Israel.

Questioning by Israeli officials occurred the day before we arrived in Haifa. I'm not sure how or when they got on board.

Our expectations of being barraged with questions by a stoic Israeli official vanished over laughs about Wm.'s metamorphosis from the round-faced child featured inside his nearly expired passport.

The Sea of Galilee, a half mile beyond our first stop, led an unconquerable effort against Wm. and I for the title of "Most Vapid" from within the heat and haze. Between pulls of water and family photographs for proof of attendance, I tried to haphazardly match my incomplete and foggy knowledge of biblical history, largely supplemented by a semester of religion class during sophomore year of high school, with the comprehensive lesson pouring through the headphones.

Radio transmitters are the new personal PA system for guided tours, apparently.

Tabgha.

The Jordan River.

Neither muskrat nor beaver.

Catfish.

Leaving Haifa.

A minute of light. 60s x f/22 x ISO 100 @18 (on DX)

I was excited for Jerusalem, but tired of the slow evenings on board. Now halfway through the trip, the anxiety of what waited stateside slowly began to flow. For the first time in months, I was in bed at 10:30.

9:14 am

As the bus drove from Ashdod into Jerusalem, memorized fantasies of a city my mother once called home filled my mind. Though peripatetic, my childhood seems stationary compared my mother's. My grandfather, a diplomat whom would later be an Ambassador Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary for Bahrain (coolest title ever), spent years in Jerusalem, Kuwait, and Jordan (among other places.) For years stories about Jerusalem and time spent on the Red Sea inspired images of packs of wild dogs running through the streets and four children playing in a junkyard among wrecked cars and live ammunition.

Heat and dust dull the blue walls, but the dome shines brilliantly under the high sun. From the Mount of Olives, the Dome of the Rock sits as a beacon of grandeur. A golden buoy floating in a sea of limestone, a color with which I am too familiar.

From beneath the shadow of the Western Wall, the sounds of shutters and prayers mixed; a juxtaposition of the purely touristic, the devoutly religious, and the somewhere in between.

I kept my camera by my side.

Field trips chaperoned by assault rifles.

Thirty rounds. Thirty students. Five chaperones. One rifle. One faith.

On patrol.

Overlapping roofs and narrow streets kept us shaded as we walked the Via Dolorosa. Crowded displays and ambitious owners peddled a mix of hackneyed Middle Eastern wares like keffiyehs, fake pashminas, and hookahs, with more geographically (biblically) specific goods. In my search from Haifa to Jerusalem to Bethlehem, nothing bore resemblance to my mother's Jerusalem cross; something never to be worn, but always treasured.

In a place of such volatility, I pondered how much and little things have changed, and how much they will.