City of Pork to the City of David and Back Again

Well, with the close of Yom Kippur and the sounding of a small ram's horn, comes a new update from Tel Aviv-Yafo. Erev Yom Kippur, or Thursday for those of you who adhere to that silly Papist calendar, our group was treated to an evening tour of Jerusalem. Nate and I had been under the weather a bit and were debating whether or not to go, but with plenty of Imodium aboard, we joined the throng of folks leaving our apartment building. As everything comes to a standstill on Yom Kippur, the bus station was packed with people trying to get home or get to Jerusalem. But, before you enter the bus station, you're reminded that there are plenty of folks who live here who could care less about that whole "don't eat pigs, team" thing.


For the more politically minded, it's important to remind the general public that Gilad Schalit has been in Hamas custody for quite some time. What better way to say you care as you head to Jerusalem for an intense rally to Bring Gilad Home, than to shave it into your hair?


We weren't the only people trying to get to Jerusalem. What would have normally been a forty five minute trip lasted nearly an hour and a half. The floor of our bus was packed with representatives from just about every spectrum of Israeli society and it seemed that the rest of the country was hot on the heels of our bus. We were dropped off at Montefiore's windmill
and thus began our tour of Jerusalem. It's an incredible view of the Old City and East Jerusalem, including the separation wall snaking along the horizon. Our attempts at photography didn't do it justice. The spot where Mary went to sleep (forever, apparently) is memorialized as Dormition Abbey, which is the large church immediately across the valley.


We were badgered by Hassids and Litvaks alike begging us to partake in the ritual of Kaparot. This involves swinging a chicken over your head three times so that the chicken takes on your sins before your judgment is complete. Then the chicken is ritually slaughtered and given to the hungry. I do this with an envelope of money before Yom Kippur as it doesn't involve torturing the saddest looking chickens in the world.

Three hours into our never ending tour detailing the gory details of Jerusalem's Jewish history and King David's adulterous activities, we came up over the Kotel Plaza. Jews of every stripe were clinging to rooftops in order to pray near the wall.


Rabbi Shlomo Amar was leading tens of thousands of people in the singing of selichot, or pentitential prayers. The religious fervor was overwhelming. I don't know how else to put it. Ten yards in front of you and three stories down are tens of thousands of people praying so intensely to G-d that they don't even care they are smushed up against tens of thousands of other people, because G-d is less than twenty four hours away from closing the book on them for the year.



While the majority of people in our group had wanted to pray at the wall, the wait to get through security was estimated to be roughly an hour, just to wade into the sea of people. I settled for reciting selichot along with the crowd and saying a few psalms. While Nate and I had originally intended on staying in Jerusalem for Yom Kippur, our stomachs were still not agreeing with us entirely and the hostel we had planned on staying at was closed, so we boarded a Sherut, or shared taxi-van, back to Tel Aviv-Yafo. Tomorrow morning we'll start building a Sukkah on our back patio for all of the residents of our building.

Cincinnati to Chicago to Paris to Budapest to Tel Aviv to Yafo to Kibbutz Ketura to Yafo

After getting into Tel Aviv last Tuesday, we were whisked away the next morning to a five day retreat on Kibbutz Ketura in the Arava Desert. My computer, being the cantankerous creature it is, was refusing to efficiently connect to the internet, so we embraced the scenery and the setting and spent five days untangling group dynamics and hydrating. So, how did we get here?

In the disaster that was our apartment, my credit card was misplaced, therefore, renting a car to get from Cincinnati to Chicago was out. Our dear friend, Andrew Smith, happens to love driving. I mean, with all of his heart, he loves getting into his station wagon and schlepping it from Point A to Point B, no matter the distance in between. We cannot thank Andrew and his lovely lady, Carrie Cochran, enough for spending so much quality time in the car and in Chicago with us. My camera was nesting in the bottom of a pannier during the entirety of the trip, so I'll have to wait for Carrie to send me her pictures from the Chicago trip. Miles traveled from Cincinnati to Chicago: 250.
We spent some quality time with my sister, Sarah, and presented her with a hostess present that expressed our love:















One of the nicest parts of visiting Chicago was bumming around local bike shops looking for the last minute things we needed. I found a great bell at Rapid Transit, as well as well wishes, enthusiasm and free bike boxes. Nate found a front rack and some additional well wishes and enthusiasm at Boulevard Bikes in Logan Square. Marjorie was taken outside for a photo shoot by one of the amazing staff people. As former employees of Reser Bicycle Outfitters, we can't tell you how important it is to patronize your Local Bike Shop (LBS). Big Box stores don't give away free bike boxes, or buy you dinner, or give quality advice. We did a quick tune up of Marjorie at West Town Bikes, a community workspace in Humboldt Park. Many thanks to Alex and company for taking such good care of us.

The first major leg of the trip was 4130 miles from Chicago to Paris. The hardest part of that leg proved to be getting our bicycles through check-in. The American Airlines representative wasn't at all familiar with the standards for checking a bicycle box that I had been informed of (repeatedly) by Maalev Air and American Airlines representatives. After being told that checking bicycles would be $300, instead of, say, free, we went back and forth for a moment. Finally, it was agreed upon that it would be free for both boxes, as our lady was clearly more concerned about the giant line queuing behind us. Shelling out $300 still would have been cheaper than shipping our bicycles, but it's still a sizable chunk of change. We hauled our babies (and really, I can't think of what else to call them, other than their given names, Party Girl, and Marjorie Binghampton) to the oversize luggage drop off and went through the rest of security without a hitch.

Arriving at De Gaulle at who knows what hour of the day, it took me a minute to turn on the French switch in my brain. Once it was, I was functional, although completely sleep deprived. The only stressful part of De Gaulle was emptying out pockets looking for my luggage claim ticket while being stared down and mocked by the ticket agent of Maalev Airlines. Without it, Marjorie wasn't getting to Israel. Thankfully, I found it in a forgotten inner coat pocket. Disaster was averted and we arrived in Budapest and were greeted by the Hungarian Olympic Water Polo Team:



From Paris to Budapest was a paltry 645 miles. With an eleven hour layover, it was the perfect opportunity to get out of the airport and explore. It was also the perfect time for drizzling rain and gray skies. Instead of getting cold and wet and crankier, I opted to take a four hour nap on top of our luggage. Nate went through passport control yet again, possibly setting a new time record for entry-exit-entry of Hungary. Many cold and wet cyclists were witnessed in Hungary, along with some nifty buffered bike lanes. While buffered bike lanes present their own issues in terms of safety, they're still fairly far off in most parts of the world.

Finally, it was time to board the last of our connecting flights. We had both previously traveled to Israel and had been overwhelmed by security measures, particularly Nate having his pants taken off by friendly El Al folks before his Taglit trip a few years ago. Maalev Hungarian Airlines blew our minds with the total lack of security. We were simply herded onto a bus without any additional security checks, and then herded onto the plane's boarding ramp. It was an amuse- bouche of how one needs to throw a few elbows when in a crowd of Israelis.

Well, 1347 miles later, and an hour standing in line at Passport Control in Ben Gurion, we were in Israel. Call it what you will (Israel, Palestine, Eretz Yisrael, The Promised Land, The Holy Land, etc.), it's a complicated place. The only hitch in retrieving our baggage came when Nate realized that Marjorie's front fender had been, well, smushed.

I just laughed. It could have been the jet lag, or the fact that it was four in the morning, or the fact that I needed food, but what else are you supposed to do? We couldn't get long term (or even back to back short term periods) of traveler's insurance because we're in Israel, and the airlines wouldn't cover damage to my fenders, and my bicycle was okay. No longer a model of perfection, Marjorie is now a scrappy little lady who doesn't give a darn about what you think of her or her dented fender.

Due to security concerns, Ben Gurion's trash cans are TINY. I will never again take a box cutter for granted as I spent forty minutes breaking down bike boxes by hand. Tiny chunks of carbord were crammed into eight or nine different waste baskets while people waiting for arrivals looked at me like I had lobsters crawling out of my ears. Nate expertly assembled and tuned our bicycles while I tried to make sense of and repack our baggage.

Now, we just had to find our way out of Ben Gurion and to Yafo. Airports are inherently not bicycle friendly. We initially found our way onto Highway 1, the Israeli equivalent of an Interstate, three times. Technical mountain biking is nothing compared to riding on I-75's Israeli twin. Finally, we found our way onto a local highway and felt exceptionally liberated from the crush of people, from automobiles, and in general, from relying on other people for our transportation. While people gave us enough space to feel comfortable, we were repeatedly honked at. A few other bicyclists were sighted heading from the suburbs to the city center. It's only a twelve mile ride from the airport to our apartment, but it felt like a major accomplishment after being stuck inside for nearly thirty hours straight. After getting slightly turned around in Yafo, we made it to the apartment building and were able to take a very long nap on the patio.

The next morning, we were shipped off to the Arava Desert near Eilat and spent a long five days getting to know the other 22 people in our program. It was about 173 miles from Tel Aviv to the Kibbutz we stayed on. The views were breathtaking, but the sand was persistent, so I was a little wary about bringing out the camera too often. Here's a view of the mountain we climbed up that overlooked Jordan's western border.


With that, it's time to wrap up the post. You're just about caught up on our travels, but we send you all wishes for a happy and healthy New Year. Chag Sameach and Shanah Tovah!

Total miles thus far: 6,545. Bicycled: 12. Yes, we're going to fix that very shortly.