Dubai - A Lesson in Mating Misconduct

Ok, I’ve been getting a lot of heat from people lately, and deservedly so. I have a good five months yet to write on the trip I completed over a year ago. Those of you who know me well know that I’ve been busy with stand up lately, but that’s really no excuse to let the prose slip by. So… here’s my olive branch. Dubai. I apologize for its length, as it should really be three separate stories. But if you stick with it, I think the third act will pay some pleasant dividends. Enjoy:

My exit strategy from the bowels of Earth known as Cairo was to grab the cheapest flight to Dar es Salaam in Tanzania to begin my African chapter. Fortunately, this took me through Dubai, a city whose modernity was starkly evident during my flight's descent. Given the buzz surrounding Dubai, and my anxious anticipation to see it, I can't resist the urge to compare it to Las Vegas.

Though it's quite different indeed. The recipe for Dubai is as follows:

Take one whole Las Vegas. Remove strippers, gambling, fake boobs, overt hedonism. Take the soulless glitz that remains, and spread it out over 400 square miles. Stir in two cups of high-end shopping. Sprinkle in headscarves. Add two heaping quarts of self-entitled ex-pats. Stir vigorously until a culturally substantive void is evident. Bake at 900 degrees Celsius. Sweat perpetually. Consume with copious amounts of alcohol (to taste). When sober, desperately avoid suicide while awaiting departing flight.

Arriving in Dubai, my first impression was of the airport, which is by all accounts a step above all other airports I’ve ever been in. This includes notables such as Schiphol, Heathrow, Charles de Gaulle, and Narita. The shopping is very Fifth Avenue, with the people even more irritating than your average Fifth Avenue Louis handbag street strutter. In other words, pretty douchey. Apparently it is possible to be a douche and wear a headscarf, which I have to admit, took me by surprise. Immediately I was struck with the realization that the Middle East, although I was still in it, had become a much different place. Like comparing New York and Lincoln, Nebraska I suppose. Aleppo, Syria this was not. Thank fucking Allah. That place was a glory hole in the Shroud of Turin as far as I was concerned.

I wonder…. If the Shroud depicts the image of a crucified man (believed by many to be Jesus, though there’s clearly no real way of knowing), where would the glory hole be? Remember, there are more logical hole positions in Jesus than in the average human.

Enough. Even I’m disturbed that that imagery.

My first night in town I went to a nearby hotel bar known for it's weekday party scene, where I met a couple of Pakistani guys, Farhan and Nike. Nike is a stylish hairdresser type, and lord knows Pakistanis have plenty of hair. He should have been rich. He wasn't. Though he was quiet, polite, and under control. On the other hand, Farhan is a near complete disaster. The depth of his mania would prove to be staggering on a level I'd only before seen outside my neighborhood methadone clinic. Or maybe it was inside. I was so fucked up on heroin, it was hard to tell.

Farhan tells me he’s the son of a Pakistani prince, and that he ran away from Islamabad when his girlfriend broke up with him. It is at this point, after about 30 minutes of exchanged pleasantries, that he shows me the accordion of scars up and down his arms depicting his many failed attempts to gain the favor of 77 virgins. Not being one to judge, I laugh it off with a remark about how everyone knows that cutting your arms vertically is the only real way to impress a virgin. He seemed to like that.

Next he bought me a shot of Patron, while launching into a lengthy diatribe about how he plays drums in a band back home, and how he'll have to take me to see some of the good bands in town. Being an avid live music fan, I accept the shot, accept the invitation, and likewise, accept the sneaking suspicion that I may have quickly become Farhan's best friend in all of Dubai. Apparently my intense friendship with Braun in Sharm el Sheikh was not lesson enough. I was suddenly in a committed relationship. More importantly, Farhan and Nike each confess to me their undying affection for white women, and I soon realize my role has become that of a conduit between these two and the western women they covet. Farhan is buying my drinks, and with a willing benefactor, I’m all for getting these guys some fair-skinned floozies.

Unfortunately, Farhan is completely useless in this arena. His mode of operation, however formulaic and perpetually unsuccessful, is the following:

-Buy as many of the most expensive drinks available as it takes for a girl's eyes to glaze over and her mouth to fall open
-Pontificate ad nauseam about his drum playing skills while emphatically air-drumming to punctuate his awesomeness
-Show off his arm scars depicting failed attempts at attention-- I mean suicide.
-Gyrate awkwardly with his massive purple lips bouncing in unison with the baseline

As such, the first night ends rather uneventfully; with some unnerving conversations with ex-pats and about 14 rounds of shots, many with Red Bull as a key component. Because what says “forcing a good time” like Red Bull and a massive bar tab?

The next night was my most pivotal night in Dubai. This was one of life’s examples of how a seemingly insignificant action can result in a complete course redirection. While at Budda Bar with Farhan, a tall, striking white woman seemed transfixed on my sexy splendor. Or maybe it was my bleary eyed gaze back towards her and her concern that I was somehow plotting her imminent demise. Frankly, it was probably more the latter.

After about 20 minutes and another four shots of Patron, the situation was clearly turning uncomfortable. For me. Farhan was telling me for the ninety millionth time about how he misses "his girl" back in Pakistan. Given his blubbering, I no longer needed to imagine what would make a woman, even one of meager Pakistani means, to leave a man of royalty. He was a royal pussy. Real nice guy, though.

I answer the beckon from the staring woman, who turns out to be from Canada, and who just so happens to be there with her boyfriend. Although, this did not preclude her from flirting relentlessly with both Farhan and I. Frankly, part of me was wondering whether or not this chick was actually a high-priced call girl (of which there are many in Dubai). But to my surprise, she invited Farhan and I out to their condo on the Palm Jumeirah the next night. I'd already heard what a pain in the ass it was to get out on the Palm, so an invitation of this kind was Dubai's equivalent to getting invited into the Playboy Mansion, if the Playboy Mansion didn't come with a dying old man and more STDs than a biopsy of Courtney Love's cervix.

The next day, we are on our way to the Palm, after being passed at three separate security checkpoints. This, I've surmised, is meant more to keep out the toiling laborers who have built Dubai under the guise of day labor, but in reality is more a form of modern day slavery. It's akin to Reno "entertainment professionals" mining and refining the very silicon used in the fake titties hanging off each "entertainment professional" working in the Spearmint Rhino, but when the sun goes down, the Reno "entertainment professionals" are banned from the Spearmint Rhino because they're obviously not worthy. Which I guess is fair. No one likes a whore with black lung. And no, that's not racist. It's sexist.

On the way to the Palm, the city's overexpansion became even more clear. Every single building was capped with a crane, and in a glance you'd see up to 10-15 skyscrapers actively under construction. So much so that across the world, there was a shortage of cranes, because one-third of all the world's cranes were in Dubai. Keep in mind, this is a city in which its sudden boom is directly correlated not only with the discovery of oil, but with it's value spike up until a year ago. Dubai was (over)developed under the assumption that oil futures would average $100/barrel, and ever since that level has proven to be grossly inflated, everyone knows that Dubai has since turned into a bit of a ghost town, or the Williamsburg, Brooklyn waterfront. Take your pick. Either way, Dubai has the feel of a city that's no more than five years old, and one that certainly hasn't matured past its age. It carries a strong whiff of plagiarized Westernism, from the post-modernist architecture to the stuffy air of entitled self-importance. It also boasts western university outposts (RIT, American Univ, Boston Dental, Cass Business School, Manchester Univ), many western restauranteurs have opened outposts there, and even more westerners live there as employees of the financial and service sector, inasmuch as 75% of UAE are not native to the Emirates. It's like Chinatown for white people, without the fish stink.

Once out on the Palm, Farhan and I are led into a gorgeous three story condominium, replete with art-deco furnishings and Indian art that looked far too expensive to be carrying the weight of overturned wine bottles and overstuffed ashtrays. It reminded me of walking into my rich friend's parents' house the morning after a high school kegger. Only better because I was in Dubai and not Kinnelon, NJ. And better still because I've had sex before, and in Kinnelon I couldn't lay claim to claiming a lay at all.

Each frond of the Palm Jumeirah is a manmade beach peninsula, so that every condo on the Palm enjoys beach front property, even if your neighbor is only a 50 meter swim to the next frond. Which makes for a pretty slow getaway for a ding-dong-dash. This is the project completed before the infamous World project (a collection of islands meant to resemble the Earth) got underway. The Emirates, sparing no expense, moved immense amounts of sand to create the Palm and the World. Sadly, I was unable to find any of the peyote the emirates themselves were clearly reliant upon to visualize such insanity.

Because of the world's recent emigration to Dubai, the most common question asked by the ex-pats is "how long have you been here?" To which my answer of "this is my third day" was often met with astonishment. People apparently had been trying to get out and see the Palm for over 6 months (since it's completion at that time), and my supremacy in the field of networking has never before or since been so unquestioned.

Once arrived, the party was rife with people of varying professional services backgrounds, be it advertising, financial, or escort services. To be sure, some women at the party were no doubt experts in the field of arm candy. And everyone at the party were experts in the field of hard partying. My kind of crowd.

Julie, the host who'd invited us, seemed to take a keen interest in Farhan and me. Which, in light of Farhan's penchant for ladies of the Caucasian influence, made his big purple lips pucker eagerly to slobber pretty much anywhere on her body, whether she wanted them there or not. Interestingly, this air of desperation only seemed to endear Farhan to Julie even moreso, and Farhan took the early lead in the Julie sweepstakes, albeit a distant second place to her rich, live-in boyfriend Nisham. Farhan likes 'em white, Julie likes 'em brown... I get it.

The party lasted well into the early morning hours, with wine and weed acting as the predominant currency. Being a poor leader and a fabulous follower, I spent a great deal of time drinking and smoking out in the backyard on the beach with Paul, Julie's neighbor from Essex who'd moved next door two months earlier. He had recently gotten engaged, and was somewhat reticently anticipating his fiancee's arrival to live with him the following week. The reason for his petulance was simple: he was having too much fun without her. This would be even further evidenced in the days to come. The word "come" here is intentionally being used duplicitously.

Also at the party was a tall, stunning personal assistant from Montreal named Nicole. Seeing Julie transfixed on Farhan's purple people eaters, I spent a good deal of time at the party drinking champagne and smoking joints with Nicole. She was reciprocating in kind, and Farhan and I could be seen exchanging glances across the crowded living room as if to say "that's my nigga."

Julie's boyfriend was floating around the party flirting heavily with anyone who would give him enough time to fill their wine glass. Something about this couple felt a bit askew, while at the same time refreshingly progressive. At the time, it was no wonder they loved each other so much, insofar as their relationship was clearly devoid of any hint of jealousy's parasitism. And who wouldn't love someone who was so willing to watch you get a wet pinky with the girl who served you lychee martinis at brunch?

The next day, I escaped to the Mall of Emirates to glance underwhelmingly at the world's largest indoor ski slope. More than just another example of man's inability to impress in comparison with nature, the indoor ski slope just strikes anyone who's ever seen an actual mountain as being utter masturbation. For a Bedouin however, it's probably more akin to an average passportless Midwesterner taking awestruck pictures in front of the "Eiffel Tower" at Paris Paris in Las Vegas. In other words; suck it. Get out and see some real shit.

Later, in the record store, I am besieged with a thousand advertisements for DJ Tiesto's Valentine's Day concert at the Madinat Arena. Without hesitating, I text Farhan my plans to stay an additional twelve days, then dial Emirates Air to change my flight from a February 4th departure the next day to a February 16th departure (leaving myself an extra day to recover from what is sure to be an epic party). With Farhan's help through a friend of his in the booking department, I change my flight free of charge. Now my only problem is finding another suitable hotel for under $200/night. In Dubai, that's like finding a finding a Manhattan apartment for $600/month whose walls aren't covered in DNA.

My hotel at the time was a spacious apartment-style flat with a balcony and plenty of room for Farhan to crash as he had been the past two nights, as his apartment was in a part of town much further from what is considered desirable. My next two hotels however, would prove to be progressive examples of how ones accomodations can degenerate to crack-den status without proper planning.

The first was in the same area of town that Farhan lives in, generally nothing more than a financial center with nothing worth doing nearby, and that includes girlie bars. I'll explain the girlie bars shortly. My hotel room was fine, and Farhan was excited because apparently the house band at my new hotel was amazing. Falling victim to my "always say yes" mantra, I agreed to check this band out. They had some awful name like "Monkeythrust" or "Blue Whale Cocks" or something, and they were nothing more than your average college-quality cover band. To be honest, I've seen better bands at Karaoke parlors in Thailand. Farhan however, was so enamored with the drummer, that he bought her some expensive set of drumsticks, and I made a crack about how he's "moving too fast". I don't think people in other parts of the world understand that a proper courtship should involve a period of letting the other person know definitively that you don't give a fuck about them.

From this hotel, I moved even further down the scale into probably the closest thing to a ghetto any white person in Dubai can find: the Claridge, which was a small step above a homeless shelter, in an area of town most likely to have a homeless shelter. It still ran me $140/night. There are no cabs to speak of anywhere nearby, and more often than not, I had to walk 30 minutes to a highway and wait another 15 before an available cab drove by. Is that what it's like in the Bronx? See? Even in Dubai, I was considering ways to identify with Black America. Though in doing so, I wanted to kill myself. All I wanted was a goddamn taxi queue near my hotel. Would have settled for some fried chicken though.

Let me get back to the girlie bars. Our first few nights out, Farhan had insisted on paying for everything. Being a prince, he claimed to have piles of money. Later in the week, I learned differently. Not only was he drawing off scant resources, he was doing so to impress me (of all people). In doing so, he'd take us to these "girlie" bars, which when suggested in such context, certainly sounds like a time worth having. Once inside however, you learn quickly how the influence of Islam can affect a good time. These bars consist of nothing more than a fully dressed (typically Filipino) girl dancing on a stage as any normal girl would. Mind you, not as any normal stripper would, but any girl would. On our third visit (along with Nike) to one of these "girlie" bars, for two hours, the following cycle repeated itself roughly 6 times:

One round of bulldogs (a rum/vodka/red bull drink that only served to heighten Farhan's mania)
Call forward one of the girlies
Tip her with anywhere from 6-10 necklaces (which account for a minimum tip apiece)
Farhan waxes wistful about his girl back in Pakistan
I tell Farhan to look at the stage, and not in his heart
Another round of bulldogs

Finally the bill arrives, while Farhan is in the bathroom. Since he'd been so generous to this point, I elect to pick up the bill. Only after running my credit card do I look at the tally, pre-tip: $1,150US. WHAT THE FUCK!? I hadn't even seen a boob yet. I later told Farhan that "girlie" bars were no longer an acceptable pregame activity, barring a dramatic reduction in either cost or clothing.

Dubai is rife with prostitutes. If you're touring the town using only a guidebook, you're likely to seek out a place that Lonely Planet would describe as a place with a "fun, easy-going vibe, with moderately priced cocktails your wallet will enjoy." If Lonely Planet knew a damn thing, what they'd instead say is "fun, easy women, at moderate prices your cock will enjoy." This is why the more I traveled, the more I realized I didn't need (or want) a guidebook for anything. The people who write those things are retarded. Though if they're hiring... hook me up! I need a job, and I'm only mildly retarded.

With the days counting down to Tiesto, Farhan and I went on a desert safari, which consisted of driving like maniacs on the dunes in Toyota Land Cruisers, followed by an uber-touristy belly dance. We also rented jet skis and risked our lives playing chicken on the Persian Gulf, which was decidedly more fun. By now, I've become keenly aware of my need to endanger myself in order to be thoroughly entertained. It's a minor miracle I've never broken a bone [knocks on wood], although it's a major miracle I've never killed myself.

My days leading up to Tiesto were spent most commonly wandering through any one of the nearby malls (they are literally everywhere in Dubai, as shopping is a full time job there) to either watch a movie, or just gaze into the windows with the most shiny things. Swarovski is especially good for that. During one such day, I was again in the Mall of Emirates, when Julie calls me and asks why I wasn't at Brunch. Apparently I had a voicemail with an invite. And apparently now many of the people I'd met at their party were completely hammered at 5:00 in the afternoon on a Thursday. She invites me to their house for the "after party" and to be there by 7:00. I spring into action.

At the time of this conversation, I was wandering around in an old t-shirt, shorts, and running shoes. Clearly, I was going to need an overhaul (if not a shower). Additionally, my crappy hotel was at least a $40 cab ride away, and with the Palm being in the opposite direction, I was facing at least $100 in taxis to get home, change clothes, and head to Julie's. Instead, I make the much simpler decision to to buy all new clothes. New shoes, jeans, and shirt to the tune of $160 (you can get some good gear in Dubai at affordable prices; there are no import tariffs). Then I went into the bathroom, changed, took a faux-shower with liquid hand soap and paper towels provided by the bathroom attendant, and tossed my old clothes in a bag and left them on the sink for anyone who wanted shorts and sneakers that had been to the Valley of the Kings. Ramses III must have rubbed off on them somehow. Wait, was that another fertility joke? ZING!

Looking the part of a guy who looks like he should have retail tags hanging from his sleeve, I arrive at the condo to find about nine people all completely shitfaced. Farhan is already there. I have some catching up to do.

I retreat to the back patio to smoke a joint and swill some wine, and Farhan joins me. Moments later, he is sobbing to me about his girl back home again, and as is customary when my brain is seeking an escape from a conversation that can involve anything, preferably lethal substances, my eyes rolled and a deliberate wandering gaze commenced.

However, on this occasion, I was treated to the most delightful segue in the history of the ending of bad conversations. A glance inside to the living room delivered the sight of Julie sitting between her boyfriend Nisham and her neighbor Paul, spread-eagled, hands on multiple cocks, with multiple hands and mouths aggressively exploring her erogenous zones. It took me a minute to process; meanwhile Farhan could not stop crying. I'm unsure how many people since Marie Antoinette have been gifted with such a sight, but my emotions evolved from shock, to delight, to fear, to glee, back to fear, and finally confused arousal. Then I told Farhan to shut the fuck up.

I felt like Scooby Doo (watch his expressions). They are all relatable here.

Farhan refused to stop sobbing about his woman until I literally slapped his face and spun him around to look at the sexual splendor taking place in the next room. Jaws flagging wide open, we started dancing and laughing like two kids who'd just come out of a peep show. Though, we pretty much are kids, and we were pretty much watching a peep show. So yea; so much for that analogy.

At some point, I knew I needed more booze. The three oversexed animals on the couch didn't seem like they'd care if I made a move to the wine fridge, and so on my way through the living room, I toasted them, they all smiled, and continued doing what they were doing. God bless them.

Minutes later, Paul was in the kitchen with me, smiling ear to ear, as he hurriedly gathered three dirty wine glasses and a bottle of red. Our conversation went as follows:

me: Dude, mazel tov!
Paul: Mate, today is crazy.
me: I feel like I missed a full-blown orgy by about three hours.
Paul: Well, you certainly missed on getting blown.
me: What the fuck are you doing down here talking to me, get upstairs and get me a story to tell.
Paul: Mate, I just had it off with Nicole a couple hours ago. I thought that was a story.
me: I'm not leaving Dubai. Or this condo.
Paul: See you in an hour.
me: Hey, if you need a hand in there, knock twice on the wall.
Paul: See you in thirty.
me: [to self] Nice guy.

I learned something that day. I learned that I know my place when an orgy is going down. And that is to ensure all involved parties don't have it fucked up by some lovesick Paki. I took the bullet for the next hour or so while Farhan manically oscillated between musings of how his girl would never do the kinds of nefarious things Julie was now doing, although when pressed, I convinced him that part of him really wished she would.

The rest of the night consisted of a high-speed drunken car race to the club in the back of Nisham's convertible M5, and a VIP table scene with many bottles of Dom on hand, courtesy of Nisham. Nothing says "I'm celebrating a threesome" like Dom. I drank scotch. I was celebrating my first ride in an M5. Not the same.

According to Julie, she'd never done anything like that before. For my money though, she sure seemed to know her way around multiple inputs at a level a bit above that of a novice. Paul confided in me that Nisham wouldn't let him have sex with Julie, but was more than fine with letting him take the head while Nisham took the tail. I told Paul that isofar as he hadn't bathed between acts of coitus, it was probably a fair limitation. Then Paul started drinking scotch with me to celebrate my ride in the M5. Nice guy.

Our conversation inevitably turned to the eventual arrival of Paul's fiancee. He smiled and laughed that had he known days like the one he'd just had could take place in Dubai, he would have been none too swift to drop a noose on anyone's ringfinger. When I reminded him that none of these sordid events had taken place before I showed up, he confided to me that he truly thought I had absolutely nothing to do with any of it. I think part of me fell for Paul as well.

Dubai, however, was a similarly extraneous variable. It really doesn't bring a lot to the table in terms of what makes a city great. Without these people out on the Palm and to a lesser extent Farhan, it's safe to say that my time in Dubai would have been best served to remain at three days. Frankly, as I mentioned before, even the indoor ski slope that everyone talks about is wholly unimpressive. Oh, you have a three story hill of snow indoors? That's awesome? Wrong. It's not. You suck.

Frankly, the only thing Dubai has is a canal walk that can very much be missed, some pretty incredible shopping, and an entitled air carried by the ex-pats who arrived in Dubai to make their money and live lavishly. The restaurants boast some impressive names, though I would challenge anyone who is of the belief that Gordon Ramsay is really taking an active role in his outpost in Dubai. I think Jenna Jameson cares more about where her videos are being pirated (my apartment) than Gordon Ramsay does about what a bedouin thinks of his roasted Barbary duck breast. Mmmm... breasts.

After several weeks of waking up at 3pm, window-shopping for things I couldn't afford, and watching movies, it was finally time for the Tiesto concert at Madinat Arena. Julie and Nisham were throwing a party (again) that night, and though I desperately did NOT want Farhan to join me at Tiesto, he somehow managed to put himself on the event staff, and wound up working the concert. Luckily, he was typically too busy showing off his security badge to the other 8,000 partyers to bother too much with me.

Several people from Julie's party were going, and I was going with Nicole. Nicole is one of those women who is so stunning that she looks at a line of 25 people waiting to buy drink tickets and says "I'll be back in a minute," and within two minutes has a fistful of drink tickets. I didn't even know you could blow a guy that fast. She was like a magician, only better because instead of hidden magnets, she has boobs.

Madinat did everything they could to ruin this show. First, there was a narrow shoot to funnel through for ticket-takers. Farhan helped us there. Second, was the long line to show ID to get a wristband for drinks. Then there was a mile-long line to buy drink tickets, which Nicole breezed through. Finally, there was an angry sea of expectant drinkers teeming with brutal sobriety waiting to buy drinks from the six bartenders staffed to serve 8,000 fans of fucking trance music?! This was already a shitstorm, and although I was considerably more drunk than most everyone else there, and blessed with a blow-off-any-semblance-of-a-queue card in Nicole, I was still irritated.

Nicole was obsessed with making sure she connected with everyone she knew who was at the venue. We spent the first 30 minutes of Tiesto's set running around trying to find some guy who it turns out Nicole used to date, but upon meeting him, was an obvious douche. I have learned something over the years though... Most girls have a soft spot for douches. Only the coolest and most desirable of all girls will turn their nose up at any and all douches. Of course, if you're someone who can't be with a girl who has ever been with a douche (like I am), this pares down the population of desirables to a scant number of hippies, hipsters, and victims of date rape.

Later on, Nicole had to go to the bathroom again, for the 30th time to pump whatever stimulant she was on up into her face. Either that, or she ate some bad shrimp. Hard to say really, as I was on the verge of utter obliteration by this time. On this occasion, Tiesto was whipping the whole place into a frenzied orgy of jumping fits and screams. I have a very real weakness for a frenzied live music orgy. As the throbbing and whooting increased, I slowly gravitated back to the dance floor, thinking Nicole and I would reconnect in the middle of the thumping bass bukkake that had become Madinat Arena.

That never happened. My texts to her went unreturned for the rest of the night. Which, to be honest, was somewhat of a relief. I was able to enjoy the rest of the show in my own unencumbered, booze-fueled bliss while Tiesto tore the motherfucking house down.

The following day was my last full day in Dubai. I spent it hanging out with Farhan and some of his dopey friends. In a cyclical twist, we were all back at Budda Bar, the same bar in which Farhan and I met Julie and Nisham. After the threesome, those two opted to take a break from partying for awhile, and they sent me their regards. Truth is, I think they were both a little ashamed of it all. Fun while it lasted, but I think they were back to figuring out why the hell they were together in the first place, if all either of them wanted to do was take other people's clothes off. Say what you will about open relationships, but it is my contention that if there isn't any hint of jealousy on both sides of a relationship, it's probably more one of convenience than one of undying devotion. Or so says the guy whose only serious girlfriend boned her ex-boyfriend two months into their near two-year relationship. So, what do I know?

At Budda Bar, a couple ladies from California and I began talking, which evidently was Farhan and his friends' cue to descend on the scene and all but mouth-rape the very girls I was trying to mouth-lovemake to. This method of predatory cock-blocking seems it would be the most successful in a tent in Karachi, where the girls inside know their choices are either mouth loving one of the men in the tent, or a stoning against the wall outside the tent. Either way, you need a tent.

Predictably, the girls flaked off, and I had reached my breaking point with Farhan. It was our last night together, and I just couldn't take another episode of him showing off his scarred-up arms and stories about what an amazing drummer he's not. I said my good-bye and mercifully got into a cab on the way home. With a 30 minute ride to my hotel ahead of me, my mind wandered back to Nicole. I was a bit irritated that she blew me off, and that I'd let her get away with it so easily. Was I happier to have seen Tiesto on my own? Definitely. Though was I happy at all that she had gotten the last word? Not so much. I chose this time as my opportunity to even the score.

The following are our texts back and forth on my last night in Dubai, at approximately 2:30 in the morning:

me: Let's bone. Where you at?
Nicole: Fuck you.
me: I love your spirit. Does this mean you're at home? I can be there in 20.
Nicole: Seriously, fuck off.
me: For someone who ditched me last night, you sure seem to be misdirecting your anger. It is my contention this will make you a better lay. What say you?
Nicole: I looked around for you for half an hour and went home. Was too drunk. I thought you ditched me.
me: I texted you like 5 times. Let's take our clothes off and bury the hatchet.
me: And by hatchet I mean my cock.
Nicole. When do you leave?
me: Tomorrow
Nicole: Safe flight
me: There's still time for you to have my baby.
Nicole: Look me up if you're back in Dubai ever
me: I will. Next time we hang out I plan to fuck you and never call you again.
Nicole: Asshole
me: I was planning to use your vagina.
Nicole: Gross
me: It doesn't have to be.
Nicole: See you when I see you
me: Tell Paul I'll miss him.
Nicole: Haha. He likes you too. I will.
me: Him I'll miss. You, not so much. Till next time...
Nicole: He'll miss you too. I'll look you up on Facebook.
me: I will reject you. Going to bed now.
Nicole: G'night. Safe flight.
me: Good chat.

Of course, with my luck, my phone with all my Dubai contacts was stolen in Dar es Salaam and I've lost touch with everyone I'd met and spent time with there. This is particularly tragic because Paul is apparently in NY all the time, and he's the one person in particular that I really wished to stay in touch with. Either way though, my opinion of Dubai is that if you ever plan on going there, and you don't know Julie, Nisham, or Paul, you're better off not going at all. It's a fun city, but not one in which you can't have the same amount, if not more fun elsewhere, in a city that feels genuine and real. Dubai had an overwhelming falseness to it. I don't plan to ever go back. Besides, it just can't be better the next time than it was the first time. It's better to preserve that memory. And by "that memory" I mean the memory of Julie with her hands full of cock.

Next story will be of Tanzania. I am committed to completing the stories from my trip. For those of you that care, stay tuned.

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Egypt - A Lesson in Disappointment

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Where do I start? Hm. For one thing, the relationship I haven't had with this blog in the past four months, is pretty much my third-longest relationship. Once that revelation nestles in, allow these similarly shocking notions to land with appropriate gravity: I have a job. I arrive at work at 8:30am every morning. And yet somehow, my drinking habits haven't changed.

This is particularly noteworthy, given that I have managed to do so on a modest budget, and an even more modest amount of sleep. Some will recall my tale of narcolepsy in Budapest; well, that story repeated itself last week, minus the amazing festival, kebabs, and tales of modest triumph.

But enough about all that. What you're really tuning into here is a taste of a little something out-of-the-ordinary; a little taste of something foreign; a splash of whiskey; a little dollop of aoli. You know: some pizazz, some spice. As such, enter [this guy] into Egypt.

I found my exit from Israel to be both necessary and well overdue. For reasons stated only about three months ago in my last entry, I felt an urge to leave the holy land that only god himself could empathize with. The difference being, the nails to his extremities were metaphorically represented in me with each bottle of wine I ingested past the point of cogency.

I hitched a taxi to the Eilat/Taba border station, riding past the foul glitz of the marina (sad), the dolphin pool (sadder), and the Egyptian consulate, which occupies the lower floors of a brownstone that I’m a bit too embarrassed to admit to trying to break into while blacked out (saddest). Or at least that’s what I’m told.

Looking back, Eilat does have the benefit of a convenient proximity to Timna (a national park full of staggering rock formations dating back to 500 million years ago), though it conversely possesses the unfortunate detriment of being the stomate through which each 18 year-old American Birthright traveler insists on flushing themselves like the sticky detritus that clings to my colon walls. They arrive hundreds at a time, and seem to leave at the agonizing pace of a one-night stand. Thankfully though, Eilat and its inexpressive gleam were now retreating into a fleck in my cab’s rearview display that proved to be its most redeeming moment in the six days I spent there.

Finally on the other side of the Eilat/Taba border station, I and my massive backpack board a bus after a brush with an unpleasant sex tourist on his way to Thailand via Cairo. I guess there's just something about a 71 year old guy from Detroit with holes in his shoes telling you he can't wait to get to Bangkok to "fuck, fuck, and fuck some more." Now, I'm all for the relentless pursuit of gratuitous sex, but for some reason when the status of the participants is so egregiously incongruous, I'm filled with pity and sadness. This particular case can be explained away by an economic gap that can most easily be bridged by the offer of sex for money, and I am able to see how both sides benefit. However, when I see some dopey geek strutting down the sidewalk with some girl that looks like she's straight out of an American Apparel ad, I can only assume she has daddy issues and a deteriorated self image. And then I wonder why I didn't have the foresight of said geek. And then I weep. I guess I have daddy issues too.

I'm in Egypt now. After a nine hour bus ride down the eastern coast of the Sinai peninsula, I arrive in Sharm el-Sheikh. Of course, once again I'm met by George Bush and his ever-present road closings and general impedance to any progress I'm hoping to make. This is the fourth time (of five) that I happen to run into him in the nearly 14 months I spent away. I wonder if he's in New York as often during the course of an average year. Probably not. I picture him in the Oval Office smoking joints saying things like: "Why would I go to New York when there's a Denny's over on Tennessee Avenue?" George: we should hang out.

A brief history: The Sinai was always Muslim, since around the 11th century, or around the time of Islam’s rapid proliferation. Then, Israel was created with the auspices of the British and American governments in the form of the British Mandate in 1948. This angered the neighboring Muslim states, and Egypt used the Sinai as a launching pad to initiate attacks on Israel and to block its access to Eilat (a greater favor from a foe has never before or since been paid). In response, Israel retaliated (with the help of Britain and France) and took control of the entire Sinai Peninsula. America and the Soviet Union (allies from WWII) urged Israel to relinquish control back to Egypt, they complied, and as such, Israel and Egypt have remained at peace ever since. This peace was mildly tested while I was in the Sinai when Hamas blew down the wall separating the Gaza Strip from the Sinai and 200,000 Palestinians flooded the peninsula in search of fuel and food.

Some people emailed me while I was there to make sure I was ok, which puzzled me inasmuch as I am clearly not a source of neither fuel nor food. I do however have an above-average sized nose and a Jewish last name. While in Sharm el-Sheikh, I did my best to throw all Palestinians off the scent as I indiscriminately spent my money the way any Gentile would.

In Sharm el-Sheikh, I am staying on a beach about 9 km outside Na’ama Beach (the main strip) at Sharks Bay. It is here, at Sharks Bay, where I’ll spend the next 11 days scuba diving at some of the most diverse and well-preserved reefs in the world. Sharm is widely considered the premier dive spot in the entire world. Unfortunately, as this was the place I first learned to dive, every dive from now on (with exceptions) is bound to fail to measure up. This is akin to losing your virginity to Keira Knightly or Hugh Jackman, only to break up with them a week later. You’ve had the best, and now you’re just like everybody else: gettin’ drunk enough to make out with people you’d ordinarily avoid.

That analogy doesn’t quite make the impact I’d intended. Upon further inspection however, diving drunk is pretty much a recipe for nitrogen narcosis, and that just so happens to be the only way coming off Keira Knightly and entering the bar make-out scene might be made palatable. Read up on it. Nitrogen narcosis, when removing the threat of death, actually sounds like a pretty excellent time.

Sharks Bay is a tiny community consisting of an intimate hotel-slash-dive school, two slightly larger and higher-end hotels, an intimate beach, and a strip of shops peddling the usual tourist wares. It, along with the rest of Sharm, is patronized almost entirely by oil-rich Russian tourists escaping the January chill up north. The locals, on the other hand, are almost entirely modernized Bedouins seeking to support families from the interior with the money they make from their jobs in the tourism industry. The rest of Sharm is typically all divers.

Forced to choose from a swarm of Russians whose English was far worse than my Ukrainian, I found myself gravitating to the Bedouins in their shops, hanging out in the tiny back rooms that proved to be no more than filthy, unkempt parasites attaching themselves to the shops seen by most visitors. After only a short time, I was frequenting one shop in particular. A 27 year-old economics student named Braun, his cousin (they all seem to be cousins somehow) James who was a gaming geek from Cairo, and their other cousins who owned the shop comprised my crew. Aside from James and Braun, their English consisted mostly of transactional commands like “you buy,” “you pay,” and “I fuck." Good guys.

Braun in particular took a keen interest in me. He was a tall, handsome guy who spoke near-perfect English, who openly dreamed of studying in the United States. But who cares? He had more hash at his disposal than anyone who lives on a blanket in a closet has ever had in history. It’s true. I looked it up.

According to a study conducted by the International Max-Planck Research School on Astrophysics, Braun’s method of smoking hash is the most effective accelerant that we have here on earth, propelling one from stasis to intergalactic space travel in under three seconds. His method (please consult diagram) consists of manipulating the block of hash into a long thin rod, and inserting it into a shortened cigarette that nestles itself in the lip of a drinking glass. One lights the end of the exposed hash rod, and as it slowly smolders (think of an incense stick), one covers the glass with cardboard and waits for the glass to fill richly with pure hash smoke. When this is achieved, one tips open the cardboard, and inhales all smoke through one’s nose. And for the next three minutes, you’ll want to hurl yourself into a wall of samurai swords. After that feeling of impending doom mercifully passes, you’ll want to be alone in a dimly lit place, horizontal, and away from sharp objects and prescription meds. Thirty minutes later, you’ll be ready to hit the town and speak to exactly no one, while having an amazing time for precisely no good reason at all.

Braun is the most unnecessarily proud doer-of-any-drug I’ve ever met in my life. If he wasn’t showing off his uniquely death-defying method of smoking hash, he was boasting recklessly about the quality of his hash. And if he wasn’t talking about hash, he was talking about white women and how they’d probably like to smoke his hash.

White women, it turns out, was the only drug he’d opt for over a glass full of space ether. We’d go out, and no matter the physicality of the target, Braun was radar-locked on achieving the coital union of east and west. It was proof that even in a time and place where typically religious and racial divisions prove difficult to bridge, love can still be found. See? There is merit in sex tourism…

Braun and I got along well. Sometimes, he would even show off his dancing skills for me. It felt a little gay, but beyond that, it also felt kind of nice that he cared what I thought about his gay dancing. He did a pretty good job of freaking out a few of the girls we’d met along the way, but luckily I was too spaced out to give it much notice. Frankly, I was overtly pacified at all times in Sharm el-Sheikh. Whether underwater with Napoleon Wrasse’s, or in the throes of an intense hash binge, I don’t think I ever had the urge to do anything more than wryly smile and enjoy.

Except, that is, for the toiling trek up Mount St. Catherine. The summit is where Moses allegedly received the Ten Commandments, spoke to a burning bush, and thought it was God. Sounds to me like Moses was spending a bit of time with Braun as well, and to that effect, I kind of felt like God himself was wagging a finger at me while I coveted a few of the Russian pilgrims once atop the apex. After a moment of reticence, I wrote it off to hash residue, gave Moses a knowing nod, took about 90 pictures, and resumed coveting.

There is some conjecture that copyists misinterpreted the word “Sinai” in Hebrew as “bush,” as there was a mountain of Sinai that was also on fire at some point in the sordid history the Old Testament attempts to recount. In any event, after the nearly three hour climb to the summit in the dead of night to catch a rather spectacular sunrise, I was more than a little ready to return to the friendly confines of Braun’s cousin’s back room with a nose full of dense fumes to take me back to a place that felt more like something I can actually believe in.

My last night in Sharm I spent at the Sinai Grand: a glistening, beckoning beacon of gambling splendor that from my first moment in Sharm I knew held within it the promise of riches. It was one of those things where I just knew even before I walked in that I’d walk out with a smile as wide as my wallet.

After an inordinately swift loss of 300 euro, I cashed back in for 200 more. Keep in mind that at this time the exchange rate was 1 euro = $1.54. Add to that the juice the casino takes on every transaction, and I was facing losses along the lines of a $1.70 per euro. Upon my return to the table, a Russian couple (shocker) had sat down. After the umpteenth time this fool and his wife split 20s and won nothing, all the while scoffing at me when I hit on 16 against dealer 8s, I had amassed a stash of chips equal or greater than the pile he and his wife had lost. Ordinarily, I get frustrated when people at the table don’t employ basic strategy. But in this case, his burgeoning anger was entertainment enough, to say nothing of the amazing luck he was affording me. By the time the casino kicked us all out, I was sitting in front of a pile of almost 1700 euro (up about 1000), and smiling ear-to-prophetic-ear.

The following day, I hopped a flight to Luxor, to do some hardcore Egyptian sightseeing. As it turns out, greater Egypt has a far different feel than the Sinai. Luxor was a proper city. Touristy; yes. But it was about as clean as a Bedouin taint. Luxor is a sullied city of under 400,000 people that straddles the Nile in the southern part of Egypt. As the site of the ancient city of Thebes, it is considered the world’s largest open-air museum. Personally, I think that title belongs to Cloris Leachman’s vagina. But then again, I’ve never been there as far as I can remember. On the other hand, I have very distinct memories of Luxor.

Luxor, on the east bank, boasts the Temple of Karnak, the Temple of Luxor, the mummy museum, and the Luxor Museum. On the west bank, is the Temple of Hatshepsut, The Ramesseum, The Valleys of the Kings, The Valley of the Queens, Tombs of the Nobles, and the Temple of Ramesses III. And yes, I saw all of them (except The Valley of the Queens).

I’ll save you the details of each, but will offer these bullet points:
- The Luxor Museum was far more impressive on a bang-for-your-buck basis than the Egyptian Museum in Cairo.
- The Valley of the Kings gave me the inspiration for how I wish to be buried. Lavishly, and by the hands of hundreds of loyal disciples. It was like an MTV Cribs marathon from 2500 years ago.
- After looking on a map and seeing the relative proximity of the Temple of Hatshepsut to the Valley of the Kings, I opted to hike alone over the hills to get there. It took forever. This, I learned later, was not recommended.
- The Temple of Luxor was littered with phallic images of the God of Fertility. In each instance, the massive cock in the engraving was tinted dark with the oil of a thousand hands. It seems that in order to pray for fertile sperm, one needs to rub an ancient engraving until it emits some of its own.
- Ramesses III was not afraid to live large. He was the Ludacris of the Egyptian Age.
- Tombs of the Nobles were the best-preserved tombs of all that I saw. And I saw many. Not that you care, but at least some of this blog needs to recount things I did and saw and not merely kowtow to you people.

Luxor however, was my first experience with the aggressiveness that is the Egyptian people. If you are white, and walking, you are invariably a target for belligerent hassling that exists on a scale that approaches a screaming boil. And the screaming will be your own. I hatched a plan to combat this by renting a bicycle solely to avoid the badgering of the locals. This decision proved to be the most effective use of $2 I enjoyed in all of the Middle East. And that includes every two packs of cigarettes ($1 each) I’d choke down.

Luxor also had an impressive market, within which were even more intrusive shop owners who would be physically unable to allow me to pass the gaping mouth of their shop without declaring my friendship. Their misinterpretation of friendship is far worse than that of half of my Facebook friends. As such, I opted to enjoy the market with sunglasses and a hood pulled low. I figured I may as well look like someone who may steal something if I want to be left alone. And frankly, that was also a marvelously successful strategy.

At this point, I was beginning to feel as though I had conquered the acute unilateral attacks of the Egyptian people. So when I purchased dried apricots from one particular shop owner and asked for cashews, the deeply-creased 68 year-old Bedouin set in motion a search for cashews across the entire Luxor marketplace. To no avail. To express his sincere regret, he invited me for tea and hash at his apartment, to which I enthusiastically agreed. When an aging Bedouin asks you for tea and hash, here is really no other option.

We traipse the seven or so blocks to his flat, on the third floor of a building in average condition. The interior, however, was a different story indeed. As we enter, he explains to me how he owns three shops, the fruit/spice stand at which we’d met, a tailor across the street that he’d opened seven years ago, and another tailor across town. Tailoring is the trade he is most proud of. Mine is boning. I rule.

The three-room apartment is dimly lit with a total of two light bulbs. In the main room is a shredding polyester blanket that stretches between padded benches lining the walls. Before we sit on the blanket, we customarily remove our shoes. Upon sitting on the blanket, this action seems evermore ironic. To be sure, the ground outside is considerably more unpolluted than the blanket on which I was now seated. There were inexplicable grains of sand attaching themselves to any patch of exposed skin left uncovered. But the beer was cold and delicious and once the hash entered the picture, I lost all cares in the world. No wonder this shit is so popular in places where life typically sucks.

After flipping through an enormous stack of pictures of his friends (ie. white people who took pictures and sent them to him) I am left wondering if it’s the hash or am I starting to think these guys really do make friends this easily? Like, do the Egyptians employ friend-finding methods only recently revolutionized by Facebook patrons? Fourteen hours later, I wouldn’t care anymore. Because Cairo made me want to kill myself.

I will say this about Cairo: it fucking sucks. And that includes the pyramids. Consider for a moment that I probably read more than two dozen books on the pyramids before I entered high school (yep, I was that cool), and I am saying this unequivocally: the pyramids are a disappointment.

Don’t get me wrong, the pyramids themselves are impressive indeed. But everything around them (the litter, the Bedouins hocking donkey and camel rides, the pirates asking for your ticket only to have you bribe them to get it back, the totally gay night laser show) was seriously awful. I made a comment to many people that if the ancient Egyptians ever saw how the current-day Egyptians are treating their landmarks, they would wage war on them. And they’d win convincingly because they all ride camels that are about 90 years old and malnourished to a point where the word “euthanasia” tickles your sympathy bone.

Cairo is also a horribly filthy city, so much so that you can actually taste the pollution. Imagine always walking around with a mouthful of orange juice right after you brushed your teeth, along with an ashtray shoved up your nose, and you’ll only begin to understand what it’s like to walk around Cairo. The food there is decent, and there is a vibrant nightlife scene, but it can all be missed.

I did however, manage to use my charm to score some privacy while they kicked everyone out for the three hours before the light show, which allowed me to watch the sun set over the pyramids alone and in peace. I got the feeling as it was happening that it was a uniquely rare tourist experience.

One additional special moment was watching the Super Bowl (as a Giants fan) at an ex-pat bar in Cairo. Kickoff was at midnight, and along with about thirty other people (mostly Australians and Brits), watched the greatest NFL game in history. Word spread around the bar that I was from New York, and I enjoyed minor celebrity status the likes of which only Samantha Ronson can probably relate to. By the end, I was the recipient of countless hi-fives, free shots, and invitations to parties for later in the week… if only I didn’t already have a flight booked to Dubai two days later. Dubai is a much more entertaining story, provided I can figure out a way to write it appropriately.

A Few Words...

A lot of you have given me shit lately (and rightfully so) for not posting a story in some time. By now you've come to understand that I'm much better at making excuses than I am at owning up to my own expectations, never mind all of yours.

Rest assured, a story on Egypt is in the works, and from there I have to walk everyone through Dubai, Tanzania (including Zanzibar), Mozambique, South Africa, Swaziland, Namibia, Botswana, and Victoria Falls. I can do it, trust me.

But I'd like to quickly call your attention to the following reasons I have yet to post an entry since returning to the states five weeks ago:

- I've been homeless
- I've been motherfucking working (!!!!)
- I've been reassimilating to life back in the developed world
- I've been approaching depression due to the above
- I suck.

If you could follow that convoluted laundry list of confusing insights into how cluttered my brain/life is these days, then my hat's off to you. Additionally, if you've got an itch to read any of my exploits over the aforementioned 13-14 months of travel, then I present you with a choice: A) visit the archives, B) take my place at work, or C) tag me as spam for making too many unnecessary lists. And then suck it.

Finally, I'll offer you a teaser: the Egypt story is one that includes an intense friendship, an awkward breakup, a hash binge, and one of the Seven Most Disappointing Wonders of the World. Methinks you'll find the wait well worth it. And methinks you love the word "methinks" more every time I use it...

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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!

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