The sun was shining and I was again in love with riding. About ten kilometers into our ride my heart left my chest. Huge signs declared that there was a check point ahead. The sign was correct for soon we saw gun turrets, barbed wire and armored vehicles on the horizon. The last billboard before the checkpoint declared that \"no individual tourists allowed in the west bank\". I envisioned turning around and going back to Neve Eitan. As we passed into the checkpoint, as if to underscore my every fear, the guards motioned for us to approach them and said, \"Come and talk to us.\"
Immediately I realized it was a different scenario altogether when they pulled out a bottle of coke and a few filthy glasses and offered us some. One had bicycled extensively after his three years of service in the military and truly was interested in our bike trip. He gave us council and advice and demonstrated the \"blow-your-f\*\*\*cking-head-off\" caliber machine gun. We were waved on and soon found ourselves amongst the friendly Palestinians. Children waved and shouted at us. Cyclists raced to catch up with us and ride along with us. It was the first time since the USA that I'd felt that welcome riding anywhere.
It was shocking to find everyone so friendly after we'd been warned about how \"dangerous the Arabs\" are by many Israelis. After a few hours we entered Jericho, the \"oldest continuously inhabited city of the world\" according to the signage. Proud Palestinian soldiers and police stood underneath their flag guarding their border and city. Entering the old town we were accosted by virulent souvenir hawkers who somehow convinced us to buy \"Arafat\" hats at exorbitant prices. Before long we reached the old town and scarfed a few falafels while a little boy donned Andy's helmet and tried to convince us that it was a gift.
One kind young man escorted us to the taxi stand and helped us negotiate a trip to Jerusalem. By cabbing it to Fanatic City we'd avoid riding up a dangerous highway at sunset and ascending over 1000 meters. Our ride took us just short of the city on the hill. The last three kilometers convinced me we'd made the right decision. The drivers were as fanatical as the religious zealots. Tired and ill prepared for finding a hotel we floundered searching for a place to stay. We settled finally at the plush YMCA. Its deco-arabesque halls were our home for the next days.
After checking into the swank YMCA and singing a few choruses of the Village People's famous song (of course while pantomiming the spelling of the acronym) in the lobby we hit the town. Andy remembered a quarter of the new city that housed walk streets, pubs and restaurants so we headed directly there. Unable to find the queer bar he'd remembered from his past visit we stumbled into the hippest bar we could find. Overrun by teenage American bimbos and sultry Israeli teenagers it was just a little too much to handle. We'd actually been lured in by the two-for-one deal they'd advertised, thinking that we would each have a beer and go.
There was only one problem when the bill came. They had charged us for two beers. Andrew's WASPish parsimony alarm went. We argued that we had ordered the two beers during happy hour and expected to pay for one. The barmaid explained that we had missed the fine print and that we were entitled to a second beer each for no extra charge, but would have to pay for two. Indulging our BikeBrats signature \"waste-not-want-not\" sensibility we without hesitation ordered our second beer. Having consumed two beers and ridden in the midday sun we found it easier to head back to our hotel than walk in the old city.
That would have to wait for the next day. We did have one very important stop on the way to the \"Y\". A friendly little all-night-grocery with an astounding selection of Ben and Jerry's ice cream bars. I slept soundly with visions of Cherry Garcia in dark chocolate dancing in my head. A sunny cool and windy day greeted us the next morning. We got an early start and headed for fanatic city. Intending to begin the day with a benign walk on the city walls we were disappointed to find that the attraction was not yet open for the day.
Instead we headed directly for the epicenter of Jewish fanaticism -- the western wall. Entering the site was not unlike getting on an airplane. Metal detectors and x-ray machines were employed to determine if we had any menacing weapons. Once inside we figured that we were nearly the only unarmed folks in the place. Police and soldiers swarmed amongst the faithful and occasionally there was an intersection between the two groups. Several pistol-toting prayers were huddled at the wall. The area in front of the wall is reserved for those engaged in prayer. A section on the right is for girls and the left for boys.
On the men's side a talmudic scholar was studying in the fierce morning sun. As he read an American couple quietly motioned to one another, stood on the barrier and took a video over his shoulder. \"Look Bob, he's actually reading Hebrew,\" she seemed to say. Andy and I decided to go in for a closer look grabbing cardboard kippahs and heading for the wall. Two meters into the area while snapping photos Andrew (strangely not me...) was accosted by a black caped and hatted dude who looked like father time. He asked him in German if he was Jewish. \"No,\"
he replied, \"but he is,\" pointing to me. A minute later tfillim had been \"bound for frontlets between my eyes\" and upon my arm and I was reading the Viahafta with our new rabbi friend. All the while Andy was snapping photos wildy. While I unbound myself and said a mourner's kaddish for my dad Andy was becoming the belle of the ball of the wailing wall. He'd met another rabbi who took him into the room where they store torahs and other books, then showed him he was hiding a tracheotomy tube under his beard and appealed to his charity.
On the way out of the holy site Andy came upon an idea for a photo essay \-- \"Fred's fabulous path through fanatic city.\" He'd capture me engaging in the ritual of the three primary religions in Jerusalem. I wasn't sure what all it would entail, but I agreed and we set out to see more of the city. From the wailing wall we wanted to ascend the city walls and make our way from the Dung Gate to the Damascus Gate atop the fortifications. It turned out that there was no way to mount the walls legitimately near the wailing wall, so we climbed around a barricade and went up anyway.
We figured we'd pay for the attraction when we reached Jaffa Gate. It surprise me that we were in competition with no one as we made our way there. When we arrived at our goal we found that there was no exit, and that this sector of the walls were closed. We faced having to backtrack or find another way down. Craftily we climbed down into the courtyard of a museum without anyone being the wiser. As planned we now bought a ticket and headed for the Moslem quarter. When we reached the Damascus gate we were shocked by the rush of humanity entering the city through the gate.
Many of which were wearing full Moslem regalia including dishrags and robes. Which brings us to an important point. Throughout our trip through Israel to this moment we'd distinguished people as \"pot holders\" (those wearing kippah) and \"non-potholders\". In Old Jerusalem almost every Jew had a pot holder or some type of head covering. In fact, almost everyone of every religious sect or another aside from (and sometimes including tourists) was wearing some form of religious drag. Jews in ridiculous black suits and sidelocks, Moslems in dishrags and robes (or chadors for the females) and Christians in whole ranges of different silly outfits.
The Christians get the prize for the most hilarious ones. Some in sack cloth, nuns in cone-head outfits and Orthodox priests wearing more gold than the Pope decorated the streets of the city. All of this led us to tag Jerusalem the \"fanatic city.\" Over the Arabs flooding the old town Israeli soldiers stood guard with their machine guns. One seemed about to fall asleep as he watched over the faithful coming to pray. This day, Friday, is the most important one for both the Jews and the Arabs. Now the faithful Moslems were on their way to the temple for the all-important midday prayer.
Consequently heathens like us were not allowed to see the mosques so we headed for Via Dolorosa. Nearly our first, and by far the most tumultuous stop was the church that marked (I think) where Jesus began his march to be crucified. In the courtyard an industrious young camera-toting Arab had brought an enormous cross that tourists could sling over their should and pose with for a fee. Andy asked me to grab it and smile for the camera as his owner said in a quiet voice \"don't touch the cross.\" I acted as though I did not hear him and all seemed well until he ran over to us and tried to take our camera.
I snatched the backpack from him and said, mistakenly, \"f\*\*\* you.\" This caused the end of the world in his eyes. He was speechless with anger and shock. We took advantage of his paralysis and ducked into the chapel to figure out a game plan while he mustered his forces outside. I was hoping to find another exit from within the chapel, but was disappointed to discover that the only way out was past our pissed-off friend. Fight and flight both seeming impossible options, I collected my wits and tried to soothe the savage beast. I explained that I didn't hear him warn me about the cross and thought that it belonged to the church.
I was \"sorry that I touched his cross.\" Furthermore, I was enraged that he would try to take something of mine, my camera, and understood and empathized with his anger over the cross. He too should understand and empathize with my anger over the camera. After all, it was just a big misunderstanding and we should just shake hands and go on with our day. I offered my hand, he accepted and I walked out of the church a little shaken and surprised that it was that easy to escape that situation. Our next stop would be the Church of the Holy Sepulcher.
A huge and strange structure that looks as though it was decorated by a schizophrenic. First built by St. Catherine it houses the holiest places of the various sects of the Christian religions. Simultaneously managed by these sects it feels more like a Halloween maze than a church. The holy sites within the church were identified by visions and are not confirmed absolutely in the historical sense. Andy photographed furiously as I ran the gauntlet through the church, kissing, touching and praying at various places in the shrine. At one spot I stepped out of queue to have a look at a fabulous gold encrusted mosaic.
It was in a microscopic chapel within the church that housed and even smaller chapel inside, supposedly marking the exact spot of Christ's tomb. We were just about to enter the smallest chapel. As I was about to rejoin Andy in line a huffy busy-body tour guide accused me of trying to jump the line in front of him. Feeling very holy and mighty from our day's tourism I reminded him that this was a holy site and that he should watch his tone or step outside much to the embarrassment of his German patrons who bid him to shut up.
All of this religious drama exhausted me. I couldn't wait to get the heck out of Old Jerusalem. We made our way back to the hotel for a nap. That night we decided that we needed a stiff dose of Americana and decided to see a movie. Air Force One seemed just the ticket. We took a taxi to the movie finding it in a nasty little shopping mall. The refreshing thing about the experience was that in contrast to the afternoon we didn't see a single pot holder. It was a relief to be away from religious zealotry. We joined the throng of cell phone toting Israelis queuing up for the film.
At first I thought the clerk at the door was asking me for my ticket. I handed it to him gleefully and he said, \"no, I want to know if you are carrying a gun or other weapon.\" I couldn't help but wonder why they restricted them here? Had someone gotten too enthusiastic once and shot up the screen during an action thriller?