Trip to Israel / Holy Land in 2022

It was the first time I’d approached and spoken to a Hasidic Jew. He didn’t speak the way I’d expected after watching Rabbi Jacob with Louis de Funès; he spoke perfectly without an accent, just like you and me! Beware of stereotypes!

Strange foreigners... And what if all it took was getting closer, spending time together, listening to one another. Even talking to each other.

A journey that settles here like a moment from before, a spared parenthesis... May the words to come, your travel impressions, take us to peaceful places. Confident steps, innocent curiosity, a gaze absorbed only by the beauty of the sites, the unique fervor in the air, discovering others...

... these strange foreigners, from here or elsewhere, that we also become elsewhere or here—a community of humans with differences inextricably intertwined. Who could enrich one another instead of tearing each other apart.

Strange foreigners! Their mystery comes from the fact that they are foreign to us. The Hasidim form a very elusive, very closed community. Even in Israel, they live in seclusion. I think of the Amish in the USA for comparison. There are certain somewhat forced occasions in life that lead us to briefly interact with the Hasidim or other people: the random seating on a train or plane, waiting in line for a service, sharing a table in a crowded restaurant, military service... There you go! We brushed shoulders, we spoke, and we discovered common ground: love for children, religious practice.

In Jerusalem, my guide seemed to belong to this community. Women are recognizable by their dull attire and especially by their coarse stockings. It’s astonishing how many religions tend to devalue women’s appearance; why? Yet it’s such a joy to come across beautiful women! I encountered another Hasid at the walkway leading to the Esplanade of the Mosques. He was stationed there and insisted on giving me a paper with a prayer written on it:

"Prayer for Abundant Sustenance Master of the World, Almighty, You who can do everything and whose power no conception can surpass, Grant me abundant sustenance, as promised by the prophet Elijah of blessed memory, whose eyes were pure and who studied the Torah day and night...."

Don’t worry about my account—I try to avoid controversial topics that one might encounter in this land of Israel—and I hope to revive emotions you felt during your trip. Rest assured, I seek peace here and elsewhere, though sadly, I see nothing coming.

Israel / The Holy Land - Day One

After arriving at Ben Gurion Airport, I found myself the last passenger left in an empty transit hall. No police officers were around to make me feel uneasy; all the other passengers had already gone. So, I couldn’t complain about any security pressure. I had to show my face to a scanner to get the door to Israel to open. The machine recognized me and let me enter the Holy Land alone. Gone are the days when a police officer would stare deep into your soul to detect any guilty intentions or compare your passport photo to your face with the utmost suspicion. Gone, too, are the days when an officer could ask a young woman at the India/Pakistan border, “How is your sexual life?”

Happy with the machine’s identification, I headed out and decided to go to Jerusalem. I had the choice between the train and the shared taxi, the "Sherut." According to what I’d read, the latter often gets stuck in Israeli traffic jams, and some drivers overcharge tourists, so I opted for the train for a more peaceful journey.

On the platform, I spotted a young female soldier—the first of many I’d see patrolling the streets of the "Old City." She was obviously glued to her phone. On her back, she carried a machine gun almost as long as she was tall. The cut of her uniform pants made her look curvy, like many of her fellow female soldiers in the IDF. Those two things gave her some serious firepower!

On the platform, I also saw my little travel neighbor again—she was left alone, unsupervised! Was her father deep in prayer? The train pulled in, and suddenly, a passenger grabbed her to keep her safe. This led to loud screams and angry shouts at the father, accusing him of neglect. What a chilling atmosphere—enough to give you goosebumps!

When I arrived at Jerusalem’s Yitzhak Navon Station, I made my way to a Jerusalem tram stop. Unfortunately, the tracks ruin the view of the road and the nearby Old City walls, just like the Marseille tram tracks ruin La Canebière. But how practical these trams are! No problem buying a ticket from a properly programmed machine (a little dig at the Île-de-France authorities, whose machines often crash, leaving tourists and other users needing help from RATP staff to get a ticket).

I heard Russian being spoken all around me. I greeted a woman in Russian, just for the joy of the language and because she was smiling in a country where I soon noticed smiles were rare. I boarded the tram for what should have been a short, uneventful ride. But no—a city is a stage, and the show never stops! In front of me, a young woman had her blouse completely unbuttoned, revealing a lace bra that showcased her ample chest for all to see. Her friends scolded her for the sacrilege or the immodesty of her behavior. I saw an elderly woman stomping in rage, looking like she wanted to light a pyre to burn the young heretic. We were in religious Jerusalem, not on a beach in Tel Aviv! No joking around in the holy city! The young woman seemed delighted by the reaction—did she need to break the rules to assert herself?

I got off at the "Jaffa Gate" stop to perform a travel ritual that’s close to my heart when arriving in a new destination: I want to see it in its entirety from the best possible viewpoint before diving in. In Athens, that would mean going straight from the airport to Lycabettus Hill to see the Acropolis. In Paris, it would be climbing the steps in front of the Sacré-Cœur Basilica. To take in New York in one go, you’d go from JFK Airport to Staten Island via the Verrazano Narrows Bridge, then take the ferry to Manhattan, arriving like a 19th-century immigrant, seeing the Statue of Liberty along the way. For Jerusalem, I’d consulted my guide. She kindly suggested by email that I could either go to the terrace of the King David Hotel or climb the tower of the YMCA. I was warmly received by the receptionist at the famous hotel, who regretfully informed me that the terrace—where "Dear Henry" (Kissinger) used to entertain his conquests—was currently closed. So, I turned to the YMCA, just behind the King David. The receptionist there told me I could go up the tower if I was accompanied by another visitor (suicide prevention?). We stopped everyone coming in or out of the YMCA, but no one wanted to go up the tower. Oh well, my ritual would have to wait. (Later, I’d get a fleeting but magnificent view of the Old City walls during a bus excursion and again from the Mount of Olives.)

Disappointed, I entered the Old City through the Damascus Gate and wandered its narrow streets. It was clearly an Arab city, with its spice shops and residents (though it does include a modern Israeli quarter within its walls). I followed the Via Dolorosa until I reached a spot where a Roman arch loomed overhead. That’s where I was staying—a convent run by the Sisters of Zion. I knew there were better places than a convent, surrounded by fellow countrymen, for truly immersing myself in the host country. Staying in a convent might seem a bit timid, but this one had two dazzling surprises in store for me: The first came from the mother superior. As she showed me to my room, she opened a door leading to a large terrace. From there, I saw—breath taken away—the Temple Mount with the Dome of the Rock and the Al-Aqsa Mosque in the foreground, in all their splendor, unobstructed. It was the perfect postcard, one of the most beautiful views of Jerusalem. When I asked about the view from the nearby Austrian Hospice, the mother superior declared, without hesitation, that *her* view was the best!

My room was quite comfortable, and breakfast had a Palestinian touch thanks to the convent’s cook. Dinner was also available on request, with the same cuisine. Meals were shared with the mother superior, young European volunteers helping with various tasks, and pilgrims like me. The nuns never appeared; only the mother superior was present. No religious topics or prayers were part of the meals—just casual conversation about the day’s news. One evening, for example, we talked about visiting Bethlehem, which didn’t seem straightforward. Unfortunately, I couldn’t go because my stay was too short.

For after-dinner relaxation, I adopted the Austrian Hospice next door—a friendly and welcoming place. In January, it gets a bit chilly in Jerusalem after sunset. So, I warmed up with some *Glühwein* (mulled wine) or enjoyed a *Sachertorte* or *Apfelstrudel*. Austria, a discreet and so *gemütlich* country! I have a habit of keeping a list of the best bakeries around the world (Tallinn, Vilnius, Ouagadougou, Paris, Brittany, Beijing, Saint Petersburg, Moscow, Vienna…). The ones in Barcelona, with their olive oil-based cakes, disappoint me. I’m adding the Austrian Hospice to my list. (It would be great if readers could share their own favorites to add to mine!)

After dropping off my luggage, I rushed to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre—the supposed highlight of my trip, the most revered place in my faith. But I found it soulless. My disappointment set in and only grew the next day when I visited with my guide.

Second day - Jerusalem

I meet the guide who was waiting for me at the convent itself. I suspect she took advantage of her visit to have a coffee in front of the sublime view from the terrace. We leave the "Old City" through the "Lions' Gate" and descend to the "Garden of Gethsemane"; then we partially climb the "Mount of Olives", just enough to get a beautiful view of Jerusalem’s walls and to spare my body. The view of Jerusalem is stunning. The guide makes sure to point out that Golgotha was outside the walls in Jesus’ time, even though it’s now within the city, with the "Church of the Holy Sepulchre" crowning it, as the walls have been modified since Christ’s era—so there’s no inconsistency with the Scriptures.

She also shows me in the distance the security barrier Israel built to prevent attacks; we don’t dwell on this sensitive current topic.

She points out a curious cemetery: at the Resurrection, the Messiah—whoever he may be (Jewish or Christian)—must, according to the Scriptures, descend from the "Mount of Olives" and enter the "Old City" through a gate in the walls that malevolent spirits have sealed! If you consider that the deceased buried along the path the Messiah will take will be the first to be resurrected, you can understand the enthusiasm for being buried near this route. Indeed, you can see today an accumulation of graves of those privileged enough to be in the front row for the Resurrection and the first lucky ones to enjoy eternal life.

We return to the "Old City" and explore its different quarters and sites, though I didn’t absorb much of the history given the flood of information and the short visit: Jerusalem in 3 hours! The guide is excellent, though, and I’m glad I chose her to illuminate this complex city.

We arrive at the start of the "Via Dolorosa", where Jesus was judged. Incidentally, my convent, located here, is called "Ecce Homo!", the phrase Pontius Pilate used when presenting Jesus at his trial. The guide explains that after his condemnation, Christ likely carried only the vertical part of his cross during his passion. The crossbeam was provided and assembled at the site of the execution. I return with her to the "Church of the Holy Sepulchre" to confirm my disorientation from yesterday.

The supposed highlight of the trip to the Holy Land: the "Church of the Holy Sepulchre"

The guide didn’t mention something I’d read: that the Romans had tried to erase all traces of Jesus’ passion by building a temple right at this spot. They even placed a statue at the exact position of the cross and another at the precise location of his tomb, effectively doing archaeologists an invaluable service by marking the spots.

For believers, Golgotha is the holiest place on Earth: where their infinitely powerful Creator accepted the death of His Son as a sacrifice and redemption for sins; it’s also the site of His burial and resurrection. For non-believers, it’s where an obscure Jewish agitator was put to death to please the Jewish clergy, who accused him of blasphemy for proclaiming himself the "Messiah". This is attested by the apostle John and Flavius Josephus. Or, for all of us—believers and non-believers—it’s the site of the death of the founder of Judeo-Christian civilization.

The sad reality is that the church is ugly; the heaviness of the Byzantine style doesn’t help. It’s made of graceless additions, and the interior is just as unattractive. On top of that, you can imagine all the squabbles between the different Christian clergy housed in this church, fiercely defending their territories. Plus, the surroundings and the interior are overrun by a disheartening tourist circus. I remember a group of Koreans walking through the square and the church, chanting endlessly in a mechanical way, using a portable sound system, following their guide waving a little flag. If it’s not the Koreans, it’s the Spaniards taking over! You could be at the Louvre, Neuschwanstein, Disneyland, or anywhere else! People come and go from the "Church of the Holy Sepulchre" like it’s a revolving door! Everyone on Earth has the right to visit this place, of course. It’s not my property. Moreover, the phrase "horde of tourists" that you find in travel stories bothers me because by being there, I’m part of that horde; I don’t have any special status. But to help with contemplation, some organization should be put in place. How can you reflect in these conditions? Sure, you could come at 3 AM, when the Arab caretaker opens the church, but that was beyond my strength.

The place doesn’t inspire dreams or invite meditation: you’re not there; you can’t reconnect with the past! For comparison, a memory comes to mind: a mass, at night, in the "Mont Saint-Michel Abbey". The religious service was very sober, the singing simple, the lighting carefully controlled against the black night seen through the stained glass. And the architecture of the place is sublime; everything was there for contemplation and the possible elevation of the soul.

In this "Church of the Holy Sepulchre", every square centimeter of the walls of what was once a quarry has been encased in glass. The entire surface of the stone has been dressed, creating distance and masking the nature of the place. There’s nothing left to contemplate in its original state except in the side chapels. They’ve overdone it! They’ve overloaded it to the point of excess! They’ve stolen the memory under the guise of veneration! It’s bordering on idolatry!

In my disappointment, another vision comes to mind: at Auschwitz, there’s an ordinary path like those in our countryside where herds of sheep or cows might pass. Nothing indicates to visitors the purpose of this path. Nothing, not even a plaque, absolutely nothing! The guide then explains that this path saw nearly a million people walking to their execution! Its extreme banality hid a tragic history. Such a completely preserved place allows for meditation and briefly resurrecting the ghosts, connecting with the past. But what can you evoke in this Jerusalem church, this overly adorned, denatured place, the seat of this tourist circus?

I realize that the cross and the tomb are only 30 meters apart. That’s the beauty of travel: gaining a sense of reality and putting things into perspective. We climb a small mound, the site of the crucifixion. Pilgrims wait patiently to see the exact spot where the cross stood. The platform is small and crowded; you have to be careful not to bump into each other and find your way down. Do you have time to pray and summon Mary weeping for her dying son, John the apostle, the two thieves, the Roman guards eager to finish their grim task? A moment to meditate on this high place of Christianity doesn’t present itself; you’re more concerned with not stepping on each other. The prevailing feeling is almost the desire to flee this sacred place. It’s ironic after a 3,000 km journey, the trip of a lifetime!

At the foot of the crucifixion mound, you discover two large stone slabs where the bodies of the deceased were prepared before burial. They’re the object of hysterical veneration by pilgrims who grab and kiss them, bordering on idolatry. The guide cools any possible enthusiasm on my part, assuring me that there’s not the slightest probability Jesus was laid on either of them. (Given the level of education she must have to be a certified tour guide, I don’t dare question her statement. She certainly knows the Scriptures better than I do. In a past life, she was also a certified French guide! She could just as well comment on the Palace of Versailles as the D-Day beaches.)

A long line forms in front of the neighboring structure built over Jesus’ tomb; it’s desperately ugly. Stones from this tomb—so they say—have been taken away in small pieces by pilgrims over the centuries, disfiguring it. I didn’t check to see for myself because I didn’t want to wait in line and waste my guide’s time. She did, however, offer me a skip-the-line pass for which I would have tipped the Arab caretaker she had just greeted, who was standing at the entrance of the chapel. (It’s the same Arab family that has been responsible for opening and closing the church for centuries.) No matter, I decline; I’m tired of this masking of authenticity, the denaturing of the sacred memory. In short, I’m disappointed by the artificiality that spoils the place.

The guide must have understood my disappointment and expectations—I can’t be the first. She pulls out her secret weapon: she directs us to a side chapel with raw stone walls, the original walls of the quarry. Hardly any visitors go there. She shows me a tomb carved into the rock, with the appearance and layout of those from Jesus’ time. Only the round closing door is missing. I’m glad I hired a guide because I would probably never have found this treasure on my own. It doesn’t matter that it’s not the exact tomb; at least I can finally connect with the past and imagine the women arriving on Easter morning to find the door rolled away and the tomb empty.

Afterward, we visit all the quarters of the "Old City" and end with a visit to the tomb of "King David". Actually, this place of worship is reputed to be near the tomb, though no one knows for sure. For the occasion, I put on a kippah from a large basket of kippahs and part ways with my guide, who can’t follow me into the prayer space reserved for men. Indeed, everyone is praying.

I meet the guide again at the exit and thank her.

Thanks François for this really enjoyable travel journal to read. I went to Israel about fifteen years ago. It’s a small country with a huge diversity of places and atmospheres. I was also disappointed by the Church of the Holy Sepulchre—the crowds, the sometimes excessive displays of devotion, religion is very present in this city... My husband and I hired a guide for the day, and we were really glad we did!

Thanks Yaya I felt guilty for criticizing this famous site, the "Church of the Holy Sepulchre." Later in my story, I hope you’ll share my enthusiasm for the "Lithostrotos," which was truly the site of Jesus’ trial and "crowning." Unless you already know it, of course.

The Sabbath Puzzle?

What to do during the two days that the celebration lasts, especially on a fairly short trip? Why not attend a Sabbath meal, for example? My guide had emailed me about a charity that could welcome me to the Sabbath meal; I would just have had to do a good deed in the form of a donation. Unfortunately, that won’t be possible (welcoming me, not the good deed, which I would have gladly done).

This Friday evening, I’m going to see what’s happening at the "Wailing Wall." The "Old City" is crossed on this day by Jewish families heading toward the holy site. At the front walks the father, sometimes a Hasidic Jew, wearing a felt hat or a fur hat of various shapes; behind, the mother pushes a stroller, and the children with sidelocks bring up the rear. They cross the Arab quarter this Friday evening with the indifference of the shopkeepers. I follow the movement and soon have to pass a checkpoint before reaching the "Western Wall - The Wailing Wall." The inspector asks for my nationality; upon my answer, he tells me to pass without checking my bag and greets me cheerfully. Finally, I’m in front of this famous "Wall" I’ve seen so many times on TV news. Actually, it has two sections, one for men and one for women. I expected maximum security in this highly sensitive place, but no—nothing! I have total freedom of movement among the worshippers. You can also go up to the floors of the building overlooking the esplanade to the left of the "Wall" at your leisure. This Friday, it was the place to be: dozens of young soldiers, arms around each other, sing in a tipsy round; civilians too. I can observe and photograph everything from a good vantage point. I call my family on WhatsApp to share the spectacle. That’s when a venerable old man comes up to me and says I’m disturbing his prayer! I apologize and step aside. Sorry—I’d forgotten the etiquette in the excitement of the moment. I could have approached the "Wall" and touched it without any problem, right in the middle of the crowd. But I didn’t know the customs: you just had to take a kippah from a large bin, put it on, and then go to the "Wall" freely. I could have slipped in a message—a message of peace, of course.

And Saturday, what to do? A day trip during the Sabbath? Why not, but who will drive the bus? An Israeli Arab, of course! He doesn’t observe the Sabbath. So I sign up for an excursion to "Masada" and the "Dead Sea."

Masada

To save a few shekels, I choose the worst possible tour company—which charity prevents me from naming here: no guide is provided since it’s a "self-guided tour," and I don’t even get a full window during the trip. I catch glimpses of the landscape between two heads. It’s a good lesson to remember for the future: when you’ve come this far, absolutely take care with how you book excursions.

I don’t understand the dynamics of the Jewish resistance at Masada, perhaps due to a lack of explanation from a guide or my own preparation. However, the site’s location is exceptional; I admire the surrounding Judean Desert. My son asks me via WhatsApp for a photo of the ramp built by the Romans to take the citadel. Done! It’s still there, a little eroded, defying the centuries.

During my travels, I’m inspired by works of excess or a touch of madness (North Korea, Sintra, Ludwig II, Dalí, Rosebud, Ceaușescu, Hoxha, Turkmenistan…). At Masada, I find a prime example of excess and the sovereign’s will to impose their vision in the most difficult, if not totally improbable, environment. At Masada, it’s "King Herod’s Palace," clinging to a ridge at the end of the Masada massif! I can’t imagine the logistics involved in maintaining a court in such a palace or the construction challenges in a completely arid region. What to say about the view from the two terraces: sublime!

Dead Sea

We stop in a tourist village; I decide not to swim in the "Dead Sea"—it would have had to be done quickly, including a shower. (I remember a sidebar in the "Lonely Planet" telling the story of a young tourist who tried to save money on the shower price and spent the next night scratching.) Besides, I’d come with my family a few years earlier, on the Jordanian side. We’d had a blast, pretending to read Arabic newspapers while "sitting" in the water without any floatation device to stay afloat. The atmosphere is less fun now. Palestinian women bathe fully clothed among Israeli women in bikinis. They still manage to have a laugh despite their dripping clothes. As for the husbands, you can’t tell them apart from the Israelis—all the men are in boxers. I notice on the site "the lowest bar in the world." The Palestinian driver comes to chat with me to pass the time. At the end of the excursion, the (not a guide, since the excursion was "self-guided") attendant wants to show her Palestinian side by asking us to thank the driver with a "Shukran." Cute, right?

Galilee

When the urge strikes, I book a day trip to visit a specific place, like Masada and the Dead Sea. The site "Trip Advisor" lists providers with prices and reviews. That’s how I decided to visit Galilee, which I’d been told had a truly Christ-like atmosphere. I chose "Bein Harim" as my provider, and it turned out to be an excellent choice. But I had to pay for the service online beforehand, and my bank card declined the payment. The transaction wouldn’t go through! I hadn’t noticed anything was wrong since I hadn’t made any ATM withdrawals or online purchases—I’d stocked up on shekels in Paris. I tried in vain to fix it on my bank’s website; I called Bein Harim and offered to pay the driver in cash. They politely declined. It was the biggest letdown I experienced in Israel, and I really wasn’t expecting it.

I was about to miss out on an essential visit—the Galilee—because of a glitch! At 11:45 PM, the payment finally went through! At 5 AM, I found myself, overjoyed, at the meet-up point outside the walls of a deserted Jerusalem. Two young guys approached me, asking for help to fix their motorcycle. I wasn’t reassured, but they gave up when they saw I wasn’t interested. Finally, the bus arrived.

We headed toward Nazareth, a very large city populated entirely by Arab Muslims and Christians. We stopped at a big souvenir shop—a tourist trap arranged with the bus company. I didn’t find anything ugly enough for my collection (read more below).

We visited various sites mentioned in the Gospels (like the Sermon on the Mount). Each time, a church had been built to mark the event that took place there. All the churches were beautifully constructed.

At one point, the guide mentioned a house—I can’t remember where—called the "House of Mary." Inside its ruins, there’s an excavation said to be Jesus’ bathroom! That evening, I asked the mother superior of the convent, who had 15 years in the Holy Land under her belt, to confirm. She replied, "All of that is just speculation; we don’t know anything for sure!"

We went to the banks of the Jordan River, where baptisms take place in a mix of solemn and slightly playful atmospheres. For each baptism, a man officiates, forgiving the sins of the woman he’s holding before dunking her head in the Jordan.

Lake Tiberias rolled by; the landscape was a bit dull, but so many memories are tied to it. We had lunch at a kibbutz where they served generous salads—the smiles weren’t optional. After the meal, the guide, an Israeli, came to chat with me. He explained that this kibbutz was one of the first built in Israel. I brought up the founding of the state and mentioned Arthur Koestler’s *The Tower of Ezra*, but it didn’t ring a bell. However, he was clearly an expert on Christianity, having studied it to earn his guide license. Indeed, all the tourism here revolves around Christianity—no one mentioned Saladin during my entire stay.

Capernaum

Visiting the well-preserved synagogue was moving; it was Jesus’ synagogue. Today, we’re looking at the same walls he did.

Nearby is Peter’s house, with its truncated walls. Jesus gave a sermon there, attended by many followers. A paralyzed man couldn’t get inside, so he was lowered through the roof. What insane religious authority decided to build a church *over* Peter’s house? What a lack of respect! If there were a petition to tear it down, I’d sign it in a heartbeat.

On the way back, we drove along the Golan Heights. That’s when the guide shared his opinions over the microphone: — "It’s a good thing this plateau was conquered, because it pushed back the ‘crazy people’ next door, and they no longer overlook us."

That evening, the great prayer took place on the "Temple Mount." The Old City was flooded with a river of worshippers—men—heading toward the esplanade. The Israeli checkpoint in front of the "Austrian Hospice" had been reinforced for the occasion. Now I understood what headlines like "Clashes on the Temple Mount during prayer" really meant in terms of scale. What would happen at the slightest spark? I didn’t feel safe in the face of that overwhelming crowd, which gave me the perfect excuse to stay neutral by taking refuge in the hospice and enjoying a Glühwein under Austria’s neutrality.

Following Christ’s footsteps in Jerusalem – The Lithostrotos

If you follow the Via Dolorosa, you’re retracing Jesus’ path from his trial (near my convent) to his crucifixion. But you’re not literally walking in his footsteps 2,000 years later. Plus, you’re looking at the houses of an Arab city he never saw—they didn’t exist back then. Even if he did follow the Via Dolorosa, he actually walked on ground 3 or 4 meters *below* the current path. In 1850, the director of the "Sisters of Zion" convent had a hunch and dug beneath the building until they uncovered the Roman-era pavement that Jesus must have walked on. That’s the Lithostrotos, which you can visit by asking at the Sisters of Zion convent. It was the second surprise this convent had in store for me.

My personal museum of horrors: tourist souvenirs

Over the years, I’ve collected ridiculous objects for my "museum of horrors," especially snow globes. The ugliest is the "Mother Teresa of Albania" globe; the fluorescent red David from Florence is also impressive. The nicest globe features a Khmer Buddha head, even if it’s weird to make it snow on Buddha. I’m not fooled—it’s all made in China, which might explain a lot. In Jerusalem, I haggled hard with an Arab shopkeeper over a baby Jesus figurine lying on a bed of straw, labeled "Bethlehem." By the end of the negotiation, I felt like I’d been outsmarted by some subtle exchange-rate calculations. They were also selling crowns of thorns—probably the most ridiculous thing I’ve seen, aside from (back in the day) a porcelain couple of Bretons doing their business. A masterpiece of bad taste. If I’d missed out on the Bretons (since I wasn’t collecting back then), the crown of thorns could’ve been the centerpiece of my collection. But I passed it up—it felt sacrilegious. Plus, imagine a kid at home poking themselves on it, or the hassle of cleaning around it! What a storm of reproaches that would’ve caused! The comforting thing about such a collection is that the supply of ugly objects at tourist spots—and human creativity—is endless.

Departure

I crossed the terrace one last time, emotionally, taking in the magnificent view of the Temple Mount. I retraced my steps to Ben Gurion Airport. I’d allowed plenty of time for check-in and security, and I’m glad I did. After getting off the train from Jerusalem, I realized the departure terminal was *far* away, and the shuttle buses were infrequent. I heard a desperate traveler who was about to miss her flight to Canada. Finally, I made it to the terminal—only to find a packed hall where 100+ people were queued up for security. The idea is to answer their questions without hesitation to prove you’re a "legit" traveler. Unlike my departure, there was no flash mob—just peaceful families waiting and a group of Hasidim heading to Warsaw.

Conclusion

Looking at recent events, I realize I was lucky to take this trip when I did. It would be impossible—or at least very difficult—now. Religiously, my mind still wanders over the paved floor of the Lithostrotos, where it really happened and where it all began. So I communed in a different place than I’d imagined. No matter—my trip lived up to its promises. I’m also still attached to the "synagogue of Capernaum" and "Lake Tiberias," places where Jesus spent part of his life. I didn’t come back more devout, but I’m now more familiar with him as a person.

What did Éric-Emmanuel Schmitt write about his experience? Maybe I’ll find out someday.

Hi there, it's a bit of a long story but quite detailed. 😉

Was your stay a bit short?

There are a few approximations, but overall you observed well what little you discovered of this country.

Tip for next time: for Shabbat, the Israel Museum is open on Saturdays from 10:00 AM to 4:00 PM. And there’s enough there to spend the whole day. Among other pieces from Egypt, you can see works by Chagall, Picasso, and even Dali, not to mention a few Cézannes. For non-religious Israelis, it’s a well-known and popular spot on Saturdays.

Another tip for the Church of the Holy Sepulchre: you should go right when it opens around 6:00 AM to really experience the place—and the peace. Did you go down to the lower chapel? That’s where the room is said to have stored the crosses of the crucified, according to historians.

You might not have known, but you don’t take photos at the Kotel during Shabbat. Verboten!! And no visit to the Temple Mount?

For the Dead Sea, visiting on a Saturday isn’t recommended because it’s too crowded, and Nazareth—well, Nazareth! The city where drivers are the most *fada* in Israel! 😎

About the kibbutz in Galilee—the first one you heard about in Israel is probably Degania.

When’s your next trip? 😉

Best,

The trip was very short due to family constraints, but I made the most of it. I thought about the Israel Museum, which also has a Gauguin I really admire, or Yad Vashem, but I went to the "Wall" instead. As for the Temple Mount, the entry hours are very limited—I was never in the right time slot. Another visit? Not for now; the situation is a bit tense. Thanks for your interesting insights.

The trip was very short due to family constraints, but I made the most of it. I thought about the Israel Museum, which also has a Gauguin I really admire, or Yad Vashem, but I went to the "Wall" instead. As for the Temple Mount, the entry hours are very limited—I was never in the right time slot. Another visit? Not for now; the situation is a bit tense. Thanks for your interesting details.

I was there for three weeks this past August. Apart from the immediate surroundings of Gaza at the Nova memorial, no signs of conflict. Just one alert in Jerusalem on the evening of our arrival—it got the adrenaline going—but nothing after that.

The upside of this situation? The hordes of disrespectful Asian tourists aren’t there yet. The South American pilgrim groups aren’t around either, which allows for major renovations at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. In short, out of the usual 2.5 million tourists from January to July, this year there were only 870,000. Easier to find a spot in restaurants, lighter traffic—but still pretty chaotic when driving in or around Tel Aviv and on the partially under-construction highway in August. And hardly anyone in the north or on the Golan.

Downsides? Prices haven’t dropped! 😎 And the traffic is still just as chaotic!

Yad Vashem is indeed a must-see. But it’s closed on Saturdays.

Thanks for the photos of Yad Vashem. Having been to Auschwitz, I was already quite familiar with the Holocaust. Otherwise, I didn’t notice the B... that seems to be an issue on Israeli roads since I bought two excursions and didn’t drive. After that, I stayed in the "Old City." Indeed, the trip to Galilee was very peaceful, with a very reasonable number of tourists.

I’ve never been to Auschwitz. Yad Vashem alone is already pretty tough.

In August, we visited the Nova Festival site. The memorial is quite impressive and a deeply moving experience.

In Upper Galilee, you’ll find the village of Metula, Israel’s "finger." From the observatory, you get a view of the three sides overlooking the stunning landscape of Lebanon.

In Jerusalem, did your guide mention the Byzantine Fountains and the underground aqueduct? Quite the puzzle to navigate. 😉

Best,

Hi Michel (the man with so many aliases...),

It’s been over 8 years since I asked you about a "future" week-long visit to Jerusalem! And you still manage to find "little" spots to recommend to us.

Thanks to Zorba for this wonderfully written and lively report.

With hopes for peace closer than ever (!), I’ve dusted off my Excel file (which hasn’t aged a bit) and I’m waiting for your (and others’) advice on pinpointing a date or timeframe in 2026—if it’s not too soon... (while avoiding local holidays, Ramadan, peak summer, etc.).

Best from the Nooorth. Jean

PS: Yes, at our age... we can’t afford to dawdle.

Why Ramadan? It’s not a public holiday, though. 😉

Hi there...

That was humor! - Christian holidays are around April/May, Jewish holidays around September, and temperatures are too high in July/August, so juggling all that (even just to fit in a single week...) isn’t easy.

- This first trip would be strictly limited to Jerusalem: 5 days in the Old City and the Mount of Olives (including 2 with a French-speaking guide + 3 to take the time to explore all the neighborhoods and really "visit"), plus 3 days in the "modern city" and memorial sites.

I still have your email and I’ll send you my file.

Best regards, Jean.

Hi there...

It was just a joke! - Christian holidays are around April/May, Jewish holidays around September, and temperatures are too high in July/August, so juggling all that (even just to fit in a single week...) isn’t easy.

- This first trip would be strictly limited to Jerusalem: 5 days in the Old City and the Mount of Olives (including 2 with a French-speaking guide + 3 to take the time to explore all the neighborhoods and really "visit"), plus 3 days in the "modern city" and memorial sites.

I still have your email and I’ll send you my file.

Best regards, Jean.

Got it. Jewish holidays aren’t just in September—Purim is in February, for example. And everything depends on the lunar calendar.

For a guide in Jerusalem, I’ve got just the right person for you. A real pro!

Cheers.

Hi there...

I still have your email and I’ll send you my file.

Best, Jean.

I’ll resend you an email per message. You never know. [;]

A big thank you, François, for your report on that short but really interesting trip to these places so full of history. Thanks again for sharing! 😎