Desert Naptime

After an eleven-hour flight during which I subsisted on hummus and Tylenol PM, I arrived in Tel Aviv’s Ben Gurion airport alongside 40 of my new Jewish best friends. Used to no more than one or two Jewish friends, I was overwhelmed; in curls and sweats, we looked dazed and vaguely related. As we climbed onto the tour bus—cramped home base for the next ten days—our guide greeted us in adorably accented English:

“Hello, Chosen People!”

And, just like that, the tone was set.

Twenty minutes passed, and we approached a low-slung gray building monitored lackadaisically by a guard with a dangling cigarette and a handgun tucked into cargo pants. Normal, I soon realized, for this country whose width is occasionally less than a half-marathon.

As the bus parked outside the building, the Jew sitting next to me asked in a hushed tone, “Have you ever seen Locked up Abroad?”

No, I had not had the viewing pleasure, but the implication was clear even without the context.

We stopped there for breakfast.

***

Good travel and good writing are both about small moments, a correlation that somehow does not make good travel writing easy. It’s hard to distill a massive experience into moments—to find the digestible micro in the vast macro. Oftentimes, you end up speaking less about a huge trip than you do about the banalities of everyday life. Those who have had the pleasure know there’s something inexpressible about travel.

When asked about a trip, we speak in broad terms because people don’t have time for more and we lack the vocabulary to describe the moments that makes travel addicting. Keeping that in mind, it’s useful to develop a sound bite, something thematic or summative that satisfies the questioner and saves you from rambling with no conclusion.

“How was the Dominican Republic?”

“Wonderful! I got a chance to see rural parts of the country and also gorgeous tropical beaches. It was eye-opening to see that kind of poverty, but also super relaxing to just chill on the beach.” 

Done. Everyone’s happy. Now, where should we get dinner?

Somehow, though, I can’t craft a cohesive sound bite for my trip to Israel. The trip’s takeaways are as disorderly as my classroom, a jumbled mess inside my brain. I suspect this is a good thing on a personal level—something like growth or process—but it makes articulation near impossible.

Birthright was unique in that there were expectations greater than fun or new experiences, though those were certainly included. In exchange for a free trip to the Land of Milk and Honey, Birthright expects a great deal from its participants, which seems like a fair exchange. By the end of the ten-day trip, you should:

1. Feel a strong connection to your Jewish roots, even if you were raised with little conception of Judaism.

2. Support the existence of the state of Israel. Make its enemies your enemies.

3. Have 40 new Jewish best friends with whom you can do things like celebrate Shabbat every Friday night.

4. Have a conception of your own spirituality.

5. Know enough about Israeli politics, history, economy and religion that you can serve as an ambassador to the uneducated among us.

6. Rethink any preconceived notions you might have about Judaism and Israel.

7. Stay healthy and energetic as you traverse cities, beaches and deserts on little more than four hours of sleep

No big deal.

The list is an exaggeration, but the point is that Birthright is more significant than most of the trips I’ve taken. This is not to say I chugged the Kool-Aid (I have no bearded husband and I plan to keep on strutting my knees and elbows), but it definitely got me thinking while bouncing in the Dead Sea.

***

After a starry desert campout, I woke up in a red-wine-induced haze (in New York, I’d call it a nasty hangover, but this is the Holy Land) and tried to put my sandy contacts back into my half-shut eyes with the tips of sandy fingers. To put it mildly, I was not in a good mood. The sun was blazing fiercely and the prospect of wandering though the desert—“hiking”—was not particularly pleasant, whether it be 40 minutes or 40 years. Preparing myself for the unavoidable, I slapped on deodorant and sneakers, peed behind a shrub and sipped Nescafe. Ain’t no Stumptown in the Negev.

About halfway through the hike, we stopped in a shaded area formed by high, flat rocks and sandy hills forever. Our guide instructed us to each find a flat rock for a pillow and a spot to stretch out. He instructed us to be totally silent. Like a lizard, I spread my sleepy body on a hot rock and stretched my fingers above my head. As we settled into our areas—silently, peacefully—our guide started leading us in meditation; he was very in touch with Judaism’s spiritual side. Asking us to breathe deeply, letting our breath slowly wash over our organs, to think about where we were, its significance to our spirituality and to our people. My cynical reflex started to flare up, but I held it in, focusing instead on the fact that I suddenly felt amazing: hot cancer rays streaming across my body, new friends breathing nearby and the eerie quiet that only the desert provides. As I drifted off into what will go down as the best nap ever, the cynic in me floated up, and I realized that maybe these are things with which I could get down.