The Crazy Train

We broke into a sprint almost as soon as we slipped through the dorm's side gate. It was 2:40 in the afternoon on Friday. We had twenty minutes to get to the train station, buy our ticket, and board before the trains stopped running for Shabat (Sabbath).

The good news was that we had become accustomed to the Middle Eastern heat, so running did not present the same difficulties it did a month earlier. The bad news was that we had absolutely no idea where the train station was actually located.

"Sandals were a bad choice," I said between shortened breaths.

Dustin continued chugging along. Both of us had our backpacks. They were filled with enough supplies for a single day's trip. I kept trying to tighten my straps as I ran. The only thing that resulted from this futile endeavor was a realization as to the limits of my dexterity.

We turned left as soon as we passed the last building on Tel Aviv University's campus and trudged our way uphill. Halfway up we came to a stop to catch our breath. I glanced down at my watch. 2:45 p.m.

We passed a trio of Israelis sitting at a bus stop. They glanced at the two of us curiously. With rivers of sweat pouring down our face and a few well-timed English swears, I'm sure we succeeded in breaking the monotony of their day.

At the top of the hill we came to a crossroads. Off to the left was a road running back toward Ramat Aviv. Off to the right was the ramp onto the main highway. No train station in sight. We had been told it was up this road and was somewhere in the general vicinity. It would not have been the first time we had been misinformed. Misinformation was as common as an M-16.

"You wanna try le...?"

"Dustin!" a heavily accented voice bellowed from behind us.

We spun around to find Peter, Dustin's Dutch roommate, sprinting in the other direction and pointing. What was he doing all the way up here? And how in the camel's hump had he caught up with us?

"Train is this vay!"

You strange, glorious little man!

Exchanging brief looks of confusion, we spun on our heels and sprinted back to the right. A group of stairs to the left of the interstate ramp soon gave way to the domed structure of the train station. It was positioned well below eye level at the base of the hill we stood atop.

"Peter, you're awesome!" Dustin said first.

"Thanks Pete!" I followed.

We bolted toward the stairs, each of us giving Peter a high-five in the process. I glanced at my watch again. 2:50 p.m.

"Our guardian angel: The Flying Dutchman!"

I heard Dustin laugh. "I think we can stop running," Dustin suggested.

"Agreed."

The train station was all but empty. When we entered, a lone woman was purchasing a ticket and asking where the restroom was located. I was pleasantly surprised that I was able to pick up the conversation in Hebrew. Score one for the Ulpan.

"Two tickets for Haifa," Dustin said, wiping sweat off his brow.

She ran our cards and handed us our tickets, completely disinterested in the amount of energy we had expended to make it on time. I tried to read it but couldn't figure out which platform we were supposed to be on.

"You have any idea where we should go?" I asked.

"Do I ever?" Dustin quipped in reply.

We soon discovered that the first platform was wrong. I asked a construction worker where we needed to go to get on the train to Haifa. He pointed to the other side and smiled.

Yea. Yea. Stupid tiyerim (tourists). Whatever.

We hustled to the other side and took a seat on a bench in the shade. A few other Israelis, likely going home for the weekend after a long week of work in Tel Aviv, milled around beside us. A cool breeze began to dissipate some of the sweat. Dustin whipped out a bottle and went to town on its contents.

"We have no idea what we're doing," I observed.

"Nope."

"We're in a foreign country where we can barely speak the language. We're about to take a train to a city we've never been to before. And we have no place to sleep and no idea how we're going to get back."

"That's right," Dustin affirmed.

"At this point, I think denying our awesomeness would be wrong."

The train whisked up behind us. The construction worker on the other side of the platform whistled at us and pointed to the train. I threw up a hand in gratitude and we boarded.

Lord, have mercy on us. For we are young and exceedingly silly creatures.


***

We sat near the back of the train in a pair of fold-out seats. On our way to our seats, we passed dozens of IDF and IAF personnel. They were all going home for the weekend and looked absolutely exhausted. Young men and women no more than twenty-one or twenty-two years old, the IDF was both an amazing and painful entity to observe. In Israel, military service is compulsory. Men serve a minimum of three years. Women serve a minimum of two years. Conscripted in the prime of their life, these young Israelis are deployed to the occupied territories and the border areas to defend their home on their own soil.

As Americans, we're used to the concept of defending our homeland by taking it to the enemy "over there." Battles have not been waged on our own ground in quite some time. Thank God.

Imagine a scenario in which a family in Birmingham had to send their eighteen year-old daughter, fresh out of high school, to boot camp where she would be trained and then deployed for two years to Mobile to defend Alabama from attacks or an invasion from Mississippi. This is the reality of Israel.

After observing the IDF, I have found that the thing that strikes me the most is not necessarily how young they are or how unfortunate it is that they are surrounded on all sides by their enemies, but rather how frustrating it must be to be just a few hours away from your family and your home, to be so near to them but also so very far away. And to possess the knowledge that you could just hop on a bus and be home before nightfall, to know that your home, for all intents and purposes, is the battlefield.

A young Israeli girl, around ten or eleven years old, sat across from us. She looked content and happy, probably excited for a weekend trip to the beaches of Haifa. Beyond her, another Israeli girl, just a few years older, slept fitfully. She was dressed in her IDF greens, her arms hugging her M-16. The contrast was striking. I looked back at the younger girl.

In a few years, that will be her reality. This is the price Israelis pay for peace.

Dustin had received a Lonely Planet guide to Israel and the Palestinian Territories from a fellow co-worker at Heritage Foundation and was putting it to good use. Haifa was the third-largest city in Israel and had a substantial Israeli-Arab mixture as opposed to Tel Aviv.

We sifted through the book hunting down information on lodging and food. Conversation was comprised of school, our upcoming break from school, and our fellow Ulpan students. Initially there was supposed to be five of us going to Haifa, but Chris, Dominique, and Stefan had all bailed for various reasons.

The trip took about an hour. We listened to the conductor make his announcements in Hebrew and English for our stops. Both of us were able to read the electronic tracking board with success and we departed at the third and final stop in Haifa.

Exiting the train station, we found our bearings. We were presently near the massive port where a substantial number of imports were brought in to Israel. The weather was brisk and cooler than it had been in Tel Aviv. It was no warmer than eighty-five with a steady breeze coming in off the port.

Dustin and I began our trek, heading east toward what looked to be the commercial part of town. We had read about a place called the Port Inn Guest House in Dustin's Lonely Planet guide. All we knew was to go east and look for Yafo Road. Simple enough.

As we strolled past closed stores and restaurants, traffic was relatively light. Clearly Shabat had already gone into effect for most of the port area. This of course meant that public transportation wasn't running. We crossed a couple of streets and maneuvered our way south. A couple of Israeli girls were doing some window shopping. We decided to risk humiliation and communicate with them in Hebrew to find the mythical Port Inn.

"Sleeha, aten medebrot Anglit? Ani rahq medeber ksaht Ivrit." (<--Not as impressive as it may look or sound.)

I asked them if they spoke English. They laughed and in perfect English responded with a "Yes."

"We're looking for the Port Inn hostel," I said.

"It's on 34 Yafo Road," Dustin added.

"Any idea?"

One of the girls turned around and looked at the building across from us. The other seemed to be a little too interested in us. I should point out that Israelis like Americans as it is, but Israeli women really like American men, particularly if they can speak some Hebrew and especially if they don't look Jewish. Dustin and I pretty much fit the profile.

It is a bit strange. In Israel, we are the ones who get to use our "appeal" to get what we want. It's a nice change of pace from back home.

The other girl turned back toward us.

"Well, you're on Yafo Road. That building over there is 19 Yafo Road. So it's probably about a hundred feet that way."

Or maybe she is starting at us because we're just retarded.

"Uh. Toda," was all I could manage.

The two girls laughed and continued about their business, speaking in rapid fire Hebrew that undoubtedly was unflattering to our perceived intellect.

Dustin and I worked our way down the street. He noted my thickly-accented Hickbrew and suggested we act lost everywhere we went so people would have pity on us. I didn't think acting lost would be too difficult a task.

Sure enough, ahead and to our right was a sign reading "Port Inn Guest House." The woman manning the desk took our information and asked to see our passports. That's going to be difficult with it being in my closet back in Tel Aviv.

Dustin didn't have his passport either. It seemed like all was for naught until the woman asked if we had a copy of the passport. A light bulb flickered on in my head and I opened up my wallet. Inside, folded neatly in the middle pocket was a copy of my passport that Mom had made for me prior to my departure for New York.

I yanked it out and handed it to her.

"Thank you, Vicki!"

Dustin sighed in relief.

We were able to get two bunks at the hostel for the night for a mere $18. She showed us our room, the kitchen, and the outdoor patio where guests could lounge about. Hostels are a staple in Israel. They offer cheap housing amongst fellow thrifty-minded travelers. The only downside is that one usually has to sleep in a room full of strangers. And if the movie Hostel is to be believed, occasional serial killers.

Twenty minutes later, we were back on the streets of Haifa in search of food on Ben-Gurion Avenue. The layout of Haifa is very interesting. There are three parts to the city. The "lower city" by the port, which is where we were staying, is comprised of the less affluent. The "upper city", which is literally atop Mount Carmel, overlooks the port and hosts Carmel Center, where most of the tourists, restaurants, hotels, and wealthy travelers reside.

The "upper upper city" hosts Haifa University and the actual peak of Mount Carmel that overlooks the Valley of Megiddo. Some might be familiar with Christian eschatology that says Megiddo is where the Battle of Armageddon is to be fought in the last days.

And in-between the "lower" and "upper" city is the Baha'i Shrine. Akin to a Middle Eastern Taj Mahal, the Baha'i Shrine is easily one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen. Over 1,400 stairs lead up from the lower city to the Shrine entrance. Unfortunately, construction is underway on its dome, making admittance impossible.

Dustin and I meandered around Ben-Gurion Avenue for about an hour and a half, searching for information and scouting out places to eat. We had no game plan. Everything was being done by the seat of our pants.

To our dismay, we found the information center closed for Shabat. Always helpful that. Public transportation was non-existent. And the restaurants weren't going to be opening until later in the night.

"I really want to go to Carmel Center," Dustin said wistfully.

"Me too."

Standing beside an empty bus stop, we watched an older woman hail a nearby taxi.

"But I don't want to dish out fifty shekels on a cab just to get up there."

"Neither do I."

It was a quiet and pleasant day in a beautiful city. The Baha'i Shrine gleamed behind us from its position halfway up the mountain. The twin towers of the Dan Panorama hotel could be seen peering over the mountain's peak. They marked the very middle of Carmel Center.

"Screw it, dude. Let's go," I finally said. "We're climbing up that mountain."

Dustin looked down for a moment and then back up. He nodded. Being a former college football player and Missouri-raised farm boy, he wasn't one to complain.

"Alright, let's do this."

I pulled my mp3 player out, scrolled down to my Metallica play list, donned my Rayban's, popped my neck, and began marching toward the base of the Baha'i Shrine. It was at that moment that I remembered that I was wearing sandals. And that Dustin had tendinitis in his left knee that he had aggravated the previous day playing basketball.

Lord. Merciful Lord. Please reward our impetuous bravery rather than punish our perpetual stupidity.


***

The journey up Mount Carmel to Carmel Center was long, painful, and amazing. We climbed several kilometers up a treacherously steep mountain in an hour and a half, stopping to take pictures above the Baha'i Shrine at the glorious vista that was Haifa at dusk. From our height, at the event horizon of our sight, Israel's border with Syria could be seen, along with the naval docks, a flotilla of Israeli warships, a nuclear reactor, and distant Akko on the other side of the Haifa port.

This view destroyed every other that I've been privileged to behold. There was no place in America that I have been that is remotely comparable. Even the magnificent view of Hebron and Jerusalem paled in comparison.

When we finally made it to Carmel Center, night had fallen and we were sweating, starving, and aching. We found a place called the Bear Pub and ordered schnitzel, chicken wings, and beer.

"We're eating chicken wings and drinking a beer at The Bear pub atop Mount Carmel," Dustin said as he tore into another wing.

"A mountain that we just climbed. We own this mountain. All these people walking past us have no idea that we now own this mountain," I replied, stabbing schnitzel with the manners of a conquering Viking.

"That was our practice run for the Golan."

"We're going to own the Golan, too."

"Basset hound."

"What?"

"There's a basset hound."

I turned around in my seat. Sure enough, walking directly past our outdoor table was Droopy. It was straight out of a Looney Tunes episode. The dog was frumpy with skin rolls, his elongated face dragging near the ground, as he moped from side to side. An Israeli family just stood on the sidewalk, watching in astonishment as Droopy plodded along. The dog was like a senior citizen, minding his own business, ignoring all the humans, heading down to the pub for a game of Gin Rummy with the boys.

"As sick as it is to admit, that may have been the coolest thing I've seen all day."

By the time we finished dinner, it was nearly 9:45 p.m. We walked around Carmel Center for an hour, taking in the sights and noting locations for future excursions and in case either of us have visitors over the course of the next two years.

We then realized that we had to descend Mount Carmel the same way we had gotten up it. It was a brief moment of despair, but considering our elation at having done it already, we cowboyed up and made our way back down the mountain toward our hostel.

Ben-Gurion Avenue was starting to liven up as all the young people hit the town and all the outdoor restaurants and bars. We took a turn on Yafo Road and began the kilometer walk back to the Port Inn.

The street was dark. Trash was everywhere. We knew that Yafo Road wasn't the nicest area of town. It was evident when we had arrived earlier in the afternoon. As we entered into the black maw of the night, we heard yelling coming from up ahead.

A group of eight or so people were gathered at a street corner about thirty meters in front of us. Five guys and three girls. One of the men was screaming in a mad and bloodthirsty manner. One of the girls was screaming back.

On the other side of the street, three men in black trench coats watched.

"Dustin, they ain't speaking Hebrew," I quipped.

"Let's cross the street," he said warily.

We crossed the road at a normal pace in an attempt not to draw attention to ourselves. But we had to pass by the three men watching the scene across the road. The screaming was louder from both sides. Arabic was being bandied about by several of the street thugs. One of the girls emitted a yell that was bloodcurdling. One of the men responded, his scream one of utter rage and madness.

We approached the three men watching the altercation. They glared at us. They knew we were foreigners. They knew we were Americans. One of the men had a long case. It looked like a fishing rod case. It wasn't. It had to contain a rifle.

I've seen this movie. It doesn't end well.

Don't make eye contact. Steady pace. Act like nothing is out of the ordinary. Dustin is huge. They're not gonna mess with him. If the first guy makes a move, put him through the windshield of the car and make sure the others can't corner you. Don't give them time to shoot or stab.

We walked by. I could feel the heat of their stares searing through my skin. Our heads didn't move, didn't even acknowledge that anything was wrong or about to be very wrong.

Nothing.

In the moments after we passed by, Dustin turned to me, his face impassive.

"Did you see that case that guy had? Looked like a fishing rod. That thing had to be a gun."

"I was just thinking the same damn thing."

We made it to the Port Inn without a hitch and let out a sigh of relief. We had made it back in one piece albeit exhausted. We spent the rest of the night drinking water and chatting about home and politics out in the courtyard before crashing. When I woke up the next morning Dustin had a wry grin on his face.

"Did you hear what happened yesterday?"

"What?" I asked, clearly thinking about the disturbing scene that had almost enveloped us the night before.

"Two katyusha rockets landed up north near here. They were fired from Lebanon. First rocket attack on Israel from Lebanon since February."

"Hezbollah?"

"They think it was an Al-Qaeda like group called Global Jihad."

I mulled this information over as I packed my clothes into my backpack. My feet felt like they had been on the receiving end of a sledgehammer.

"Guess they heard you and I were coming," Dustin said with a laugh.