Cannes, Year V

Friends: Three small villages within twenty miles of each other, about 200 miles directly south of Paris, each claim to be the center of France based on the calculations of different cartographers.  The lack of agreement lies in whether or not one includes assorted islands in the Mediterranean and the English Channel to define the borders of the country.

These villages were my first destination on this my fifth annual Cannes/Tour de France summer. Though I have come near these villages in my previous meanderings about the country, I was unaware of this rivalry, or that a center to the country was to be searched out, until I read the recently published "The Discovery of France" this winter. This excellent book by Graham Robb, an English university professor, who has spent years exploring France, some of it by bicycle, was chock full of fascinating lore and tidbits. He added a new dimension to the sound of chiming church bells thanks to his dissertation explaining that many were minted from a collection of plates and goblets and candlesticks of the locals.

I could well have stumbled upon Bruere-Allichamps, one of the towns asserting itself to be the center of France, later this summer, as it is on National Highway 144 just north of Saint-Amand-Montrond, the Ville Arrive for stage 20 of this year's Tour, the climactic time trial, the day before the race finishes in Paris and three days after the final mountain stage finishing atop L'Alpe d'Huez. It is the most accessible of the three towns claiming to be the center of France. The other two, Saulzais-le-Poitier and Vesdun, are off on small, lightly-traveled rural roads.

None of the three villages are large enough to have a tourist office to state their case, though their monuments were all erected with the hopes of attracting tourists. Three miles from Bruere was a "center-of-France pavilion" (arches over a four-lane superhighway at a rest stop with gas station and restaurant). Saulzais-le-Poitier offered a modest obelisk just off the road in a clump of trees. Vesdun designated itself as the center of France with a six-foot wide map of the country made up of some 60,000 tiles.

From this cluster of villes claiming to be the center of France I climbed up onto the Massif Central and headed for a region known as Vulcania featuring the Puy de Dome, a legendary Tour de France climb where I had hoped to meet up with Craig, the friend I biked with last summer to Mont St. Michel. We planned on an early morning climb when bicyclists are allowed on the toll road to its summit, followed by a couple of days of cycling together towards Mont Ventoux. Craig's summer residence is just 150 miles to the south of the Puy. He had returned to France April 15 after wintering in Chicago.

But unfortunately, Craig bowed out due to "lack of training" and cat-sitting duties. There's still a chance that he may join me after Cannes for a ride to the Pyrenees, but he may have a conflict preventing that too, so all those who were eager for more Travels With Craig may have to wait. We already had one friend from Chicago, who was all gung-ho to tackle the Tourmalet and other Pyrenean climbs this summer, opt out. So it goes with such things--people have lots of desire, but little commitment. It's all too easy to find an excuse to stay at home when it comes time to act.

Vulcania is an other-worldly region dotted with a wide assortment of pimple-sized volcanoes. The Puy de Dome is the most majestic, though pint-sized enough that the road to its top corkscrews around it, rather than switchbacking to its summit. The locals are so proud of it that the departement it resides in, one of the 90 some districts that comprise France, bears its name. It is one of the rare departements named for something other than a river.

A day's ride beyond the Puy de Dome was the city Le Puy en Velay, dominated by a pair of tight, tiny puys more like spires, one bearing a cathedral dating to 960 and the other a 70-foot tall statue of a woman cradling a child erected in 1860. The woman and child could have been mistaken for the Virgin Mary and the infant Jesus, but the woman is known as Notre Dame de France. The cathedral was inspired by a Catholic bishop who made a pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela over a thousand years ago. The marvel of the construction of the cathedral atop this puy made Le Puy en Velay one of the four traditional starting points in France that converge upon St. Jean Pied-de-Port in the French Pyrenees for the final 500 miles of the pilgrimage route to the church that contains the remains of the apostle James.

I plan to follow the route after Cannes. I have met a few cyclists over the years who have been on such a pilgrimage. Thousands of people do it every year, though its not as popular as it was back in the Middle Ages when tens of thousands of people undertook the adventure every year. A book describing the route published in the 1200s is considered the first travel book ever written. Countless books have been written on it since, including one by Shirley MacLaine.

After two days on the Massif Central, the least populated region of France, with still snow-streaked peaks here and there, I plunged over 4,000 feet in 25 miles down to the flat lands of the Rhone Valley. Not all the cemeteries had their water turned back on up on the Massif. Prices were cheaper too back down in the more populated regions. Gas was over 1.5 euros on the Massif--ten dollars a gallon, about a dollar more than elsewhere.

Signs giving the price of gas are more of a warning than an advertisement. Its hard to say if its reduced automobile use, as there never seems to be much traffic in rural France. But it hasn't increased the amount of bicyclists. All I see are an occasional older guy in Lycra out getting some exercise, always a heart-warming site. What I have seen more of though are hitch-hikers. I've seen many sideways thumbs, about as many as upraised thumbs from those delighted to see a touring cyclist. The French still warmly respond to the touring cyclist, though few are to be seen.

For the first year ever I didn't experience a drop of rain on my 600 mile ride to Cannes from Paris. Instead, I experienced four days of more than gentle headwinds, half of my days on the bike--not necessarily a welcome trade. One day on the Massif Central I wasn't even averaging nine miles per hour for the first 30 miles of my day. I feared not arriving in Cannes early enough to rest up for the 12-day marathon of movies and the day I needed to go through the schedule of nearly 2,000 films screening.

But I arrived on schedule, early Monday morning, 48 hours before the films are to commence. I am primed to enjoy what are easily the year's 12 best days of cinema, other than the four days of Telluride. I know the vast majority of those on this mailing list are more interested in travel and bicycling than cinema. I'll spare you the two weeks of Cannes ramblings unless I hear otherwise. Likewise, any who have no interest in another two month batch of France and Tour de France dispatches can hit the unsubscribe icon or respond to this address with a subject of "unsubscribe."

Later, George

Tel Aviv

Friends: And thus is my circuit of Israel complete. I finished it off with the least strenuous pedaling of the journey along the Mediterranean for 100 miles from the northwest corner of the country at Rosh Hanikra just below the Sulan Ridge dividing Israel from Lebanon to Tel Aviv via Hafia and Hadera and Naharyna. Some of it was on quiet two lane roads besides empty beaches and some on divided four-lane highways surging with traffic.

Israel is a country of four seas--the Red, the Dead, the Med (-iterranean) and the Galilee. I have now taken a dip in each. All are salt water except the Galilee, which supplies the country with half its water. Its 13 miles long and a couple miles wide, about the size of Manhattan. I could see it in its entirety from the hill that has been designated as the likely spot of Jesus' most quoted sermon.

I am very happy to be back on the flats and to have all the climbing, or rather descending, behind me. A slight fracture in my rear wheel has degenerated into a blip that catches my brakes, causing the bike to skid when I brake hard. The bulge in the rim has also caused the rim to overheat from the extra, uneven braking, as the brake pad on the bulging side hits it harder and more frequently. I've had two harrowing flats at close to 40 miles per hour on prolonged steep descents, both inner flats from the overheating.

I only had 2,000 feet of descending left back to sea level when I suffered my second flat, five days after the first, on my long plunge out of Jerusalem. The blip had only been a minor, nagging issue earlier in the ride. The stress of all the steep hills in Jerusalem exacerbated it more than I realized. The wheel has over 30,000 miles on it and has served me well on some perilously steep descents in France, Scotland, Wales, Ecuador, Japan, the Rockies and elsewhere the past three years. I am looking forward to Joe of Quick Release building a new one on my 48 spoke hub so I can once again let it fly down the mountains without having my skin crawl.

Both flats announced themselves with a fizzle rather than a pop, otherwise I could have been
startled at the possibility of an explosive. Bombs and gun fire are a fact of Israeli life, with matters escalating in the past week not only in Gaza but Jerusalem itself. I just learned of a suicide bomber in Beersheba in the Negev who killed two along with himself just two weeks before I had passed through, an item that didn't receive much notice.

Winds have been more of a factor on this trip than just about any place I've biked. Winds are created by turbulence. That sums up this region. Israel celebrates its 60th birthday this year. From its very inception the country has had a knife at its throat and it remains there. It takes a while for it to sink in, but after several weeks of all the reminders of the decades of tension and violence, the monuments and memorials to the martyred and the ubiquity of the young soldiers and the tales of personal unrest, I know that whatever calm and normalcy that seems to prevail can be shattered at any moment. Personal bomb shelters and gas masks are a fact of Israeli life.

"Why did you want to come to Israel?" is the predominant question of this trip, especially when I'm off the beaten path away from the pilgrimage sites that draw all the tour buses. Even Evey was curious to know what drew the friends I made at the hostel in Jerusalem to Israel. I had an easy answer--to visit a friend who moved here eight years ago. Many of the travelers I've met came because of a cheap flight or pleasant weather for this time of the year. The Swedish school teacher at the hostel had a one-week vacation. Rather than going skiing as most of his students were doing, he chose a warm place. A German engineering student came because of a bargain $200 airfare from Munich. A guy from Odessa likewise took advantage of a cheap fare. There are many Israeli immigrants from Odessa resulting in frequent bargain flights between the two places. All were ardent travelers and happy to go anywhere and were as happy with their time here as I have been.

I was able to slip in to Tel Aviv on Shabbat when there was hardly any traffic on the four and six lane highways feeding the city. There were almost as many cyclists riding their shoulders early Saturday morning as motorists on the roadway. I biked along with a triathlete for ten miles who only bikes on Saturdays when there is little traffic. But the beaches of Tel Aviv were thronged. They continue for four miles along the heart of the city.

I concluded these travels with my one of my best, or at least most unexpected, campsites, in an orange grove half way between Jaffa, the ancient Arabic city just south of Tel Aviv, and the airport, 13 miles from downtown Tel Aviv, sparing me from having to fork over twenty dollars to sleep in a communal room of desultory sounds and odors. Instead I had the luxury of my own
private abode five miles from the population-choked Mediterranean strip where a large percentage of Israelis reside.

I have the option of spending my last night in the same place or in a grapefruit orchard just a few hundred meters from the international terminal on the airport grounds. That would certainly top off another exhilarating and fulfilling month of biking and camping. Days on the bike and nights in the tent are as good as it gets for me.

I hadn't noticed the grapefruit camping on my arrival, only when I dropped by the airport before going in to Tel Aviv to find out if British Air provided plastic bags for bikes here or if I would
have to scrounge up a bag or worse yet, a box, for my bike. The woman at the check-in counter had to make a phone call to find out, but it was what I was hoping for, sparing me a lot of grief and expense. I had to wait a couple of hours at the airport before the British Air representatives arrived, three hours before the second of their two daily flights was scheduled to depart. While I waited, my reading was interrupted every 15 minutes by a recorded announcement in English and Hebrew, though Hebrew was all that was necessary, saying, "Attention please. Carrying weapons is prohibited in all terminal halls. Thank you."

I also had a nice chat with the German engineering student. He had spent his two-week spring break bicycling Israel. He had flown in on a minor airline that wasn't as bike friendly as British Air. He paid $60 to have his box stored at the airport left luggage department and had to retrieve it the day before as it wasn't open on Shabbat. Nor was there bus service to the airport on Shabbat, so he had to pay for a taxi to get his boxed bike back to the airport. But the biggest hassle of his trip was entering Jordan. He didn't attempt it by bike, as he didn't have the time to bike the 100 miles to and from the ruins of Petra that everyone wants to see. He left his bike at Eilat and took a cab to the border and then a bus to the ruins. At the border the Jordanians
wouldn't allow him to bring his knife into the country. He walked back to the Israel side and buried it in the desert. The Israelis wanted to charge him a second 64 1/2 shekel departure fee. It took him an hour to get them to relent.

He pitied me for having two days in Tel Aviv before my departure, but I have so far found it most pleasing. There is a long bike trail along the Yargon River that I have only partially explored, through park lands unlike any in Jerusalem. There is a vitality to this city with people engaged in all sorts of out door activities. There was volleyball and surfing and paddle ball along the beach. The grid of streets makes for pleasant meandering on the bike, unlike the steep windy hills of Jerusalem. The various skyscrapers of distinctive architecture make for good landmarks. While it took several days to orient myself to Jerusalem, I've gained my bearings in Tel Aviv in less than half a day and feel as if I don't have any worries of getting lost for too long here. It is a new city without the history of Jerusalem, but a tolerable place for an urban environment, and not a bad place to wrap up another noteworthy trip.

Later, George

Zefat, Israel

Friends: At last, after three weeks of wild-camping all over Israel, even on the outskirts of Jerusalem, a group of Israeli soldiers on patrol stumbled upon me in the middle of the night. Having been undetected until now I was concerned they had let their guard down.

I was camped along the Syrian border on the Golan Heights, an area that Israel had annexed during the 1967 Six-Day War and defended in the 1973 Yom Kippur War and as recently as the summer of 2006 defended against assault. I had set up my tent behind a cluster of bombed-out buildings. I had chosen the site as a defense against the winds, strong and consistent enough for there to be a string of wind generators nearby, never a good sign for the touring cyclist.

The wind can blow from four directions and only one is favorable for he who is pedaling. This was not one of those occasions when it was even close to being in my favor. I had earned every one of my miles before I set up camp, not only from battling the wind but also from climbing up from the Sea of Galilee, below sea level to nearly 4,000 feet, the highest I'd been on this trip. I was drained enough to stop the earliest I had, a couple of hours before dark, unable to resist
the shelter these buildings offered, actually doubling back to them when I saw the terrain ahead
remained rugged and rocky with few trees and the wind growing colder and more formidable.

I opted to camp behind these buildings so I wouldn't have to listen to my rain fly flapping against my tent all night in the wind. I was closing in on Mt. Hermon, at 7,000 feet the highest mountain in Israel, up in its northeast corner. It shares the mountain with Lebanon and Syria. Its highest peak is 9,000 feet in Syria. It is Israel's lone ski resort. There was a dirt road near where I was camped and I heard an occasional vehicle rumble past before and after dark, though none interrupted my sleep. It was the bright flashlights of the soldiers blasting through my tent that woke me. My bike was by my tent, a signal of neutrality like the UN plastered on all sides of white vans and cars that are evident all over the country, so the soldiers were in no great panic.
They were more curious than anything, wanting to see my passport and wondering if I knew I was so close to Syria. They also asked if I had been in any Arabic countries. Otherwise I was neither scolded nor reprimanded nor ordered to be gone.

The wind died during the night and remained calm the next day. The only strain was some more climbing. Five miles away was the Valley of Tears, a monument to a cataclysmic battle during the Yom Kippur War where the Israelis destroyed some 500 Syrian tanks and vehicles, the heart of the Syrian assault. Particularly honored was an Israeli commander who stood off three tanks. A couple of the Syrian tanks remain at the site. There was also a small grove of trees planted around one, each with a plaque honoring a fallen Israeli. The two mile recently paved road to the site was surrounded by acres and acres of vineyards with a few bunkers and pillboxes scattered amongst them. Clouds drifted past the snow-streaked Mount Hermon in the near distance.

Descending from the Golan Heights I had a spectacular vista of the upper Galilee valley, a great
agricultural belt of apple and peach and pomegranate orchards. From the city of Kiryat Shomona I climbed five miles to Metula, the northern-most city in Israel on the Lebanon border. The border crossing, called the Good Fence, has been closed since 2000. Metula is a small resort city where Israelis can go to escape the summer heat. It was founded by the Rothschilds. There are quite a few buildings and projects around the country funded by the Rothschilds, including the Parliament in Jerusalem. The word Rothschild is synonymous with extreme wealth in Israel. The Hebrew lyrics to the song, "If I were a rich man," from "Fiddler on a Roof" are "If I were a Rothschild."

The country's largest ice rink is in Metula, donated by a Canadian couple. It is called the Canadian Center. There was also a basketball court in the center with a locker room where I was able to get a shower. I had been denied earlier in the day at a national park camp ground, as it was too early in the season for it to be open. I haven't had success in being allowed to shower in some hostels without paying for a full night's lodging, as hot water is an expensive commodity.

A guy at a service station recommended a new, better graded road to the town of Zefat, the highest town in Israel overlooking the Sea of Galilee. I had one of my better campsites of the trip in an open cow pasture full of blooming wild flowers. I had to climb over a gate to reach it, something I did quite often while biking through Texas. But it was at dusk and there looked like little evidence that the dirt road was much used. I just hoped for no rain during the night,
as such a dirt road could turn into a quagmire, as I had suffered a couple times on this trip.

The guy who recommended the road was wearing a pink rubber bracelet with Hebrew on it. I asked him its significance. "Have you heard of Lance Armstrong?" he replied, easily the most stupid question I have ever been asked in my life. I simply raised my sleeve and revealed my yellow Livestrong bracelet. His bracelet had nothing to do with Lance or cancer, only that this
guy knew that Lance had inspired a zillion spin-offs for countless different causes. This one had to do with bus drivers paying attention to traffic. The roads are full of buses--not only tour buses, but the Israeli version of Greyhound, Egged, the second largest bus service in the world after Greyhound. Every traveler I have met has raved at how good its service is. There are frequent buses everywhere and reasonably priced. Still, I've seen more hitch-hikers here than anywhere I've been, and frequently in the act of being picked up, as they don't appear to have to wait very long to get a lift.

Later, George

Tiberius, Israel

Friends: Out of the cluster of cyclists gathered for Jerusalem's monthly Critical Mass ride stepped a guy wearing a bright red "Chicago Critical Mass" t-shirt. As he approached me I frantically searched my memory to see if I could recall having met him in Chicago, as he appeared to have recognized me. But he only wanted to welcome me and to solicit my email address so he could give me notice of Critical Mass events in the future. I was the only one who had signed his sheet in non-Hebrew.

He explained the t-shirt was the gift of a friend who had attended Chicago's tenth anniversary ride last fall, a ride I had also been on. His friend returned with a handful of these Chicago t-shirts. No one else was wearing the Chicago shirt on this ride. One guy though was wearing a
self-made t-shirt with the number 50 on it and some Hebrew. This was Jerusalem's 50th Critical Mass ride since its first a little over four years ago. The guy wearing the t-shirt asked me how many Chicago had had. Ten years of twelve a year and a few more put it at about 125.

Chicago's tenth anniversary ride attracted several thousand. There were about 50 of us gathered here in Mish Bar Square on King George Street in downtown Jerusalem. But that was a good number for Jerusalem. We were a motley bunch when we set out at 12:30. About half of the group had balloons attached to their bikes or packs or helmets. We ranged in age from ten-year olds to 60-year olds, with most in their 20s. About 90% of the riders were male. Half of the group had whistles that they blew in a synchronized manner, just a part of the cacophony of sound that heralded our passage.

We made an initial half-mile loop through the heart of the city beginning with a stretch down a pedestrian mall before heading off towards the semi-affluent Germany Colony where Evey lives. We biked at a crawl through the thick traffic, but still had a hard time keeping together. Riders were reluctant to go through intersections after a light had turned red, even when one or more cyclists were corking the intersection and shouting for people to stay together. There was a lot
of waiting to remass. In all we covered four-and-a-half miles in a little over an hour.

One guy had an amplifier and speaker on the back of his bike. He repeated over and over "Bike Paths for Jerusalem" in Hebrew. Another guy towards the back echoed the chant without a speaker in Hebrew and English. He told me Jerusalem has only three kilometers of bike paths and they aren't even bike specific, just very very short stretches through a couple of parks and on sidewalks along busy thoroughfares, that hardly counted as bike paths. Many in the group were handing out small squares of paper, as participants of Chicago's ride do, to passersby explaining the purpose of the ride as a means to promote bicycling.

I mentioned to several people that I was surprised to have seen only one bike rack in Jerusalem. One person was shocked that there was even one and wondered where it was. Another guy instantly knew the rack I was speaking of outside the Knesset and said that a member of the Critical Mass had campaigned for over a year to get the rack installed. He acknowledged it was a pretty pathetic excuse for a bike rack though.

I commented that this was more cyclists than I'd seen in my six days in Jerusalem. He was surprised I had seen so few, as he said their numbers had increased significantly in the four years of the Critical Mass, and he seemed to think there were bicyclists everywhere. One guy asked me if many children ride Chicago's Critical Mass. There were several on this ride, as there is no school on Friday, the first day of the Israeli weekend. He said his six-year old used to
come along, but now that he's nine, he has more important things to do.

We ended up in the court yard of an organization devoted to the preservation of nature. A table with punch and cookies awaited us. Someone invited me on a day-long ride the next day. Unfortunately, I had checked out of my hostel and had all my gear packed and ready to mount on my bike. After six nights in a bed I was eager to be back in my tent, sleeping out in the middle of nowhere. If he had offered me a place to throw down my sleeping bag though, I would have accepted. But most Israelis live in cramped quarters and have only so much hot water to share this time of the year, so one simply doesn't receive such offers.

When I mentioned I was headed to Jericho, a Palestinian city on the way to the Sea of Galilee, he, like everyone else, strongly advised me against it, suggesting a detour of several miles around it on a road that is considered a safe corridor through the West Bank. I had passed Jericho on my way to Jerusalem and was tempted to visit it then, as it is considered one of the oldest cities in the world dating to 7,000 B.C. It lies just beyond the Dead Sea. I had to plunge back down the road that I had climbed to Jerusalem, back down to below sea level, to follow the Jordan River Valley to the northernmost point of Israel beyond the Sea of Galilee.

As usual, I was happy to have ignored everyone's warnings. All through Jericho people along the road called out "Welcome," as I passed. When I thanked someone for telling me which way to go at an unmarked intersection he said, "No need to thank me for nothing." I camped a few miles outside of Jericho before I returned to the safe zone of highway 90 which eventually returned me to Israeli occupied territory about 40 miles south of the Sea of Galilee. Whenever I have traveled among the Arabs on this trip and others I have been accorded a measure of warmth and respect unlike any I have received elsewhere. The nomadic nature of the touring cyclist evidently connects to the Arabic DNA. In Morocco I was told, "You have a white heart, you would make a good Muslim." In Egypt people repeatedly expressed an extra level of cordiality and curiosity.

One of the Arabic managers of the hostel I stayed at in Jerusalem was so entranced with my means and style of travel and uncharacteristic Western values commented, "You are the most perfect person I have met," a rather hasty and ridiculous presumption. I hadn't even been to Mecca, as he had, nor did I prostrate myself three times a day in the direction of Mecca, as he did. He regarded traveling by bike and camping just anywhere as an ascetic exercise that earned me considerable merit. He seemed almost dumbfounded that I didn't have a car or wife or house or respectable job, yet seemed to be content. Nor could he imagine that I was simply being true to myself and not suffering for it. I'm accustomed to others expressing wonderment at the path I have followed. The usual Western reaction by those who are impressed, rather than indignant, is "You ought to write a book." The Arab's comment was just a reflection of his values and what is high praise in his sphere. Once in India someone who didn't think I was wasting my life commented, "You are a very evolved person," though he too was someone who hardly knew me.
One of the biggest perils of traveling by bicycle is the accolades one receives along the way and
taking them too seriously. I have traveled with others on their maiden tours who after several days of such recognition think they are indeed a superior being and think they know everything. The veteran touring cyclist takes such an inner satisfaction from the riding, he merely smiles at the attention he receives, not letting it puff up his head. If only more people were doing this, it wouldn't be regarded with such awe. Instead, all fellow touring cyclists could bond over the great joy and liberation we know we are experiencing.

Meeting a fellow touring cyclist is always one of the highlights of my tours, as they are such rare
events and there is invariably an instant strong feeling of kinship. I met a retired Norwegian in the Negev headed to the Sinai who had biked all the way from Oslo. He had been biking since August and was doing between 30 and 50 miles a day. I was the first touring cyclist he had spoken to in his six months on the road. He had passed only one other going in the opposite direction, who hadn't stopped to talk. He was aglow. This was his first significant tour and he was loving it and in no hurry for it to end. He was flabbergasted at the paucity of people doing this.

Though I know I am winding down this tour, I am not sad, as I know I will be off to France soon enough after this one and many many more await me. But now I am off to a hill overlooking the Sea of Galilee where the Sermon on the Mount and the Beatitudes were delivered. I look forward as well to a dip in the Sea, a body of water that has been walked upon. It is 700 feet below sea level, but is fresh water, so I can give myself a full dunk.

Later, George

Jerusalem 3

Friends: As I was about to mount my bike outside the thronged Damascus Gate after negotiating my way through the clogged Arab quarter of the Old City, an older couple rushed up to me and gushed, "We're so glad to see you're alive. We were worried about you." It was a pair of Ohioans I had spoken to at the Israel-Egypt border almost a week ago. They were part of a Christian tour group on their way back to Israel after a visit to Mount Sinai.

They told me an American had been killed in a flash flood two days before outside Ein Gedi where I had gone into the Dead Sea. They knew I was camping in the desert and feared I might have been caught by the storm. They said the road was a mess along the Dead Sea from the deluge of water that had come down from the gorges and cliff sides.

They would have also been concerned about my safety if I had been heading towards the Gaza Strip, as the Palestinians have stepped up lobbing their Kassam rockets into Israel. There were 55 a couple of days ago and one death. They have a range of twelve miles or so. I had come within ten miles of Gaza on my second day in Israel and was headed to the town of Sderot, which has taken the brunt of the attacks, but turned away when I saw the black clouds of a storm moving in and took a turn in the road to the east away from Sderot trying to race the storm to safety. Sirens are perpetually going off in Sderot warning locals to take cover when radar picks up an incoming Kassam. People only have a few seconds warning to dive under a desk or rush to a save place.

The Ohio couple reported they had had their Bibles confiscated when they entered the Temple Mount, the Muslim holy site with the Golden Dome Mosque in the Old City. If they hadn't been carrying them in plain view they could have easily smuggled them in. When I entered I had to put my pack through a metal detector, but no one looked inside it, nor were there any signs saying no Bibles allowed. I had two books with me, my guidebook and a book by Paul Theroux on traveling China by train. I sat in the plaza and read Theroux for half an hour and no one bothered me. The Ohioan's guide should have warned them. But they were able to reclaim their Bibles on the way out.

I accompanied Evey on her weekly visit to the Jewish market. We had our bags checked going in and out of the multi-level parking lot and had to pass by a pair of armed guards into the market, though they weren't perusing bags and were barely paying attention, both engrossed in cell phone conversation. That was a little upsetting to Evey, but things are much safer than when she moved to Israel eight years ago just as the second intifada started and suicide bombings were a regular occurrence. She never took a bus during those years and was much more wary than she is now.

Evey is trying to establish herself as "the plastic bag lady," as she brings her own recycled bags to the market for all her purchases. Even though she patronizes the same vendors week after week, she has yet to condition any of them to remember not to grab one of their own bags for her purchases. If she doesn't have a bag at the ready, they quickly plop whatever she's selected and they've weighed into one of their bags. Most roll their eyes when she hands them one of her
own crumpled bags, as if she is some brand of new religious kook, though she looks as non-religious as they come not covering her head, wearing slacks and wearing a dab of makeup. Still, she managed to use close to 20 of her own bags for her lemons and carrots and fish and egg plants and squash and crackers and all else.

One of Evey's inspirations is a woman who managed to start a country-wide plastic bottle recycling program. There are six-foot high cages all over Jerusalem and the rest of the county for people to deposit their bottles. The tops are caged as well. There is a hole to pass the bottles through, though not big enough for large detergent containers. Solar panels atop just about every residence and building in the country are another hopeful sign. They are used primarily for heating water. Adjoining all those panels are white water tanks, sprouting up like headless mushrooms, giving the skyline a unique look especially at sunrise and sunset with the light
illuminating them.

Many of the vendors in the market wore kippas, a greater percentage than I've seen out and about, indicating they were religious. There was a mini-synagogue in the market, barely large enough for the necessary quorum of ten men necessary to conduct a service. I've hardly seen any of the arch-orthodox Hasidics other than at the Western Wall. The men are easily identified by their black attire, distinctive, sometimes bizarre, hats and the pair of curly sprigs of hair dangling well below each ear. Evey said they descend upon the market Friday afternoon of Shabbat when all the sellers are eager to clear out their produce and prices are slashed. The Hasidic tend to live at the poverty level, devoting their time to prayer and study rather than work. Evey recommended a couple of neighborhoods where I'd find them, places I hadn't stumbled upon yet.

There they were in abundance, some walking along reading the Torah, others reading and semi-chanting as they stood at bus stops. Now I truly knew I was in Israel. Evey said if I wanted a genuinely unique Israeli experience I ought to return for one of the two days when Israel honors its Holocaust victims with three minutes of absolute stillness. A siren sounds at ten a.m. and everyone stops wherever they are and stands in silence until the siren sounds again. People in cars get out and stand wherever they might be. Evey said I would also appreciate Yom Kippur, as it is a day when no one drives a car. It is a tradition to give children a bicycle on that day, as with no motorized vehicles on the roads, it is the ultimate day for bicycles.

The "Jerusalem Post" reported with approval that Jon Stewart led off the Oscar telecast with a Yom Kippur joke. The Oscars were of heightened interest in Israel this year as for the first time in 23 years and second time in history, an Israeli film ("Beaufort") was one of the five nominees for best foreign picture. Though it didn't win, the "Post" took some consolation that a Holocaust feature, "The Counterfeiters" from Austria, was the winner. The sub-headline of the Oscar story read, "Jewish creative talents prove their worth at Sunday's Oscars." Besides the Coen brothers with their three Oscars for best picture, best director and best adapted screenplay, they could also take pride in Daniel-Day Lewis, "son of Jewish actress Jill Bacon."

The Bible Lands Museum hosted a lecture by an archaeologist on the early days of Jerusalem that Evey had been looking forward to. She knew quite a bit about the subject herself having participated in three digs in the region over the years and having served as a guide at Chicago's Oriental Institute. We accompanied a tour of the museum along with six graduate students that preceded the lecture. The guide stopped asking us to guess what certain artifacts were as Evey had the answer before the guide could complete her question. We had to skip one room, as it had been taken over by a bunch of young boisterous children. Evey said out-of-control kids are typical of Israel. Parents don't discipline their children, because they know the army eventually will. The only kids that have bothered me are young Arabs. They like to grab hold of my rear rack as I'm walking through the market. If I ignore them, they just become more flagrant. It can be irritating.

There was a large turnout for the lecture, as anyone who lives here can't help but be fascinated by the thousands of years of rich history all around them. Jerusalem has been invaded and captured 33 times over the centuries, the last in 1967 by the Israelis when they regained the old city and their holiest of sites, the Western Wall, also known as the Wailing Wall, as it was a place where Israelis went to mourn the loss of loved ones dating back to the Ottoman Empire.

Evey has occasionally asked, "Doesn't Jerusalem seem small?" With 700,000 people tightly packed amongst its hills, its doesn't sprawl like some cities. After five days of bicycling all over, getting lost and unlost, I have finally learned my way around well enough that I can now agree that, yes, it is manageable and nothing seems to be more than ten or fifteen minutes away, even with all the steep hills. I asked at the tourist office how many hills were in the city proper and no one could tell me. They wondered if that was something bicyclists needed to know. "Only to put it in perspective for friends back home," I explained. Nor did they know what the highest point in the city was. There are many high vantage points, but none more pronounced than another,
nor are there any skyscrapers. They are in Tel Aviv, less than 50 miles away, down on the coast. I'll be there in a week-and-a-half after making a circuit of the northern half of the country.

Later, George

Jerusalem 2

Friends: I was glad I left my pump attached to my bike when I visited the Knesset, the Israeli parliament. There is no telling what reaction it might have provoked from the guards inspecting my backpack. It was by far the most thorough inspection I've been subjected to in my time here. My detachable head-light utterly befuddled the guards, occupying them for several minutes. The pump could well have drawn bomb experts from all over the city.

It had taken such an effort to gain entrance to the Knesset, I felt obligated to prolong my stay in the visitor's gallery, even though I couldn't understand a word of the proceedings, entirely in Hebrew. There were just two others in the gallery, what appeared to be a couple of high school students looking very serious in their all black attire and black yarmulkes. We were behind a glass partition, in a balcony overlooking the proceedings, so I could have asked them what was being said without causing any disruption, but it was obvious it was nothing of significance. Someone at the rostrum appeared to be filibustering or just stating some case for the record. The handful of legislators in attendance were mostly in pairs huddled in conversations of their own, paying no attention whatsoever to the speaker.

I could have left after three or four minutes and have had as much of an experience as I was to have. But it was late in the afternoon and I had time to spare before I was due at Evey's for another dinner with her and Dan and their friend Lynn, who had moved to Jerusalem a few months ago from Chicago. The benches were padded and my legs could use a rest after spending the better part of the day roaming the Yad Vashem (Holocaust Complex) and some further exploration of this city of steep hills on my bike. I tracked down the hall where the the Last Supper is said to have taken place and the Cinematheque and a few other sites.

The interior of the Knesset, like the exterior, offered a simple, yet magisterial elegance. It was a long walk back through its huge, stately plaza to the high-gated entry where I had left my bike. And then a long wait before I could rouse someone to return my pack. That was something I was getting used to. I was kept waiting nearly five minutes at the Yad Vashem for my pack before someone returned from their break.

The Yad Vashem (taken from the book of Isiah in the Bible meaning monument and memorial) resides on 46 acres just below the summit of Mount Herzl. The upper part of Mount Herzl is the grave of Benyamin Herzl, an Austrian who in the later 1800s was the first to propose the creation of a Jewish state. Also on Mount Herzl are the graves of many of Israel's heads of state, including Golda Meir. It was Herzl's book, "The Jewish State," written in 1896, calling for the establishment of an independent state for the Jewish people, that led to the creation of Israel. He died in 1904 and was buried in Vienna. It was his desire to be buried in Israel when it became a Jewish state. His wish was fulfilled in 1949, a year after Israel came into being. He is honored every year on the anniversary of his death.

Yad Vashem wasn't established until 1953. It has grown considerably over the years. There are more than half a dozen buildings and memorials, each stunningly powerful. The complex attracted the biggest crowds by far of any place I've visited here in Israel. There are vast and grand memorials all over its grounds. The centerpiece is a lengthy pyramid of an arcade opened in 2005 tracing the history of the Holocaust with dozens of exhibits and video presentations. It was mobbed with groups of school children and recent recruits to the IDF (Israel Defense Force) in packs of ten to fifteen each with their own guide. Most were speaking Hebrew, but there was an occasional, non-military, English speaking group as well. The soldiers arrived with their M16s, but had to check them somewhere. Wherever that was could have provided quite an arsenal for anyone contemplating a revolution. I thought for the first time I might see one of those machine guns fired when I saw a guy point his M16 to the sky out in the plaza before entering the complex. But he was only checking to make sure it wasn't loaded. It was probably a good thing his commanding officer wasn't looking.

All these boy and girl soldiers, fresh out of high school were learning further why they had been conscripted. One exhibit traced the history of anti-Semitism highlighted by Hitler ranting that the Jews are a "sub-human race that must be destroyed." But long before Hitler came along, they are told, "Christianity developed a hatred of the Jews for rejecting Jesus as the Messiah." Questions are raised why the world allowed the Holocaust to happen when it well knew what was going on. A statement on one wall asks, "Why wasn't Auschwitz bombed?" Accompanying video footage shows the bombing of sites in the vicinity of the crematoriums. They could have easily been bombed as well, or, at the very least, the train tracks leading to Auschwitz, putting the operation out of commission. Another quote on a nearby facade from someone at Auschwitz laments, "All of us, dying here amidst the icy arctic indifference of the nations." But a following exhibit documents some who did come to the aid of the Jews.

There were stools here and there, and benches too, so one could sit and watch the many videos. Visitors are welcomed by an exceptional ten-minute film just after the entrance. It is projected on the full length of a towering triangular wall that forms one end of the building. It depicts the seemingly idyllic life of European Jews in the early '30s. It was a continual pan of rural and urban folk in archival footage dancing and skating and singing and conversing and waving to the camera, but with eerie, foreboding music in the background. Just after this introduction one is assaulted by the rise of Hitler and the Nazis and the hell that was to follow. There was more archival footage of all that (goose-stepping and heiling and life in the ghettos and cattle car transport and concentration camps and war footage), as well as contemporary survivors recounting the horrors of the time. As one can well imagine, it is the ultimate of the Holocaust museums around the world.

Another building is devoted to the one-and-a-half million children who were victims of the Holocaust. It's a nearly pitch black experience walking into a nearly pitch-black cavern solely illuminated by the dim flicker of seemingly distant candles on all sides and above and below. One loses perspective and it almost feels as if you're floating through the cosmos as you follow a circular path. A woman's voice continually recites the names and home towns of victims. I emerged from it to the site of several people clutching each other in tears. It was a truly intense, deeply haunting experience. Similarly haunting is a monument to the deportees--a cattle car mounted on railroad tracks that end abruptly fifty feet in the air amongst a clump of pine trees. Large slabs of rocks arranged in a quarry-like maze paid honor to entire towns that had been wiped out. Another exhibit pays tribute to those who came to the aid of the Jews at the time.

There hardly seems reason to stick around Jerusalem after absorbing all that Yad Vashem had to offer, but there are still many other museums and holy sites to visit. The prime attraction for me though is Friday's Critical Mass bike ride. It takes place in early afternoon rather than in the evening, as in most cities around the world, as sundown marks the start of Shabbat when everyone gathers for a meal with loved ones. A friend of Evey says it only attracts 25 or 30 riders, not a great deal, but more cyclists than I've seen in my three days here so far.

I've noticed a couple of signs for bike routes along main thoroughfares on the sidewalk, but nothing on the streets. Nor have I seen a bike rack anywhere except outside the Knesset, a skimpy low-lying loop rack good only for locking a wheel, not a frame, unless one had a long cable lock. I am eager to hear what the local bike activists have to say about the state of bicycling in Jerusalem. I have two weeks left in the country. Since it is less than 200 miles to its northern extremity, I don't need much more than a week to complete the northern circuit of the country up to Lebanon and then back to Tel Aviv. Another reason to prolong my stay in Jerusalem is to enjoy the company of the ardent, veteran travelers I'm sharing a dorm with at the hostel. One is a 55-year old American who has lived in Berlin the past 34 years, presently working as the private gardener on someone's estate. This is his fourth visit to Israel. Another is a 30-year old Swedish high school teacher and former bike messenger, who likewise has traveled the world, though never by bike.

Later, George

Jerusalem

Friends: The hostel I ended up at in the old walled city of Jerusalem is just a few steps from the seventh station of the cross, the second of three places where Jesus fell while lugging his cross on the way to Calvary Hill. All day long pilgrims in groups and on their own retrace Jesus' final trek, many singing or chanting. The route is through narrow, alley-like, centuries-old cobbled streets lined with shops selling all manner of goods--rugs, spices, watches, olives, rosaries, freshly butchered meat and fish, underwear, fabrics, sweets and on and on.

I had no clue I was in such close proximity to this hallowed route when I made my selection of a place to stay. I felt like I was lugging a cross myself, walking my loaded bike through the narrow confines and mobs of people to reach it. My legs were sore the next day from the effort it took going down the ramped steps and over the cobbles and having to push it up various inclines. My map didn't indicate these were more walkways than streets. If I'd known, I would have entered the Old City through the Damascus Gate rather than the Jaffa Gate, cutting my walking distance by two-thirds. But it gave me a good taste of what a hive of activity and market place the Old City is. The Old City is divided into Jewish, Christian, Arab and Armenian sectors.

One of the most hallowed sacred sites of the Christians, Jews and Muslims are within short walking distance of one another in the Old City. The Western Wall of the Jews is on the eastern fringe. One must past through a metal detector to enter. The devout kiss or place their hands upon it. Some stand praying, bobbing their head repeatedly. Others sit and read from the Torah. As one enters, there is a stand of cardboard yarmulkes to cover one's head. There is a men's side and a much smaller women's side.

Above the Wall is the Dome of the Rock, a mosque built over the rock that the Prophet Mohammad launched himself from to heaven in 632 A.D. to take his place besides Allah. I was thwarted several times in gaining entry, as there is only one entrance open to non-Muslims and only from 12:30 to 1:30, none of which I was aware of. The golden dome is one of the prominent landmarks of Jerusalem. My hotel overlooks it.

Just a little ways beyond the Dome is the Via Dolorosa, Way of Sorrows, the route of Jesus' final
trek. It culminates at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, where Jesus was nailed to the cross. Groups from all over the world, including many Hispanic with badges bearing their country's flag so they won't get mixed up with the wrong group, are among those retracing the route. One from the Philippines was carrying a cross. There were clusters of nuns of many nationalities and a handful of clerics. Whether or not one is moved by these sites, it is hard not to be effected by the rapture and devotion of those who are truly moved by being here, some falling to their knees overcome by their emotion.

Before settling into Jerusalem I made a slight detour to Bethlehem, birthplace of Jesus. As I closed in on Jerusalem after making the hard climb up from the Dead Sea, I was hoping to see signs to Bethlehem. Not coming upon any I asked someone at a service station the way. He was alarmed that I might not know that Bethlehem was part of the Palestine Territory. "Aren't you afraid of the Arabs?" he asked. "Should I be?" "Absolutely. They're terrorists and would
love to get their hands on someone like you. You'd be crazy to go there by bike."

I thanked him for the warning, not bothering to tell him about the Arab motorist who had stopped to offer me water as I made the long climb up to Jerusalem. He no doubt would have been aghast, hoping that I hadn't accepted it. I hadn't, but only because I had plenty. I was surprised myself by the offer. When the somewhat struggling car pulled over ahead of me and the gray-bearded gentlemen with a head wrapping got out of his car, I thought at first he was asking me for water for his car, having noticed the three bottles mounted to my frame. But he pointed to his trunk saying he had water in there if I needed any.

I ventured into Bethlehem after reaching the fringe of Jerusalem, just skirting around its
periphery for the several mile side trip. I was waved through the Palestinian check point. There was a sign saying no Israelis allowed. After several blocks on Yasser Arafat Boulevard I turned down Pope Paul VI Street and was immediately swallowed up by swarms of pedestrians as it turned into a narrow byway similar to what awaited me in the Old City of Jerusalem. The guy at the service station would have been freaking, as I was the only non-Arab among thousands, any of whom could have grabbed me and shuffled me away. I had to walk my bike nearly a mile past all manner of little stands and shops selling all the necessities of daily life. It was a bonanza of food and luxury after ten days in the barren desert.

I was eventually spilled out into Manger Square and the Church of the Nativity just beyond it, built over the site where Mary gave birth. I was at first denied entry into the church since I was wearing shorts. A guard told me though that I could tie my windbreaker around my waist, which would be enough to cover my knees and allow me in. There were tour groups in all sections of the church being lectured to in Japanese, Spanish, Greek, French, English, Italian and languages I couldn't identify. Three blocks further was the church of the Milk Grotto, where Mary and Joseph and Jesus hid out. It is constructed of a distinctive milky white stone, the color thanks to a spilled drop of Mary's milk. The church included a graphic painting of Mary breast-feeding.

I returned to Jerusalem via a route different than I exited, along a main highway with a towering, recently-constructed wall separating Palestine from Israel. The wall has effectively eliminated the suicide bombers that plagued Jerusalem up until a couple of years ago. Suicide bombers are regularly caught trying to enter the city at the various checkpoints, according to my friend Evey, whose partner writes for the Jerusalem Post. He was working late on a story last night, so I was able to accompany Evey to a lecture by Churchill scholar Sir Martin Gilbert. His 90-minute lecture was mostly drawn from his book "Churchill and the Jews." Churchill was a long-time advocate of an independent Jewish state and was such a strong supporter of the
Zionist cause that some didn't think he was fit to be Prime Minister. There were some 500 of us packed into a suburban synagogue for the lecture, the most people the synagogue had seen since Yom Kippur. I was one of the few not wearing a kippa on my noggin'.

Later, George