stories of travel, medical missions, and more

Tag: Israel

Roary Stories: Tales of the Travelosuar, part 3

Travel Journal, 93

That's amazing!

Many years ago, my wife and I traveled to both The Netherlands and Israel separated by only one month. I have written about both trips before. But I left out one major detail regarding a certain toy dinosaur. In fact, Roary’s traveled to roughly the same places that we’ve traveled. He doesn’t always make it out of the pocket in which he rides, but he’s there nonetheless.

Our first trip to The Netherlands took us to Haarlem, adjacent to the city of Amsterdam. Our main objective was to see the Corrie Ten Boom museum. So prior to flying in, I emailed the museum inquiring about a tour, specifically an English tour. My Dutch language abilities are nonexistent. We had it all set up and ready to go. Our trip to Haarlem opened our eyes and enlightened us. I can’t speak for Roary, but I imagine that he was also enlightened. But he’s made of rubber, so who knows?

Almost exactly one month later, Roary traveled to Israel with us. We hesitate to drag Roary out on all of our adventures. To be honest with you, the logistics of bringing a toy dinosaur to museums, UNESCO heritage sites, and religious locales, borders on the absurd. Everywhere I go, it’s in the back of my mind: where can I take a picture of this crazy little dino? And then, when I have mustered the courage and bottled up my embarrassment, I reach into my bag and brandish the one and only Roary.

Heads turn. Giggles begin. I can feel the eyes looking at me or looking away. When somebody does something odd, it can be hard to put your finger on it. As a paramedic, I often see behavior that disarms other people. When people do things that don’t fit inside our mental frame or expectation, it registers as, well, odd.

So when I placed Roary on a rock ledge with the Dome of the Rock of Jerusalem in the background, I imagined that the lookers-on would scoff and jeer. But alas, no.

Our friends who lived in Jerusalem at the time took us to this location specifically to find a pose for Roary. They were getting into it. The overlook on which we stood overwhelmed us. Possibly the most important city on the planet lay before us. Parts of the Old City could be seen from here. We had already stood at the Western Wall. I’d seen bullet holes in the stone from the Six-Day war in 1967. And now we stood with the Dome in the background, the sun setting before us.

And there sat Roary, in all his regal majesty. We snapped our photos. We all laughed. And out of nowhere I heard a Dutch-tinted English voice.

“That’s amazing!”

I turned to see another traveler gawking at our escapades.

I smiled. Perhaps I didn’t hear him correctly.

“What’s that?” I ask.

“That’s amazing!”

Confused as ever, I just smiled again and said something stupid, like, “Oh yeah,” or, “thanks.” I can’t remember. The only thing stranger than me taking a picture of my toy dinosaur by the Dome of the Rock, was this older Dutch guy standing by as a curious observer.

He called his wife over. And now she began watching.

“That’s amazing,” she repeated in the same flabbergasted style.

As I neared the point of calling the Israeli loony bin, the gentleman strolled over to me and asked me a very unexpected question.

“May I borrow?”

I had no idea what he was talking about.

“My camera?” I asked. What else could he mean?

“No, no—the dinosaur!”

I slowly handed Roary over the clearly wacko Dutch guy. He reached out and grabbed him. He then hurried over to the same ledge Roary had just finished his photo shoot. He propped Roary up, jut like we had done before, and began taking his picture.

I have since that moment felt less and less embarrassed with taking pictures of Roary. People get it. It’s fun. It’s funny. And it’s something we can enjoy everywhere we go. When people look and laugh, they are most likely laughing because it’s hilarious, no because it’s embarrassing.

But this story isn’t over.

As we spoke with our new friends, they told us how they hailed from the city of Haarlem in The Netherlands. We said that we had just returned from there and excitedly told them of our trip to a lovely little museum in that very city. To top it all off, the wife exclaimed that she currently works at and curates that exact museum. In fact, I had probably been emailing with her regarding an English-speaking tour, not one month ago. She conducts the Dutch tours.

Laughs and smiles were shared all around. And I can only say that I am thankful for the little dinosaur that helps us grow closer to people around the world. He even helps to unite strangers in the most unique ways.

 

anthony forrest

 

Keep up with Roary’s Stories!

Part 1: Seattle Bus Ride

Part 2: How it began

A Ring to Bind Me

I wear little jewelry.

Mind, I have attempted to wear a bit extra here and there over the years. When I was a teen, I wore on of those obligatory Christian WWJD bracelets. And later I wore the occasional necklace—which don’t flatter me, to say the least. But now I only wear two pieces of jewelry.

I obviously wear my wedding band.

The only other piece of jewelry I wear is a lone ring on my right hand.

Several years ago, my wife and I traveled to Israel to visit friends. While there, we saw Jerusalem in all her glory: back street market hung with silky scarves, ancient stone walls with bullet holes from the 1967 war, many religious relics and locales, and more food than you can imagine. The land is holy to nearly everybody—and not just here, in this city. Not too far from Jerusalem stands a wall, separating Israeli controlled land from Palestinian Authority controlled land. The city of Bethlehem is also a beautiful city, ravaged by war and constant dispute, but like Jerusalem, it is beautiful all the same. Walking down a side street market, I spotted a table covered in Olive wood decorations, nick knacks, chachkies, and whatnots. As I perused the table, a ring caught my eye—simple, unassuming, and made of a material that I never see. I bought that ring and wore it on my right hand. That is, of course, until it broke due to the stress of wearing it, exposing it to the cold Minnesota winter, or simply because I banged it on something. I tried to repair it a couple of times to no avail.

Years later, I strolled a street on the border of Thailand and Myanmar. The heat drove us under tarps giving shade to food booths (and vendors selling probably the strongest iced coffee I’ve ever tasted, but that’s another tale). We spent a week in the north of Thailand in the Chiang Rai area, visiting friends, experiencing the culture, tasting the food (and coffee), and taking in the weather and scenery. It is easy to love Thailand. Everything about that trip brings a sparkle to our eyes. So, when I looked down at one of the vendor tables and saw a handcrafted jade ring, I just had to have it. The dark green jade color seeped into my eyes. I slipped it onto my hand—now completely understanding how Bilbo and Golem felt. It was precious. It had a weight about it. Jade also signifies healing. As a paramedic, this ring was a perfect accoutrement. I wore it for years—that is, until I finished washing my hands and began to dry them on a towel. The ring felt like it was slipping off. But I looked down and, behold, the one ring was broken into two pieces.

I wear another ring on my right hand now. But it’s a simple place-holder. One day, we will travel to a far-away land. That place will touch my soul. And I will again find a special ring to bind me.

 

anthony forrest

Turkish Coffee

Not the coffee shop in Jerusalum. This was actually taken in Bethlehem. The good 'Ol Stars and Bucks.

Travel Journal, 73

My wife and I walked together in the Jewish Quarter of Jerusalem, several years ago. The stone streets led us through beautiful and ancient pathways, revealing one of the most important and stunning cities we have ever visited. When people ask me where to go if they had only one trip left in their life, I tell them, Jerusalem. You’ll never find a place more eclectic, stunning, historical, rewarding, fun, delicious, and mysterious.

We were on our second day in Israel, after taking a bus from Tel Aviv. I could feel that Grim-Reaper-like presence of jet lag creeping in. It always seems like we’re only one step ahead.

But we stopped at a café in the Jewish Quarter for some falafel (tasty pita wrap made from chic peas), and I found a stand nearby selling coffee.

If you haven’t noticed by now, I love coffee in its varied and delightful forms. And in the United States, finding coffee, and quality coffee at that, proves quite easy. Many people are on the hunt for the perfect cup. But there is one form of coffee which is pretty rare to find. Sure, if you look closely you may discover it on a menu at a middle eastern or Mediterranean restaurant. But even then, it’s not a very popular drink.

I’m talking about Turkish Coffee.

Why is this drink so unpopular and unknown? I have a theory: it is very strong, and far from sweet. In a world of tall, sweet, iced, chocolaty, creamy, blended, caramelized, and rich, Turkish Coffee only vaguely resembles a distant cousin. Turkish Coffee possesses all of the recessive genes: short, hot, highly spiced, only a couple of ounces, very strong, and almost pungent.

But don’t be frightened. Fortune favors the bold.

I took a sip at that café in Jerusalem and almost fell off my stool. The coffee stand worker noticed my mistake and rushed to tell me to wait to drink it. I had taken in mostly fine and bitter grounds.

Turkish coffee consists of a finely ground coffee and various spices, such as cardamom. It is also served with sugar. The coffee is typically served with only a few ounces of boiling water. The server will scoop the grounds, spice, and sugar into a small copper pot with a small handle and heat it to boiling several times. After it has met with his satisfaction, the coffee slurry is poured into cup. The drinker then waits for the grounds to settle to the bottom of the cup, hence most Turkish coffees are served in glass.

Though even after the grounds settled to the bottom, the drink still nearly floored me. Turkish Coffee remains one of my favorite coffee drinks in the world. But word to the wise, it will put hair on your chest.

anthony forrest

Favorite Trips: The Wall

Once a month I will post a favorite story from the year prior.

Travel Journal, 59

“What this?

“You have drugs?

“Is for party?!”

We had heard this and other inquiries like it for several minutes now. All around us, heavily armed soldiers stared at us, unmoved. We had been in Jerusalem for only a couple of days and it seemed that we were already in trouble.

Please understand this: Israel is safe to visit. The news publishes the exception, not the rule. That being said, bad things happen, terrorists attack, and the middle east constantly wallows in unrest and tiresome Status Quo. While we boarded our flight to Tel Aviv, a commotion caught our attention outside the aircraft. Several police cars and fire trucks congregated between our plane and another. After a 45-minute delay, the pilot announced that we would be under way shortly. Upon arriving in Israel, our friends met us with wide eyes and concerned looks. Our flight had been the target of a bomb threat. Later that day, a terrorist in Tel Aviv stabbed and killed 9 people on a bus.

And now here I stood at the Western Wall, trying to explain to the small army of Israeli soldiers that the small clear bag of Tums in my wife’s purse was not actually illegal drugs. After they we entirely satisfied that we were not starting a drug distribution ring at one of the world’s most important religious sites, we were escorted through the gate.

Men and women are separated here. Men must have their heads covered and never turn their back on the Wall. Women must have their arms, legs, and heads covered. The name of the game is respect. With our respective head coverings, my wife went to the right side of the gate and I went to the left.

After all of the intense security and unsafe occurrences, my heart pounded even harder at the peace that stood in front of me: an ancient, 62-foot-tall, limestone wall. Small slips of paper inhabited every crevasse of the old stones. Each slip had a prayer for something—most of them for peace.

And I shouldn’t be surprised.

This is Israel.

The land of war.

The land of peace.

 

 

anthony forrest

Land of the Nativity

Travel Journal, 42

We are greeted with clasping hands and a generous smile.

It is hard to know who said “shalom” first. But we all do at some point during introductions.

The man quickly catches a boy by the shoulder.

The little black-haired boy looks up at his father, who had stopped him in his play. The boy gazes up at his father, listening to the instructions. But in a couple of seconds, the boy runs off like a shot, out the door and down the alleyway.

Our host (also shop owner) eagerly leads the four of us to four tiny plastic chairs of differing colors. Color seems to be the theme running through Jerusalem. Brightly ornate scarves hang about us. Several languages color the air. And a dozen or more ethnic groups create a culture more colorful than any other on this earth.

And now I see the little Arab boy, running in his shorts and sandals, carrying something. He holds what looks like a platter suspended by three ropes tied at the top and held in his hand. On that platter are five small and clear glasses of green tea, whole leaves. The lad moves effortlessly through a nearby crowd. He enters the store and his father serves us.

It’s delicious and sweet—this tea, this place, this moment, everything. And all the uncomprehended Hebrew has me hypnotized. But I refocus and notice that our friends stand and begin moving into another room.

We are here with an objective.

We are here to find Christmas.

Presently, the shop owner and giver of delightful tea rummages through piles of olive wood carvings. First, he produces the hand-crafted manger; then Mary, now Joseph, baby Jesus, shepherds, wise men three, sheep, camels, ect.

It’s all here. He tells us, as is visible by the various models nearby, that he has crafted hundreds of Nativity scenes. He appears quite proud of his creation.

He should be proud.

His hands craft the very throne of the Majestic One. Olive wood is lowly enough to be hand-crafted and beautiful enough for a King; which, to me, seems just right.

Tis a King’s tale.

 

anthony forrest

Travel Journal, 22

Old and Older

Historical buildings and architecture fascinate me. Tall spires donned by looming cathedrals, crumbling Greek ruins, precariously leaning towers, and uneven cobbled stone roads lure me into the world. No matter where you go, most people and most cultures respect the old places. Whether you go to Israel or Boston, the oldest locations demand respect and fascination.

Jerusalem, 2015

We stepped through the ancient doorway and peered out into the Old City. When reading ancient texts, many authors, when talking about going to Jerusalem, say that they “go up” to the city. Even if a traveler is going south, they say they’re “going up.” The reason? The Old City of Jerusalem is on a hill. We looked down from the top of that hill. All around us lay the ruins of a palace. The most famous King of Israel was the King David, son of Jesse of Bethlehem; he lived sometime around 1000 BCE. This was his house. English translations on placards spoke of ancient times and doings. We wandered dumbfoundedly and tried to comprehend its age and meaning. From here, the king could see everything; the city, the wall, the gates, and even the majestic Holy Temple which stood nearby. The respect that hung in the air was hotter than the Israeli sun. And it’s no surprise. This was the place of kings and honor.

Boston, 2014

A year earlier, we were eating cannoli and gazing up at what may just be the most important bookstore in American history; at least it was. In the early 19th century, the Old Corner Bookstore began selling books and magazines. And throughout its active literary history, the Bookstore published authors such as Nathaniel Hawthorn, Ralph Waldo Emerson, and the quintessential American poet himself, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. The classic post-colonial building looks like a brick barn. Its windows jut out onto the sidewalk, beckoning window-shoppers to peek within. You’d expect to see gas lanterns hanging nearby. But alas, no, a Chipotle restaurant sign clings to the façade. The whole thing looks fake—like somebody on a committee accidently approved a zoning permit, then completely forgot about it. One of the most important literary sites in the United States of America now sells burritos instead of books. What once fed minds and hearts and souls, now feeds the people what the really want. At least, that’s what it may seem like on first glance.

Part of us

To say that western culture, and specifically American culture, lacks respect for important landmarks and heritage is unfair and simply not true. Downtown Boston is full of historical landmarks, heritage sites, and museums. The owners of the building could have bulldozed it for more space. But they didn’t. It has been preserved and hundreds of people visit it daily. How else would I have known the history of the building without a nearby plaque?

Western and American culture reinvents, reuses, and integrates historical remnants into our everyday lives. In Boston, it’s difficult to know where the old ends and the new begins.

Our history is quite literally part of us.

But just to be safe, don’t make us choose between burritos and books.

anthony forrest

Travel Journal, 10

The Wall

“What this?

“You have drugs?

“Is for party?!”

We had heard this and other inquiries like it for several minutes now. All around us, heavily armed soldiers stared at us, unmoved. We had been in Jerusalem for only a couple of days and it seemed that we were already in trouble.

Please understand this: Israel is safe to visit. The news publishes the exception, not the rule. That being said, bad things happen, terrorists attack, and the middle east constantly wallows in unrest and tiresome Status Quo. While we boarded our flight to Tel Aviv, a commotion caught our attention outside the aircraft. Several police cars and fire trucks congregated between our plane and another. After a 45-minute delay, the pilot announced that we would be under way shortly. Upon arriving in Israel, our friends met us with wide eyes and concerned looks. Our flight had been the target of a bomb threat. Later that day, a terrorist in Tel Aviv stabbed and killed 9 people on a bus.

And now here I stood at the Western Wall, trying to explain to the small army of Israeli soldiers that the small clear bag of Tums in my wife’s purse was not actually illegal drugs. After they we entirely satisfied that we were not starting a drug distribution ring at one of the world’s most important religious sites, we were escorted through the gate.

Men and women are separated here. Men must have their heads covered and never turn their back on the Wall. Women must have their arms, legs, and heads covered. The name of the game is respect. With our respective head coverings, my wife went to the right side of the gate and I went to the left.

After all of the intense security and unsafe occurrences, my heart pounded even harder at the peace that stood in front of me: an ancient, 62-foot-tall, limestone wall. Small slips of paper inhabited every crevasse of the old stones. Each slip had a prayer for something—most of them for peace.

And I shouldn’t be surprised.

This is Israel.

The land of war.

The land of peace.

 

 

anthony forrest

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