Israel. Or at least something to do with “the holy land” or spirituality, right?

Well, ironically, as I waited to board my flight to Tel Aviv from Frankfurt last week, the word Zion was inextricably and inexplicably linked to a different meaning: Reggae.

Why, you ask? Because as I was leafing through one of the many expensive, ad-heavy magazines at the airport (the only English-language magazines they have there other than Playboy), a Jamaican-accented black dude with long dreads kept disturbing my concentration by asking the German counter lady about putting minutes on his Vodafone cell phone. Of course, the LEFT-RIGHT-LEFT-RIGHT lady knew more about the rules of international cell phone usage more than the guy with the actual phone. Of course. That’s how these ACHTUNG-NEIN people can be sometimes. And, because she knew so much more about this guy’s phone than he did, she refused to sell him a card, claiming that it wouldn’t work on his phone. The nerve of this lady!

Desperate to communicate in this lady’s language and just buy the goddamned $20 card anyway, he walked up to me, a straight-laced Germanic-looking fellow, and introduced himself, claiming he was the drummer in the Marley band.

Just then, another long-haired fellow walked by and said “hurry up, man” to the guy who’d just got my attention. “We gotta plane to catch.” It was Ziggy Marley, himself.

So, impatiently now, the Jamaican asked if I could translate his anxiety to her, saying that he’d buy the card anyway, even if it didn’t work on his phone. He was distressed. Almost panicky. “Of course,” I said. I’d translate.

So I did. But, as culture would have it, Zee Cherman lady won out and refused to sell me the card, as she knew it wouldn’t work on his phone. No matter what I said or how I pleaded for this guy I’d just met but wanted desperately to befriend, the lady was relentlessly stubborn. Ah, that’s the culture here, I said to the percussionist. Just hop on your plane and buy a card in your next destination. Perhaps you’ll have better luck there. Perhaps you’ll chill out and be closer the peace that your band’s forefather sung about. Zion. OK, so at least it made sense to me.

Later, I boarded my Austrian Air flight to Tel Aviv, which had an almost comical layover in Vienna where the pilots circled the airport at least four times, daredeviling turns like Snoopy chasing the Red Baron. On my flight into Israel I sat next to two twentysomething Israeli girls attending English-language veterinarian school in Slovakia who were eager to tell me all about the historic/cultural/hip places I should visit in their homeland while there. It was nice getting the attention of the girls, who were obviously interested in ensuring I made the most of my time in their country, but because I was only going for work and really only giving myself a day of “vacation,” there wasn’t much I could do other than thank them for their guidance and give them my phone number. Ha! Just kidding, Kate.

As I found out from them, Israel has a conscripted military, meaning everyone must serve for at least two years. And, as I found out later by going to several Israeli Army sites where our U.S. Army Corps of Engineers sites are located, this includes every able-bodied 18- to 20-year-old female in Israel. Much like the well-off but derogatorily-termed Jewish American Princesses in the States, Israel has its own version of the nicely-dressed, well coiffed, and attractive JAPs: the girls of the IDF.

Interestingly enough, I saw in the airport that Maxim magazine had a spread in their July 2007 issue about “The Chosen Ones: The Girls of the IDF,” featuring many scantily clad privates (that’s not just a reference to the rank in the military, you know….).

So, as the plane landed at Ben Gurion airport at the heart of Israel, I thanked the ladies for their advice and looked out the window to see my home for the next couple days. The parched scrubby land of Israel….pockmarked by years of qassam missiles crashing in from Gaza and the West Bank. This dry and desolate place was the holy land, I thought? This is Zion?


The first thing I did after getting ripped off by the taxi driver who insisted on haggling for cab fare was exit my hotel room in the posh resort town of Herzliya and head straight for the beach. With my board shorts on and my SPF 30 lathered in unquestionable asymmetrical dollops all over my face, I made the 30 meter trek over perhaps the softest sand I’ve ever walked on to the where the ocean meets the land and placed my bag down. I was ready for swimming.

Most likely I was perceptibly uneasy after my run-in with floating poop in the Black Sea. But while the vast majority of beachgoers were sunning themselves in the 5 p.m. sun setting majestically over the Eastern Mediterranean, there were thankfully still a few surfers in the tepid water. This eased my nerves and allowed me to stay in for a full twenty minutes or so, riding the gentle waves in and just taking in the beauty of the scenery. Perfectly velvety sand. A perfect water temperature. Perfect waves. People seemed to be staring at me enjoying myself so much. Of the 500 people on that part of the beach that afternoon, I was one of only four or five people in the water, the rest of whom were surfers. What was wrong with these people, I thought. The water’s perfect….. Ah, well. More for me.

Satisfied after a relaxing meditation of sand and surf, I found myself 30 minutes later walking along the “boardwalk” of the Tel Aviv suburb to a nearby mall. Apparently the “hip” thing to do in Israel is go shopping in these malls, which mind-numbingly resemble in size and scope a typical mall in the States. The interest to Israelis is that they don’t have malls in Europe or the Middle East. Only in Israel. So why not enjoy, right?

On my way there I noticed this sign, which almost blew my mind. It was like the god of poop was ridiculing me for snickering at his work all these years. It was the second dose of dookie-contaminated water (in two completely separate bodies of water) in two weeks. That’s why there weren’t many people in the water. What are the odds?

Traumatized, I dropped my camera right next to this sign, which most likely says “Don’t drop your camera here, stupid.” (Big points for anyone who can read this sign!)

I was trying to take this picture, which didn’t even turn out very well. It’s just that the buds smelled absolutely delicious I had to get a shot of me sniffing them.

The mall itself was nothing special…just a typical Spencer’s Goods, Orange Julius, Pacific Sunwear, Claire’s Boutique kind of place…but all in Hebrew. Here’s me apparently striking some sort of military pose near an escalator. Perhaps I wanted to connect to the hot IDF girls I’d seen in Maxim magazine. Or perhaps I’m just a naturally bouncy guy. Later that afternoon, as the sun was setting behind the foamy and fecal Mediterranean, I went for a long run up the coast, toward the ancient city of Apollonia. About 100 feet straight down the cliff from these ruins lying scattered in the coastal waters were the shambled remains of columns, ramparts, and parapets. Smoothed out by about 800 years of waves, these ancient earthenworks still resembled the battlements they once were. Although it was sad that these archaic fortifications were being clobbered by a ceaseless ocean tide, it was beautiful to walk among them. Most of the columns, brick foundations, and earthen walls were over my head and had fallen in an almost perfect slalom, which made walking through them an absolute joy. I sat on top of one of them for a couple minutes, contemplating how lucky I was to be here and how perfect this moment seemed. Other than the contaminated water, what a great trip this was already turning out to be.

As the sun was setting, I quickly ended my meditation and ran back along the beach toward my hotel. Every once in a while the steep cliffs would part and a narrow rift would open up between the sheer walls, making what appeared to be a well-worn path into and up the rock face. “I wonder what’s in there,” I thought to myself. So, wasting no time as daylight was dear, I jogged in. Within four seconds I stopped dead in my tracks. Around the first corner was a man wanking his jollies into another man’s mouth. OK, I thought. Stay on the main roads.....

Scared that they’d seen me and that they’d follow me for telling the world about their “secret” spot, I turned around and ran faster than I’d ever run before, determined to get back to the hotel in record time. I ran so fast I barely made note of the fact that I’d almost died when I breathed in a small bug through one nostril and forced it out through the other. On any other day, I’d sing about this feat for hours. But after seeing what I saw, I couldn’t appreciate even the amusing tale of bugs traveling through my skull. Ziggy Marley, poopy water, gay love…. It had been a long day and I was ready for bed. Tomorrow would be better, I thought. Tomorrow I’d be in Jerusalem. Tomorrow I’d be in Zion. And apparently looking very much like a girl.