everything old is new again

we are in jerusalem.

after slogging through africa for four months, we're now somewhere that's familiar in an unrecognizable way.

i've been here before three times. when i was fifteen i came here for six weeks with a jewish youth group; i had my first real girlfriend, got drunk for the first time and -- most importantly -- first became a foreigner. since then i've come back twice with family on shorter trips, both about fifteen years ago.

now i'm back. but this time, i've grown used to being a foreigner. i've grown familiar with being unfamiliar.

when i first came to israel the idea of being on another continent was awe inspiring. the flourescent yoghurt they served for breakfast was bizzare. the omnipresent jews disconcerting. the old city old.

the old city was so old then. so shatteringly ancient. compared to my pre-yuppie massachusetts hometown -- proudly on the revolutionary war trail! -- jerusalem was cretaceous. walking into the old city was like swallowing the red pill. here, there was a mad arab souk where one could haggle over trays of saffron. here, there were ramparts of sandstone that had overlooked the crusades. here, there was via dolorosa where the blood of jesus fell. here, there was the wailing wall. the last piece of the ancient hebrew temple, where men in black rocked and chanted. where jews from around the world came to lean their heads against the stone and tuck their prayers into the cracks.

now, everything old is new again. i am not a boy excited about his first kiss or his first falafel. i am married. i am thirty-three. i am on my way from the temples of karnak, from giza, from lalibela and axum. the souk is only another souk. the chattering arabs and rocking jews and portly tourists are modern, western, and familiar.

i take my wife to the wall, suggest she go up on the women's side to see what it's like while i approach on my own side. i touch it. see the notes. press in between the hassids to look up at the ruins. and how do i feel?

like a foreigner.

i know how to haggle. i know how to sleep in flea-ridden beds. i know how to stomach local cuisines. i know how to survive endless bus rides and the rest of travel. i don't know how to fit in here. here where i first felt foreign.

am i american? am i jewish? am i a traveler? am i home? yes and no to all.

sitting in the tunnel between the wall and the souk, bartlebee and i decide that our trip is over so it can start again. we have left africa. our journeys there are complete. in jerusalem, we rest with lorel and arnie, sleep late, cook in a kitchen, take long showers and put off sightseeing. in jerusalem, we stay home. from here we will leave home again. on another trip entirely. one that has not been challenging, rough, or frustrating.

because everything old is new again.