Earthquake Times
As soon as he began his bonking activities, the bed I was lying in started quivering slightly, despite my not having moved an inch. For a few seconds, I was a bit unsure of what was happening and was partially amused at this coincidence, until I realized that even the clothes that were hung out to dry on the clothes’ stand were also shaking, which is when I realized that we’re experiencing tremors.
I took my cellphone, my passport and my house keys and rushed out onto the road hoping that other people would’ve been as paranoid as I was.
As I got on the road, the only other person I saw was this stray dog who I’ve hung out with before, who came wagging his tail in recognition. Everyone else seemed to be sound asleep.
Just as well, I figured it wasn’t as big a deal as it was made out to be in my head.
The last time an earthquake happened in my vicinity, I was fifteen, on holiday in Mumbai at my uncle’s place and was sound asleep in the middle of the afternoon when there were supposed tremors. I slept right through it and only know of what transpired because someone told me later.
The bedside table had moved and I hit my head on it when I woke up. I am not sure, but I might’ve scolded my poor cousin when I saw him next, assuming that he’d pulled a fast one on me by shifting the position of the table, even though Mother Nature was responsible.
Given how many bumps I’ve had on my head since I was dropped on my head when I was a kid, I’m surprised I haven’t suffered any mental damage till date.
Earthquakes are quite scary, unless they happen in movies. In that case, they look quite grand on the big screen. It would be stupid to hope that they don’t happen, because they’re all part of nature’s way of pruning the evolutionary tree.
I’m just hoping that when it does happen, if I am awake, that I have enough presence of mind to run out with my important documents, my cell phone and my continuously replenished stash of emergency food.
An Encounter with the Shin Bet: Part 2 – The Interrogation
“Sir, you seem nervous and you are sweating. This is quite unusual. Is there a problem?”
“No Ma’am, it’s just that I sometimes have trouble talking to pretty women.”
Textbooks in the future will use this example in order to illustrate the true meaning of the word Chutzpah. They will also have an asterisk sign at the bottom which will request the student to never try this when a law enforcement officer is questioning them.
The pretty Shin Bet officer who was wearing dark rimmed glasses seemed like a hot librarian, and I was glad that it was her and not some seven foot tall chap who looked like The Great Khali who was asking me all these questions.
The officer asked me to place both pieces of my luggage on the counter top and made me stand on one side. She stood on the other side of the counter and began asking me an elaborate set of questions.
- Who were you hanging out with last night? Can you tell me their full names? What were you doing?
- Who do you know in Israel? Did you know anyone before you came here for your trip?
- Why did you choose to visit this country?
- Which other countries have you visited and what are the dates of your visit?
- Where else would you like to go to vacation on?
- Why did you spend seven days in Jerusalem? Most people take only two or three days to see the place.
- Did anyone gift you something that you are carrying with you now? Do you have any explosives, weapons or any sharp objects in your luggage?
- How did you pay for this trip? Who approved of your leave at the office? What are their names? How long have you planned this trip for?
- What does your company do? What is your role in the company?
- Are you part of any group or congregation back in India? (I told her that I was part of a bicycle riding club. Another attempt of mine at being a smartass.)
This was a sample of the many questions that I was asked, sometimes circular ones, which was, I guess in an attempt to trap me or to see if I was messing up on details. I had no such hassles since I had nothing but the truth on my side and I answered every question very politely, but slightly curtly.
She even took my travel journal, which had notes I’d made about my entire trip to write about later and asked me extensive questions on my movements or on things I had written in it. She then asked to see the photographs I’d taken on my trip and asked me to identify a few of the places.
I’ve studied and read about the country enough to, at the risk of sounding pompously arrogant, know more about it than the average native does and I was able to answer all her questions and pass any test she administered with flying colours.
My good friend’s father, Dr.Krishna Rao had written a book titled ‘The Coucal Collaterals’ a few years ago, about an Indian urologist who was mistakenly detained at Heathrow, identified as a suspected Al-Qaeda terrorist and then shipped to Abu Ghraib and tortured there.
My hungover and sleepy mind was only able to think of that scenario and the very fact that I seemed suspicious enough for them to interrogate me in this manner for so long made me slightly paranoid. It is in such situations that the whole ignorance being bliss thing works to one’s advantage, but I had no bliss.
However, I was thinking of who I would get in touch with in case the shit hit the fan and was making a mental list of people to call to bail me out should anything unpleasant take place.
The barrage of questions continued for an extended period. I politely requested for water on two occasions because I was thirsty and the lady, who didn’t seem as hot as she did at the start of the conversation, said that I could have water after I was done.
This lady left, only to be replaced by two people, a lady and another guy who then proceeded to open both pieces of my luggage and scrutinize it thoroughly. They took a metal detector to separate the metal items from the non-metallic pieces. They went through the lining of my clothes to check for God-only-knows-what.
After they were done with the metal detector, they took another blue coloured device and poked through my luggage again. I asked the lady what the device was, and she told me that she was not allowed to tell me. They took some of my items to be x-rayed and a few others for some other checks, and it was at this point in time that I was getting slightly worried.
I told them that I was ok with whatever checks they had to do so long as they’d ensure that I made it to my flight on time after I could shop at duty free. These two seemed more chilled out, so I was smiling politely as I made conversation with them.
Once they were through checking my entire set of belongings, they put it back. However, the myth I’d read about how they’d pack your bag more neatly than you did initially was busted and I had to ask them to pack it more neatly and assist them when they did it.
I thought this was the end of it all, but the gentleman who was checking my big bag then said that I had to head to another room to undergo a metal detector check.
I was made to get that much needed drink of water from the cooler tap and was whisked away into a room which had a few curtained sections in it, much the same as in case of hospital wards where patients can’t afford to have private rooms for themselves.
I was asked to remove my shoes and my sweater and put them in another tray. That tray was taken away, along with my wallet for another check and I sat there, in that small confined space in my t-shirt, jeans and socks, reasonably relaxed.
I think my being relaxed was as a result of them being polite and non-threatening, in the midst of all proceedings. The chap then returned and ran the metal detector all over my person and patted me down waist above.
He then asked me to sit down and checked the cuffs of my pants and patted me down from the thighs and below. After this, he told me that the metal detector was going off near where the button of my jeans was and that he had to check that I had nothing metallic underneath it.
For that purpose, he said, I was required to take my pants off till my knees in the presence of another security officer while he’d run the metal detector to double check.
I secretly heaved a sigh of relief at the fact that I wear boxers and not frenchies as the metal detector was used along my waistband after I dropped my pants down to my knees. Satisfied with the fact that I was not who they initially suspected to be, I was then told to collect my belongings and put my shoes back on.
The officer in charge of the procedure then told me that they were through with their check and that I would be waved through every other process of scrutiny to head directly to passport control. He also mentioned how the Israel security procedure was nicer in that passengers were taken aside to drop their pants while at the US airports, there was no separate section for such checks. I believe he might’ve been trying to make me feel relatively relieved.
When I made my way back to where my luggage was kept, I had neat orange stickers stuck all over on my bags and my passport, after which the officer took me to the Royal Jordanian terminal and got me good seats on my flights back home. He then took me through an alternate route and waved me through to immigration and passport control, where I was then allowed to pass through into the terminal without incident.
As I walked into duty free, somewhat shaken up at being considered a potential flight threat and being so thoroughly interrogated, I was relieved about the fact that I was smiling and jovial all through and that I cooperated and complied with all that they asked and wanted to check and verify.
Their jobs are high risk and I guess they’re better off committing a plethora of type 1 errors rather than make even a single type 2 error, because it is indeed a matter of life and death. I’ve heard that they follow the policy of “Respect everyone, but trust no one.”
Some of my friends in Israel who found out about my hanging out with the Shin Bet for the interrogation process said they hoped that this experience would not leave me with bad memories of my otherwise incredible trip.
I know for a fact that it will not.
The funniest thing that made me grin from ear to ear was that as soon as I stepped into the duty free section to scout for alcohol to buy, the PA system began playing this song by Bill Medley and Jennifer Warnes, reminding me, that sometimes life does end up having movie moments of its own.
The song, quite appropriate for the occasion, as you might’ve guessed, was “I’ve had the time of my life”, from the movie Dirty Dancing.
As I then made my way to the departure gate, well in time, I realized how important it is to be relaxed and to wear boxers to the airport. I pity the fools who’d want to go commando.
An Encounter with the Shin Bet: Part 1 – The “Run” Up
“Uh-oh, this looks like it is going to take a while”, I said to myself as I nodded, smiled politely at her and walked towards the counter where I was then subject to a long, grueling interrogation session.
It was nine thirty in the morning on the 6th of January and I had finished with my three week holiday in Israel and was scheduled to board a Royal Jordanian flight bound to Amman at half past twelve that afternoon.
I was sweating and slightly fidgety when I was standing in line and as I reflect upon the situation, the reasons that eventually led to my interrogation seem trivial and avoidable. But not everyone can boast of spending quality time with the Shin Bet (which, along with the Mossad and the Aman is responsible for security in Israel). Dear reader, you now know of one such person, at least by association.
Shin Bet literally translates to ‘hidden shield’, and these guys do their best to make Ben Gurion airport the most secure one on the planet.
I had a small taste of their attention to detail when I landed there on the evening of 20th December. When I left the airport and took the elevator to the train station, I stopped to take a picture of a sign that said “Welcome to Israel”, because it was nice to be welcomed.
The arrivals section at Ben Gurion consists of a welcome hall on the ground floor and there were many people waiting to welcome their near and dear ones. I’d have loved a welcoming committee to earmark the start of my holiday, but the closest I got to that was this sign and I wanted to take a picture of it.
As soon as I was done clicking the photo, a girl walked out of nowhere and identified herself as airport security and asked me what I was doing. I explained to her how I took a picture of the sign that said ‘Welcome’. I then showed her the photo because she asked if she could take a look.
Satisfied with my explanation, she let me leave, after giving me directions and telling me which platform to board the train on. It was my first interaction with someone in the country after I got there and I was pleasantly surprised because literature everywhere seems to suggest that Israelis are, on average, quite rude.
Now, as I was about to leave the country, I got to watch the full movie, so to speak.
The night before I was scheduled to leave, I had decided to party and had gone out with a bunch of friends to a bar and bumped into another set of people who had just been to India after their army service. The original bunch of friends were tired and decided to bounce, while this new set of indophiles were off to another party and they invited me along, and I did.
All in all, I got back to Florentine hostel at 0500 in the morning and was to wake up at 0730 to then rush to the airport. Sleepy and hungover, I made my way to the H’Hagana train station.
At the train station, I was supposed to board the 0855 train to reach Ben Gurion at 0910. All signs and announcements are in Hebrew, and someone gave me wrong directions to which platform I had to take, which resulted in me making a last minute dash along with my suitcase and my backpack to the correct platform so as not to miss the train. The next one was only at 0933 and that left me with very little buffer at the airport.
When I got off the train at the airport, my suitcase stroller handle got stuck in the turnstile and it was a while before I was able to dislodge it.
As a result of all these circumstances, I was a bit on the edge. To further make me jittery, there was this bunch of Nigerian pilgrims who I’d previously encountered in the old city section of Jerusalem, who were also about to head to the departures gate and I was certain they were going to clog the line. I was determined to make it ahead of them so I could pass through security smoothly and get to my departure gate well within time and I walked briskly ahead of them.
It is with this frame of mind and body that I stood in line. All our passports were being checked meticulously by pretty women in uniform and the couple standing ahead of me in line was subject to intense questioning. I stood behind them, quite smug, because of the fact that I was on a tourist visa and because I was going home.
I saw no reason why they’d have to spend anything more than their minimum time in asking me what they had to. I was under the impression that they’d wave me ahead so my baggage could be x-rayed so that I could then collect my boarding pass and waltz through the security check.
Boy, was I wrong or what.
Seeing as I was sweating and just a bit edgy, the lady who scrutinized my passport soon after she was done spending time with the couple ahead of me in line asked me a few questions. She then asked me if my last name was a common one in our country.
I told her that a few hundred thousand people would probably have that surname. She then took my passport and had a quick word with another colleague of hers, who then took my passport and asked me a few questions about when I had arrived and about my route back home to India.
She then noticed that I was sweating and ostensibly nervous, for all the reasons that you, Dear Reader, is now aware of (but she wasn’t) and asked me to step aside so they could ask me a ‘few’ questions.
As I walked towards the desk where I was to be questioned, I could only hear Sting’s words playing at the back of my head, “A gentleman will walk but never run…..”.
To be continued……part 2 is here
Bet Ahava (For Love)
I had planned to spend four days more in the city and understand it and get to know it better, because I intend to come back.
However, my continuous stint in Jerusalem was cut short by the need to head back to Tel Aviv for a night, to celebrate the birthday of a friend who’d invited me over. I didn’t want to be anywhere else that evening and therefore took the bus from Jerusalem to Tel Aviv late in the evening.
Tel Aviv has two bus stations and I had to be dropped off at the central bus station in order to get to Florentine, the neighbourhood where I was to attend the celebrations. I realized at the end of the journey that I’d boarded the wrong bus station and I was dropped off in an unfamiliar part of town.
As is customary, I had landed earlier than the actual time I was supposed to be there, because I believe that “fashionably late” is an oxymoron.
Plus, I’d had a chance to walk around extensively during the four days I’d spent in Tel Aviv and felt that my inner compass had been tuned enough to get my bearings around the city accurately so that I could get to Florentine without asking for directions.
The Azrieli Center stood majestically on the Tel Aviv skyline, acting as a quasi-lighthouse and I knew I had to walk in a south-westward direction from there to get to my destination.
I made my way along streets whose names had strong historical as well as pop culture significance. Wandering past Yitzhak Rabin square for the second time in as many weeks and continued along King George street, many thoughts meandered in my head like a restless wind inside a letterbox.
The previous evening, I’d asked an orthodox Jewish girl out for a drink. She found out during the course of the evening that I wasn’t Jewish and as things stand, she wanted to eventually end up with a Jewish man. No compromises on that front, she said. She was also six years older.
I’d flirted with her shamelessly the evening before we went out and had felt quite smug at the prospect of being able to have some good female company in a new city. While I’d be lying if I said that I expected it to be only about “meaningful conversation”, it was a bare minimum requirement for me to call it a good evening.
That was all that it turned out to be, for orthodox Jews are supposed to follow the “no physical contact” rule for their dates.
I had a good evening filled with conversation ranging from travel to philosophy to how I’d be a natural fit in a Yeshiva if I only had side curls and a circumcision at birth, but the aftermath of the date left me in limbo with questions about love and life that I’d never imagined I would be asking myself at this point of time in my life.
You sometimes think you’ve got it all figured out and then you realize that you’re horribly wrong.
It was at this point that I began singing “While my guitar gently weeps” and that was on playing in my head for an entire evening. The song played on continuously even during my long walk from the Ayalon bus station in Tel Aviv.
I paused briefly at Magen David square, the intersection of King George and Allenby, to wait for the pedestrian traffic light to turn green and as soon as I got to the other side of the road, I was approached by this girl who asked me if I wanted tea.
I was in the mood to have a nice cup of tea and so I reached out for my wallet to pay her before I got a cup, but she told me that they were just distributing tea for free.
On being asked why, she said they were doing it to spread love and happiness as part of a group that called itself Bet Ahava (for love).
She gave me the cup of tea, gave me a hug and then moved on to find someone else whose evening she could brighten.
I walked away from there towards the birthday party with a huge smile on my face, singing “All we need is love”. Things happen, circumstances shape themselves and life shows you how beautiful it can be if you really need to know.
The Beatles, I feel, were right, for the most part.
As was Alexander Pope:
Man never is, but always to be, blest.
How Not to Use a Microwave Oven
This was in order to satiate my need for good taste as well as to assuage my ego that wouldn’t take packaged / processed food for an answer. Any retard with a microwave can empty the contents of processed food into a microwave safe dish and heat it to eat it later.
But it takes talent to burn and destroy two supposedly microwave safe dishes in two consecutive days while cooking from first principles and this post is about precisely that.
A salad is an integral part of my meal and in addition, I wanted to cook some flavoured rice to go with it. It made more sense than to make plain rice and curry because the curry would require more utensils and more than just a microwave to get it absolutely right.
The first evening, I set out to heat spices and oil in a microwave safe dish (made of plastic) and to then add rice to it thereafter and cook the entire thing. However, the plastic dish couldn’t bear the heat of the boiling oil and therefore died a horrible death and was summarily discarded the way pearlpet dishes are relegated to oblivion.
In order not to repeat the mistakes that I committed on the first day, I decided to use a borosil glass bowl to cook the rice last evening. I put in the oil and the spices and heated the dish in the microwave. Then I added rice (soaked in water for about fifteen minutes) and heated it further to mix it up with the oil.
So far, so good.
The only other thing after this was to add water and cook it to get nice, steamed, flavoured rice to go with the salad I’d made. I was giving myself hi-fives and singing U2′s “beautiful day” and slowly adding the right quantity of water to then place it back in the microwave and finish it, as I went about drinking my half-finished mug of beer.
What I didn’t realize was that I had to wait for the glass dish bowl to cool along with the contents within it before I could add water. Hindsight 20/20, as they say. Now I know that when you add water directly, the bowl cracks. Crack it did, and I soon encountered the possibility of another spill in my small kitchen.
I had to hurriedly transfer the contents into the last microwave safe dish to complete cooking, whilst having to bid farewell to the glass bowl that showed so much promise but lived for such a short while.
The moral of this story is that I need to get an electric stove or something to help me with my preliminary cooking, if not for which more “microwave safe” vessels will fail to live up to their name.
Edit: You’ve reached the end of this post. While you’re at it, how about some link-love or a feed reader add, considering I intend to blog like crazy henceforth? KTHX.
Settling in Blues
In addition, I was asked to shift out of the house I used to live in for the first eight months of my stay in Gurgaon and the need to move out four days before I was to leave the darn place for over three weeks meant that my entire setup was in shambles.
I am a compulsive loner so far as my accommodation situation is concerned and despite having had the time of my life on my trip, I was dreading getting back home and opening the door to see a house not settled into, with dust and cobwebs all over the place.
The scene that I encountered was no different from what I’d imagined. An unclean floor is always a bitch and a dusty one with white tiles that my landlord placed despite all my protests just compounded my misery further.
The weekend was spent in reorganization of my entire setup and this week has been spent in honing my cooking skills once more. The washing machine, microwave oven and fridge have made my life beautiful and have rendered me fully independent for the most part.
The inconvenience of having to open the door to a maid who might have to be micromanaged has instead given way to a twice-in-a-week cleaning that I will have to stick to. The need to cook dinner for myself, instead of the cook in the previous place who used to give me tasty food on average has also increased the burden on my daily life, while also bringing about a stronger semblance of full and complete independence.
Some of my friends remarked that I was scarily domesticated and that I was almost married in terms of the routine that I follow.
I was unable to interpret it for my mind thought of it in two ways – Am I domesticated to a point where marriage or cohabitation with a partner would not bring about too many changes into my life style? Or was it that the life style changes that marriage brings about in people have already set in within me and therefore the very task of having to “settle down” has therefore been rendered null and void?
In any case, the complete independence and therefore complete responsibility that I last enjoyed in Bangalore before I went to B-school has now once again become the story of my life as I go about doing all that I need to do to get by. I am my own cook, cleaner, washer man and man Friday and the time saved by outsourcing these activities is offset by the convenience with which I am able to work on all these activities, thereby making me more disciplined overall. Or so I hope.
I am still to document my review of 2010, wherein the total distance traveled will feature prominently in my log. In addition, I also need to work extensively on my travelogue to document the fruition of my long cherished and long awaited trip to Israel.
I think travel is my writerly muse and my mojo has returned. Please look forward to a barrage of posts in the days ahead. It will not be too boring, on that you have my word.
Autobiography of a Suitcase
Hari is too lazy and too busy at work and has therefore decided to let all and sundry blog on his behalf. His aptly named comforter that keeps him warm during the frigid wintry nights in the NCR might be writing in as well. Watch this space.
My story began one fine evening in March 2010, when a reasonably inebriated, slovenly Hari waltzed into the hypercity supermarket in Hyderabad, clad in a baggy t-shirt, shabby shorts and flip flops, looking for a suitcase to fill in all the baggage (pun unintended) he’d accumulated during his time at business school.
He’d come into B-school with a bunch of stuff and he was leaving with extra course packs and clothes that he’d brought back from his place in Mysore on regular visits he’d made there and he needed another suitcase to pack it all. It wasn’t ever going to be cold enough in Hyderabad, unlike the situation in Delhi now, for him to wear all his clothing on the flight.
I was sitting in the aisle containing travel accessories and because I was a blue coloured three-baby suitcase, Hari picked me as his first choice and took me straight to the check-out counter. His normally parsimonious behaviour seemed to have done a volte-face and he coughed up the necessary money to take me back home without batting an eyelid.
It is at this point that I must digress to tell you all about suitcase size classifications.
In the world of suitcase manufacturers, bags are categorized into the number of babies that can fit into a particular suitcase comfortably. They don’t tell you this because of the potential outrage it might cause among those who pretend not to have morbid thoughts for the sake of pure personal entertainment.
For instance, the largest bag you can carry as part of your hand luggage on domestic flights in India is a two-baby suitcase. Any three-baby suitcase and above, however, needs to be placed into the checked-in luggage section of the airplane. Of course, there are other variations too, which can accommodate part-babies, but they are non-standard sizes (like anti-fit jeans, perhaps) that are made purely for those who consider themselves too cool to carry suitcases that can fit babies perfectly.
So long story short, Hari transported me to Mysore after he graduated from B-school in the first week of April 2010 and subsequently took me to Gurgaon when he began his second innings at work. My other contemporary, the five-baby bag and I were then housed comfortably in Hari’s attic for a few months, since he relied on what he called his “trusty” backpack, to take him all around town.
Just as well. I was created for heavier, more important things.
In June 2010, Hari’s friend, Prashant was scheduled to travel to London and his suitcase wasn’t able to handle all his baggage. He swiftly called Hari who passed me onto him and that very evening, I was on a British Airways flight bound to Heathrow. I spent a week in London and the only time I was able to look around the place was when I was traveling from Heathrow to the hotel room and back.
Prashant however spent a lot of time at the duty free section, as was characteristically expected of him.
On his return, I found out that Hari needed a three-baby suitcase himself and he’d borrowed one from his friend in turn for when he had to go to Bangalore and Mysore. I was a bit sad that he wasn’t relying on me to carry his stuff around, but then again, not many suitcases can boast of leaving their owners to head to London.
That wasn’t the last of it though.
Hari never bothered picking me up from Prashant’s place and I hung out there in his attic until one day I was pulled out by Hari, only to be passed onto another friend of his who was headed to Chicago. This friend, Tarun, also had his bag give way at the eleventh hour and therefore, my services were enlisted for transporting his essentials to the US via Abu Dhabi and back on Etihad airlines.
I was there for three weeks and my first trans-Atlantic journey, stowed away in the luggage hold en route to Chicago was fun. I could sense that other bags around me were bigger and belonged to students who were moving to the States for their MS programs. Consequently, they contained tons of masalas, noodles, rice and other staple Indian food which the T&A authorities checked for at the port of entry.
Tarun seemed to know the place pretty well and he took good care of me, which is more than I can say about Hari’s abilities to do the same.
Tarun dropped me off at Hari’s place and I was then promptly whisked away on two successive weekends to South India. First, I was taken to Kumarakom where Hari was to attend a friend’s wedding at a backwater resort. Next, I traveled to Mysore once again for Deepavali at his house. Considering how much Hari traveled to Mysore from Gurgaon, I was quite surprised that he’d taken me there just this once.
However, the most quality time I spent with Hari was during his visit to Israel when I went with him to Tel Aviv via Amman. Since he was cheap enough to not splurge on a proper backpack and because he’d already booked all his accommodation in advance, he felt that he had no reason to wing it.
I was therefore dragged along the sidewalks in Tel Aviv, Jerusalem, Nazareth and Haifa on quite a few occasions. Hari’s supposedly impeccable inner compass and his strong sense of direction went for a toss as he got lost twice in Tel Aviv after reaching the central bus station and took me along as well.
At the Ben Gurion International airport, I was emptied and scrutinized for explosives, nuclear substances, drugs and other contraband substances because Hari seemed to fit the stereotype of someone who might be foolish enough to walk into Ben Gurion with aforesaid substances. Without much incident thereafter, I was transported back to New Delhi from where I am now telling you my story.
My wheels are now aching thanks to the extensive traveling I’ve indulged in last year and I guess I’m at a stage where I’ve provided my money’s worth to whoever had me in possession. But I’m also overwhelmed by all the places I had a chance to be transported to and I hope that there’s more places that I can get to go to in the days ahead.
Checking in from Tel Aviv
The past few weeks have been insanely hectic at work and that, followed by Solstice (our B-school alumni reunion) followed by a 14 hour break in Delhi when I had to make last minute purchases and finish packing was enough to drive me insane out of exhaustion and sleeplessness.
However, a twelve hour layover at Jordan where I got to stay at the Golden Tulip near the Amman airport (for free, yay!) resulted in some much needed rest and respite.
The holy land travel adventures now begin and I will keep filling it all up on my blog, either real time or after I am back home.
This time, Next year in Jerusalem will happen for sure.
