Nazareth

If you're going to build the largest church in the Middle East on the site of a previous church that was on the site of another previous church on the site where Mary was told by God she was gonna have his son, you have a pretty big bill to follow. My suggestion to future builders is to take a look at the current architectural trends and ask yourself "Is this a good thing? Will this last eternally, like Roman arches and Byzantine ceilings? Or is this 1969 and an era of avocado green appliances and shag carpeting?"

Too bad. It was 1969 and they wanted "modern".

The result is a concrete church with polka-dotted columns and angles that disrupt, not inspire.

To add to it, the walls are adorned by gifts from dozens of foreign countries and their own depiction of the Virgin Mary, including this "gift" from America.

To tie in a bit of history, they have created sculptured bronze doors, but the Duomo this is not.


While there are worse places to visit, I would not think the Basilica of the Annunciation will ever go down as one of the worlds, or Israel's, great monuments. But in another two thousand years....who knows.

Jerusalem

What a city to have changed politics and religions so many times and still remain fairly functional. Okay, there were years when the place was abandoned and lay in ruins, but she always seems to come back. And because of it's location and religious importance to the Jews, Muslims and Christians alike, there is quite a paper trail to document all of this.

The old city is broken into four main sections: Muslim, Jewish, Christian and Armenian, each with distinct characteristics. The Jewish section is mainly new since it was all blown up in the 40's, The Armenian section is quiet and fairly tourist free. The Christian and Muslim section are filled with souqs (markets or bazaars) selling all types of tourist trinkets, clothing, shoes, meat, spices, and food with smells that come at you from all angles, including hot baking bread, fresh ground coffee, sweets, pizza, everything.

The streets are narrow and perhaps give insight to why these people may never get along. The Jews walk fast, run actually, often with a book in their nose, or in deep debate of some religious importance, as they blaze trails through the crowds. The Arabs walk slow, like you do in the desert, and especially the women who can't see their feet and are most likely wearing unpractical shoes, the cobblestone roads are taken with care. Both the Jews and Arabs are toting along a horde of children, and the Arab kids all seem to have pop guns and rifles and they shoot at everyone with equality as they run about. The Jewish kids are very orderly and follow their parents, don't have guns and don't run. But the youngest kids are in strollers, sometime holding four at once in limousine fashion, and have to take each step (and there are a lot) at a snails pace, despite what quarter they hail from. Now, the Armenians and the Christians seem to walk at a medium pace and blend into the souq like they blend into the politics: invisible. But add into this a thousand tourists who zig-zag through the streets from shop to shop looking for that perfect Jesus Icon or silken scarf, and you have a walking disaster. It's impossible to get anywhere at any speed, fast or slow. I'm not sure if it's a lesson in patience or a recipe for disaster.

But the city is large enough to have empty side streets, and if you can manage to not get twisted around, you might eventually get to where you want to go, unless you are just wandering, in which case, you are already there. It's a great place to get lost in, and you can't get too lost because you will eventually hit one of the ancient walls and follow it to one of the five gates and find yourself free and clear of people. Then, you have to deal with traffic.

A Tour of Hezbollah, Lebanon

I went to Beirut to catch a plane back to Jordan. There was a chance that I could have gotten back into Syria, but it would have taken hours to find out, and I'm just not that into finding out the hard way. A flight all the way to Aqaba was only $200 and it allowed me to enter Israel at the very easy (aka no interrogation) border at Wadi Araba. It seemed worth it.

After visiting the tourist mecca of the Beirut Holiday Inn, which rivals Sarajevo's for best sniper position, I hailed a taxi to the airport.

Well, my driver was from Dahyl, a southern suburb of Beirut and seemed very upset I hadn't heard of it. "We are the home of Hezbollah! You must know. Come on, I'll show it to you!"

He gets off the highway and takes some side streets. Suddenly, there were a few bullet holes on the side of a building, then suddenly EVERYTHING was new.

"This is where Israel attacked in 2006. Everything go down. 182 buildings, but now Hezbollah rebuild it all. Iran helps us!" He shows me immaculate schools and hospitals. We pass a banner saying "Israel, you push, we push. You fight, we fight." and another saying that the USA supports Israel, so the USA did this.

Their famous leader, now dead, has his picture everywhere. he shows me his old home, and the Mosque where he talked. There is a sign banning cellphones and guns on all of the doors.

Then he shows me the Hezbollah TV broadcasting studios - "You know this, Hezbollah TV!" He's shocked when I say I don't, but I tell him I don't have a TV in America and he seems to accept this though he thinks it's strange. Imagine no TV. He wants to know why America gives so much money to Israel and not to homeless, unemployed people like me. I'm kind of wondering the same.

But aside from his narrative, I would have no idea that this was ground zero for scary terrorist activity. Basically, it's a suburb of Beirut between downtown and the airport. It's just Ramadan there and people are out and about and looking thirsty, not threatening. And the driver was so happy to share. So happy to tell all the great things about his organization and how they are helping the locals, because, he says, the Lebanese government isn't helping with the rebuild of homes or schools or hospitals or anything else.

Two sides to every story. Must be time to go to Israel.

Lebanon

It always seems that when I'm dragging my feet for a new country and not wanting to go that I am the most impressed. Lebanon has done that to me, as India did before.

I don't know if I was dragging my feet because I became just too comfortable in Hama, Syria, or if it was because of the attack on the southern border a few days ago, but either way, I kept putting it off. No longer.

The border crossing is on the Mediterranean and had a wonderful breeze of fresh salt air as I breezed through customs. I got out of the service taxi in Tripoli and found a pension in a families house within thirty minutes. Then off to cruise the old town and was even asked by the locals to take their photos. The old town is not charming, like Damascus, but real and alive. New buildings are built on the old and are each neighborhood sells different things. I particularly liked the furniture section and car repair sections for their friendliness and architecture. Who would have thought. And how nice is it to see woman working again, and their faces, arms and legs, too. It's been a long time.

Today I headed up into the hills to Bcharre, the hometown of artist and painter Khalil Gibran, which is nestled on the edge of a precarious cliff and was cool and enjoyable. I also visited the ski resort town (yes, you can ski in Lebanon) of The Cedars and walked through one of the last cedar groves in the country, which is a shame since it is their national symbol and on their flag.

Now I'm in a posh coffee shop sipping black coffee from a French press and surfing the web, free of censorship. What a difference a few kilometers make.

Tomorrow, the old Phoenician fishing port of Byblos, then Thursday off to the airport to return to Aqaba and headed west to the country you're not allowed to mention in these parts.

In two weeks time, I'll be back at Casa de Pico with the folks and enjoying San Diego with my new dig friends from there. Life is good.

Hama, Syria

I've been in Hama for long enough to think that if a person doesn't say hi to me as I walk down the street, s/he might be rude or a tourist. That's how friendly the world is here. If you need to cross the street and can't quite manage it like to locals, walk over to the cop at the corner, and he'll stop traffic for you. Easy as can be.

Hama's true charm is the Norias, or water wheels, that have supplied water to the homes and fields since the 4th century, though these are much newer (13th century) with some obvious reconstruction. They are wood in fresh water after all. At times there is enough water and wind that you can convince yourself it is raining which is quite the treat. Any amount of water is a treat after so long in the desert.

Around Hama there are also numerous ancient sites to keep one occupied. There is Apamea, an ancient Roman city which once housed half a million people, the Dead Cities which are Roman ghost towns now overgrown with olive groves, and two amazing crusader fortresses, Crac Des Chevaliers, known to be impenetrable, and Salahiddin's Citadel, buried high in the pine and juniper forests.

It's all very charming and an easy place to wile away the days.

Except, Ramadan starts on the 10th. for the next thirty days. From dawn (about 4:30 am) until dusk (7:30 pm) no food or water can touch your lips. I think I can make it with the food, but it's still over 110 each day and not drinking water seems like suicide. Abdula, the hotel owner here, has told me that Ramadan is to help everyone understand what it is to be poor so they will have more understanding and charity. It's a lovely concept, and maybe I'll try a day. Maybe.

Or, maybe not.

Damascus

August 2, 2010 (excuse the late date - Syria censors blogs and facebook)

Damascus is thought to be the oldest city in the world. There's been stuff here continuously since 3000 BC, but what's 5000 years for a city? After all, Seattle is 200 years old.

I'm a bit of a bum when it comes to traveling these days. I want to sleep off the last two months mostly, but I do find the energy to examine the fine traditional architectural features in the coffee shops and restaurants. It's the least I can do. Damascus has amazing old streets that twist and turn into small dark alleyways then emerge into vine covered cobble stoned avenues filled with shops, juice bars and cafes. On one street is the church of St. George, and a few minutes later you are at the most important Mosque in the Arab World, the Umayyad Mosque. It's all stunning.

There are signs of quirkiness too. The war museum was co-created with the North Koreans to celebrate the October, 1973 war against Israel they supposedly won (it's debatable if there were any winners). Ahh, how nice to see pictures of Kim Jong Ill again. And the internet won't you use blogger or Facebook, and kicked me off all together when the guy at the wi-fi cafe next to me got to keep going. Who's watching and how can they do that?

But all in all, the people are amazing. Iraqi, Iranian, Turkish and Lebanese tourists fill the streets along with the locals. The Iraqi man I shared a ride with up from Jordan not only let me share his taxi to the hotel area (he continued on to meet his family), but left me with 500 Syrian Pounds, about $12, because I hadn't been to an ATM yet. And good he did since most ATM's don't take debit cards without the Visa logo. I have Mastercard. Locals walk me to the correct street when I am looking for a hotel. They greet you in the street, happy you are here.

I'm happy I'm here, too, though I do look forward to real sleep, a couch, and cable TV. Soon.

The Last Storyteller in Damascus at the Al-Nawfaraa Coffee Shop

He wears the traditional robes and Tarboosh (aka think Masonic or Lion's Club) hat. He jibes the crowd, slapping his white stick if they stop listening, posing for photos with a quirky, inquisitorial expression. He pulls out his cell phone and photo's us photoing him – all while telling stories from a thousand and one nights ago. There is sword play, and a beautiful woman. There is a happy ending and the Arabic speaking portion of the crowd cheers. He sits high upon his thrown, enthralling the crowd the way a master can.

The story goes that the storytellers, or hawakstis, once filled the streets and coffee shops as as far back as the 12th century. Now there is only one, Abu Shady, and he sits in front of me now, laughing, joking, smiling, and making fun of us foreigners. A blonde girl walks in late and is seated in front of him. He stops and makes a face at her interruption. “Where are you from?” he asks. She's American. Pause..... “Obama!” and he smiles and goes back to his story. I think Obama is the number one word after America, like hot:cold, up:down, right:left, Tom:Jerry, America:Obama. I'm not complaining. It's a good change. He tolerates us, but he plays up to the locals more, in a call and response fashion.

Radio and TV's started to replace the storytellers and now, Egyptian music videos fill the void. But he has been quoted to believe the tradition will not end with him and that things are picking up.

Traditions come and go and come again. I, for one, hope this one stays.