Thursday, November 27, 2008
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Communitas
So that’s the way the ride ends, not with a bang, but a whimper.
Against my better judgment I acceded to the wishes of some fellow riders and participated in a post-ride trip to Petra. Petra itself was fantastic—geologically and architecturally there is probably little to compare to the narrow canyons and ancient monumental carvings. Was it worth the ten-hour ordeal of getting there and back for a two-hour glimpse of one of the Seven Wonders of the World (assuming what one tourist said is true)?
Maybe.
For this I gave up an unhurried day on the beach at Eilat, and a much anticipated return engagement at one of the finest restaurant meals I have ever eaten—Margaret Tayar’s in Jaffa. Far from unhurried, it was a nail biter at reentry to Israel. Our tour coordinator finally pushed to the front of the passport control line those of us on the 8:55 flight from Eilat to Tel Aviv. We would rush into cabs rather than wait for the whole group to gain entry and take the bus to the hotel together. The cabs would allow us to pick up our bags and scurry to the airport with a little time to spare. The by-product of this frenzied strategy was a few hasty high fives instead of more leisurely farewells with the others.
We grabbed the cabs.
Dashed to the hotel.
Dashed to the airport.
Crawled through security—interrogated for a variety of suspicions, most notably for not having had continuous possession of our bags
Dashed across the street for a bowl of insipid stir-fried noodles that may have tipped the scales against the trip to Petra. The Beach at Eilat/Dinner at Margaret Tayar’s package would almost certainly have trumped the Petra/Noodle combo.
There were actually quite a few cyclists on the short hop to Tel Aviv. By the time the day ended I had watched 106 cyclists dwindle down to 43 bus riders, to a dozen plane passengers, to three men sharing a cab to downtown Tel Aviv. When the cab made it’s first stop and Shelly and Eric got out at their hotel, it was reduced to one—one man still contemplating the meaning of it all. Did something really happen here? Has my life or anyone else’s been changed in any profound, if indefinable, way?
For now, I’m going with, “Yes.”
As for this final day in Israel, it was great spending it with friends, even if much of it was dedicated to waiting in multiple lines at the Israel-Jordan border, schlepping on the bus two hours each way, listening to the unrelenting, irritating patter of our tour guide, and a variety of other delays and annoyances.
To a large degree, the day served as group therapy for the withdrawal symptoms we all had in the absence of our daily fix of cycling. More than that, we were suffering from a case of communitas interruptis. Our community of riders mirrored in a few important ways the community of students and alumni of the Arava Institute. Ours was an environment in which everyone was valued and felt valued for exactly who they were regardless of demographic circumstances. Neither religion, nor nationality, nor age, nor even physical prowess stood as a barrier among us. It was a seamless enterprise with palpable affection and support. From this I deduce that we not only need to support Arava, we need to learn from it and replicate its model in other venues including business and politics.
At the final banquet Monday night I was among five riders acknowledged for raising over eight thousand dollars. In urging all of us to continue our fundraising efforts, David Lehrer correctly pointed out that each of us has very different capacity in this regard. It would be wrong to expect the two youngest riders—aged fourteen years—to have the same donor network as well established adults.
For that reason regardless of how well our pre-ride campaign had gone we were all asked to continue our efforts after the ride. I hasten to add that after spending a week with the Arava students and alumni who supported the ride, and after visiting the campus at Kibbutz Ketora, meeting and talking with additional students, there was little David had to say to make it evident that this is a remarkable organization richly deserving of further support. The money we raise provides for scholarships especially for students coming from homes that would find it reprehensible to support this kind of intercultural study. In a sea of anger, despair, and pessimism, the dialogue at Arava, the collaborations, and love engendered between Israelis, Palestinians, Jordanians, Christian, Moslem, and Jew alike are a beacon of hope.
Against my better judgment I acceded to the wishes of some fellow riders and participated in a post-ride trip to Petra. Petra itself was fantastic—geologically and architecturally there is probably little to compare to the narrow canyons and ancient monumental carvings. Was it worth the ten-hour ordeal of getting there and back for a two-hour glimpse of one of the Seven Wonders of the World (assuming what one tourist said is true)?
Maybe.
For this I gave up an unhurried day on the beach at Eilat, and a much anticipated return engagement at one of the finest restaurant meals I have ever eaten—Margaret Tayar’s in Jaffa. Far from unhurried, it was a nail biter at reentry to Israel. Our tour coordinator finally pushed to the front of the passport control line those of us on the 8:55 flight from Eilat to Tel Aviv. We would rush into cabs rather than wait for the whole group to gain entry and take the bus to the hotel together. The cabs would allow us to pick up our bags and scurry to the airport with a little time to spare. The by-product of this frenzied strategy was a few hasty high fives instead of more leisurely farewells with the others.
We grabbed the cabs.
Dashed to the hotel.
Dashed to the airport.
Crawled through security—interrogated for a variety of suspicions, most notably for not having had continuous possession of our bags
Dashed across the street for a bowl of insipid stir-fried noodles that may have tipped the scales against the trip to Petra. The Beach at Eilat/Dinner at Margaret Tayar’s package would almost certainly have trumped the Petra/Noodle combo.
There were actually quite a few cyclists on the short hop to Tel Aviv. By the time the day ended I had watched 106 cyclists dwindle down to 43 bus riders, to a dozen plane passengers, to three men sharing a cab to downtown Tel Aviv. When the cab made it’s first stop and Shelly and Eric got out at their hotel, it was reduced to one—one man still contemplating the meaning of it all. Did something really happen here? Has my life or anyone else’s been changed in any profound, if indefinable, way?
For now, I’m going with, “Yes.”
As for this final day in Israel, it was great spending it with friends, even if much of it was dedicated to waiting in multiple lines at the Israel-Jordan border, schlepping on the bus two hours each way, listening to the unrelenting, irritating patter of our tour guide, and a variety of other delays and annoyances.
To a large degree, the day served as group therapy for the withdrawal symptoms we all had in the absence of our daily fix of cycling. More than that, we were suffering from a case of communitas interruptis. Our community of riders mirrored in a few important ways the community of students and alumni of the Arava Institute. Ours was an environment in which everyone was valued and felt valued for exactly who they were regardless of demographic circumstances. Neither religion, nor nationality, nor age, nor even physical prowess stood as a barrier among us. It was a seamless enterprise with palpable affection and support. From this I deduce that we not only need to support Arava, we need to learn from it and replicate its model in other venues including business and politics.
At the final banquet Monday night I was among five riders acknowledged for raising over eight thousand dollars. In urging all of us to continue our fundraising efforts, David Lehrer correctly pointed out that each of us has very different capacity in this regard. It would be wrong to expect the two youngest riders—aged fourteen years—to have the same donor network as well established adults.
For that reason regardless of how well our pre-ride campaign had gone we were all asked to continue our efforts after the ride. I hasten to add that after spending a week with the Arava students and alumni who supported the ride, and after visiting the campus at Kibbutz Ketora, meeting and talking with additional students, there was little David had to say to make it evident that this is a remarkable organization richly deserving of further support. The money we raise provides for scholarships especially for students coming from homes that would find it reprehensible to support this kind of intercultural study. In a sea of anger, despair, and pessimism, the dialogue at Arava, the collaborations, and love engendered between Israelis, Palestinians, Jordanians, Christian, Moslem, and Jew alike are a beacon of hope.
Monday, November 17, 2008
Day Five -- the big finish!
About three o’clock this afternoon, right after I lifted my bike high over my head and had the requisite photo by the Red Sea snapped, one of the ride crew members congratulated me for accomplishing this great feat. Clearly she was thinking of the five-day, 282-mile journey. For me it was much larger. When I tried to describe the eight-month, eight thousand mile journey that got me here I was unashamedly farklempt (the Tower of David is neither a tower nor did it have anything to do with David—discuss).
Today was the big finish. We were promised a few good climbs and one particularly long, steep, and beautiful descent onto Eilat. During our briefing session last night David Lehrer, director of the Arava Institute, suggested that many of us had already experienced the thrill of high speed descents and that we might want to savor this one a bit more. “You may get to the bottom wishing you had taken more time to enjoy the ride”—or some words to that effect. Will the metaphors ever cease?
I took him at face value and coaxed every bit out of today’s ride, stopping a few times to take in the view, and once to assist a new friend with a flat tire. It lived up to expectations with sandstone, limestone, and granite topography creating a rugged and colorful landscape. Just before we entered Eilat we came around a bend to see the Gulf and the city of Aqaba beyond it framed by the two cliffs between which we were emerging.
When I reached the bottom, my friend with the flat tire right behind me, the entire assembly of 105 riders was intact. We took a “victory lap” around a traffic circle and then, en masse, rode through the streets to reach the beach across the street from our hotel.
The partying began and will continue as we have a final banquet in just a few minutes. In between there was the typical daily flurry of activity around claiming luggage and laptops and day bags, and checking into the hotel, with the addition of breaking down and packing bicycles for shipment. Amazingly orderly chaos.
I’d love to sum up this whole experience with a few pithy remarks or predictions, but I suspect its true meaning will be revealed over time. I have met a number of people who have similar interests in the environment or in Judaism or in cycling or in all of these. Where these relationships will lead remains to be seen.
One conversation I had with a fellow rider this morning does capture at least one aspect of the experience. Yesterday I wrote about the occasional pin pricks of consciousness that I had experienced during the ride. I described this to her as analogous to sitting out in the hot tub and seeing a shooting star. It is brief, exciting, unpredictable, and a particularly rare occurrence. The exception being during a forecast meteor shower such as the Perseids in August. At such a time one might see a dozen or more shooting stars in one evening! The Israel Ride was like one of those starry nights with meteors of uncommon consciousness abounding.
Today was the big finish. We were promised a few good climbs and one particularly long, steep, and beautiful descent onto Eilat. During our briefing session last night David Lehrer, director of the Arava Institute, suggested that many of us had already experienced the thrill of high speed descents and that we might want to savor this one a bit more. “You may get to the bottom wishing you had taken more time to enjoy the ride”—or some words to that effect. Will the metaphors ever cease?
I took him at face value and coaxed every bit out of today’s ride, stopping a few times to take in the view, and once to assist a new friend with a flat tire. It lived up to expectations with sandstone, limestone, and granite topography creating a rugged and colorful landscape. Just before we entered Eilat we came around a bend to see the Gulf and the city of Aqaba beyond it framed by the two cliffs between which we were emerging.
When I reached the bottom, my friend with the flat tire right behind me, the entire assembly of 105 riders was intact. We took a “victory lap” around a traffic circle and then, en masse, rode through the streets to reach the beach across the street from our hotel.
The partying began and will continue as we have a final banquet in just a few minutes. In between there was the typical daily flurry of activity around claiming luggage and laptops and day bags, and checking into the hotel, with the addition of breaking down and packing bicycles for shipment. Amazingly orderly chaos.
I’d love to sum up this whole experience with a few pithy remarks or predictions, but I suspect its true meaning will be revealed over time. I have met a number of people who have similar interests in the environment or in Judaism or in cycling or in all of these. Where these relationships will lead remains to be seen.
One conversation I had with a fellow rider this morning does capture at least one aspect of the experience. Yesterday I wrote about the occasional pin pricks of consciousness that I had experienced during the ride. I described this to her as analogous to sitting out in the hot tub and seeing a shooting star. It is brief, exciting, unpredictable, and a particularly rare occurrence. The exception being during a forecast meteor shower such as the Perseids in August. At such a time one might see a dozen or more shooting stars in one evening! The Israel Ride was like one of those starry nights with meteors of uncommon consciousness abounding.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Day Four
Days like today make me want to stop writing and taking photographs altogether. The problem is that they point out how useless my words and images are in describing the indescribable. There were moments today that were as close to being in heaven as I can imagine. Long thrilling descents at bicycle speeds I have never before approached, on open roads, with sweeping vistas of canyons or mesas or whatever they are, behind more canyons or mesas—colors and shapes in all directions filling my heart and soul. We had three major runs of this magnitude. In between there were periods of rolling hills, and of course some challenging ascents to get us to the point where we could take off on the downhills.
Every once in awhile throughout the ride there are these little pin pricks of consciousness where in addition to what is right in front of me—the road, the sun, the terrain, fellow cyclists—a little place in me has this revelation that “Oh my God, all these months of planning and training, and fund raising, have come to this moment. Yes! I am in Israel! I am over two hundred miles into this amazing challenge. It is now! It is real!” I drink it in and I know that as hard as it is to convey to you the majesty before me, only a part of it will stay in my memory. It is more than I can capture. I pray that at some level the experience will live on in me at another level that my brain alone is incapable of maintaining.
I had one other reflection during a period where the group had gotten stretched out, leaving me to riding without any other riders in sight—the peace of pedaling alone in the vast expanse, with only the sound of my bicycle rolling down the road. I have at various times here and elsewhere had the experience of riding alone and feeling truly alone, uncertain of where I am and where I am headed—a sense of alienation. I have also had experiences of being with a group and uncomfortable with the direction or the pace. Today I had the unique experience of my personal space and freedom while at the same time knowing that I am part of not only a highly organized group, but more important a loving and supporting community—a chevre. The combination of these thoughts provided a great sense of satisfaction.
Tonight we stay at Kibbutz Ketura, with its immense grove of date palms—their largest source of income. Tomorrow Eilat! This trip is in its waning stages. At one rest stop today I had to take the advice that I used to give every Bar or Bat Mitzvah. I stopped to look around, drink in the joy around me, and truly appreciate the moment. I suppose I should have said shehekhiyanu—it was one of those moments that I was very grateful to have been brought to.
Every once in awhile throughout the ride there are these little pin pricks of consciousness where in addition to what is right in front of me—the road, the sun, the terrain, fellow cyclists—a little place in me has this revelation that “Oh my God, all these months of planning and training, and fund raising, have come to this moment. Yes! I am in Israel! I am over two hundred miles into this amazing challenge. It is now! It is real!” I drink it in and I know that as hard as it is to convey to you the majesty before me, only a part of it will stay in my memory. It is more than I can capture. I pray that at some level the experience will live on in me at another level that my brain alone is incapable of maintaining.
I had one other reflection during a period where the group had gotten stretched out, leaving me to riding without any other riders in sight—the peace of pedaling alone in the vast expanse, with only the sound of my bicycle rolling down the road. I have at various times here and elsewhere had the experience of riding alone and feeling truly alone, uncertain of where I am and where I am headed—a sense of alienation. I have also had experiences of being with a group and uncomfortable with the direction or the pace. Today I had the unique experience of my personal space and freedom while at the same time knowing that I am part of not only a highly organized group, but more important a loving and supporting community—a chevre. The combination of these thoughts provided a great sense of satisfaction.
Tonight we stay at Kibbutz Ketura, with its immense grove of date palms—their largest source of income. Tomorrow Eilat! This trip is in its waning stages. At one rest stop today I had to take the advice that I used to give every Bar or Bat Mitzvah. I stopped to look around, drink in the joy around me, and truly appreciate the moment. I suppose I should have said shehekhiyanu—it was one of those moments that I was very grateful to have been brought to.
Shabbat
Sometimes you don’t realize how hard you’ve been working until you stop. Clearly my body discovered that in a profound way today. I mentioned yesterday how I was looking forward to some rest this Sabbath day. That was my mind’s version of the situation. My body had a different take. It shut down like Mea Sh’arim on Yom Kippur. If I even dared to move (even to worship) it threw stones at me as if I had just violated the most sacred commandment.
I went down to an early breakfast—7:30 am—ate and shmoozed briefly with some ride buddies so as not to miss our tour guide’s walk to the edge of the makhtesh. Contrary to my report yesterday, we are not on the rim of a large crater or a canyon or anything else you have likely heard of. There are few makhteshim in the world—three notable ones, and a few others scattered about the Middle East. Their geological structure is unique. Wikipedia it if you want the details. What I find amusing is that this Hebrew word “makhtesh” is the common word used by geologists world over. Someone pointed out that “lava” as a term is similar in that it is a Hawaiian word.
The important thing is that the crumbled mountains of the makhtesh have created yet another spectacular view. We will get a close up look at the makhtesh tomorrow when we cycle however many meters down into it. I’m not sure how much climbing will be required to exit it!
This morning my intentions were to go straight from the walking tour of the makhtesh to Shabbat services. I carried my siddur the whole way. When we arrived back at the hotel my body started to protest. I had no option but to nap. After 20 minutes I was up and ready to go to services. Somehow, on the way, I ended up back in the dining room having some more breakfast with another set of ride buddies. At the conclusion of that I picked up my siddur and tallis bag. I had brought them with me in a second vain attempt to go to pray. Once again my body cast a veto. Unlike at home where I have been known to go to shul and occasionally nod out for a few minutes during the Haftara reading, this time I went directly to my room for another two hours of sleep. Finally, it seems, I had gotten the message that these short nights and long cycling days were demanding physical renewal on Shabbat far more than spiritual.
I woke up in time for lunch! The Israelis real know how to put out a spread of food. Enough said.
Later we all gathered to listen to the young alumni of the Arava Institute describe their experiences there. Very inspiring, not only regarding the environment, but all the more with regard to breaking barriers and stereotypes between Israelis, Jordanians, Palestinians.... Each young person had a unique story and they all had a common thread. The vision is that \these will be the future leaders of their respective societies and will help break down barriers for all.
When the program ended one of the ride leaders started describing the rest of the day’s events as were approaching the end of Shabbat. Tears literally welled in my eyes at the very thought of seeing this Shabbat slip away into the night. I never needed Shabbat more in my life and I never wanted to hold onto it more. While this response is very much situational it also suggests to me the possibility of looking more carefully at Shabbat back home. This week is an extreme example that points to how hard we work and how much we need to take a break. It is easy to overlook the stresses of even a “normal” week and how important Shabbat is every week.
The day ended with a briefing on tomorrow’s ride—hard to believe we will be back in the saddle again. Dinner followed the briefing—of course!
I went down to an early breakfast—7:30 am—ate and shmoozed briefly with some ride buddies so as not to miss our tour guide’s walk to the edge of the makhtesh. Contrary to my report yesterday, we are not on the rim of a large crater or a canyon or anything else you have likely heard of. There are few makhteshim in the world—three notable ones, and a few others scattered about the Middle East. Their geological structure is unique. Wikipedia it if you want the details. What I find amusing is that this Hebrew word “makhtesh” is the common word used by geologists world over. Someone pointed out that “lava” as a term is similar in that it is a Hawaiian word.
The important thing is that the crumbled mountains of the makhtesh have created yet another spectacular view. We will get a close up look at the makhtesh tomorrow when we cycle however many meters down into it. I’m not sure how much climbing will be required to exit it!
This morning my intentions were to go straight from the walking tour of the makhtesh to Shabbat services. I carried my siddur the whole way. When we arrived back at the hotel my body started to protest. I had no option but to nap. After 20 minutes I was up and ready to go to services. Somehow, on the way, I ended up back in the dining room having some more breakfast with another set of ride buddies. At the conclusion of that I picked up my siddur and tallis bag. I had brought them with me in a second vain attempt to go to pray. Once again my body cast a veto. Unlike at home where I have been known to go to shul and occasionally nod out for a few minutes during the Haftara reading, this time I went directly to my room for another two hours of sleep. Finally, it seems, I had gotten the message that these short nights and long cycling days were demanding physical renewal on Shabbat far more than spiritual.
I woke up in time for lunch! The Israelis real know how to put out a spread of food. Enough said.
Later we all gathered to listen to the young alumni of the Arava Institute describe their experiences there. Very inspiring, not only regarding the environment, but all the more with regard to breaking barriers and stereotypes between Israelis, Jordanians, Palestinians.... Each young person had a unique story and they all had a common thread. The vision is that \these will be the future leaders of their respective societies and will help break down barriers for all.
When the program ended one of the ride leaders started describing the rest of the day’s events as were approaching the end of Shabbat. Tears literally welled in my eyes at the very thought of seeing this Shabbat slip away into the night. I never needed Shabbat more in my life and I never wanted to hold onto it more. While this response is very much situational it also suggests to me the possibility of looking more carefully at Shabbat back home. This week is an extreme example that points to how hard we work and how much we need to take a break. It is easy to overlook the stresses of even a “normal” week and how important Shabbat is every week.
The day ended with a briefing on tomorrow’s ride—hard to believe we will be back in the saddle again. Dinner followed the briefing—of course!
Friday, November 14, 2008
Day Three
Let’s see, did we ride bikes today? Oh yes, that must have been what we were doing just before we checked into this hotel in Mitzpe Ramon where I just finished receiving a soothing Swedish massage. Everything before that is sort of lost in the haze.
I can remember now...the third consecutive “morning” rising under a black sky, the moon still quite full above. Today’s ride was shorter than the previous two days in order that we all get settled in here before Shabbat. Candle lighting is only a few minutes away at 4:12 pm. Some of our group opted for an additional off-road cycling experience. I chose not to. Let’s see...a couple of hours of bumpy mountain biking or a massage? Hmmmmmmmm....
Heading out as early as we do does provide some spectacular moonsets and sunrises. Today’s panoramas reminded me of the United States southwest, as little of it as I’ve ever seen. The thrill of riding down long slopes with seemingly unending landscapes spread out in all directions. Buttes. Mesas. Canyons. Whatever they are called here. Very hospitable weather. If I believe my bike’s gauge it may have gotten into the eighties in the middle of the day, but the breezes made it feel much cooler—quite unlike the three-digit temperatures experienced in the last May ride.
One vantage point from which to gaze on the vast Negev is the terrace at David Ben Gurion’s grave site. Ben Gurion, the “George Washington” of Israel lived out his waning days on a kibbutz in the Negev that he so loved. Unlike other Israeli dignitaries he chose to be buried here rather than the military cemetery in Jerusalem if for no other reason than to lure others here to add to populating the desert. Our stop here included breakfast and davening at the edge of the canyon. The backdrop for prayer today made yesterday’s scene pale in comparison.
The ride itself consisted of a series of long steady climbs. For every rise there is a fall, which in this case is a good thing. The descents were often spectacular evoking once again my involuntary gleeful shouts.
Anticipating the challenge of the long climbs, the staff encouraged us to select someone to whom we would each dedicate today’s ride. I have mentioned in previous blogs that with our event starting on the anniversary of my father’s death he would be in my heart this week. Today, however, I focused my energy on my brother. I wrote his Hebrew name—harav Yisrael Lev ben harav Shimon—on a label and affixed it to my jersey as we were asked to do. There were times when each push of the pedal was a real challenge. Weeks ago, when my knees ached during training, I would silently chant with each stroke of the pedals—words like “strength” and “healing”—and direct this to my knees. Today, when the uphill going got tough, with every stroke, I sent healing, strength, courage, and wholeness (shalem) to Jeff.
I have never more looked forward to a Shabbat than this one at Mitzpe Ramon. I certainly look forward to the physical rest. After the intensity of touring and cycling I look forward to the spiritual breather as well.
I can remember now...the third consecutive “morning” rising under a black sky, the moon still quite full above. Today’s ride was shorter than the previous two days in order that we all get settled in here before Shabbat. Candle lighting is only a few minutes away at 4:12 pm. Some of our group opted for an additional off-road cycling experience. I chose not to. Let’s see...a couple of hours of bumpy mountain biking or a massage? Hmmmmmmmm....
Heading out as early as we do does provide some spectacular moonsets and sunrises. Today’s panoramas reminded me of the United States southwest, as little of it as I’ve ever seen. The thrill of riding down long slopes with seemingly unending landscapes spread out in all directions. Buttes. Mesas. Canyons. Whatever they are called here. Very hospitable weather. If I believe my bike’s gauge it may have gotten into the eighties in the middle of the day, but the breezes made it feel much cooler—quite unlike the three-digit temperatures experienced in the last May ride.
One vantage point from which to gaze on the vast Negev is the terrace at David Ben Gurion’s grave site. Ben Gurion, the “George Washington” of Israel lived out his waning days on a kibbutz in the Negev that he so loved. Unlike other Israeli dignitaries he chose to be buried here rather than the military cemetery in Jerusalem if for no other reason than to lure others here to add to populating the desert. Our stop here included breakfast and davening at the edge of the canyon. The backdrop for prayer today made yesterday’s scene pale in comparison.
The ride itself consisted of a series of long steady climbs. For every rise there is a fall, which in this case is a good thing. The descents were often spectacular evoking once again my involuntary gleeful shouts.
Anticipating the challenge of the long climbs, the staff encouraged us to select someone to whom we would each dedicate today’s ride. I have mentioned in previous blogs that with our event starting on the anniversary of my father’s death he would be in my heart this week. Today, however, I focused my energy on my brother. I wrote his Hebrew name—harav Yisrael Lev ben harav Shimon—on a label and affixed it to my jersey as we were asked to do. There were times when each push of the pedal was a real challenge. Weeks ago, when my knees ached during training, I would silently chant with each stroke of the pedals—words like “strength” and “healing”—and direct this to my knees. Today, when the uphill going got tough, with every stroke, I sent healing, strength, courage, and wholeness (shalem) to Jeff.
I have never more looked forward to a Shabbat than this one at Mitzpe Ramon. I certainly look forward to the physical rest. After the intensity of touring and cycling I look forward to the spiritual breather as well.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Day Two
As we approached mile seventy-two this afternoon I was actually feeling stronger than I did at the start of the day. Having never done back-to-back sixty-plus mile rides, having been off my bike for the two previous weeks (and feeling a bit sore from day one), I had my doubts about day two. But over the course of the day I loosened up and the road itself became increasingly user-friendly. So it was a very pleasant second day....
I woke up to the sound of my watch alarm at 4:20 am. The first thing I did was throw open the drapes and walk out on the balcony over looking the Mediterranean. The full moon shone brightly high in the sky occasionally obscured by dark clouds. It’s reflection in the sea was pleasant enough, but two flashes of lightening over the water did not bode well for our day’s journey. Then came the rain. Would we even ride today?
Fortunately, by the time I went down to claim my bike and get the first of the many feedings that are an essential part of the ride, the sky was clearing and showing some preliminary signs of the breaking dawn. As the day progressed the weather only became more and more favorable. Billowing clouds served to provide additional contrast and color to the continuously changing landscape.
If the two flashes of lightening were an omen of anything perhaps they forecast the two flat tires I picked up in the first leg of today’s journey. Even those were no real distraction because the mechanics responded quickly and changed my tire faster than I could open my tool kit.
The early going this morning was not as spectacular as our departure from Jerusalem yesterday. The first half of the day necessitated our riding along the most heavily traveled road of the week.
There was still a lot to look at and we made a couple of colorful stops. At mile twenty we broke for breakfast near a large water treatment center within view of Gaza. The food was distinctly Israeli, ample and delicious. What I enjoyed most, however, were the morning prayers—the combination of the drumming and chanting, and the sheer spectacle of the daveners standing on the sandy slope like colorful flowers facing the sun. Jews praying in the morning are picturesque enough with flowing prayer shawls, and tefillen wrapped around their arms and hanging on their foreheads. Overlay that image on a group of men and women in colorful cycling regalia, in front of the giant dish of the Jewish National Fund’s water recycling system. Surreal.
But the ride is the thing, and the most difficult to describe. When I’m rolling I am loathe to stop and take pictures despite the many scenic temptations—the setting orange moon hanging above the ocean—palm trees and ruins of what appeared to be Roman ruins silhouetted in the foreground. Just one image that I allowed to burn in my mind’s eye rather than my Nikon. Sometimes I lose myself in the physical challenges—the road, my cadence, my muscles, shifting gears, watching traffic and other riders. At other times I find myself pedaling in sync with another rider and we get a chance to chat.
The end of the day found us moving into the north Negev. The open landscape, mild temperatures, and gently rolling roads made it the most pleasant riding of the day. For a half hour or more I had a riding partner in a graduate of the Arava Institute. Gonen is 33 years old, with a young family, and after graduating from one Arava professional program he is continuing on for a PhD.
We covered many subjects. He described some of the powerful features of the Arava program. Typically students study current literature on environmental issues, but they do not stop there. Then they go out and see first hand the projects they read about and talk to the principle people involved, giving real depth to their understanding.
They also have the opportunity to meet with an array of Israeli and Palestinian leaders. Sometime their conversations are focused on the environment, other times on the other critical aspect of Arava—Israeli-Arab relations. Gonen has made great friends from a community that is accessible to only few Israelis. As daunting as peace among these people may seem he feels that their ability to bridge the gulf is a small but important move in the right direction.
It was not too surprising that when all the riders got together to talk about the highlights of our day another person rose and said that he road along side Gonen and had a great conversation!
I woke up to the sound of my watch alarm at 4:20 am. The first thing I did was throw open the drapes and walk out on the balcony over looking the Mediterranean. The full moon shone brightly high in the sky occasionally obscured by dark clouds. It’s reflection in the sea was pleasant enough, but two flashes of lightening over the water did not bode well for our day’s journey. Then came the rain. Would we even ride today?
Fortunately, by the time I went down to claim my bike and get the first of the many feedings that are an essential part of the ride, the sky was clearing and showing some preliminary signs of the breaking dawn. As the day progressed the weather only became more and more favorable. Billowing clouds served to provide additional contrast and color to the continuously changing landscape.
If the two flashes of lightening were an omen of anything perhaps they forecast the two flat tires I picked up in the first leg of today’s journey. Even those were no real distraction because the mechanics responded quickly and changed my tire faster than I could open my tool kit.
The early going this morning was not as spectacular as our departure from Jerusalem yesterday. The first half of the day necessitated our riding along the most heavily traveled road of the week.
There was still a lot to look at and we made a couple of colorful stops. At mile twenty we broke for breakfast near a large water treatment center within view of Gaza. The food was distinctly Israeli, ample and delicious. What I enjoyed most, however, were the morning prayers—the combination of the drumming and chanting, and the sheer spectacle of the daveners standing on the sandy slope like colorful flowers facing the sun. Jews praying in the morning are picturesque enough with flowing prayer shawls, and tefillen wrapped around their arms and hanging on their foreheads. Overlay that image on a group of men and women in colorful cycling regalia, in front of the giant dish of the Jewish National Fund’s water recycling system. Surreal.
But the ride is the thing, and the most difficult to describe. When I’m rolling I am loathe to stop and take pictures despite the many scenic temptations—the setting orange moon hanging above the ocean—palm trees and ruins of what appeared to be Roman ruins silhouetted in the foreground. Just one image that I allowed to burn in my mind’s eye rather than my Nikon. Sometimes I lose myself in the physical challenges—the road, my cadence, my muscles, shifting gears, watching traffic and other riders. At other times I find myself pedaling in sync with another rider and we get a chance to chat.
The end of the day found us moving into the north Negev. The open landscape, mild temperatures, and gently rolling roads made it the most pleasant riding of the day. For a half hour or more I had a riding partner in a graduate of the Arava Institute. Gonen is 33 years old, with a young family, and after graduating from one Arava professional program he is continuing on for a PhD.
We covered many subjects. He described some of the powerful features of the Arava program. Typically students study current literature on environmental issues, but they do not stop there. Then they go out and see first hand the projects they read about and talk to the principle people involved, giving real depth to their understanding.
They also have the opportunity to meet with an array of Israeli and Palestinian leaders. Sometime their conversations are focused on the environment, other times on the other critical aspect of Arava—Israeli-Arab relations. Gonen has made great friends from a community that is accessible to only few Israelis. As daunting as peace among these people may seem he feels that their ability to bridge the gulf is a small but important move in the right direction.
It was not too surprising that when all the riders got together to talk about the highlights of our day another person rose and said that he road along side Gonen and had a great conversation!
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Day One
Getting out of Jerusalem was slow and tedious. We missed our scheduled 5:45 a.m. departure. So many people with so much to manage. Nonetheless, we finally gathered with our bikes around dawn just outside the property walls of the hotel. The travelers’ prayer was recited in Hebrew, Arabic and English. A rabbi from Connecticut sang the names of the four shofar sounds to cue my blasts which were more than adequate, and off we went. Within the city we had to fight early commute traffic until we met up with our police escort. From that point forward it was a good deal smoother.
Even with all the stopping and starting through the crowded streets, just seeing signs in Hebrew and knowing that we were indeed cycling through Jerusalem—this was extraordinary. There were some magnificent descents with the Jerusalem hills as counterpoint. We attacked one of the trip's more significant climbs as we left the city—very grand. Reminiscent of California landscape—maybe more like SoCal than the Bay Area. Overall the scenery all day was rich. Some of the long speedy downhills surrounded by breathtaking views evoked the kind of yahoo that I am moved to shout descending Skyline Road. A good deal of farm lands and orchards. The climbs were reasonable. That first long climb was not as tough as Old La Honda Road in Woodside, so I felt well prepared. The program makes an effort to keep riders relatively near one another unlike many charity rides at home. The support, the snacks at rest stops, the lunch, the tourist spiels were all handled with aplomb. There were many opportunities to chat with fellow riders while riding or at the various stops.
Nothing was sweeter than at last rolling into Ashqelon and seeing the shimmering blue Mediterranean in the late afternoon sun. We have precious little time between activities—check-in, shower, dinner, briefings for tomorrow, sleep if possible and set out bright and early again in the morning.
Altogether a very satisfying first day.
Even with all the stopping and starting through the crowded streets, just seeing signs in Hebrew and knowing that we were indeed cycling through Jerusalem—this was extraordinary. There were some magnificent descents with the Jerusalem hills as counterpoint. We attacked one of the trip's more significant climbs as we left the city—very grand. Reminiscent of California landscape—maybe more like SoCal than the Bay Area. Overall the scenery all day was rich. Some of the long speedy downhills surrounded by breathtaking views evoked the kind of yahoo that I am moved to shout descending Skyline Road. A good deal of farm lands and orchards. The climbs were reasonable. That first long climb was not as tough as Old La Honda Road in Woodside, so I felt well prepared. The program makes an effort to keep riders relatively near one another unlike many charity rides at home. The support, the snacks at rest stops, the lunch, the tourist spiels were all handled with aplomb. There were many opportunities to chat with fellow riders while riding or at the various stops.
Nothing was sweeter than at last rolling into Ashqelon and seeing the shimmering blue Mediterranean in the late afternoon sun. We have precious little time between activities—check-in, shower, dinner, briefings for tomorrow, sleep if possible and set out bright and early again in the morning.
Altogether a very satisfying first day.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Erev Ride
Jerusalem
10:43 p.m.
Just called down for a 4:20 a.m. wake up call. That’s assuming I fall asleep. It has finally arrived. The eve of the big ride. Other than a morning tour of the Old City, I’ve spent most of the day focused on ride logistics.
The tour started with a short bus ride to the Mount of Olives with that classic panorama of the Old City. From there we walked. None of it had the power of some of my earlier visits. Not quite enough time at the Wall—even on Dad’s yartzeit. I pressed my head against the stone, mumbled my usual morning ablutions, adding as many words of the Kaddish as I could recall. Wrote the names of ailing loved ones on a small slip of paper, folded it into a skinny rectangle and wedged it in a crevice, praying for their wholeness and healing.
Sometimes you just do what you do. I felt more emotion later telling someone about my experience at the wall than I did when I stood there. Perhaps that’s why one is not supposed to recite the mourners’ Kaddish alone—it needs to be a shared experience.
Later, with joy I became reacquainted with my bicycle after a two-week separation. With great satisfaction I extracted it from its cardboard shipping carton, and with a little help from a mechanic reassembled it. I could barely wait to take it on a little test spin up Mount Scopus to the Hebrew University campus and back. I would have loved to ride around the campus but it is sealed tight as a drum with barbed wire and guards checking IDs at the gate. The ride was short, but very sweet.
I need to put down this pen and pray for some sleep. I can’t believe it’s all actually starting in a few hours—5:30 a.m. stretch; 5:40 am travelers’’ prayer followed by shofar blasts; 5:45 a.m. wheels rolling!
10:43 p.m.
Just called down for a 4:20 a.m. wake up call. That’s assuming I fall asleep. It has finally arrived. The eve of the big ride. Other than a morning tour of the Old City, I’ve spent most of the day focused on ride logistics.
The tour started with a short bus ride to the Mount of Olives with that classic panorama of the Old City. From there we walked. None of it had the power of some of my earlier visits. Not quite enough time at the Wall—even on Dad’s yartzeit. I pressed my head against the stone, mumbled my usual morning ablutions, adding as many words of the Kaddish as I could recall. Wrote the names of ailing loved ones on a small slip of paper, folded it into a skinny rectangle and wedged it in a crevice, praying for their wholeness and healing.
Sometimes you just do what you do. I felt more emotion later telling someone about my experience at the wall than I did when I stood there. Perhaps that’s why one is not supposed to recite the mourners’ Kaddish alone—it needs to be a shared experience.
Later, with joy I became reacquainted with my bicycle after a two-week separation. With great satisfaction I extracted it from its cardboard shipping carton, and with a little help from a mechanic reassembled it. I could barely wait to take it on a little test spin up Mount Scopus to the Hebrew University campus and back. I would have loved to ride around the campus but it is sealed tight as a drum with barbed wire and guards checking IDs at the gate. The ride was short, but very sweet.
I need to put down this pen and pray for some sleep. I can’t believe it’s all actually starting in a few hours—5:30 a.m. stretch; 5:40 am travelers’’ prayer followed by shofar blasts; 5:45 a.m. wheels rolling!
Sunday, November 9, 2008
Knock, knock, knockin’...
My departure from Stockholm had an eerie darkness to it—not just because it was five a.m. It seemed like one of those bookend scenes from a movie that sets up the flashback at the beginning and then returns to frame the ending. I could almost feel the credits rolling up the blackness of the road ahead as the cab driver switched on his radio to the strains of Dylan singing knock, knock, knockin’ on Heaven’s door.
After ten rich days of traveling with Debbie we had just said our goodbyes and wished each other well as today we journey independently for the next one week plus. She will fly with her sister Judi to visit Judi’s daughter and granddaughters in Nairobi this evening, while I (gulp) finally head for Israel. None of this comes as a surprise after months of preparations, yet embarking on this next phase of our travels is having unanticipated impact.
Last night was an event. When Judi learned that we would be coming to Stockholm—her home for over forty years, where Debbie and I had only once visited as a couple back in 1975—she immediately decided to host a party in our honor with the local mishbucha (family and in this case a few friends as close as family). She made quiches and cakes, set out candies and nuts, lit candles in every room—the place glowed as the guest punctually arrived as is the local custom. The room immediately became a din of conversation and children’s activity.
My brother-in-law, Chief Rabbi Emeritus of Stockholm Morton Narrowe, convened us in the living room for Havdalah—the ceremony marking the end of the Sabbath. He made it a teaching moment, presumably for the few gentiles in the room. The rite itself is one I have greatly enjoyed over the years, though inexplicably have rarely performed at home. I appreciate the way it distinguishes between the beauty and peace of the Shabbat versus the mundane work week. It bids farewell to Shabbat even as it allows it’s spirituality to linger like the fragrant aroma of the spice box that we use, and the wisps of smoke from the braided candle as it is extinguished by the wine. We always conclude with two Hebrew words—shavua tov, good week—which I heard last night with an intensity as never before.
The plans of the week ahead flashed in my mind the second I uttered those words, what a huge, huge shavua lies ahead. Shavua tov—I will leave for Israel before the rest of the house wakes up. Shavua tov—Debbie and I will find ourselves greatly separated after an unusually intense period of closeness. Shavua tov—she will head to adventures in Obama’s homeland, in an animal preserve, in the home of our niece. Shavua tov—I will at last set foot in Eretz Yisrael and begin the challenging trek that has been the focus of so much energy for so many weeks. Those two words—shavua tov—have never been more pregnant with meaning. In the instant that I sensed all of this my eyes welled up with emotion. Shavua tov—a good week—indeed.
With the complex mixture of emotions—elation, sadness, fear, excitement, bewilderment, joy—I slowly opened the door from Judi and Mort’s apartment house to see the cab waiting a few meters away at almost the correct address. When he saw me he pulled forward and helped me put my bags in the back of the vehicle. I entered the cab and sat on the clean, comfortable, leather upholstered seat, handed the driver my credit card as he took off toward Arlanda and the Stockholm airport. A gentle rain fell from the black sky. I felt uneasy, not sure if I were ending or beginning something, knowing ultimately that it was a mixture of both. I settled back in the cab, staring blankly beyond the sweeping windshield wipers at the dark road ahead. The driver extended his right arm and turned on an oldies station.
Knock, knock, knockin’, on Heaven’s door...
After ten rich days of traveling with Debbie we had just said our goodbyes and wished each other well as today we journey independently for the next one week plus. She will fly with her sister Judi to visit Judi’s daughter and granddaughters in Nairobi this evening, while I (gulp) finally head for Israel. None of this comes as a surprise after months of preparations, yet embarking on this next phase of our travels is having unanticipated impact.
Last night was an event. When Judi learned that we would be coming to Stockholm—her home for over forty years, where Debbie and I had only once visited as a couple back in 1975—she immediately decided to host a party in our honor with the local mishbucha (family and in this case a few friends as close as family). She made quiches and cakes, set out candies and nuts, lit candles in every room—the place glowed as the guest punctually arrived as is the local custom. The room immediately became a din of conversation and children’s activity.
My brother-in-law, Chief Rabbi Emeritus of Stockholm Morton Narrowe, convened us in the living room for Havdalah—the ceremony marking the end of the Sabbath. He made it a teaching moment, presumably for the few gentiles in the room. The rite itself is one I have greatly enjoyed over the years, though inexplicably have rarely performed at home. I appreciate the way it distinguishes between the beauty and peace of the Shabbat versus the mundane work week. It bids farewell to Shabbat even as it allows it’s spirituality to linger like the fragrant aroma of the spice box that we use, and the wisps of smoke from the braided candle as it is extinguished by the wine. We always conclude with two Hebrew words—shavua tov, good week—which I heard last night with an intensity as never before.
The plans of the week ahead flashed in my mind the second I uttered those words, what a huge, huge shavua lies ahead. Shavua tov—I will leave for Israel before the rest of the house wakes up. Shavua tov—Debbie and I will find ourselves greatly separated after an unusually intense period of closeness. Shavua tov—she will head to adventures in Obama’s homeland, in an animal preserve, in the home of our niece. Shavua tov—I will at last set foot in Eretz Yisrael and begin the challenging trek that has been the focus of so much energy for so many weeks. Those two words—shavua tov—have never been more pregnant with meaning. In the instant that I sensed all of this my eyes welled up with emotion. Shavua tov—a good week—indeed.
With the complex mixture of emotions—elation, sadness, fear, excitement, bewilderment, joy—I slowly opened the door from Judi and Mort’s apartment house to see the cab waiting a few meters away at almost the correct address. When he saw me he pulled forward and helped me put my bags in the back of the vehicle. I entered the cab and sat on the clean, comfortable, leather upholstered seat, handed the driver my credit card as he took off toward Arlanda and the Stockholm airport. A gentle rain fell from the black sky. I felt uneasy, not sure if I were ending or beginning something, knowing ultimately that it was a mixture of both. I settled back in the cab, staring blankly beyond the sweeping windshield wipers at the dark road ahead. The driver extended his right arm and turned on an oldies station.
Knock, knock, knockin’, on Heaven’s door...
Thursday, November 6, 2008
A Short Drive in Montalchino
I learned the meaning of an Italian traffic sign today. It looks like a horizontal bar of red with a short vertical bar of white attached below the midpoint, making it a wide, two-toned T. It means the road ends, and I learned this, you might say, the hard way.
Deb and I had just finished walking around our fourth Italian hill town of the day, feeling a little saturated. It was five p.m. or as they say here seventeen. We might have stayed in Montalchino a little longer, but our parking had expired and we needed to move the car anyway—or at least feed the meter. We couldn’t be sure since there was no English on any of the pertinent signage where we parked. I thought I had performed a minor miracle just making sure we hadn’t been towed.
Next stop was Buonoconvento where the hostess of our villa assured us we would find a good dinner. We climbed into our Fiat hatchback, took a few minutes to assess the possible routes. I remarked to Debbie that I was glad we were leaving before dark, as it had been a somewhat serpentine route up to this village. I saw on the map that we could get there by the S2 highway or by a smaller more direct road.
I backed out of the diagonal parking space and headed down Via Spahni in the direction I had taken to arrive at this spot. Only a few meters ahead was an intersection which due to the subsequent trauma I can only vaguely recall. From the vantage of hind sight it makes me recall a Rilke poem that describes everything directly in front of the author’s face as stone. As I looked ahead I saw the aforementioned red and white T-shaped sign. It was only one of numerous glyphs I had encountered and struggled to comprehend throughout my now day-and-a-half of driving in Italy. Slowly I was coming to see the pattern language among them so I led myself to believe. “This T must mean I can turn either left or right.” I thought. I didn’t really stop to examine the flaw in that logic when intuitively something told me that left was not really an option. There was more road to the left but I think there may have been a small barrier or something to suggest that it was not for automobile use. Seeing a van a few meters down to the right parked at an angle to the left side of the road again, intuitively, I believed a right turn was in order. (So much for intuition.) The only challenge it seemed was squeezing between the tail of the van and the wall of the building that flanked the right of this small downwardly sloped lane. I weaved past, not wanting to do damage to either vehicle. The short piece of road that remained until its end, maybe ten meters, ahead was clear.
More than halfway down—whether it was Debbie or me who noticed it first I can’t say—I suddenly slammed on the brakes when we both realized the end of the road met the intersection of the cross road ahead with a precipitous drop of a meter or two! No barrier. No sign other than the one I had now clearly misinterpreted. Just a short cliff.
Whew! Glad we saw that in time. Now I was really glad we had left with some daylight left or there is no question we would have driven unceremoniously off this short cliff.
Now the fun began. All I had to do was put the stick shift car in reverse up a steep hill and squeeze it through the narrow passage between the van and the wall. Piece of torte.
I stepped on the brake, set the gear in reverse, lifted up on the clutch, the car lurched forward even closer to the stone ledge. My God this is hard to do! The force of gravity and my inexperience was sending the car in exactly the wrong direction. I had few such attempts available to me before disaster would ensue. Now I reasoned that the hand brake would have to participate in this. I had to ensure I was fully engaged in reverse before moving.
I pulled up the hand brake, carefully set the gear, revved the motor, released the brake to an elephants’ squeal, the smell of burning clutch, and crookedly jerked the vehicle up the stone lane heading toward the narrow gap. “Stop!!!” Debbie cried out, keeping me from smacking into the wall—or so she perceived and believe me I didn’t know any better. How am I going to thread this needle?
I eased the car back down the hill a little bit to improve the angle of attack when as if sent by one of the arch angels the owner of the van appeared and removed what was now the greatest impediment. I had only to engage the elephants and burning clutch one more time to successfully extricate ourselves from what only a few moments earlier was certain doom.
Just another instance of a phenomenon we had been tracking throughout the trip. In travel as in life—so many grand themes of survival and relationship seem to play out daily. Perseverance. Focus. Trust. Hope. Courage. Confidence. Communication. Team work. Delight. Disappointment. Flexibility. Salvation.
The coda to this little tale—tame by comparison, but telling nonetheless—was only minutes away. As I drove our little chariot in circles around the town unable to connect to the road that had led us in, I decided that “down” was all we really needed to concern ourselves with. I took the next available road that headed in that direction. How could that fail? The answer came gradually as the road narrowed into a single lane dirt path going perhaps somewhere, perhaps not. As our confidence faded with the afternoon sky, I saw a car poking out of a perpendicular road ahead. I stopped our car in front of the other, giving us the opportunity to ask the way to Buonoconvento of this farmer who spoke no English. Saint Christopher was still looking out for us as the man indicated that all we needed to do was follow him.
And we did. Grazie mille!
Deb and I had just finished walking around our fourth Italian hill town of the day, feeling a little saturated. It was five p.m. or as they say here seventeen. We might have stayed in Montalchino a little longer, but our parking had expired and we needed to move the car anyway—or at least feed the meter. We couldn’t be sure since there was no English on any of the pertinent signage where we parked. I thought I had performed a minor miracle just making sure we hadn’t been towed.
Next stop was Buonoconvento where the hostess of our villa assured us we would find a good dinner. We climbed into our Fiat hatchback, took a few minutes to assess the possible routes. I remarked to Debbie that I was glad we were leaving before dark, as it had been a somewhat serpentine route up to this village. I saw on the map that we could get there by the S2 highway or by a smaller more direct road.
I backed out of the diagonal parking space and headed down Via Spahni in the direction I had taken to arrive at this spot. Only a few meters ahead was an intersection which due to the subsequent trauma I can only vaguely recall. From the vantage of hind sight it makes me recall a Rilke poem that describes everything directly in front of the author’s face as stone. As I looked ahead I saw the aforementioned red and white T-shaped sign. It was only one of numerous glyphs I had encountered and struggled to comprehend throughout my now day-and-a-half of driving in Italy. Slowly I was coming to see the pattern language among them so I led myself to believe. “This T must mean I can turn either left or right.” I thought. I didn’t really stop to examine the flaw in that logic when intuitively something told me that left was not really an option. There was more road to the left but I think there may have been a small barrier or something to suggest that it was not for automobile use. Seeing a van a few meters down to the right parked at an angle to the left side of the road again, intuitively, I believed a right turn was in order. (So much for intuition.) The only challenge it seemed was squeezing between the tail of the van and the wall of the building that flanked the right of this small downwardly sloped lane. I weaved past, not wanting to do damage to either vehicle. The short piece of road that remained until its end, maybe ten meters, ahead was clear.
More than halfway down—whether it was Debbie or me who noticed it first I can’t say—I suddenly slammed on the brakes when we both realized the end of the road met the intersection of the cross road ahead with a precipitous drop of a meter or two! No barrier. No sign other than the one I had now clearly misinterpreted. Just a short cliff.
Whew! Glad we saw that in time. Now I was really glad we had left with some daylight left or there is no question we would have driven unceremoniously off this short cliff.
Now the fun began. All I had to do was put the stick shift car in reverse up a steep hill and squeeze it through the narrow passage between the van and the wall. Piece of torte.
I stepped on the brake, set the gear in reverse, lifted up on the clutch, the car lurched forward even closer to the stone ledge. My God this is hard to do! The force of gravity and my inexperience was sending the car in exactly the wrong direction. I had few such attempts available to me before disaster would ensue. Now I reasoned that the hand brake would have to participate in this. I had to ensure I was fully engaged in reverse before moving.
I pulled up the hand brake, carefully set the gear, revved the motor, released the brake to an elephants’ squeal, the smell of burning clutch, and crookedly jerked the vehicle up the stone lane heading toward the narrow gap. “Stop!!!” Debbie cried out, keeping me from smacking into the wall—or so she perceived and believe me I didn’t know any better. How am I going to thread this needle?
I eased the car back down the hill a little bit to improve the angle of attack when as if sent by one of the arch angels the owner of the van appeared and removed what was now the greatest impediment. I had only to engage the elephants and burning clutch one more time to successfully extricate ourselves from what only a few moments earlier was certain doom.
Just another instance of a phenomenon we had been tracking throughout the trip. In travel as in life—so many grand themes of survival and relationship seem to play out daily. Perseverance. Focus. Trust. Hope. Courage. Confidence. Communication. Team work. Delight. Disappointment. Flexibility. Salvation.
The coda to this little tale—tame by comparison, but telling nonetheless—was only minutes away. As I drove our little chariot in circles around the town unable to connect to the road that had led us in, I decided that “down” was all we really needed to concern ourselves with. I took the next available road that headed in that direction. How could that fail? The answer came gradually as the road narrowed into a single lane dirt path going perhaps somewhere, perhaps not. As our confidence faded with the afternoon sky, I saw a car poking out of a perpendicular road ahead. I stopped our car in front of the other, giving us the opportunity to ask the way to Buonoconvento of this farmer who spoke no English. Saint Christopher was still looking out for us as the man indicated that all we needed to do was follow him.
And we did. Grazie mille!
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