Day Nine: Ancient Stones, Modern Schnitzel, and Shelter Wisdom

A new Airbnb with a neighbor to remember

Some more rocket scars in the Jerusalem sky

Today, I woke up and packed up my little Airbnb. It was time to move on to greener pastures. After intense negotiations with my current landlord about extending my stay, it was decided to move on.

I wasn’t looking to move on. Rather, my landlord was being obstinate. He was being a real Jew as they say. When my tenure at his apartment was due to be up for the second time (I had extended the first), I reached out to him hoping to broker a fair deal for the two of us. I told him that undoubtedly, he must have had some sort of cancellation due to the grounded flights and in good faith, I asked him if he’d consider lowering the price for me as it would be empty anyways. He got a little upset at me and insisted I not only pay the same amount as previous, but this time he wanted it in cash and he was coming by soon to pick up the money.

That was all I needed. I made the decision, found a new place, and this morning I moved into my new apartment. This landlord was a real mensch. Machluf, he introduced himself as. A real French/Moroccan. He gave me a lovely deal and here I am, in upgraded digs in the holy city in the holy land.

The rest of the day passed in a blur. I did some laundry, caught up on a week’s worth of Vegas Matt YouTube videos and went on a little shpatzir.

In the evening, I decided to wander through Mamilla Mall like some sort of architectural tourist, which, let’s be honest, is exactly what I am (well not an architectural tourist, but I do have a love for the arts). But there’s something oddly mesmerizing about running your fingers along stones that have been reassembled with such care that each one bears a little marking, a token timestamp from when someone decided this particular rock belonged right here, right now. It’s like reading the world’s most boring diary, except somehow it’s not boring at all.

I struck up a conversation with an elderly man who turned out to be a retired archaeologist, or at least a retired doctor who’s now a hobby archaeologist, visiting the sites in ISrael to sift through the dirt and find our nation’s treasured history. I mentioned the markings on the stones (which is how he told me of his hobby) and then he told me a little about the painstaking process of documenting every stone during the mall’s construction, treating each piece like a puzzle piece in a 3,000-year-old jigsaw.’

For dinner, I made the pilgrimage to Hatch for what I can only describe as a surprisingly decent schnitzel experience. (8/10), and I don’t give out 8s lightly. But the real standout was the fries. Sorry, London, but your fries have been thoroughly shamed by a mall food court in Jerusalem. Sometimes the truth hurts.

When I got back to my Airbnb, my phone buzzed with a notification. Not the sirens, thank G-d, but one of those preemptive alerts that basically says, “Hey, maybe consider not standing in the middle of the street right now.” Since I’m living in a new building and am apparently the type of person who likes to know where his nearest bomb shelter is—call me old-fashioned—I decided this was the perfect opportunity to familiarize myself with my new accommodations.

Down in the shelter, I encountered what might be the most impressively accomplished woman I’ve met on this entire trip. Her name was Chana, she was from South Africa, and she possessed that understated competence that makes you immediately question your own life choices. Marathon runner, mother of five, lawyer—honestly, just listening to her made me tired and embarrassed that I have never even finished one of the novels i’ve tried to write. She was there with two of her kids; the other three were married and scattered across Israel.

“I’m worried for them. But what can I say? There’s nowhere safer in the world than Israel.”

Now, some might point out the irony of declaring Israel the safest place in the world while sitting in a bomb shelter, but there’s something beautifully, stubbornly Israeli about that statement. It’s the kind of logic that only makes sense when you’ve been here long enough to understand that safety isn’t about the absence of danger—it’s about being exactly where you’re supposed to be.

Chana and I chatted for a while about marathons (she’s run twelve), about law (she specializes in family court), and about the peculiar experience of living in Israel.

This evening, I found myself for the first time, truly contemplating my increasingly limited exit options from what was supposed to be a brief stopover in the Holy Land. Ben Gurion Airport remains closed indefinitely, and the alternatives are, shall we say, less than appetizing. There are buses heading across the border to Jordan, though “not safe” feels like an understatement. Then there are the buses to Egypt, which somehow manage to sound even less appealing than the Jordan option. And for those with deeper pockets and stronger stomachs, there are 30-hour boat rides to Cyprus that make my Wizz Air seat sound like a luxury option.

For now, I’m planning to wait it out, because frankly, none of these alternatives sound particularly conducive to my continued well-being. Plus, there’s something oddly poetic about being stuck in Israel while the geopolitical chess game plays out around us.

Meanwhile, here I am in my Airbnb, air conditioning humming away, laptop open, staring at a Chabad.org assignment about Chevron that’s due tomorrow. The question looming large: Do I venture out to the ancient city where our forefathers are buried, armed with nothing but my backwards Chabad.org cap and my questionable Hebrew skills? Or do I embrace the coward’s path and file my report from the climate-controlled comfort of my couch, armed with nothing but Google and some Whatsapp calls.

It’s the age-old journalistic dilemma: authentic experience versus air conditioning. Danger versus comfort. The call of adventure versus the call of Vegas Matt.

Well, dear readers, you’ll have to tune in tomorrow to find out whether I choose the path of the intrepid war correspondent or the way of the well-informed couch potato. Thanks for joining me for Day 9 of what was supposed to be a European adventure and has turned into an extended Middle Eastern spiritual retreat with complimentary bomb shelter experiences and front-row seats to watch the Aibishter’s eyes watch over the Holy Land in real time. See you tomorrow!