I’m in Atlanta, almost home free! So, what did I miss? Did Obama get elected yet, or what?

Wikipedia says: “The [Tel Aviv] Central Bus Station is the largest central bus station in the world… The terminal is known for its problematic structure. Some of the floors cannot be reached easily… The entire building has become a synonym for bad design.” Adventure!

1. The processes and procedures for getting a new passport would be simple and straightforward
2. …assuming I didn’t drown in a pit of boredom and bureaucracy first.

I assume I am not the first, or thousandth, or hundred-thousandth citizen to lose a passport in a foreign country. And certainly the US doesn’t want to leave its people stranded. So I assumed it wouldn’t be too much trouble to get a new one. But even still, overhearing the business of others relayed over loudspeakers from microphones behind bulletproof glass, I was impressed at how easy they were making it. At one point, to verify a man’s residency in the US, she asked him a series of questions that included his college’s school colors.  One man even got a $1200 plane ticket to Nashville and $500 in traveling cash because he didn’t have any way to get home. (He has to pay all the money back, of course.)

Upon hearing the transactions of the twenty people before me, my single concern was that I, in fact, have no idea what my college’s colors are. I just looked it up: Portland State’s colors are forest green and white. Had I been asked, I was prepared to proffer my math major as proof that I was too nerdy (i.e. too cool) to attend sporting events and, thus, couldn’t possibly know the school’s colors.

When it came to be my turn, I was expecting a pretty painless procedure. Generally you have to make an appointment, but if you get there between 8am and 11am, you can get an “emergency visit”. I arrived around 10:30 and my name was dutifully written on the roster underneath the appointments. Then I waited. I read old Times, Newsweeks, Wireds, and other things. I had brought a book and a newspaper, but they make you check your bag (a store 50 feet away provides this convenient “service” for only about US$3) and I had forgotten to take any reading materials with me. At 1pm and with the waiting room essentially cleared, I finally knocked on a window and asked if they had forgotten about me. The woman, who had earlier been exceedingly friendly to everyone, seemed annoyed that I had torn her from her lunch (something so unappetizing, it could only be eaten in a government building). She told me to come back Monday, but earlier next time. I tried to explain that I had arrived earlier, at 10:30am in fact, some 2.5 hours ago. She told me to come back Monday, but earlier next time. Feeling defeated, I left without further argument.

• My cellular telephone
• My passport

I guess we won’t be going to see Jordan after all! I still have a week and a half left, so stay tuned to see what else ends up on this list!

Update: I posted this from a posh hotel in Eilat, a resort town on the very southern tip of Israel. We went in to ask about a room, but it was crazy expensive, so we’re just poaching their wireless Internet while sitting by the pool. Not ten minutes after I wrote the list, we were debating whether or not to jump in their pool and poach that too. It was then that Carissa realized we both left our swimming suits at our hostel on the Dead Sea, 2.5 hours away from here. Oops!

Carissa makes all the travel plans. She tries to read the Lonely Planet book to me, but my head just fuzzes out whenever I have to listen to boring travel literature. Over the course of our trip so far, I have spent at least two hours completely ignoring Carissa while she rambles on about hotels and visas and who knows what else (oh yeah, and her obsession with riding a camel). So it’s a good thing she’s here or I’d probably still be in Tel Aviv.

We got to Jerusalem Friday afternoon, a few hours before sundown. We parked just outside the wall of the old city, on a street with dozens of “no parking” and “tow away” signs and also dozens of cars. We were a little scared, but figured they’d have to tow the 50 cars in front of us before they got to ours, so we assumed we’d have a few hours to move it. Once inside the old city, we wandered around, trying various hostels to see who had a room. Eventually we found a spot in the Christ Church Guest House.

After getting some food, we went back to the hostel because we couldn’t really find anything to do after 8pm. We saw Reuel, the man who a few hours earlier had helped us park in their parking lot and also warned me of the terrible dangers of the Hayward Fault and how certain death would befall me if I stayed in SF. He repeated this warning at least two more times through out the night. We asked Reuel if there was anywhere he could recommend to get a drink. He took us to this amazing new place that had just opened. It was a bar in a converted alleyway. They had put a door on the entrance to the alley, put chairs and tables on the street, turned one shop into the kitchen and the other shop into a bar. It was absolutely adorable.

We asked if Reuel wanted to get a drink with us and he said he’d love to. In short order, the conversation turned to how Reuel, from Atlanta, came to be living in Jerusalem for the past 2.5 years. It was the most obvious question to ask this stranger. But without realizing what we’d done, we’d walked right into a trap of our own making.

We spent at least two hours talking about God. Reuel was a perfect politician. He launched into his well-rehearsed stump speech about finding God after years of bad parents, sex, drugs, and rock & roll. (Actually, he never mentioned the rock & roll, but I’m assuming it was involved somehow.) When we asked questions, he’d first compliment us on a brilliant question, throw off a sound bite or two, and then launch into another speech that was at best tangentially related to the question.

We both listened for probably an hour before really challenging him at all. He seemed to like Carissa’s softer, more open-minded athiesm than my more militant, logic-based atheism. I heard nothing even remotely convincing, but I’m sure he’d say the same about my arguments. He was constantly using anecdotes to show how much he could relate to us. (Joe Biden grew up in Scranton, PA? Joe Biden must understand me!) At one point, as we were getting ready to leave, he seemed to take a wild stab in the dark and told me that I probably have issues with my father, just like him. I was kinda offended and told him my parents were great and I had no issues with either of them. He countered that his parents were great too, but he still resented them. Or something. It was confusing and seemed to be the one stumbling point in his otherwise perfect delivery. I suppose he was grasping for anything to attack my atheism with, since I had stopped even pretending to understand where he was coming from.

He was charismatic and his stories were interesting, so listening to them was still fun. And to be sure, he was a very nice guy with good intentions. Still, I couldn’t help but feel a little cornered. I just wanted a drink and instead I got a sermon.

The little café is on Sheinken Street, a boutique- and coffee-filled avenue just a block from where I’m staying. I walk down it several times a day because it’s generally the quickest way to the beach and several other parts of town. So when she’s not busy, she waves me down and we sit and drink tea. Afterwards, she angrily refuses payment and tips. (I learned my lesson after I tried twice.)

The owners, two brothers in their sixties who seemingly spend all day there, know me now too. As does the manager and their similarly omnipresent friends. I’m not clear on who all these people are, but there are about 5 people who are always there. If I pass by around 8pm, when the place is starting to empty out, I go in and sit at the table with them while Gal works and and we all drink tea and eat sweets and wait for everyone else to leave. No one there speaks English very well. They chatter on in Hebrew most of the time while I sit around and alternately read and watch the mysterious conversation. If someone says something that elicits a round of laughter, they’ll try their best to translate. Every once in a while when it quiets down, someone tries politely to include me. I get the same ultra-basic questions on repeat. “So you are from San Francisco? I love San Francisco.” “Is this your first time in Israel? How do you like it?” “What do you do in San Francisco?” Once it gets more complicated than that, we’re generally unable to understand each other. They passed around the back cover of the book I was reading and, after asking me for definitions of about six words, Gal declared “this isn’t English, this is Chinese!”

Still, despite the language barrier, it’s great to have a little place where I’m more than a regular; I get to sit at the owners’ table.

“Oh, by the way, Carissa, I heard something interesting and I keep meaning to tell you: apparently the Global Financial System is failing and the world economy is in a state of ruin,” I’ll say in my most casual tone. “Oh, okay, thanks, good to know!” And then we giggle while we lounge on the beach with a beer. A little later, after a fit of coughing, Carissa says “maybe I caught this cough from the Global Financial System.” And I reply “yes, maybe! I heard it is suffering from a bad case of FAILURE, so maybe you got that!” And on and on for days.

We also had a good conversation about what currencies countries can adopt once their respective economies collapse. I’m not sure why, but we decided Iceland will use pancakes, the US swaps Beanie Babies, and apparently Carissa and I will trade jokes about the Global Financial System.

Around 2pm, I parked myself on a park bench at a choice intersection: the entrance to the huge outdoor public market, the biggest boutique shopping street, and a major artery through town were all within view. I sat and read a book until sundown and watch the city slowly grind to a halt over the course of the next three hours. Sure enough, about an hour after sundown the streets started to fill with people. Literally, the streets themselves were full of people. It is considered rude, but not illegal, to drive on Yom Kippur.

I went to meet my friend Gal and wander the city with her. She keeps with the tradition of fasting and so doesn’t use any electric devices. Since she had neither phone nor clock (!), she told me to just stop by her house between 11pm and midnight. I tried, but she was already gone. Instead I met some strangers in the street and wandered around the city with them for a few hours. They took me down to Jaffa, where there are many Arabs, and we bought some beer at a corner market open in defiance of the law.

So that was interesting and fun. But then I just went home to read for a while. And then I read more. And I made it through most of a 500 page book, but now what?

And, okay, I was about to wrap it up, but then I just watched one of the many feral cats in this city kill a pigeon. The bird was just sitting there on the ground and the cat pounced on it and held it down and bit into it.

Um. Wow. Where was I? Uh, there’s still 8 hours left of fasting and I’m bored, or something. Except now it’s hard to do anything besides stare at the bird corpse 8 feet in front of me. So, so nasty.

So, with all those things taken care of, I woke up and headed to the beach. And while I was sitting there, reading on a blue, sand-covered lounge chair that I had rented for 12 shekels, watching the dogs excitedly run into and out of the surf, I realized I felt really, really great for the first time since I got here. And that hanging out by the sea in the daytime and meeting strangers in the nighttime (and, yes, the early morning) are my only commitments for the next three weeks. Sunburn and hangovers are my only concerns. My life is pretty fucking sweet.

NOT THAT I’M BRAGGING. (Totes bragging.)