The End

It's hard to believe that I'm home.

I turned the key in my door, went to my room, took a shower, checked my mails, turned on my mobile-- everything is the same. It smells the same, tastes the same, but it doesn't feel the same. recognize how pretentious this might all sound-- I've only been gone a month, it's not like I've journeyed for years-- but bear with me. I keep remembering the line from a song that I can't remember the title of, but the line in the chorus goes "homesick, because I no longer know where home is". In a way, that's how I feel. This, my house, Seattle, will always be my home. It's where I'm from, where my friends are, where I know the streets and the people and the restaurants.

But on this trip, I've perpetually had that feeling this trip you get when you cross several time zones, where you realize that when you go to bed, someone else is going to work. The sudden elucidation that the world never stops moving, only you do. My experiences aren't predicated on predestination, they're based on how dramatically I put myself out there. Likewise, wherever I call home is less where I'm from, but where I decide to set down. It might be on a rooftop in Beirut. It might be a monastery in Eastern Syria. It might be an apartment in central Tel Aviv. But home is just a concept like any other.
Now it's time to get back into shape and ready for University. Pack my stuff up again (this time in something a little bigger than a 40 liter backpack) and call somewhere else home. No more traveling until I can scrape together some more money (which, considering the state of my finances might not be for a while). But, for everyone who read and commented from home, thank you for making sure I was okay, and sharing in the experiences I had. To any of those reading who I had those experiences with, thank you for sharing yourself with me. You're indelibly a part of me, even if we just traveled for a day. Hopefully I'll see you all again, somewhere halfway around the world.

What's the Difference Between a Woman and a Mango

.. not gonna say because Grandma reads this. Ask me if you want to know the CRUCIAL Arab joke.

Two days ago Kate, Kate's roommate Hannah, Leandro and I took the bus to Jerusalem. It's an incredibly strange city. It's not like this isn't the case almost everywhere in the Middle East, but Jerusalem is a particularly bizarre example of the old and the new, the Christian and the Arab, the Jews and the aforementioned, colliding. From one spot you can see the Dome of the Rock (where Muhammad ascended to heaven), the Western Wall, and then, if you turn 180 degrees, you can see where the Greek and Russian orthodox churches believe Christ was both crucified and then entombed, and then ascended to heaven. You're constantly surrounded by Hasidic Jews in full garb, crowds of Muslim men in robes, Jewish girls somehow completely erotic in their modesty (think calf-length skirts, fully buttoned oxfords, and Mary Janes). The landmarks are the gates built by ancient kings, and the rooftops are the spots where, several weeks earlier, crowds of Muslims and Jews met in a West-Side-Story-esque battle.

Needless to say, Yerusalayim is a strange place.

So, we got off the bus and made our way to the Tomb of King David, and then to the first holocaust memorial in Jerusalem, underneath a Yeshiva half a kilometer from the Western Wall. Leandro and ended up going and touring the Yeshiva, which was an experience in and of itself. I'm trying to say this delicately, but I'm unclear whether I can, so bear with me. The Jews that I've encountered here have been the most intolerant of the religions I've met. In passing, one of the head rabbis mentioned the Franciscan church, but not by name. He referred to them as "hamakshima". When I asked what that meant, he said "it means 'a curse on them'". Understandable when referring to Hitler, sure. The Franciscan church? Really?

Anyways, we finally escaped the Yeshiva and made our way the Western Wall. Another strange place-- crowds of men and women facing the wall, stuffing prayers into the cracks, reading scripture while chanting under their breath while doing small bows. And then, when they finish, they don't turn their backs on the wall-- they back up until they feel comfortable, and then they turn.

We found our way to the hostel, which I guess was only for Jews. Therefore, in theory, only Leandro could stay there, but I lied and said I was Jewish. Part of me felt bad for lying, but at the same time, I think it's kind of an intolerant rule to say that only Jews can stay at your guest house.

Had a beer with a guy I met on CS named Ofer, then made our way back to the hostel and went to bed.

The next morning, Leandro and I went to the Dome of the Rock, but couldn't get into the sanctuary itself because we clearly weren't Muslim. Then, to Yad Vashem, the Holocaust memorial. Yad Vashem was really moving-- it's set up like a long tunnel, with rooms on either side, that go from the beginning of Jewish intolerance all the way to the establishment of Israel. Hundreds of screens scattered throughout showing videos of survivors telling their stories.

When we got finished, we came back to the hostel, where one of the rabbis gave Leandro and I a personal tour of the Old City. To me, this was the most interesting part of the tour. He showed us the "Jew Doors", or disguised multi-layered steel doors that the Jews use as front doors so that the Arabs don't vandalize their homes, as well as the lockboxes that the Jews have to put their menorahs in on Hannukah so they don't get taken. Most interesting to me was when he took us up onto a particular section of roof.

"Here's where the Armenian, Christian, Arab, and Jewish quarters meet. This is where we brawl with the Arabs. Sometimes the Christians fight, but who really cares about them? Down there (pointing at the street) is where riots occur a couple of times a month, with the intention of pushing the Jews out of their quarter. Over there's a conservative Yeshiva. There's always a guard heavily armed on duty. It's a little safer than it used to be, but all the kids have to go to the playground with armed guards. You know how in the states it's illegal to bring a gun to a playground? Here, afterschool is basically an arms show."

Obviously, the tour was pro-Jewish. And I'm not sure how much of it was factual, and how much of it was propaganda, but it was still pretty fascinating to see firsthand the dynamic within the city.

Finally made it to the bus station after searching the hostel and the shops for something I bought for Dad and then thought I lost. Made it back to the apartment, slept.

The next day, spent most of the day at the beach. I was tired after walking so much the past two days. Played in the surf, thinking about when I used to go to Hawaii as a kid and pretend that the waves were monsters that I had to fight.

Was supposed to go to a rooftop party that night,but one of the roommates got too drunk and ended up getting really sick. Got back to Ramla with Leandro and spent the night there, even though Leandro and his group were all going to the Dead Sea, but I couldn't afford the 100$/day price tag for the trip. Took my hungover self back to Kate's apartment and read for most of the day (Kafka on the Shore by Haruki Murakami).

Tomorrow I'm actually going to the Dead Sea, and a nature reserve near it named Ein Gedi. Kind of running out of money, which is prohibiting me from doing more extensive travel, but then again, I leave in two days, so I can't do anything that extensive anyways. Oh well.

Thoughts on Israel

Not to get all New-Age, but I think that every place has a spirit, a kind of vibe that pervades the entire country. Maybe it's not there all the time, but you can hear it in the people you talk to, taste it in the food you eat, feel it when you're walking down the street. It's a hard thing to articulate, but in Lebanon, it was wild. Maybe the whole lack of government thing contributes to it, but it seemed free. Not in the western sense of FREEDOM in all caps, but as in anything could happen. Syria seemed more rigid, structured, but still incredibly warm. Even though you recognize that saying the wrong thing could easily end you up in prison, that rigidity is countered by the shopkeepers shouting at you "you are welcome in syria!"-- even if you're making no indication to come buy some of their wares. Jordan somehow seemed more ancient and more modern, maybe because the bedouin version of texting-while-driving seems to be by donkey.

I found myself trying to pin down Israels spirit. And it's boring and hostile. Not to make huge generalizations about a country (cuz I haven't already done that in this post..), but so far, the people I've met have been largely arrogant, unfriendly, and self-centered. Maybe it comes from having to perpetually defend yourself, having a culture so largely based on the idea that 'we have a right to be here and you don't', or maybe I'm just used to people being so friendly.

But I don't know. Could also just be Tel Aviv. Still, part of me wants to try and hop the border back to Beirut.

Dancing Rabbis

Arrived into Tel Aviv yesterday after getting interrogated at the border for two hours. The price you pay for visiting rival countries and then asking Israel to stamp your passport. First thing I saw when I came in, along with the perfect beaches, was a van being ghost-ridden by a bunch of dancing rabbis selling CDs.

Now, I'm staying at Kate's apartment near the beach with her and her roommate. Leandro's also here doing a photography program just outside the city. It's good to see some familiar faces, even though I've enjoyed the people I've met.

Last night we all snuck into a rooftop pool party, then went back to the apartment. Started drinking, then picked up the Bolivian girl and Leandro. Went to a club called Galina. Everything was okay until we got in the bus to come back. Got a massive nosebleed. Tried to eat a schnitzel during said nosebleed. Didn't work out well.

Today, went to the beach. Ate another schnitzel. Bought some non-backpacking clothes. Now going out again.

Ain't Nothin' But A Bedouin Dance Party

Whew. Feel alot better than I did on the 4th.

Yesterday I got up early to see Petra. Really awe inspiring (as one would imagine). Walked around with a guy from UNC who's about to cross to the West Bank to teach poetry to Palestinian kids.

BUT, the coolest thing I did was ride a donkey up to the Monastary, about a half hour ride up these rickity stone stairs. Behind me, this Bedouin with the biggest moustache I've ever seen was alternatly yelling at him to hurry up, and then shushing him when he got too close to the edge of the stairs. Quite an experience.

After I made it back to the hotel (walking around in nearly 40C heat for 7 hours will take it out of you...), I slept, and then went to a barbeque on the roof of the hostel. Then, the proprieter announced that we were all going to the desert. So, me, Alex (a brit who I've now run into in three different countries unplanned), this beautiful Bolivian human rights lawyer, and another american girl, hop in this pickup truck and speed into the desert. Alex and I were in the back. No, Jordanians don't drive any safer than Syrians. Or Lebanese. I think I might make my mother cry if I thought about how many chances I've had for vehicular disaster on this trip.

Anyways, we get off the road after about 30 minutes, and then offroad for another 10, before we get to this spot in the middle of fuck-all nowhere. They attach a string of lights from the car battery, lay down a mat, and start bumping Latin American pop from the car cab.

"We dance now," says Ibrahim.

So, we danced. For like 3 hours. Eventually, we heard the clammer of big animal footsteps, and these 4 other Bedouins show up. On donkey. Apparently, according to "Cave Man", they were having a barbeque in the desert, heard the music, and wanted to come kick it.

S0, we drank tea (bedouin whiskey), learned the secrets of sexual virility (camel milk), and danced. Eventually, we stopped, and stared at the stars. There's so little artificial light out in the desert (obviously), that the stars looked so close you could touch them.

"But not like in my town in the Andes," says the Bolivian girl. "There, at 4000 meters, the stars are 3D."

Maybe thats where I'll go next.

The Sir George Chronicles

Last night I decided that, instead of spending the night in Damascus and then go to Petra, I'd just catch a night bus. It would leave at 11PM and arrive in Amman at 7AM. Supposedly.

We got their closer to 1PM, and the only reason I made it there at all was because this beautiful Dutch girl lent me enough money to get through (fun fact: my ATM card doesn't work in Aleppo because all the banks are local, and therefore, to Visa, withdrawing money is abetting a "rogue state", so I was completely broke by the time I got to the border), and a Syrian guy in a calculater watch and pressed button down who couldn't pronounce my name (I was alternately 'Sir George' and 'Mr Jack') pulled me through the laborious visa process.

Then, in Amman, I hopped on a microbus for 4 hours, just having arrived in Petra. Having not eaten a proper meal in 24 hours, a shower in closer to 48, I'm looking forward to crashing. Happy 4th of July.

Josh Visits a Syrian Brothel; Hilarity Ensues

Ok, let it be prefaced, no prostitutes were used, even for research purposes, for the making of this entry.

So yesterday, I was wandering the souk, and kept seeing these camera flashes from an alley. I tried to see who it was, because it was obviously another tourist, and since it was friday, the souk was deserted; i've run into so many people i've met from other parts of the region that I figured, how funny it would be if it was someone I knew.

Turns out it was Dave, the 33 year old British accountant who I went to a wine tasting and ruins with in Northerne Lebanon. So, we went and visited the citadel together and grabbed lunch, which consisted of sujok, or sausage spiced and pressed between bread, and another dip made of pomegranate molasses, spices, and some kind of bean.

We split up for a bit, him to go check his mails and me to go get my hair trimmed and my face shaved by this old man with a straight razer. It was a religious experience-- the italian I went with said I looked like I had just been baptized after I came out, all trimmed and clean and smelling like the rose oils they rub on your face and hair.

Ran into a shitload of archeologists at the hotel, who had just finished a dig in Syria. They told me that Brown University runs one of the big digs in Petra, and that last year, they stole the Brown flag that was hanging ostentatiously over the site.

Left the hotel with the Italian I'm rooming with to meet with Dave to go have a drink at the hotel TE Lawrence and a bunch of other famous people drank at, and then to dinner. But while we were drinking, we ran into these two Australian girls I met in Damascus. We drank a bit, and then decided that we could skip dinner and instead start drinking.

So, after going up to their hotel room and finishing a pint and a bottle of vodka, we say to ourselves, "lets go clubbing".

Questionable decision #1; all the reputable dance clubs in Aleppo close at around 11. It's now 12:30.

We wander the streets trying to find a dance club. So, I ask these two fifteen year old boys where a club is. They look at me, then at the Australian girls , then at me. Then start laughing.

"Wait," I say, pointing at the club in the distance. "Bitch?"

They manage to nod their heads while cracking up.

So, I turn to my people. "There aren't any dance clubs in Aleppo... but there is a brothel. Should we go?"

Questionable decision #2, we all nod in agreement.

So that, my friends, is how Josh ended up in a Syrian brothel, drinking strawberry beer with a complimentary fruit plate because his Australian friends showed a little more than necessary cleavage.

The brothel consisted of a big stage, with discoballs above it, where fully clothed prostitutes were swaying to the live band behind them. Then, they get off stage, make their rounds while American music videos play on a TV behind the stage (appropriately, one of the videos was 'hoes in different area codes" by Ludacris). Then the girls get back on stage and dance again.

It has to be said that at this point, we're all trashed. We've finished a considerable amount of vodka, and then the Australian girls have moved on to Arak, the anise flavored liquor ubiquitous to the region. So, we're watching the girls dancing...

Questionable decision #3: the Australian girl shoves back her chair and says "fack it, i'm gonna dance".

So, this is how Josh finds himself watching his new friend dancing with a bunch of prostitutes in aforementioned Syrian brothel.

Eventually, I made it back to the hotel, and that was that. But now, I've been to a Syrian brothel, and no one can take that away from me.

Aleppo

So, I'm finally here in aleppo, syria. today i went to latakkia with wahib which was kind of a bust-- we went to this really nice beach to swim, but theyd only let me in because im american, so wahib wasnt allowed. then i took a bus to aleppo this evening, home of maybe the biggest souk in the middle east, as well as the head of zacharia, the father of john the baptist, who a psychic once told me i was in my past life. har har har.

not sure what you'd call it, but i felt strangely lonely on the bus ride to aleppo. not for seattle, or for my family (although i miss you), but rather for the people i've met on my journey thus far. i've met so many cool people from all over the world-- denmark, sweden, the uk, switzerland, germany-- that, while i have their email and facebook and shit, i'll probably not see again. to a certain degree, that's the same with everyone in your life, that people come in and out, you share an experience with, and then you seperate. for some reason, that fact hit me harder than it has before. maybe it was because, for the first time since i left damascus, i'm again on my own. it feels good-- the freedom is intoxicating-- but i find myself missing the warmth of al rabie, or the complete chaos of talals. oh well, to new adventures.

i have more time on the computer, so i'll post a few things that i've noticed while here:

prostitution. yep, i said it. sorry grandma. prostitution is huge in syria, at least among the kids my age. since everyone is so religious, no one has sex before marriage, so they all go to "bitch" to fulfill their more carnal needs. and guess how much it costs? between 2 dollars and 10 dollars, not for what your getting, but for the attractiveness of the girl. wtf, syria.

also, the asses in syria. sorry grandma. lebanese girls have the most beautiful faces, but the girls in syria have the most incredible asses. add this to the fact that everyone is celibate before marriage (except for bitch), and i don't understand how the entire country hasn't just exploded from sexual frustration.

on a less sexual note, the sense of community here is also something i think we could take back to the states. in kfarbou, the small town where i was staying, everyone hung out around someones home in groups of like 15 or 16, young, old, neighbors and friends. drinking tea, smoking sheesha or cigarettes or both, chatting and laughing. wahib told me that, "in syria, relationships are the most important thing". maybe that's wishful, but after two days in kfarbou, i can see it. everyone eats togethers, smokes together, drinks together, kisses each other, hugs each other, sings together. people ride around on little honda bikes from house to house until like three in the morning. it's a different lifestyle than in seattle for sure, but in comparison, the states seem a little cold.

Also, the family i stayed with in kfarbou. the father was some kind of renouned arabic singer, so he'd just break out into song, or bust out his lute, and sing these warbling, haunting songs. the mother makes this super heavy syrian food that i swear is cooked with like a pound of clarified butter. super good, but when i get back to the states i think i'll eat nothing but kale for like a week.

anyways, thats all for now.