I’m reposting here a travel journal originally published on the Routard forum in 2022 during VoyageForum’s hiatus. Without altering its content, I’ll try to streamline it. The few comments on the political situation reflect my feelings at the time and don’t account for events since then! I’d rather avoid debates on the topic. The photos are nothing fancy—just illustrative.
The context: we’re coming out of COVID. We’re looking for a not-too-distant destination, and Jordan has been catching our eye for a while. After some thought, we wonder if we shouldn’t take advantage of the geography to hop over to Israel. After all, Jerusalem is less than 100 km from Amman. Plus, Transavia lets you combine both destinations.
To plan our trip (February 19 to March 4, 2022), we contacted three French-speaking agencies in Amman. Their itinerary proposals were pretty similar, but the prices varied significantly. Given the many positive reviews we read on travel forums and a very attractive rate compared to competitors, we quickly settled on Ahmad Ababseh’s agency. Still, deep down, we had a slight worry—so many glowing reviews seemed a bit over the top, but we took the chance.
During the preparation, which happened in a very short timeframe (less than 10 days), Ahmad didn’t provide detailed roadbooks, and we made do with brief email or phone exchanges. Few details were shared either. We discussed hotels, with Ahmad preferring the ones he knew. We picked our hotel for our arrival in Amman, but before agreeing, Ahmad insisted on inspecting the rooms.
For payment, Ahmad only asked for a 500 € deposit and trusted our word for the balance, which we paid upon arrival. He also committed in writing to refund the full deposit if our trip was canceled due to COVID.
Finally, for the Israeli part, Ahmad contacted an agency in Jerusalem to handle the logistics. He didn’t take a commission.
Travel journals · Israel
Travel journals, memorable souvenir descriptions, reports, travel reviews, etc.
Showing 1–4 of 4 discussions in English.
← Travel journals: all destinations
For once, given the destination, the author can’t set aside their religious beliefs, which inevitably shape this kind of journey.
The Trip
Early in the morning at Orly Airport, in the departure lounge for Tel Aviv, a group of about forty young men arrives, all looking identical! The same neatly trimmed beards, the same identical haircuts, the same outfits with a touch of whimsy… The effect of seeing these forty “clones” is striking and raises questions! Why such perfect uniformity among this group of guys? Do they belong to the same family, sports club, cultural association, or religious group? A mystery! At the same time, the waiting area fills up with men who are more expected, given our destination: they wear large felt hats and dress in black suits with white shirts—Hassidim? The ones I’ve glimpsed fleetingly in Paris or New York, who have always been a mystery to me. More discreet-looking women accompany them.
I’m already in Israel without even setting foot there! Plus, I witness the preparations for an improvised show.
The “clones” start a flash mob at seven in the morning in a Paris airport departure lounge! Some pull out musical instruments, others begin singing and dancing. A music with strange, unfamiliar sounds enchants the waiting passengers.
The flight crew finally arrives, cutting through the flash mob, bringing us back to the reality of the moment: waiting to take off soon for this so troubling and mysterious Middle East. We go through passport control, presenting our faces to the scanners that operate the exit gate. The group of “identical” young men gets held up by the system: logically, a scanner let the first one through but blocked the second because of his perfect resemblance to the first. To the machine, the same person shouldn’t be able to cross the border twice? But eventually, the whole group makes it through the glass doors, leaving the Republic behind. My simplistic explanation is left looking ridiculous.
At every new destination, I ask myself countless questions, revealing a certain anxiety tied to the unknown: fear of attacks (one just happened at a bus station in Jerusalem), possible police pressure, unexpected events. Israel isn’t known for being a relaxing destination. In reality, if I did face a serious difficulty in this country, it wasn’t one I had anticipated—and it wasn’t particularly tied to Israel!
I take my seat by the window, which is already occupied by a little girl. Her father, a Hassidic man, politely asks if I’d be willing to give up my seat for his daughter. I tell him I’d be happy to make her happy. Seeing me masked, he asks if I’d like him and his daughter to wear masks too. In response, I take off my mask so as not to impose any constraints on them and wish them a good flight.
It was the first time I’d approached and spoken to a Hassidic man. He didn’t speak the way I might have expected after watching *Rabbi Jacob* with Louis de Funès; he spoke perfectly without an accent, just like you and me! Beware of stereotypes! Throughout the flight, I sneak glances at my strange neighbor: he prayed silently without stopping for a minute. His daughter, as good as gold, never interrupted him. He used several religious accessories during his three-hour continuous prayer: a kippa, a prayer shawl, and a rosary?… I left that plane deeply impressed, me, who has a very distant relationship with my Creator and only prays now and then.
The Trip
Early in the morning at Orly Airport, in the departure lounge for Tel Aviv, a group of about forty young men arrives, all looking identical! The same neatly trimmed beards, the same identical haircuts, the same outfits with a touch of whimsy… The effect of seeing these forty “clones” is striking and raises questions! Why such perfect uniformity among this group of guys? Do they belong to the same family, sports club, cultural association, or religious group? A mystery! At the same time, the waiting area fills up with men who are more expected, given our destination: they wear large felt hats and dress in black suits with white shirts—Hassidim? The ones I’ve glimpsed fleetingly in Paris or New York, who have always been a mystery to me. More discreet-looking women accompany them.
I’m already in Israel without even setting foot there! Plus, I witness the preparations for an improvised show.
The “clones” start a flash mob at seven in the morning in a Paris airport departure lounge! Some pull out musical instruments, others begin singing and dancing. A music with strange, unfamiliar sounds enchants the waiting passengers.
The flight crew finally arrives, cutting through the flash mob, bringing us back to the reality of the moment: waiting to take off soon for this so troubling and mysterious Middle East. We go through passport control, presenting our faces to the scanners that operate the exit gate. The group of “identical” young men gets held up by the system: logically, a scanner let the first one through but blocked the second because of his perfect resemblance to the first. To the machine, the same person shouldn’t be able to cross the border twice? But eventually, the whole group makes it through the glass doors, leaving the Republic behind. My simplistic explanation is left looking ridiculous.
At every new destination, I ask myself countless questions, revealing a certain anxiety tied to the unknown: fear of attacks (one just happened at a bus station in Jerusalem), possible police pressure, unexpected events. Israel isn’t known for being a relaxing destination. In reality, if I did face a serious difficulty in this country, it wasn’t one I had anticipated—and it wasn’t particularly tied to Israel!
I take my seat by the window, which is already occupied by a little girl. Her father, a Hassidic man, politely asks if I’d be willing to give up my seat for his daughter. I tell him I’d be happy to make her happy. Seeing me masked, he asks if I’d like him and his daughter to wear masks too. In response, I take off my mask so as not to impose any constraints on them and wish them a good flight.
It was the first time I’d approached and spoken to a Hassidic man. He didn’t speak the way I might have expected after watching *Rabbi Jacob* with Louis de Funès; he spoke perfectly without an accent, just like you and me! Beware of stereotypes! Throughout the flight, I sneak glances at my strange neighbor: he prayed silently without stopping for a minute. His daughter, as good as gold, never interrupted him. He used several religious accessories during his three-hour continuous prayer: a kippa, a prayer shawl, and a rosary?… I left that plane deeply impressed, me, who has a very distant relationship with my Creator and only prays now and then.
This trip took place in May 2023, a period of calm that later proved precarious.
Day of May 17
Departure from Marseille on El Al (tickets booked by ourselves, while the stay itself was organized by Voyageurs du Monde). Before check-in, six or seven El Al staff members conduct a security check—quite understandable, but they do it in total chaos. They send people to the left, then block them, redirect them to the right, for no apparent reason. Most of the staff don’t speak French, which complicates things. They work at an incomprehensible slow pace, stopping the interview to do something else, then coming back and starting over...
The flight goes smoothly, except for the meal service, which, for a four-hour flight that El Al delayed to lunchtime, is more than basic: a quarter-liter of water and a corned beef sandwich that’s absolutely disgusting and inedible. To get a coffee, you have to queue at the back of the plane. You end up missing Ryanair🙂
Arrival at Ben Gurion goes better than expected—the passport control is fairly quick, as is baggage delivery.
Transfer to the Lily and Bloom hotel, Lilienblaum Street (easy to remember 🙂)
As advised by Voyageurs du Monde, we book a table for the evening at the nearest restaurant, North Abraxas. Good atmosphere and decent food. We get a sense of the price level in Israeli restaurants.
Around us, diners share dishes placed in the middle of the table. Much more convivial than our individual plates!!
Day of May 18
The next morning, we go down for breakfast at 7:30 AM—a late hour, but the setup is slow, with the two servers taking their time. We ask the bartender for a long coffee and a black tea... It must be a complicated order because it takes him over 10 minutes to make it. He serves us with the grace of a dancer. A good breakfast if you’re not in a hurry, followed by a little stroll in the neighborhood, since our meet-up with Patrick Arfi, our guide for the day, isn’t until 10 AM. P. Arfi is a former publishing house director in Paris who has lived in Israel for a long time and has a vast cultural knowledge. After an initial chat, we head toward Jaffa, focusing on the Bauhaus buildings preserved by a clever urban policy that allows high-rise construction while maintaining old architectural ensembles.
This policy keeps the streets looking more human-scale than the usual high-rise districts in modern cities.
With the visit to Jaffa, Patrick introduces us to a fascinating slice of history, despite the temperature nearing 38°C. Jaffa, once an independent city, is now a neighborhood of Tel Aviv—a predominantly Muslim area. We notice a few buildings in poor condition. They belong to Palestinian families who left Tel Aviv. Otherwise, the city has been very well restored, apart from these few buildings.
A government agency rents out the ground floors of these buildings, which helps fund part of the security work. They also try to track down the owners and buy back the abandoned properties, but some refuse to sell. The visit is very touristy—most of the people we meet are tourists like us.
There’s very little local life, except in the lower part of the city. To be continued, as I’ve reached the allowed photo limit.
The next morning, we go down for breakfast at 7:30 AM—a late hour, but the setup is slow, with the two servers taking their time. We ask the bartender for a long coffee and a black tea... It must be a complicated order because it takes him over 10 minutes to make it. He serves us with the grace of a dancer. A good breakfast if you’re not in a hurry, followed by a little stroll in the neighborhood, since our meet-up with Patrick Arfi, our guide for the day, isn’t until 10 AM. P. Arfi is a former publishing house director in Paris who has lived in Israel for a long time and has a vast cultural knowledge. After an initial chat, we head toward Jaffa, focusing on the Bauhaus buildings preserved by a clever urban policy that allows high-rise construction while maintaining old architectural ensembles.
This policy keeps the streets looking more human-scale than the usual high-rise districts in modern cities.
With the visit to Jaffa, Patrick introduces us to a fascinating slice of history, despite the temperature nearing 38°C. Jaffa, once an independent city, is now a neighborhood of Tel Aviv—a predominantly Muslim area. We notice a few buildings in poor condition. They belong to Palestinian families who left Tel Aviv. Otherwise, the city has been very well restored, apart from these few buildings.
A government agency rents out the ground floors of these buildings, which helps fund part of the security work. They also try to track down the owners and buy back the abandoned properties, but some refuse to sell. The visit is very touristy—most of the people we meet are tourists like us.
There’s very little local life, except in the lower part of the city. To be continued, as I’ve reached the allowed photo limit.
5 AM, I’m shivering.
The icy February 2022 fog wraps around the deserted Terminal 2, closed for renovations, on the outskirts of which my hotel stands. I wait alone at the stop in the pitch-black night for the first shuttle of the day, which is supposed to take me to T1. I have no idea where I’m going. All I know is the name: Jerusalem. I’m entirely goy, just as entirely atheist, but I’ve been visiting that imaginary city for decades. It haunts, fantastical, the medieval images that once occupied me for so long. It regularly creeps into my ears through the misfortune of news reports from radios around the world. It crystallizes so many of humanity’s delusions, of which I’m a part. I know nothing about it, haven’t read a single guidebook. But I want to see it, walk its streets, live it for a few days. Make it real, tangible.
The flight is on time. This is the era of mandatory FFP2 masks on all flights landing in Italy (Europe?). The crew valiantly fights against passengers’ ingenious attempts to remove them: sipping their drinks milliliter by milliliter, nibbling their snacks cubic millimeter by cubic millimeter, feigning breathing difficulties, yanking off the elastic bands... A rabbi passes through the rows collecting donations. Men put on their tefillin, drape their prayer shawls, and rock to the rhythm of their prayers. Already, the sense of elsewhere.
Ben Gurion Airport is a stunning airport—monumental, bright, functional, adorned with archaeological remnants and enormous photographs showcasing the country’s great leader in its works. I collect my visa from a kiosk, quickly endure the routine interrogation from a military officer slumped in his seat, withdraw some shekels from an ATM, get my nostrils swabbed at one of the many molecular testing stations in exchange for a yellow all-inclusive resort-style wristband that grants me passage through the outer doors. I spend ages (I think I’m just not good at this) in the crowd trying to find a sherut heading to Jerusalem, then lose myself in the landscape. Mediterranean-style—red earth, stunted vegetation, overrun with sprawling construction. I do glute exercises in this traffic, where a Neapolitan driver would embody road indolence. Endless traffic jams signal the city’s approach. The sherut drops me a few steps from my hotel, the Saint George’s Cathedral Pilgrim Guest House, right on the edge of the dotted lines on maps marking the divide between Jewish and Arab Jerusalem. It’s a pleasant complex with an inner garden and beautiful rooms featuring exposed stone vaults—and thank goodness, because I’m not allowed to leave until I get my test results. The reception staff, incredibly helpful, guide me through the myriad of meal delivery options. A roof over my head, a full stomach—all that’s left is to wait. Read Caillois, check the increasingly precise, increasingly ominous rumors of war brewing, yet again, in Europe, and navigate the city’s virtual map to get a sense of where to head once freed.
The next day, it’s done, and my first destination is, quite naturally, the Old City. The first gate I come across is Jaffa Gate, so Jaffa Gate it is—leading from the chaos of vehicles of all kinds into the labyrinth of alleys packed with goods of all kinds.
The flight is on time. This is the era of mandatory FFP2 masks on all flights landing in Italy (Europe?). The crew valiantly fights against passengers’ ingenious attempts to remove them: sipping their drinks milliliter by milliliter, nibbling their snacks cubic millimeter by cubic millimeter, feigning breathing difficulties, yanking off the elastic bands... A rabbi passes through the rows collecting donations. Men put on their tefillin, drape their prayer shawls, and rock to the rhythm of their prayers. Already, the sense of elsewhere.
Ben Gurion Airport is a stunning airport—monumental, bright, functional, adorned with archaeological remnants and enormous photographs showcasing the country’s great leader in its works. I collect my visa from a kiosk, quickly endure the routine interrogation from a military officer slumped in his seat, withdraw some shekels from an ATM, get my nostrils swabbed at one of the many molecular testing stations in exchange for a yellow all-inclusive resort-style wristband that grants me passage through the outer doors. I spend ages (I think I’m just not good at this) in the crowd trying to find a sherut heading to Jerusalem, then lose myself in the landscape. Mediterranean-style—red earth, stunted vegetation, overrun with sprawling construction. I do glute exercises in this traffic, where a Neapolitan driver would embody road indolence. Endless traffic jams signal the city’s approach. The sherut drops me a few steps from my hotel, the Saint George’s Cathedral Pilgrim Guest House, right on the edge of the dotted lines on maps marking the divide between Jewish and Arab Jerusalem. It’s a pleasant complex with an inner garden and beautiful rooms featuring exposed stone vaults—and thank goodness, because I’m not allowed to leave until I get my test results. The reception staff, incredibly helpful, guide me through the myriad of meal delivery options. A roof over my head, a full stomach—all that’s left is to wait. Read Caillois, check the increasingly precise, increasingly ominous rumors of war brewing, yet again, in Europe, and navigate the city’s virtual map to get a sense of where to head once freed.
The next day, it’s done, and my first destination is, quite naturally, the Old City. The first gate I come across is Jaffa Gate, so Jaffa Gate it is—leading from the chaos of vehicles of all kinds into the labyrinth of alleys packed with goods of all kinds.
Recommended for you
Previous
Page 1 of 1
Next
12 more discussions in this forum are in French. Browse them on the French forum