First Impressions of Israel

Jerusalem stone. Everything dressed in Jerusalem stone. The smooth, pock-marked sandstone. A city ordinance requires that any new construction use Jerusalem stone. To keep up appearances. The authenticity of this ancient city. The home to the children of Abraham--Muslims, Christians, and Jews. Warring brothers who have yet to find peace. Built this city using Jerusalem stone.

Amman, Jordan.

Liz, Stephanie, Vivek, and I climb into the Jordanian equivalent of the Moroccan grand taxi. French is rarely spoken here. We circumnavigate the traffic circles of Jordan, and finally reach a snaking road, hugging the cliffs outside of Amman, to the King Hussein Bridge border crossing. This way, there are no police, our driver informs us.

The mountains swallow us. We delve deeper and deeper into the earth. In between bouts of sleep, I see shadows on the hilltops at midday. A falcon tracks our path.

We pass through the Jordanian side of the border with very little problems, save a leaky toilet and MSG in the pretzels. I have not had a pretzel since I left for Morocco. Now the baked faced stares blankly back at me--a foreigner, entering a strange land.

“Why are you coming to Israel?”

“Tourism.”

“Why were you in Jordan?”

“A conference. I am a Fulbright researcher.” I pause. I am not making my point clearly enough. I smile. A guilty smile.

The pretty girl with blond hair tied back into a bun. I notice a pair of silver earrings. She cracks a smile, breaking the confused tension I have created. She thrives off of this stuff. Dressed in tight fitting fatigues, pants pulled low. A sidearm. Rifle. I smile back. Maybe I smile too much. I am actually enjoying this.

She can tell.

She moves on. “Can I stamp your passport?”

“Well, no. I...”

“Why?” She is offended. A little distrustful now. Maybe I have been smiling too much.

“I might travel to Lebanon.”

“Why?” Why would you ever consider going to Lebanon?

“Who?” Who do you know in Lebanon?

“Why?” Why do you study in Morocco?

“What?” What do you study in Morocco?

“Water,” I reply. She thinks for a moment.

Disarmed. “Oh, we don’t have any of that here.” She giggles.

Take this paper. Fill it out. Wait.

Mohsin and Vivek join me. We ink our respective papers. Contacts. Aliases. Addresses. Numbers. Family. We wait. Stephanie and Liz wave to us from the other side. They are leaving.

The pretty Israeli comes back with my passport. A few quick questions. Loud stamps on random papers. A quick smile. I smile back. Maybe I am smiling too much. Should I be enjoying this?

Welcome to Israel.

The baggage handler is Moroccan. We trade a few words. He has family in Orlando. This happens a lot, he explains. Travelers separated at the border. Brothers from brothers. Sisters from sisters. Walls. Barriers. Security fences. Cameras. Fences and queues. Guards and rifles. Questions. Papers and stamps. Jerusalem stone.