We caught word of the ceasefire while hopping around the tranquil Cyclades - an island group sprinkled in the Aegean Sea a few waves southeast of mainland Greece. Although we never intended on visiting a region so volatile that a lull in murder provided a cause for celebration, the ninety-day truce announced by the Palestinians presented an opportunity of Biblical proportion. Israeli suspicions, however, dismissed this peace initiative as nothing more than an attempt at easing Zionist pressure while the Palestinians planned future attacks. Standing on the sidelines, we watched and waited. Fortunately, we did not wait long enough.
The expiry date of our Greek visas soon tapped us on the shoulders, so we ferried to Bodrum and spent the next few weeks along the Mediterranean coast of Turkey slowly making our way toward Istanbul. After two delicately peaceful months between the Hatfieldbergs and al-McCoys, we stepped off a bus in old Constantinople, walked into a travel agency on Yeni Çeriler Caddesi, and purchased our flight to Tel Aviv. We picked up the tickets later that afternoon and headed back to our hotel. As CNN played on the 12-inch screen mounted from the ceiling of our cramped room, our eyes closed with a sigh as images from Jerusalem showed paramedics frantically carrying the injured from a bus that exploded moments ago. With a week left until our trip to Israel, we held the reins on any hasty decision, and again, we watch and waited.
Seven days later we packed our bags and, in a harrowing cab ride that pushed an Israeli bus to the number two spot on the list of most dangerous modes of transportation, walked through the doors of Attaturk International. After two hours of questioning by El Al security, and a thorough search of our bags, where each item of clothing was x-rayed individually followed by our empty backpacks, they gave us the okay to go through more security.
We touched down at Ben Gurion later that evening. I recalled a conversation Erica and I had about avoiding public transportation by either walking or taking cabs. Those words played over in my mind as I nervously looked out the window at the people boarding our bus that would take us into Tel Aviv. Backpacks littered the seats and aisles, and I longed for our stop which could not come fast enough. Finally, we arrived near the Hilton and stepped onto the sidewalk – the last ones off the bus!
We made several bus trips in the nine days following that ride on the “Anxiety Express:” Tel Aviv to Jerusalem, Jerusalem to the Dead Sea and back, and Jerusalem to Tel Aviv where we caught our flight to London. We checked into the Jubilee Court Hotel and flicked on CNN. Continued coverage from Jerusalem showed familiar images of the bloodied and injured being carried into ambulances, but this time the images came from a café that exploded two hours after our plane left the Holy Land.
The expiry date of our Greek visas soon tapped us on the shoulders, so we ferried to Bodrum and spent the next few weeks along the Mediterranean coast of Turkey slowly making our way toward Istanbul. After two delicately peaceful months between the Hatfieldbergs and al-McCoys, we stepped off a bus in old Constantinople, walked into a travel agency on Yeni Çeriler Caddesi, and purchased our flight to Tel Aviv. We picked up the tickets later that afternoon and headed back to our hotel. As CNN played on the 12-inch screen mounted from the ceiling of our cramped room, our eyes closed with a sigh as images from Jerusalem showed paramedics frantically carrying the injured from a bus that exploded moments ago. With a week left until our trip to Israel, we held the reins on any hasty decision, and again, we watch and waited.
Seven days later we packed our bags and, in a harrowing cab ride that pushed an Israeli bus to the number two spot on the list of most dangerous modes of transportation, walked through the doors of Attaturk International. After two hours of questioning by El Al security, and a thorough search of our bags, where each item of clothing was x-rayed individually followed by our empty backpacks, they gave us the okay to go through more security.
We touched down at Ben Gurion later that evening. I recalled a conversation Erica and I had about avoiding public transportation by either walking or taking cabs. Those words played over in my mind as I nervously looked out the window at the people boarding our bus that would take us into Tel Aviv. Backpacks littered the seats and aisles, and I longed for our stop which could not come fast enough. Finally, we arrived near the Hilton and stepped onto the sidewalk – the last ones off the bus!
We made several bus trips in the nine days following that ride on the “Anxiety Express:” Tel Aviv to Jerusalem, Jerusalem to the Dead Sea and back, and Jerusalem to Tel Aviv where we caught our flight to London. We checked into the Jubilee Court Hotel and flicked on CNN. Continued coverage from Jerusalem showed familiar images of the bloodied and injured being carried into ambulances, but this time the images came from a café that exploded two hours after our plane left the Holy Land.
