The Dead Sea

On the plane ride here I met a U.S. ambassador who had just been transferred from Iran to Israel. When I mentioned to him my apprehensions about culture shock he told me, “Israel is Europe with a bit of Middle-Eastern flavor.”

Today I saw Jordan, a faint fusion of blue and lavender mountains across the Dead Sea. I ask our Madricha, our counselor, “Is there a crossing point? Are there any bridges?”

            “You would walk that distance?” one girl asks.

“It’s Jordan,” I say, “look.”

“It is for vehicles only.”

Entranced, I wade into the sea that separates the two countries. The buoyancy is so high that my legs rise swiftly and I’m carried to the surface. The Dead Sea is the lowest point on earth, all weight floats. If it gets in, the dense salt stings your eyes, mouth, open wounds, and any other orifice of your body. I lie in the thick turquoise water, stare into the bullseye sun, and try to force myself into prayer. Doesn’t work. I listen for the faint sounds of goat bells and herders in the wind. Nothing but whispers come from a family of vacant faces as they bob on by. I see an anorexic woman in a red bikini cowering on the beach, tan leather hide pulled tight over bones.

Last night I walked by the exterior wall of the Old City. I try to crop out Mamilla, the outdoor trendy mall, shut out the rushing light rail crisscrossing along the streets, block out the 15^th century penguin men with their cascading ringlets. I walk along the perimeter of the ancient polis, head cocked back so I can only see the moon, palm leaves, and limestone slabs.

“Do you want to go in?” someone asks.

“Not now, I have to see it in the daylight.” Looking back down, I find a man pissing in a corner of the wall. I’ve come too late.

           I try to turn around in the sea, roll onto my stomach and do a dog paddle. I look across at Jordan, vast and melting into the sky and wait for the Holy Land.