Three Days of Wonder in the City of Light

The week leading up to my arrival in Italy’s car-free, romantic island city of Venice, I sent out multiple CouchSurfing requests hoping for a three night stay somewhere deep in the heart of the city. But unfortunately, I got nothing in return but rejections. So rather than wallow in my failure to find a free bed, I decided to shell out the extra 30 euros for a decent place to stay in one of the most tantalizing cities Italy has to offer. Considering my idea of fun doesn’t include searching tirelessly through the overwhelmingly confusing Venetian canals and never ending unmarked side streets with two heavy bags strapped to the front and back of me, I booked the closest hostel to the train station for one night, and said farewell to Florence the following morning.

After just a three minute walk from the station, I was standing in front of a poorly marked door with a tiny golden sign that was very discreetly labeled Absolut Venice. I rang the doorbell, walked up the old rickety stairs and down the hallway to the front desk-which had nothing behind it but an empty office chair. The walls were brightly dressed with strange Venetian masks and several flags of different countries-USA’s being suspended proudly just beyond the tiny cluttered desk. After dropping my bags and posting myself promptly in front of the fan, I heard someone coming, and the owner of the hostel, whose name was Lapo, walked over to greet me. He was an older man with spikey black hair and a piercing in his lip. It was pretty clear by the looks of him that Lapo was young at heart, especially since he was wearing a t-shirt of a fairly unknown gypsy-punk band I listen to called Gogol Bordello. The first thing I told him was that I liked his shirt, and he quickly reacted by saying “Then I like you!” I’m lucky I listen to Gogol Bordello too, because it earned me a much better room than I paid for!

We bantered back and forth for awhile about the band and how many times we’ve both seen them live, and then he finally gave me the key and told me to meet him at the desk in a few minutes for a tour of the city. So I quickly claimed a bed in my room, splashed some water on my heat-soaked face and head back to the lobby to meet Lapo.

When I got there, Lapo and a Brazilian girl named Julianna-who looked only a few years older than me, were both waiting comfortably next to the fan by the desk, anticipating the awful strength of the Venetian summer heat. As I walked toward them, they hurried me toward the door to ensure that we got to the bar in time for the World Cup game between Brazil and Chile. We made one stop along the way for a plate of local Venetian cuisine, which included an assortment of fresh fish caught earlier in the day, prepared in an array of mouth-watering and innovative ways known only by Venetian chefs how to truly master. I don’t even eat fish unless it’s in a tuna sandwich or in a sushi roll. But I absolutely had to make an exception here, and I’m glad I did, because the food was amazing.

By the time we cleaned our plates and paid our bill, the game was already starting, and since the bar Lapo had in mind was all the way across town, we had to get there the fastest way possible in a street-less city: by boat! So we hopped on one of the many Vaporettos, or boat buses, that will take you down the Grand Canal for 7 euros each way, and made our way down the calm dark water toward the dock where our bar sat just a few blocks beyond. Lucky for me, there didn’t seem to be anyone paying attention to who did and did not pay. So I enjoyed my free water tour of the Grand Canal and watched the sun slowly fall behind the brightly colored Venetian houses until we reached our destination.

Now despite my lack of interest in the World Cup (and all sports in general for that matter), it’s nearly impossible to avoid getting wrapped up in the excitement of each game when you’re surrounded by hundreds of passionate fans who would like nothing more than to see their team crush its rival into submission. Therefore, considering my Brazilian company for the night, I chose to root against Chile to avoid getting a Capoeira kick to the face. Fortunately for all of us, Brazil won in a landslide, and we all went home with huge smiles on our faces, especially Julianna!

The next morning, I checked out of the hostel early enough to beat the hot sun and get lost in the city for a few hours before it rose high enough to melt the skin off my back. Lapo let me leave my bags in the hostel for free while I went exploring-I think because he developed quite a liking to me, he even offered me a job at the hostel including room and board! I had to decline his request, however, because Lapo was beginning to stick to me like glue since the Gogol Bordello incident, which I could foresee becoming a problem. Besides, I ended up finding a CouchSurfing host in Venice for the following evening! So Lapo gave me a map of the city (also for free) and I went on my way. Nevertheless, in Venice there really is no point in owning a map, because even the greatest map in the world won’t make it any less complicated to navigate your way from one end of the island to the other. So I decided the best way to explore the city was with out its help. I spent the rest of the day exploring the city instead of exploring my map. And being a city of tourists, I passed countless travelers struggling to decide whether to follow their directional instincts or the 2D rectangular picture of the city they carried in their fanny packs. Don’t they know how fun it is to get lost in a new city?? It’s not like you can get off the island on foot!

By the time I navigated myself back to the hostel to get my bags, the sun was preparing to set on the shimmering city, and my CouchSurfing host, Flavio, was waiting for me at the bus stop. So I headed off Venice island and into “mainland Venice” as Flavio called it-which was equally beautiful in its own way. Flavio was an amazing host and I enjoyed every minute at his place. For each meal he prepared a five star dish that we would eat on his balcony overlooking the neighborhood, where you could see children playing and smell pizza baking just below us at a local pizzeria. He even had a Gibson Les Paul for me to play, which just topped off the wonderfulness completely! I only planned on staying at Flavio’s for one night before heading to Cinque Terre, but I missed the train the next morning and he was nice enough to let me stay one more night! I have certainly had amazing luck with my CouchSurfing, I am beginning to wonder if it is even possible to have a negative experience...

After three wonderful days in Venice with some new found friends (and possibly future colleagues?), it was time to say goodbye and head towards the Italian coast for some hiking and some fun in the sun. So I said my (second) goodbye to Flavio, and hopped a train to Cinque Terre.

The man seated next to me on the train was quite possibly the most interesting character I’ve met thus far on this journey. He looked to be about 75 years old, and was dressed like a traveling salesman with his yellow and brown checkered sport coat and his 1920s cap. He sat quietly for the first five minutes of the ride, then spent the rest of the hour and forty minutes talking my ear off in broken English, despite the fact that I looked tired and uninterested. I nodded my head consistently every few sentences while he said phrases like “Obama from Chicago! Bush from Texas! Uhhh Manhattan? New York. New York? Las Vegas.” Then once I told him I was from Michigan, he proceeded to ask me over and over again if the Mississippi River goes through Michigan. Finally I just said it does, and he nodded his head ecstatically as if he had just won a million dollars. A few minutes later, he grabbed his bags and left, making me assume he was getting off at the next stop. But as I should have expected, he quickly returned with an assortment of goodies from the restaurant car: a small jug of apricot juice, a bag of chips, and a bottle of white wine with 2 glasses resting on the neck of the bottle. He insisted that I put the chips and juice in my bag for later, and then poured us both a glass of wine so we could enjoy the train ride properly as we chugged on through to the coast. As we smacked glasses and spoke intently about the assortments of cities and states in America that he has heard of, the teenagers behind me giggled with curiosity, wondering what we could possibly be discussing for so long. Mister De Bicio, as he introduced himself as later, had to get off at the stop before mine, so we said our goodbyes and wished each other safe travels. It’s kind of funny, after he got off the train and the nearly full car filled with silence, I kind of missed the old loon’s company! Meeting those types of people are just another of many upsides to traveling solo! I wonder who it will be next!

Forsaken, Almost Human, He Sank Beneath Your Wisdom Like A Stone

On Thursday afternoon, when I reached my next of many places to call home, I stopped and stared for a moment at the great big wooden door that separated me from my CouchSurfing host’s apartment in the city that birthed the Italian renaissance, Florence, and wondered whether the two of us would get along as well as Ken and I did. After all, when you’re CouchSurfing, you never really know for sure who you will be spending your time with or what kind of place you will be sleeping in. Each city I reach is like a brand new leap of faith. But lucky for me, I have yet to be disappointed by the company I’ve kept throughout my travels.

Alberto, My host in Florence, is a seemingly introverted Italian man with kind eyes and an impeccable taste in music, film, and literature. His taste in music alone was enough to know immediately that we would get along just fine. So without hesitation, following a few minutes of introductions, I dropped my bag on the floor, picked up his well-aged classical guitar, and strummed it softly while he grabbed two cold Coronas out of his fridge. As I churned out old time blues riffs and Led Zeppelin tunes, we sank deeper into his couch and talked about life and our aspirations for travel until the beer slowly emptied into our bellies.

Later on, I tried to convince him to let me make us dinner with the half empty bag of spaghetti I purchased at some second-hand grocery store outside the train station in Latina. But my attempt to “teach an Italian how to make pasta” only resulted in his laughter. So I set the table and drank red wine while he made us an amazing pasta dinner that I’m sure would have put anything I threw together to shame. After dinner, we met up with his friend Andrea and a few other CouchSurfers for a local Florentine celebration in honor of the city’s saint, San Giovanni. After picking them up in Alberto’s car, the five of us drove down to the city center to watch the fireworks and partake in the local festivities. But due to our late arrival, we couldn’t get close enough for the big sparkling explosions to truly capture our attention. Nevertheless, I was Still heavily entertained-just not by the fireworks. Standing next to me on a small bridge above the river was an incredibly old but outspoken woman with a tiny little dog, who sparked up a conversation with anyone that made even the slightest eye contact with her-including myself. Throughout the entire show, she continued to laugh wildly while yelling angrily at people because they were “clapping for a bunch of shit” (Translated by Alberto). However, due to her Italian tongue, I had no idea what she was saying, except for the three or four times when she grabbed my face exclaiming “Multo bella!!” and a few other words I understood here and there. I’m going to miss that crazy old gal, and her little dog too!

The next day, Alberto had to go to work and I was left in the company of my iPod, camera, and my thirst for new discoveries. As much as I enjoyed having a travel buddy in Rome, tackling a new city on my own was something I have not yet experienced, and I immediately fell in love with the challenge. I decided to head toward the Piazzale Michaelangelo, a large square located just south of the Arno River, where you get an amazing view of the entire city. But since I did so without using my map, I ended up taking the longest route possible;following street signs to be sure I was heading somewhat in the direction of the square, winding slowly up and around the sizeable hill it rests on instead of up the stairs that lead directly to Piazzale Michaelangelo. But despite the strenuous task of taking the long way up, I’m glad I did. After I crossed the river and started heading up the hill, there wasn’t a soul in sight and I had the whole place to myself. The only sounds I could hear other than the few cars that passed by, were the charming chirps of the Florentine birds and the wind blowing through the incredibly tall and beautifully bright green trees. Before I reached the top, however, my luck began to turn as the sun hid itself behind a gang of ominous gray clouds, and it started to pour down on me before I had a chance to scramble for shelter. I waited for 20 minutes with my camera under my shirt, hiding beneath the protective branches of the trees until the rain let up. But when I finally reached the square, the view was absolutely worth the walk-and the rain. I snapped a few photos, grabbed an ice-cream as a reward for my tremendous effort, gazed into the eyes of the centrally located and incredibly daunting copy statue of Michaelangelo’s David, and then head back down (the easy way!)

By the time I got back to the heart of the city, I was hot and tired and ready to head home. But as I crossed through the last main square leading to the train station, I heard one of my favorite Leonard Cohen songs flowing inconspicuously into my left ear. When I turned to see where it was coming from, there was a small, curly haired man with a funny accent and a guitar, playing “Suzanne” for 50 or 60 people sitting in the courtyard in front of the Santa Maria Novella church. And as if I were under some kind of spell, I instinctively changed course for the center of the square, and I sat and listened as he sang heart-wrenching covers of songs by Simon & Garfunkel, Bob Dylan, The Beatles, and many others. I laid in the grass and watched the clouds pass over me while he serenaded me for about an hour, until all of a sudden my concentration was broken by hundreds of people shouting over loud punk music coming from the other end of the square. When I finally ran over to see what was going on, I was facing hundreds of bright red flags and angry faces;It was a full on anti-fascist protest march, right before my eyes. There where hundreds or young punks and old anarchists alike, waving their red Commi flags high while The Clash played from the van that led them. As they tried to cross into one of the main streets on the square, they were met by police in what looked like riot gear, blowing smoke bombs into the air that sounded like gun shots, attempting to scare away nervous protesters and easily influenced young teenagers with nothing better to do on a cloudy Friday afternoon. So to avoid any police brutality, they took over the square and stayed there, ignoring the young song writer and his following of peaceful listeners. The irony was too much to take, so I head back home to rest for awhile before heading out for the festival taking place at night.

White night is a street festival, very commonly celebrated throughout Italy, where beer flows from the taps at every corner of each cobblestone street and musicians are present everywhere you look. I heard so many types of live music there that I was overwhelmed with joy as I listened to the Jazz, African, Gypsy-folk, and Rock and Roll musicians that were in attendance. Very often, according to Alberto, people just bring there instruments from home, making the festival a city-wide hootenanny where all are musicians and all the city’s a stage. There were also stands to purchase food outside each restaurant, and while the big hunks of strange meat they offered didn’t look all that tasty to me, the smell made me crave whatever it was all night. However, the more drunk I got, the less I focused on the food and the more I focused on dancing in the street. So the five of us spent the night dancing and drinking until we couldn’t dance anymore, and finally made the long drunken walk home down the moonlit, Tuscan streets, back to my cozy fold out couch. It's nights like this, that make me truly love CouchSurfing. Because if it wasn't for the locals leading my way, I would never have known about White Night. It made for a perfect ending to my time in Florence, and I can't wait to return.

Lahetrahot Yisrael, Bonjourno Italia!

Sitting on an express train to Florence, watching Italy’s rich and beautiful landscape rush past me, one thought keeps echoing through my head: There’s nowhere else I’d rather be then here, right now, and on my own. All year I’ve been telling friends and family that I preferred to be alone on this journey. But it wasn’t until I landed at Roma Fiumicino Airport that I truly believed it.

Despite the fact that I worked all year for this trip and was unquestionably excited, I spent most of my last week in Israel struggling to fight a head full of fear and a stomach full of butterflies. I seriously doubted my ability to go to Europe for two months on my own and began to imagine worst case scenarios if I happen to find myself in the wrong place at the wrong time.

But when the time finally came for me to say my final goodbyes to the country I called home for the past 30 days, a peculiar tranquility came over me, and I knew I was ready. I took my last lonely walk down the dark and deserted side streets of Tel Aviv from Ronen’s apartment to Allenby street where my taxi was waiting for me, gave Ronen a big hug, and went on my way.

My flight was at 7am Monday morning. I was too excited/nervous to sleep the night before, so I was really looking forward to passing out on the flight. But for me, excitement is like crack, and it wasn’t until I reached the Airport in Athens, where I had a long layover, that it wore off enough for me to rest my eyes for a while. After nine hours of attempting to sleep comfortably, sprawled across three airport seats at gate B30, the plane arrived and I was on my way to one of the most beautifully chaotic cities in Europe: ROME.

The flight from Greece to Rome was just over an hour, and I couldn’t wait to scoop my baggage and hop the train to Latina where Ken, my CouchSurfing host lives. But of course, it wasn’t that easy. And as if to test me on my competence the minute I got off the plane, the baggage claim signs were few and far between and ended up leading to the airport exit. I followed the people who were on my flight- as I always do in a foreign airport, but they seemed to be just as confused as I was. After 30 minutes of running around the labyrinth that is Rome Fiumicino Airport with a mousy Greek girl named Lena from my flight, I saw my bag out of the corner of my eye and the maze was finally over.

I had to take two trains to get to Latina. The first from FCO airport to Roma Termini (the main station in Rome), then from Roma Termini to Latina. But the full day of chaotic traveling was definitely worth it when I arrived at Ken’s house, where five other CouchSurfers were waiting patiently to greet me with shots of a terribly harsh Italian liquor known as Grappa. Out of the six of us there were three Americans, one Turk, one Frenchie, and a Chinese girl named Jing. They all were leaving the next day to continue their travels except Jing, who arrived only a few hours before me. So her and I made plans to hit the city together on Tuesday, and soon after fell into a deep sleep on the tiniest couch known to man. After all, I was the last one to arrive, so its only fair I get the baby couch! Luckily, I was so tired I could have slept on a bed of jagged rocks and would sleep like a baby.

We woke up early the next morning and caught a train to the city. Taking the train in Italy can be a truly enchanting experience if you have a good view of the landscape. The way the soft grass of the scenic countryside sways slowly in the wind as you speed on past, it honestly feels like you are moving straight through the center of a watercolor painting. Once we arrived at Roma Termini station we took the metro to the Coliseum and was met by two men dressed in Roman costumes. Since I didn’t see anyone else around dressed that way, I figured they were just a couple of loons that got a kick out of dressing like a gladiator, and for some reason it didn’t occur to me that they were doing it for money. But shortly after I snapped a few pictures with them, and they enthusiastically changed poses between each shot, I began to realize that they would want something in return for their generous effort. As I suspected, once we flipped through the pictures together, one of them held out his royally dressed hand and politely asked for 20 euros. I told him he would get zero euros because he didn’t tell me before we took the pictures. So I spent the next five minutes fighting with him while he followed after us yelling at me to delete them, until I very politely asked him to get fucked, and he stormed off to go rip off some other unsuspecting tourists. At least I got some silly pictures out of it, and learned a nice lesson in the process.

The Coliseum was much more extraordinary than I expected. Even though it’s an image I’ve seen a million times over throughout the years, the pictures are incomparable to the real thing, and I was absolutely blown away by its raw, ancient beauty. We toured the inside for 16 euros after waiting in line for a half hour, but I don’t think it was worth the money. The outside is much more beautiful, and it was a lot more enjoyable to circle around the entire structure and tour the neighboring gardens of the Palatine Hill for free.

Jing and I spent the rest of the day and the day after touring all the major sights in Rome while eating an embarrassing amount of pizza, pasta and gelato. But hey, When in Rome, right? (Had to throw it in somewhere).

Rome is a wonderful city to get lost in. Each street reeks of ancient history, and the architecture of every building exemplifies the cities age. We walked around for hours, stumbling upon beautiful churches and incredible museums everywhere we went. The highlight for me was going into the Orsini Chapel at the very top of the Piazza de Spagna; the Spanish Steps-which is also free to visit. We walked through the big wooden doors and down the center of the old chapel, where a soft-spoken priest was leading a service in Italian to a nearly empty congregation. Really, the only people who were in attendance were 15 hooded nuns and monks dressed in white robes kneeling before him. The church’s presence was astounding, and you don’t have to be religious to be moved by it. We sat for a few minutes and listened to the priest speak while I studied the Chapel’s astonishing features: marble floors, huge white wooden arches on either side leading up to an obviously aged white ceiling with sizeable cracks forming down the center, beautiful murals painted on every wall with unpolished, gold trimming. Then all of a sudden, my concentration was broken by beautiful singing, and I couldn’t take my eyes off them. They truly sounded like angels and it brought me to tears. At the end of the service they walked down the center and shook everyone’s hands, and we left them to their prayers after sitting inside for what seemed like an eternity. It was an amazing experience to say the least.
Watch the video I took here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XRGil1vLPz8

On my last night in Latina, we had another American CouchSurfer named Jeff join Jing and I, and Ken took us to a nearby beach in Latina where we had a picnic of pizza and Italian beer. After finishing off both, we went for a swim in the Tyrrhenian Sea and watched the sun go down from the cold and incredibly tame blue water. It was a fantastic ending to my first CouchSurfing experience. Once we returned home and took a few shots of absinthe that Jeff brought from his previous travels, I laid in bed pondering what other wonderful experiences I will be wrapped up in the next two months.

Which brings me here, Alone and happy about it, with Kerouac’s “On The Road” laying open in my lap, preparing for my next adventure in Florence. I don’t know what to expect, but I’m sure it will be amazing.

Syrian Ghosts on the Banks of the Banias

Now that my time in Israel is coming to an unfortunate end, and Italy is slowly creeping over the horizon, I figured I should return to the north to get my fill of its beautiful, mountainous terrain before it's too late.

Yesterday afternoon Ronen & I drove up north in his father's car with two friends of his from the kibbutz: Lahav-who everyone calls Agamon, and Yossi. It takes about three hours to drive from Tel Aviv to kibbutz Dafna, four if there's traffic (which there was). But the farther you get up north the more scenic the drive is, and the time just seemed to fly by as I gazed into the incredibly vast green and gold mountains of the Golan Heights. However, the combination of four hours in a car and the blistering heat can take a lot out of you, and despite the plans we made to go to a concert at a nearby kibbutz that night, we chose to go home to watch a few episodes of It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia and pass out instead.

After grabbing a quick breakfast this morning, Ariel and Agamon came and picked us up to go to the Banias River for a swim. The Banias is one of the three main rivers located in the north, all leading to the Jordan River. They are the main source for water in northern Israel and are all unbelievably refreshing to swim in during the hot summer. So we parked the car and hiked about a mile down the thin make-shift walking trail until we could hear the subtle rapids of the Banias River flowing just below us. By the time we arrived we were all sweating buckets, and it took us about ten seconds to strip down and hop right in to the icy water. Since the river is located at the foot of Mt. Hermon, the highest mountain in Israel, the water flows from the melted ice caps at the very top-making the water shockingly cold. Still, on a day like today, I wouldn't want it any warmer! The water felt amazing, and we spent a good part of the afternoon sitting on the jagged rocks and letting the water rush over us, ignoring the fact that I couldn't really feel my legs.

But it wasn't just the beauty of the river that day that caught my eye. Our particular swimming spot on the Banias River has a little bit of history laying right beside the water.

Take yourself back to the six day war in June of 1967, when the Syria/Israeli border lay just above the Banias River. Two (presumably) young Syrian soldiers were driving down a road in a tank about 100ft above the river, and for one reason or another, drove the tank off the cliff and met there bitter end right beside the beautiful oasis of the Banias. Forty-three years later, The tank is still here, and has become a popular tourist spot in recent years. Standing on the tank and looking up to the left and right of me, it's extremely intriguing to think about what caused such a tragic accident.

It could have been a number of good reasons and bad ones. But either way, here it lies, motionless and eerie, a symbolic oxymoron to the peace and serenity of the natural world. I'm happy I got to see this place before I left Israel. It's like a tiny precursor to the thought-provoking and extensive history I will be a witness to during my two-month trek around Europe.

After letting the sun dry our skin while enjoying some fresh honeydew melon beside the water, it was finally time to end our day and head back to the car. It was a wonderful way to spend my last day in the north, and I know one day in the future I will return-hopefully sooner rather than later!

Come On Tel Aviv, Show Your Pride!

It’s a beautiful day in Tel Aviv this morning! The sun is shining, spirits are high, and love is in the air! What better time then now to celebrate gay pride, right?


That’s right folks, today was the 2010 Tel Aviv Gay Pride Parade-my first one ever, and boy have I been missing out. Although, by the time my friend Ido and I joined the festivities, the parade had long ended and progressed into a full-blown party on Gordon beach. I was pretty let down that I missed the parade. But the massive beach party was fantastic, and it didn’t take very long at all for me to forget about my disappointment altogether.


There must have been 3,000 people on the beach that day-all of them doused in rainbows and smiling ear to ear. The spirit and vibrancy of the crowd was like nothing I’ve ever seen, and the feeling was undoubtedly contagious. Amidst the chaos on the beach, there were three or four tents where partygoers could purchase beer and rainbow souvenirs. In the center, there was a large stage for live musical performances. Because as we all know, there’s no party with out music, and there were multiple performers taking turns entertaining us on stage. The headlining performer of the day was the immensely popular Dana International- a singing, dancing, post-op transvestite whose face is plastered all over Israeli television and magazines. As she pranced back and forth on stage in what looked like a shimmering silver ice-skating uniform, the pride party attendees went absolutely crazy. She also happens to be one of the judges on Israeli Idol this year! Go figure.




After dancing among hundreds of men so gay they put Bruno to shame, Ido and I did a few circles around the perimeter of the party to grab some beers and do a little people watching. Within about an hour or so, we finally laid a blanket down on the sand, just 20ft away from the cool blue water of the Mediterranean Sea, and relaxed while the good vibes, perfect weather, and intoxicating atmosphere took us away.

We laid out in the sun for a couple hours and then topped off the afternoon with a quick but refreshing dip in the water. Ronen joined us shortly after, but by the time he got to us the party was breaking up and the people were beginning to disperse. Too bad for him. It was an experience I will never forget!

Colossal Matzo Balls? Teleporting? Yes Please...

I just woke up in Tel Aviv, it’s 2:00pm. A pretty standard wake up time for me this trip since I stay up late so often. But the strange thing in this scenario is that I could have sworn I’d be waking up in Jerusalem this morning…

However, considering the last thing I remember about last night was taking my 7th shot of Jameson whiskey, I’m going to assume there is a perfectly good explanation for being back in the city by the sea.

I caught a bus to Jerusalem on Monday so I could spend a few days with my good friend Mickey while he’s house-sitting for an old Israeli couple with a strange eye for art and a psycho dog named Shanti.

The second I walked through the front door, Shanti immediately started biting at my ankles and swinging her paws at my legs-as if she were trained to knock visitors off their feet. Being a dog lover, I attempted to calm her with kindness by berating her with hugs and kisses. But this simply fueled the fire, and she continued to attack me until my arms and legs were all scratched up and I had to call Mickey from the kitchen to assist me. Shanti is afraid of Mickey, and when he yells at her she knows he means business. Right when he shouted “Bahootz!”-which means “outside” in Hebrew, she trotted into their extensive backyard with her tail between her legs.

Once the beast was finally bahootz and away from my ankles, Mickey and I raided the kitchen for something to eat. The old couple that owns the house went grocery shopping for Mickey so he would be able to feed himself for the duration of his stay in their lovely home. Had I come about a week and a half earlier, I’m sure the fridge would be stocked with all kinds of goodies. But by the time I got there, all that was left was some unstable looking produce and four or five containers filled with strange colored pastes-one of which being pinkish purple in color that, according to Mickey, was made out of some type of fish. No thanks! After rummaging through their cupboards for a few minutes, I found a box of matzo ball mix and a container of chicken bouillon powder. I’ve never made matzo ball soup but there’s a first time for everything!

The soup tasted amazing. It definitely hit the spot. The only problem was that I didn’t foresee that once they’d be ready, the size of the matzo balls would be about three or four times the size they started at when I formed them. And my god, these matzo balls were colossal. So huge that by the time I got a couple into my bowl all the water absorbed into them, making the meal essentially just, well…matzo balls. Still, I’m not complaining. They were the best world-dominating matzo balls I’ve ever eaten.

After the matzo balls settled in our stomachs, we decided to go for a dip in a spring about fifteen minutes from the house. Yet, Mickey neglected to tell me that this so-called spring was actually a cavernous hole in the ground filled with ice cold water, guarded by swarming and angry looking bees. Mickey went in first to assure me that the angry bees are actually quite friendly and that the water wasn’t actually too bad. It took me about ten minutes to find the courage to shuffle down the deteriorating water-soaked rope, through the bees, into the icy water. I really really hate bees. But when I did, I was glad. It was unbelievably hot that day and the spring water was refreshing.

After soaking in the spring for about ten minutes, we climbed out and let the sun dry our skin while we drank Goldstar and enjoyed the beautiful view of Mevaseret Zion. It was definitely a relaxing day.

But back to the confusion at hand…

Wednesday night, Ronen came to Jerusalem to DJ at The Cassette, a tiny dive bar our friend Inon bartends at. When Mickey and I got there, the place was completely full. Though that isn’t saying much; The Cassette at capacity could probably only fit about 30 people. So we decided to sit outside. Sitting next to us was an extremely loud American in a red American Apparel sweatshirt accompanied by three Germans who were much more polite, or maybe just not as drunk. Due to the vicinity between our tables, I knew it was only a matter of time before they would attempt to talk to us. Once they did and the American (whose name was David) realized that I too was American, we basically had no choice but to pull up a table. Since Mickey is currently studying German I thought it would be entertaining to listen to them speak, and Inon kept sending me free beers and shots that I didn’t ask for so I had a pretty good reason to stay.

About three beers and two shots later, David has already disclosed his entire life story. He was born in London but grew up in Jersey. He moved to LA when he was 16 and fell in love with it, now he is in Israel for a year to help disabled children. At first I thought I misjudged him, he seemed like a pretty decent guy. However, once Mickey engaged in the conversation David spent about 45 minutes talking about how rude ALL Israelis are and how stupid it is that Israel exists in the Middle East. I should of known the conversation was going to go sour at some point! I walked away before it got any worse-politics and alcohol simply do not mix, so when I went back inside Ronen let me DJ for an hour.

Once I got to DJ the real fun began, and that’s when things start to get a bit hazy…

Apparently if you DJ at a bar and don’t get paid for it, the payment is in free shots. Every couple of minutes or so Inon would drop off a shot of Jameson next to the computer, and it would just be rude of me not to accept. I spent the rest of the night fighting with Ronen over control of the music and talking to the few Israelis who remained in the bar about traveling to Europe and what to expect. Almost everyone in Israel is well traveled, and most have pretty decent insight on Europe and the right places to go.

According to Ronen, around 5am or so we got on a bus back to Tel Aviv and passed out around 6am-hence all the confusion. I was planning on spending another night at the old couples house with Mickey and waking up to Shanti whining next to my bed to play with her. I guess it’s better this way… I hate riding on buses and I sort of feel like I teleported. What a wonderful three days!

How To Cure a Sinus Infection With Music and Beer

Well it finally happened. I woke up this morning with my throat nearly swollen shut and flashes of pain in my inner ears. I always seem to get sick on vacation. :/

But considering I already bought a one day pass for the Picnic music festival in Tel Aviv, I had no choice but to man up and go. The Pixies? Gorillaz Soundsystem? Placebo? The Klaxons? A nice lineup for sure, so I did what I had to do. I stocked up on cough drops and Tylenol cold and drank my weight in hot tea. Too bad all of the aforementioned bands canceled except for Placebo-which to tell you the truth I’m not all that fond of in the first place. Too damn whiny.

Still, I don’t regret going. Cups of beer were two for the price of one, and I got to see some awesome Israeli bands rock out in front of thousands of people. Now that’s my idea of a rockin’ good time.

Almost exactly when we walked through the festival entrance my misery seemed to melt away. It was all thanks to the opening band, Hank N Cupcakes. The band consists of a perfectly average bass player and a badass girl drummer who also happens to be the singer. With a style almost identical to Karen O of the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, this girl was absolutely magnetic-and so was the music. They threw a few Joy Division covers in the mix to pump up the crowd and then ended the set leaving everyone wanting more. For a two-man band with a silly name they sure knew how to work a crowd. Well done Hank! You too cupcakes…

But dare I say it, the second band was better than the first. Known as J-Views, this mish mash of jazz, reggae, blues and techno really blew me away. Especially the singer, with a voice that resembles Billie Holiday, I felt as though I was being serenaded throughout their entire performance. Especially when she busted out a cover of a classic American Folk tune, “See Line Woman.” (This song has been covered a million times over since it was written around the 1940s. That just put me over the edge. And with nearly ten band members who all played different instruments, their versatility was astonishing.

Rami Fortis, the singer that followed was great as well. Though to be honest I enjoyed it less because he sang in Hebrew. It’s a lot harder to feel the musical vibes when you don’t understand what they’re singing about. But I liked the music a lot. The music reminded me a lot of Gogol Bordello, and maybe a little Fiddler On the Roof sprinkled on top.

By the time Placebo took the stage my Tylenol cold was long out of my system and the strenuous task of wedging myself in between hundreds of sweaty bodies in order to get as close as possible was feeling far too ominous to put myself through. However, Ronen insisted we stay so I tried to make the best of it.

Unfortunately my strength lasted only about five minutes and ended abruptly when someone poured their entire cup of beer down the back of my dress. So we moved about 50ft back to a spot that wasn’t so crowded, and I attempted to ignore my ailments by taking as many pictures of the band as possible. All the members of Placebo look incredibly sinister, or maybe just plain old depressed. Either way, they weren’t capturing my attention very well because at this point in the night all I wanted to do was go home to my bed. Following a swift encore, I hurried Ronen and his sister Noam through the festival exit and onto a bus back to town.

It really is a shame. Perhaps if The Pixies closed tonight’s show my sickness would actually be cured. Damn them for being afraid of getting on a plane to a (gasp!) war-torn country!