New Years 2008 - The Flipside of the Philandering Coin

After such an arduously long, and admittedly heavier Part 1 of Tanzania, I've decided to reward you all with a quick tale. This is my story of New Years Eve, 2008.

I had met Sophie in Lviv during a typically wild, well-imbibed weekend. She was visiting along with her boyfriend, a short, likable chain smoker from Vienna, as she was. Rolph didn't speak much English, while Sophie's English was near-perfect. It was adorably tinted with the accent and occasional subject-verb disagreements that are common to western Europeans who are erstwhile trying to expand their vocabulary through the repeated use of words they have read in their extensive English book collection. "Rolph does have a very profound passion to smoke the cigarettes." Who can't love that?

Sophie's humor was uncanny. I am not particularly sure if she intended as many jokes as I and everyone else found, but should that even matter? Funny is funny. People like funny. After several days of the three of us and ol' Ed Burns hanging out, I began to develop a real attraction to Sophie. Ed creepily confirmed her status as attractive in such a way that only Ed Burns can: "She's plenty a good place to pahhk yaw sausage wagon, Brian." Ed often punctuated his sentences with a person's name for emphasis. He also told her he'd lick her feet. I'm not sure what kind of punctuation that needs.

One evening after many shots of vodka and Rolph in bed nursing an oncoming illness, Sophie tells me about her rocky relationship with Rolph. About how he's quite jealous and how she feels "unable to sustain the facade of this caring nature" any longer. She said more stuff too, but once I processed those words, my brain switched from interested conversationalist to conniving homewrecker, and I stopped listening entirely.

There was much dancing and flirting. Sophie was an extraordinarily poor dancer -- picture a drunk autistic child with anger management issues controlling a marionette -- she is that marionette. Amid the flailing and gyrating that could only be meant to interpret the soundtrack of a violent rape was the spliced-in time-warp scenes of me circling the club in search of other (more immediately unattached) women of casual morality. I found none, but at some point Sophie went back to her hostel bedroom and I was left with Ed Burns as we took yet another taxi through the McDonald's drive thru lane, only to chastise one another the following day. This was a common pattern, insofar as Ed and I shared a love for late night food and the inevitable remorse that comes with it.

At some point over the next several days, Sophie leaves, while leaving me with her email address. What this served to accomplish is to kick off perhaps the longest email flirtation in the history of email flirtations. Most people (sensibly) don't even bother engaging in such things. I, on the other hand, view written dialogue, be it text, email or Facebook as an integral part of the wooing process. It's nearly foreplay, really. The difference being that the duration as measured in quantity of words is inversely proportional to the number of minutes needed to complete the coitus thereafter. Which is nice. Especially since it don't cost nothin'.

Not surprisingly, this method works in reverse as well. It serves as an incubator for the inexorable sexual tension of a third date. At least for me. Then again all my third dates have inexorable sexual tension as my strength to keep from staring at boobs finally wanes. That's a lot of time spent pretending to be interested in things other than boobs.

Sophie and I trade 35 emails over the course of the next 4-5 months. They are of varying lengths, though tending more toward the full page length, each requiring an immense amount of effort and thought. Several are quite a bit longer. Her written English, for a girl of 20 for whom this is a second language, is far better than just about anyone I know, and that includes myself. Many times I found myself looking up words like "metagenesis" (My family has a metagenetic history; I do not believe my mother to have ever had sex) and "contrapuntal" (Rolph and I were merely contrapuntal). I mean, what the fuck? Shouldn't her default be words like "stuff" and "shit?" That stuff is the easiest shit to say.

I agree to fly Sophie from Vienna to Tel Aviv so we can hang out in Israel for about 8 days around the New Year. Aggressive? Yes. Then again, my worst New Years Eve ever would prove to be the following year in which the tale of failure included a date with a girl I'd met once before, some recreational drug use and its inevitably painful aftermath, so one might say the payoff for my impulsiveness is your reward.

Sophie arrives and I am actually somewhat uncertain as to where we stand. Are we pen pals? Just pals? Scissor pals? I prefer the latter. The first night we head out in Old Jerusalem and it appears clear my hopes are well received. Although she kisses somewhat like a crazy person, it isn't all bad and is quite enjoyable. In other words, the enthusiasm is appreciated. And let's face it, there's a lot to be enthusiastic about when a worldly stud of my esteem flies you to the most religious clutch of the world for a week of sinful influence. I'm saying you should put out, that's all I'm saying.

The sex is of a frantic nature, much like that of a crazy person. And sad as it is to say, I have some experience in this arena. Alarms are starting to sound that perhaps a theme is taking shape, although the lure of her high-minded philosophical discourse sprinkled in between all the crazy is too much to ignore. I have been weak when faced with the sweet seduction of words ever since a drunken high school party where Shana Bazelmens somehow managed to convince me that love was a worthwhile pursuit at the age of 16, 18 years later, I would know only too well how tangibly possible such ideologies could be. At 16 however, they seemed absurd. Still, Shana Bazelmens remained my dream girl for a short while afterward, and the electricity conducted by her philosophies remained with me each time I would connect with a woman on that level for several years. In cases such as with Sophie, this can affect my judgment considerably.

The following day, we walk through the various quarters of the Old City exploring, among other places, the Armenian History Museum. While upstairs in yet another room full of 18th century things from places in, near, or sounding like Armenia, we slipped behind a hanging carpet where Sophie offered her thanks for the flight ticket from Vienna. Let's just say that it's a good thing we were in the Armenian History Museum. Judging by the low patronage, it seems clear that no one cares much about them.

I was really starting to like Sophie. Public displays of lewdness aside, our connection was real for both of us. She spent much time explaining her thoughts on life, and on herself. Her introspective depth was mature beyond that of anyone I had ever met. She analyzed me and my idiosyncrasies (calling them "idiosyncratic moments") accurately and without judgement. She was utterly perplexed by my desire to see the world -- not that she didn't identify with it, but more by what drove me to be this way when I'd never been on a plane until the age of 23. This degree of intellectuality was beginning to appeal to me more and more. I was actually having thoughts of what the possibilities could be for us to be together in New York. Would she move there? She said she wanted to live there. But, who doesn't? Point is, I was thinking about it. As I zipped up.

New Years Eve comes around. My plan is to hit a proper club in Tel Aviv, but I hear of an underground DJ rave outside of Jerusalem and change course. If there is one thing a traveler will drop everything for, it is anything involving the word "underground." Underground poetry reading? YES. Underground pottery class? Definitely. Underground Thai boxing to the death? Fuck. Yes. DJ rave was happening.

We get rather drunk on vodka (after all, it is over vodka that we met in the first place) in our room amid some more awkward sex (though less awkward than before) and we may have even smoked some hash I had leftover from Turkey. I was probably so high I didn't even notice. Upon our arrival at the converted warehouse where this debacle was about to take place, we notice most of the people streaming inside are of the "dirtier, hippier" persuasion. Personally, I have no problem with this. Sophie does not like hippies. Must be the German in her.

We quickly down two double-vodka / random-mixers and after more discussion of yet more articles of our philosophy, I convince her that we should head away from the bar and into where the real party was happening. I really wanted to dance, jump, lose control, and generally do the things you do at raves. Those things do not usually include solving the issue of why you can't seem to initiate a real relationship with your parents. Time and place, Sophie; time and place. It is party time. And I *really* love to party.

Once we are inside the heaving, undulating throng of exploding appendages, I immediately get the sense that Sophie is extremely uncomfortable. The dancing, I am sure, is part of this. Really, I had never before or since seen a more horrendous dancer. She kept trying to dance on me. Grinding, maybe? I wasn't really sure what it was, but I kept my eye out for any necessary medical equipment nearby should she take it the next 1% and slip into a full-on epileptic fit. With that search concluded with the realization that a bungee cord and a lighter would likely suffice, I really just wanted a bit of time to dance and enjoy my drunkenness and have a good time. Truth is, all of her gyrating was quite cute, really. What wasn't cute however, was what I saw next.

After some time (five, *maybe* seven minutes??) I had lost sight of Sophie. After a bit of casual searching without foregoing my good time, I find her thrashing about on some other guy's groin. I'm actually relieved. Someone else is providing her the attention that to this point in the past seven minutes I had been unwilling to provide. I resume dancing and am actually having a slightly better time knowing that I have some actual time to enjoy what I came to enjoy. After some time, I look back over my shoulder and shake my head twice to clear whatever cobwebs may have created the image in front of me. It is confirmed. She is swallowing some *other* guy's face. I take a moment and consider how she and I must have looked when she had done the same thing to me in prior days, and it is frankly rather appalling.

Almost immediately I regret the entirety of my decision to bring her to Israel for New Years. This is a superiorly gifted intellectual, with the comfortability in her skin of a self-loathing transsexual. This somewhat explained the overexuberance to have sex or make-out with just about anyone. It also explained why eight days is way too many to spend with someone whom you really only know through written words on the internet. When they're not near their computer, they may be neck deep in crazy. That seemed like as good a New Years resolution as any, and so I vowed never to do this again. Until the following year. (Again, a story I will tell soon).

I wait and try to enjoy myself while I stave off the need to urinate. When that urge became unbearable, I tap her on the shoulder and calmly ask her if she'd like another drink, at which point she unhinges herself from the very breed of hippie she hates and follows me towards the bathroom. I don't much feel like talking to her, and I'm quite sure she senses this. I am realizing slowly that I am actually *responsible* for this girl, and her parents would rightfully castrate me had I decided to leave her behind. Which, if not for her age, I would equally be rightful in doing. Quite a pickle.

We go our separate ways at the bathroom, where there are far more men than women in line waiting on either side of a shared sink console. While in line I send out the obligatory "happy new year" text to my friends back in New York punctuated with "you have got to be having more fun than I am," essentially admitting defeat. Once I am done on the men's side of the bathroom, I emerge to find Sophie mauling some *other* sloppy hippie ON THE SINK. What the fuck, really?? I can't leave this girl alone for even FIVE FUCKING MINUTES without her needing to scissor some guy on top of the only dirty sink in a dirty converted warehouse full of the very dirty hippies that she professes to hate? Really? This is my nightmare.

I take her by the hand and lead her out of the rave. This is enough. If it were possible (and economically feasible) I would have put her on the first plane to Vienna that departed Tel Aviv in 2008. Having already sunk enough money into this adventure though, I opted to bring her back to our crappy hotel and tell her in the taxi ride how much this night SUCKED MY ASS.

It didn't matter. She was blathering on about something about being sorry or maybe it was that I should be sorry? She explained "I am sorry. I am not an elegant person." Which was kind of adorable. And then she fell somehow and split her lip open. I think she fell off the bed, but I was so drunk who could tell? Who cares. I wanted this night to end.

The next day, we are sharing a miserable meal as I am trying to explore the psychology of what would ever make her act that way. I am understanding that she is indeed only 20 years old, and lord knows I was probably making out with another guy's girl countless times when I was that age. Ok, maybe I can count them, but maybe it happened more than twice, so I can at least break even? I hope so. She asks me if I still like her, to which I respond, "I like you... I just like you a lot less than I did before yesterday." I could see that statement land with impact. She was hurt now. And we still had three days more to go. She'll need to conjure up all that isn't elegant in her to make them bearable.

We suffer through the next few days and she finally leaves. We may have had sex again, but if we did it certainly wasn't terribly memorable insofar as it was clearly a "throw each other a bone" type deal. Literally, an exchange for the pain and awkwardness we were each forced to endure over that period.

We've stayed in touch, although clearly we both used it as a learning experience that we'd rather not relive. At least I did. I'm not sure I can say the same for her. She sounds just as crazy as she ever was each time I hear from her. And honestly, I kind of like that she stayed true to her crazy roots. See? She really does know who she is. And I like that.

Truth is, I do think about her from time to time and hope she's doing well. Just not better than me.

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Israel - A Lesson in Spontaneous Inefficiency

Let’s see. I was in Israel oh— only about six months ago. I know this because my intention was to get to Jerusalem so that I could observe Christmas there and/or Bethlehem. I may not be religious, but I’m all for tradition. Besides, if it turns out there actually is a god, I’m sure he’ll give me a pass on some things (this blog?) because I made an effort to rub elbows with some of his most faithful on one of his holiest days. Right god? Or is it God? Ooh! A butterfly!! [scampers into dewy meadow].

I cross the border at the Allenby Bridge, and get my passport branded with the Israeli stamp, effectively dismissing entry into any more devout Muslim countries. Not that I was anxious to go back to Syria anyway. From there, I make my way (via four separate busses from Amman, Jordan on the day) to Jerusalem in time for Christmas Eve. I choose not to make the additional trek to Bethlehem for the following reasons: A) after that many busses, I wasn’t about to board a fifth, even if Jesus himself was at the other end making me a schwarma with virgin baby meat B) the “right” way to get to Bethlehem on Christmas Eve is to walk all 17 km, and that was NOT happening under any circumstances, and C) at the end of the day, my hypocrisy can extend only so far. So, let’s just get drunk like it’s any other Christmas, shall we? Good. Proceed.

Dismissing the Bethlehem idea, I join two Israelis from Tel Aviv on a nighttime walking tour of Jerusalem. I suggest we do so with wine/beer, as there’s really no better way to celebrate the lord than to imbibe the very nectar of his divinity. This was our way of honoring him, assuming he did all the things that that silly book says he did. And even if he didn’t, we’d be too drunk to give a shit. Advantage: Jesus.

Interestingly, there is a strong preponderance of atheism in Israel. Though upon further inspection, this can easily be understood. For one thing, religion is omnipresent in Israel. With so many Christians, Muslims, and Jews residing in a place of such significance to each, it’s not difficult for one to find the logical shortcomings in any religion. To say nothing of recognizing the problems religion causes from an origin of conflict perspective.

Let me pause here for a moment and say that ordinarily, I would not inject religion or politics into any entry on this blog, but please understand that it is impossible to ignore such things in Israel (much the same as it’s impossible to ignore politics in Zimbabwe). Plus, it’s my blog, and I’ll write what I damn well please. God stuff is for poopy-brains. There, I said it.

It’s remarkable to see the relationship that America and Israel share. It’s unique in that you have many Jewish Americans on Taglit (or Birthright) trips, sponsored by Americans as a way to introduce Israel and foster its support. Additionally, you have even more Americans on holiday with their church groups, following the Stations of the Cross and praying at the Holy Sepulcher. Finally, the Temple Mount is a place of religious pilgrimage for many Muslims, and so unless you’re a Buddist or a Taoist, you’re bound to come through Jerusalem at some time or another. And if you’re a Scientologist, you’ll pop up in any place a body thetan isn’t, and those places are rare indeed.

If anyone was wondering, here is the religious checklist available in Jerusalem:
- Al Aqsa (or Temple Mount) – the third holiest place on earth in Islam, after Mecca and Medina. In truth, the Temple Mount (as the site at which many of the prophets, including Jesus and Muhammad, met to pray to god) was the direction in which Muslims faced during prayer until Muhammad was ordered to change the direction towards Mecca. I guess this proves that like us, god can be fickle sometimes.
- Wailing Wall – the holiest place on earth for Jews, and this is only because in actuality, the Temple Mount is THE holiest place (though specifically where on the Temple Mount is as yet undetermined). This is because in the Talmud, it is the place from where the world was created (more accurately, the Foundation Stone). Additionally, the bible states that this is where Abraham was asked to sacrifice his son Isaac. But the Wailing Wall is as close as the Jews can get to all of this, insofar as the Muslims control the Temple Mount. This remains a key point of contention in the Palestinian/Israeli conflict, and god invariably rolls his eyes and wishes he had the foresight to have all these significant events happen in different places so everyone could just SHUT THE FUCK UP ABOUT IT already.
- Stations of the Cross – Jesus got hooked up with a cross at some point oh… around 2000 years ago. Stop me if you’ve heard this before. In doing so, he was asked not-so-nicely to carry this massive thing around with him through the slick, cobblestoned streets of Jerusalem. Along the way, he did a number of things (14 to be exact), including falling three times, getting his clothes stripped from his body, and being laid to rest. Forgive me if I’m missing something, but this pretty much sounds like my average Saturday night. Then again, the cross Jesus bore weighed 80 kilos and was spiked to his wrists, whereas mine is 80 proof and has stickers on it. Touché, Jesus. You win this round. I’ll get you yet! Fucker.
- Holy Sepulcher – is the final Station of the Cross, where Jesus was laid to rest. Mercifully. To be honest, his life didn’t sound like it was that much fun to live anyway. Then again, I guess that’s where all that “died for our sins” talk comes from. But you know, I’d quit swearing if it meant saving just one life. Just one. Does that not a messiah make? Methinks so. Goddamn, I’m a fucking great man.
- Mount of Olives – This is the grove of olive trees outside the city walls where Jesus, knowing he would be arrested that night, asked his douchebag friends to stay awake with him. Guess what? They didn’t. They slept like the selfish cunts they are. For the record, if any friend of mine asked me to stay awake with him the night before he was going to get arrested-slash-nailed to a huge wooden cross, I wouldn’t leave home without a wheelbarrow full of Red Bull and rechargeable tasers.
- There are obviously others, but if you want a more complete description of them instead of the snide account I’ll offer you, you’d be better served with a Google search. Clearly, I’m more into entertainment than I am into history lessons. Don’t worry, Jesus understands.

After a night in Jerusalem, I went out to the Dead Sea on Christmas day for some much deserved mud bath love and a much less enjoyable trek up Masada. For what it’s worth, Masada is maybe the most incredible story I’ve ever heard, whether or not it’s all true. Click the link to read a bit of the debate. Needless to say, none of the contrarian argument is offered at the actual site. The Jews say the Zealots committed mass suicide rather than be taken as slaves by the Romans. However, there is at least some evidence that the actual account should probably still be in debate, as it’s possible that the Romans indeed did storm the plateau and kill everybody. Cause that’s what Romans do. Duuuuh!

This brand of reconstructing history is kind of like if suddenly the Christians started erected crosses everywhere saying that Jesus wanted to die, disallowing the Romans any possible feeling of accomplishment in taking him against his will despite all of his followers. Wait. What???? That happened? Hmm… Curious indeed [strokes chin and eats supreme cheese Dorito]. [mmm... supreme].

I can’t remember now if I and this Israeli girl (who was a very eager and knowledgeable tour guide) went to the Dead Sea spa at Ein Gedi before or after Masada, but who cares? The Dead Sea, no matter how many things you read or hear about it, is like another planet. Everyone knows its salinity is the densest of any body of water in the world, and that you float when laying in it. You hear those things, and you see pictures, and it’s like someone else reciting to you their weird dream. Basically, who cares about the guy with the lizard tongue who reminded you of your third grade art teacher?

However, when you lay back into the Dead Sea, you are suspended like an astronaut in a NASA space station. You float like you’re sitting in an armchair. There were other college-age tourists there, stacking large rocks on each other trying to make each other sink, and they were failing. It was awesome.

And that’s something I didn’t see much of in Israel, was failure. Knowing the history of the region, you definitely get the sense that Israelis have a keen sense of perseverance. For one, Tel Aviv looks like a mirage. It’s situated on a beautiful crescent-shaped beach, dotted with kite surfers, slick cafes, and sick clubs. It's only 100 years old, is perhaps the world's foremost destination to view Bauhaus architecture, and has a positive energy that is hard to find elsewhere.

Secondly, Israel has gorgeous people. I guess mandatory military service (three years for men, two for women) has its advantages. Everyone is in great shape, carries massive guns (those currently serving, anyway), and parties like it’s the last night before the next holocaust.

I’ll footnote all this talk of Israelis with the asterisk that I am not speaking about Palestinians. I did meet a couple, but on the day I planned to try to go into the West Bank, stupid George Bush was in Jerusalem and there was no getting in or out of Jerusalem for three days. So, I left Jerusalem for Eilat the morning before he arrived.

For Palestinians however, there is no getting out of the West Bank, virtually ever (which is why it was difficult to meet any). This is because there is a massive fucking WALL surrounding the West Bank. Not quite the image a “security fence” (as detailed in the media) conjures, believe me.

On the flip side, there is still ongoing conflict. Homemade rockets (with virtually no range, but still enough to possibly kill people) are launched over the wall from time to time, and two Israeli soldiers were killed in the West Bank while I was in Jerusalem. All this adds up to one simple fact: it is such an emotionally charged clash of belief systems that it leaves both sides completely out of focus, and therefore it is nearly impossible to engage in an objective conversation about it with anyone. Both sides are simply as right as they are wrong.

Finally (on this political tip), I’m surprised that the extremist Muslims don't aim more of their ire at the Christians. The Christians, for lack of a better term, FUCKED THEM UP during the crusades way worse than the Jews ever have. But let it be said that 99% of all Muslims I met in the Middle East were all for peaceful conflict resolution with the US and Israel in all respects. They too, denounce the practices of the radical few.

Speaking of Christians, I spoke with an Evangelical Christian lady from Texas for what seemed like AAAAGES about evolution. Note to self for next time: fuck that. We sat in front of an internet connection, Googling various studies that would support our theories. The difference being, that the studies I would bring up were conducted by scientists in huge research laboratories full of massive microscopes, and the studies that she would direct me to were conducted by preachers who all studied from the same tiny book in their living rooms, with their undersized televisions hooked into only the lowest form of public access drivel.

She kept bringing up the case of the woodpecker, and how it was the single best example of intelligent design. She said that it was impossible for the beak to evolve because if it didn’t have a beak and smacked it’s brain on the tree, then it would die. I found that to be a compelling argument, insofar as I’m quite sure the same thing would happen to me, if I were dumb enough (ie. drunk enough) to try such a thing. However, she said, if the beak evolved, and it’s brain stopped getting splattered all over the tree’s trunk, then the skull plate in the back of the head would have to evolve too, lest the brains come flying out the back of the head instead of landing all over the tree. This, of course, smacked of a regurgitation of something she'd heard her preacher say at some point, only because it was a reasonable start to an argument she was unfit to carry forth. And I was equally unfit to recognize this fact in advance of getting sucked into this conversational vortex.

Ok, I said. So they evolved at the same time. The beak got progressively stronger, and the skull did as well. Somehow, this concept of two things occurring at once was one that she couldn’t get her mind around. I made a joke to the effect that "See? Two things are happening at the same time right now. I am talking, and yet simultaneously, time is moving backwards, along with our progress." [silence]

Later I had her explain to me that since six different species of giraffe were determined to exist (a scientific study that at that time had recently been released), that god designed the giraffe species, but evolution takes over at the sub-species level.

Oooooohhhh! Why didn’t you SAY so in the FIRST PLACE?!?! All this time I thought god was handling the whole kit and caboodle! How wrong I was! So let me get this straight. He gets man-scientists to determine, man-scientists mind you, hell-bent on disproving his own very existence, the point at which he, as god, does or does not have any control over the design!?! Really?!?! That’s the answer?? All these years, I’ve been such a FOOL!!! What’s next? Are unicorns real? Please say they’re real. For god’s sake, if you can design any species, why wouldn’t you make a horse with wings and a massive horn??? Those things are AWESOME!!!

Then it occurred to me. I am the woodpecker. And the skull plate in the back of my head has not evolved to the point where I can withstand banging it against a substance with the impenetrable density of this woman’s lack of sense. Check please. I'm out.

After some eight days or so spent in Tel Aviv (one of which was spent eating the best pork chop I've ever had during Shabbat), and about ten or eleven in Jerusalem, with at least four trips back and fourth to either one in between, I headed down to Eilat on the Red Sea. After another stop on the Dead Sea, of course. Clearly, I opted to traverse Israel in the least efficient way possible. And I wasn’t done yet.

Eilat is a resort town where Israelis come to escape the party-loving splendor that is Tel Aviv. However, Eilat is pretty much a hole. I mean, it looks nice, if you’re into antiseptic places with no discernable character. Why anyone would ever leave the blissful allure of Tel Aviv for the soulless asspit of Eilat on a vacation is a mystery to me. Then again, I wasn’t there in the summer, so it is possible that at that time it transforms into a place with some spirit, and (hopefully) no conscience. Lord knows Tel Aviv has none.

From Eilat, I hooked up with a group of New Yorkers on their way out to Petra in Jordan. Have you ever looked at a really cool sand castle and thought to yourself, “I want to live in there” and not been on peyote? Me neither. But if I ever accidentally eat a kilo of peyote on a beach during a sand castle contest for giants, then I’ll have to jump out of my Batmobile and shimmy down the Batpole to my Batlair where it’s safe. And when all that’s over with, I’ll compare my psychotic memories with my pictures from Petra and probably still be disappointed by my lack of imagination. Petra is that cool.

On the way to Petra, the NYers invited me to a trance party on the Dead Sea later that night. The Dead Sea is about a 6 hour drive north of Eilat, back in the exact same direction I had finally escaped from. I thought about it for about half a Batsecond and signed up.

The reason I took any time at all to consider this, wasn’t because I was worried about going back up north, far out of my way, or because I didn’t want to go to some inevitably awesome trance party on the Dead Sea. But more because I was asked early in the morning (with the ever-present throbbing hangover), when I’d had literally less than an hour to meet these people. Now, I consider myself a good enough judge of character to know that this was a good group, so I wasn’t even worried that I wouldn’t like them or they wouldn’t like me (how could they possibly not like me??). But the fact was, they had one car, five people, and I wasn’t entirely sure they thought I’d ever say yes.

They were wrong. I decided almost immediately that I’d rather deal with inconveniencing them than miss this. They seemed genuinely surprised when I accepted, but more in a pleasant way than in a “crap. This guy’s coming now?” way. So, good times were ahead.

Until, that is, we hit the Israeli border station outside Eilat coming back from Petra. Neverminding that I had already been in Israel earlier that same day, they spied my Syrian stamp on my passport, and that was it. “Park your ass in a bright, colorless, sterile room for the next three hours before we decide you can come into our country that wouldn’t even be much of a country without your country and it’s Jewish citizens like your obviously Jewish father who gave you that Jewish last name that I can plainly see on your passport. Suck it.”

At least, that's what I thought he said as my brain was approached combustible levels of irritation. Of course in retrospect, I know that my father had nothing to do with the formation or prosperity of Israel. And even less so, have I done anything beyond reinvigorating their tourist economy. So basically, who really cares if I'm made to sit and wait forever just to come in and party on the Dead Sea? Answer: Jesus. He died so I wouldn't have to wait to party. Ever. Praise the Lord!

After nearly three hours of patiently waiting (along with the others, who were so f***ing cool about it that it would have made me cry if I wasn’t ready to snapkick every border guard instead), I get let into the same country I left earlier the same day. Shortly afterwards, the six of us pile into their undersized economy rental car, and burn up to the Dead Sea for this party.

Which never happens. Apparently the Israeli cops broke it up before it got anywhere near underway, and that was that. Instead, we left our kibbutz the next morning and went back to the Ein Gedi spa (my third time). I’ll never get tired of the Dead Sea. Which is a good thing, I think. Because with or without global warming, it’ll be gone in less than 50 years. Duhn duhn duuuuuuhn…..

At some point during the day at the spa, probably around the time the guys and I were assailing each other with mud balls, I mention that we have to party together to make this long, arduous journey pay off. And at that moment, we decided I was going with them to Tel Aviv. That’s right, back to Tel Aviv. Again. Mind you, about 90% of my belongings were still in storage down in Eilat, and I could not have possibly cared any less. The Jewish side of me was clearly at odds with the thrill-seeking party side. Risk losing stuff that costs money? Or live with years of regret about what might have been? Verdict: caution is for sissies. And mud fights? They’re for unabashedly tough, hetero cockslinging stallions… Ok, ok! No more science.

We get to Tel Aviv, where we meet up with a few other people, and have some good times. Nothing overly noteworthy, just real good times. And after a couple days of this, I get the overwhelming urge to move on from Israel. There’s a LOT I still wanted to do there, but I was getting the itch to move on. People ask me how I know it’s time to move on from a place. And the truth is, it’s right around the time I realize that I’ve been wearing the same boxer shorts for four straight days.

From Tel Aviv, I head directly down to Eilat, and get the fuck out of Israel the next day. I loved Israel and can’t wait to go back, but by the time I left, it was clear that if I ever had to set foot on another Israeli bus, I was going to blow myself up. And wouldn’t the cops be surprised when they found out I was the one they knew they shouldn’t have let back in the country with my ominous Syrian passport stamp? Last laugh: Irritated tourist. Zing!!!

If this seems like a long story, it’s because it was. Thus, the feeling like I had to GET OUT of Israel and move on. The map above indicates the circuitous path I took around an otherwise very small country. Somehow though, I managed to spend half my time in transit. That is not the kind of ideology that has made Israel a technological and developmental blueprint for the world to follow. Mine is clearly a path less traveled. At least in that country.

As for more current events, I’m STILL in Cape Town. However, I’m flying back to New York (finally) on a flight leaving next week, arriving early the following morning. So, from then on, I’ll probably keep posting belated stories on here just to catch everyone up properly. In the meantime, you can all look forward to my new blog, to be revealed in the coming weeks. Spoiler alert: You’re gonna hate loving it.

PS – You may have noticed that I changed the name of the blog. I hated the old name, as I never really gave it any thought. This name, I like a bit more. Comments on the new name can be directed straight up your ass. That’s what traveling tight is all about! Boo-yah!

• Create your own travel map or travel blog


• Visit TripAdvisor.com

Over the Top

I found this sticker on the toilet of a men’s stall in a Jerusalem restaurant. I went back to my room and got my camera; that’s how good it was. This sticker invoked the following conclusions:
- Those who wear their hats backwards, have small balls.

- And no arms

- It doesn’t matter how you wear your hat. In Israel, your anal beads go up the shaft of your cock.

- Guys with their hats backwards are too dumb to lift the seat.

- If a toilet bowl is transparent, go ahead and put your cock in there. Your shaft beads will tell you how deep the water is.

- With that many beads up the shaft of your dick, it’s a lot harder to sit and relax with your elbows on your knees, the way most people do it. Look at how tense that guy is!

- I pissed on the wall. I wasn’t wearing a hat.