How I became Slowacki for a day, suffering for millions in Jerusalem

I’m one of these people who are capable of turning their life around in an instant. In other words, I have no problems making spontaneous decisions. Not much thought process involved before, and lots of “what the f..k was I thinking” afterwards. Sometimes.

Before Israel I was in India, awesome trip but it kicked my arse, as India does. At the end of my seven weeks I was so ready to leave, but still had some days to kill before meeting my partner in Turkey for the next leg of my trip. So with nothing much better to do, I booked a flight to Israel. As luck would have it, I arrived (after a 24 hour trip) in Tel-Aviv the day after Rosh Hashana, when the whole city was lulled by post-holiday decadence and sleep and public transport was shut of course. At the airport I met a Russian Israeli, who hailed a sherut taxi for us and apparently negotiated a deal with the driver. “Apparently” being a relevant word here, for soon after we departed, some sort of conflict between “my” guy and the cab driver sprouted. I didn’t even need to employ my long-forgotten Russian to guess what was going on: money. The driver demanding more than was agreed, my new friends rebelling, all that jazz. The tiff seemed to escalate with the speed of light, my companion betraying some truly evil temper. The cab driver kept turning around, waving his fist and barking back angry words. There was an unspoken threat of driving our car off the road and into a tree. Two older ladies who shared the taxi with us tried to placate the fighting males, but to no avail, while I sat stunned and mute, swinging between amusement and dull annoyance. Then our taxi driver must’ve found himself at the end of his tether, as he pulled up on the side of the road and ordered his opponent to get the hell out. And you know what: yours truly, as his assumed companion and therefore-partner in crime, was made to depart as well. Unfair!!! We were left on some road on the outskirts of Tel-Aviv. I remember saying to myself, wow, this is gonna be fun.

Fast forward several hours, I was safely installed at Florentine Hostel, not too far from Old Jaffa port. I’d met Rafi the owner – a chilled and mischievous bloke and did the usual preening and ablutions to bring my pitiful feral self back to the state of relative useability. Then it got dark and out on town I went to catch up with my sweet Israeli friend Shai* and his brother and brother’s son. Tel-Aviv that night was ablaze with lights, crowded with families and party-goers and bursting with music: an avid celebration of life against, and perhaps even despite all odds – and threats. It is most likely a city like many others (by which I mean dirty and obnoxious), but it felt like Kingdom Come that night, feeding my post-India starved flesh and soul with sensual feasts and blessings of good company. Shai and I stayed up long. We lounged on reclining chairs at a beach bar (psy-trance sound system behind us, the sea in front) and shared some kvetchy talk and shocking drinking stories. Numbness was leaving my body. The night was balmy. Life was cool. Everything was all right again.

I also recall an endless wait for an empty taxi to take me back “home” on

Elifelet Street.That’s where my memories go blurry, the night being late and all. I know I was somewhat hesitant getting into a cab, the traumatizing experiences from my earlier ride still ringing loud and true.

I awoke at midday the following day. For the first two minutes I had to ask myself where I was. Ever heard of refreshing benefits of sleep? Gee, I felt as if I’d been fed a gram of valium and my head was pounding with the nastiest of aches. Then Rafi barged in, in his hand triumphantly sat my passport.

“The German guys found it by the entrance. You must’ve dropped it last night”

“Holy shit” was about the only thing I could utter, disbelieving how my angels looked after me. “But…how…?”

“Don’t worry, I’ve done worse when I was pissed” the proprietor reassured me brightly.

“But I wasn’t!” I protested. I was livid.

Too late, my fame had already spread.

Florentine Hostel was a super cool place really, it has a massive terrace that served as community space cum bedroom for the guests that weren’t lucky enough to have beds. Shai and his brother still haven’t forgiven me for choosing a place in apparently seedy part of town and for being able to sleep in a roomful of twelve snoring fellow travellers, unperturbed by the smell of rotting towels and filthy socks spread evenly about the room by a staggering fan. Maybe they don’t know that I’ve slept in the bushes of Central Park in NY, strapped to by backpack once, and it was far worse.

I loved Florentine Hostel, and swapping travel stories with cool folks from all over the world, but I didn’t stay there long. Shai pretty much decided to delegate me from there; I gamely obliged. I spent the next couple of days with him and his family. I’ll spare you the details of what we did and where we went, but these were happy times, and meaningful too.

On day five I said hasty good-byes to my sweet hosts (and I was cut up with grief to have to do so) and hopped on the Egged bus to take me to Jerusalem, which I felt I needed to explore alone. I got to Old Jerusalem and basically never left it for the next twenty four hours or so, till it was time to go back west. I was overwhelmed by the city’s liveliness and its sandstone beauty, I let myself get lost in the narrow streets over and over again. I remember standing agape amongst the bustle of a crazed street market in the Arabic quarter; I walked the ramparts like a woman possessed, looking out to the great desert and olive groves outside, going back and then forward in time; I followed a pilgrimage of Polish Christians, grateful for the fleeting sense of belonging, then – I was alone again. At some point I discovered that my camera was missing, and that trite fact brought on some immense and unstoppable catharsis. The camera was a piece of crap and I couldn’t care less. But the photos inside…well they held some sentimental value to me. First I wept for the lost pictures; the next thing I was wailing for all human suffering – a crumpled wet ball of snot amongst the sun-drenched cemetery. I stuck my tiny bundle of prayer between the stones at the great Western Wall. It was there, surrounded by women crying, swaying and bowing in fervent prayer where I caught a hint, that my life was about to change completely. Again.

The following day. On a bus back to Ben Gurion airport. Well ahead of time. Wistful and weary from all the crying, but also calmer, relieved. Guess what: my adventures weren’t over yet. I fell aslumber on that bus, missed my stop, woke up with a start somewhere short of Haifa. Kicked up a fuss, made the bus stop, jumped out. Once again I was out on the street in the middle of nowhere, forced to hitch-hike. This time I was only slightly amused, in why-does-it-always-rain-on-me way. I darkly pondered the pros and cons of missing my flight to Istanbul and barely resisted the mounting temptation to jump out of the car again and march romantically in the direction of setting sun. So what a disappointment it was, that I made it to the airport on time after all!

Strangely, when I finally tore through the barbed wires of airport security checks, I was sure of one thing, it being: I wanted more of the same.

I spent six days in Israel. Riddiculously small amount of time, some of which I managed to waste, recovering from various jetlags and hangovers. Those six days only sharpened my appetites. New dreams were born: to spend a night on the Negev Desert, under million stars; to walk the narrow streets of the City of Fire again, marvelling at its history, complexity and madness.

I wish I was this sure now. I’m freakin’ nervous, that’s what I am. At the same time I kind of can’t wait.

*not his real name