Leaving industrial Civitavecchia (Rome) and quaint but increasingly touristy Sorrento behind, our ship docked at the port of Alexandria, the “Pearl of the Mediterranean.”
Our guide, Soha, and her driver swiftly transported us to the center of town... he with one hand on the wheel and one on the horn, skillfully maneuvering through traffic oozing out from all directions (not quite as frenetic as the organized chaos we remember from Cairo), she with both arms hugging the back of the seat, excitedly introducing us to the day’s plan, dimpled smile and wonderfully expressive eyes framed in a gorgeous Pashmina scarf. Single, opinionated, and humorous, Soha studied law for 7 years (both Western and Islamic) before switching to tourism, and we were delighted to realize that we had once again found an outstanding guide via the web. (At one point Soha wondered out loud why Fred was named after something to eat... we finally figured out that she thought his name was ‘bread.’)
Our first photo op: 
a blanket of multicolored boats gently bobbing in the bay with Qaitbay Fort in the background, and as we made a slow 180ยบ turn, a beautiful, alabaster mosque came into view, enveloping the plaza. A causeway snaked its way down three kilometers or so of shoreline, dotted with tables, chairs and umbrellas, prolifically studded with those out enjoying the calm scenery. 
Mosaics are everywhere; we only wish these art works could stretch over the ubiquitous Starbucks, Chilis and Kentucky Fried Chicken signs noticeable throughout the city. Bailing from the car, we roamed through the expansive market streets, Soha pointing out the different sections where streets are categorized by the goods displayed. Our first stop, women’s alley, where racy, lacy, neon negligees attached by strings floated in the breeze above the kiosks. Rows and rows of beautiful scarves enticed shoppers, and I succumbed... a few moments later, in appropriately modest demeanor with new scarf correctly pinned, I received the nodding approval of the shopkeeper and several vendees.
Scarf pins are a big thing, displayed in expansive boxes, showcasing row upon row of colorfully designed heads. (According to Soha the Qur’an does not mandate the hijab (covering); the vast majority of women here wear scarves because they believe in the idea of modesty, and feel that covering add to one’s beauty. They are certainly a fashion statement, and beautiful.)
We traveled from one alley to the next, with the vast caverns of toy alley mimicking a WalMart storage center. Fulah dolls (Barbie’s Muslim cousin) abound...each sporting a hijab, of course, and stapled to the side on the cardboard inserts in each box, her ‘indoor clothes’ (as stated in print beneath): black patent leather boots, camouflaged mini skirt and summery top. We should have purchased one.... We lunched at a small restaurant where apparently the sambusak baker has been juggling offers from chefs in Dubai who recognize his prowess in making these fabulous empanada-like pastries.
We had a rousing political discussion, then off to the renowned and incredible library here that houses over 8 million books, with a section for Braille users that is beyond anything we have ever seen. Back to the ship and our next stop, Port Said, where we made a brief foray into town seeking an Internet cafe. Like much of the eastern Med, cats are ubiquitously present everywhere.
As we busily checked e-mails, the undulating sounds of the call to prayer emanated from the minaret close by, and the cafe overseer pulled out his prayer rug, got down on the floor, and began his rituals, giving yet another example of how the Five Pillars are so uniformly embedded in the lives of Muslims everywhere. We notice that similar to Alexandria, many teenaged young women wear long sleeved, stretchy leotards under provocative, low necked and frilly tops....jeans peeking out under long, drapey skirts.Finally... Ashdod.... and we disembarked, looking for a way to get to the entrance of the port, as the guide we set up for Israel had e-mailed us that he was not able to get the permit required to enter the secured area within the gate in time. A cabbie offered to take us, commenting that it was an unusual request...as we waited by a fence outside, armed security guards came by several times asking us why we were standing around, and after our explanation, retreated with watchful eyes... then, finally, a car with “UN” on the sides drove up, and we met Sam. We were instantly taken by his friendly demeanor, and knew that we had yet again scored a wonderful guide in our ever continuing web searches for independent, local experts! He quickly whisked us off to Jerusalem, 30 kilometers away. The drive was fairly uneventful, other than the burned out tanks and trucks we passed, remnants of the Six Day War in ‘67.
Jerusalem is magical.
Entering through Lion’s Gate, we felt instantly transported back in time, soaking in the tapestry of sights, smells and sounds of overlapping cultures. We strolled through narrow streets and alleyways teeming with historical significance, listening to Sam’s anecdotes and references while simultaneously eavesdropping on the lilting voices of myriad other Israeli Jew and Arab tour guides extolling the importance of particular rooms or stones or pillars 
or walkways to their respective, tightly gathered groups of tourists. Entering through a crevice in a wall, a Greek Orthodox priest inside shared reverently that the Virgin Mary was born there. Definitely. Then, just meters down the way, another opening, another guardian at the gate, this time Armenian.... yes, the Virgin Mary was born just inside. Definitely. Both amusing and a reality check that history is by nature fluid, and that in the greater scheme of things, this lack of irrefutable proof for any historical event is what often serves to sabotage agreements/solutions.After wandering through the brightly lit and uncluttered Jewish quarter
looking for a small water color painting for our increasing collection, we started down the path of the first nine stations of the Cross through Via Dolorosa, navigating the lively and crowded Muslim Quarter 
for freshly squeezed carrot and pomegranate juice and creamy hummus (crossing in front of us, four schoolgirls with Fulah backpacks)
, eventually arriving at our final destination: the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, containing the last five stations of the cross...commemorating where Jesus is said to have been crucified. 
We are simply overwhelmed; there is so much to see and do. Off to the Church of All Nations
in the idyllic setting of the Garden of Gesthemane, 
with its grove of thousand year old olive trees, then up to the Mount of Olives for a photo opp, followed by a tour around the outskirts of Jerusalem... and lest this turn into a tome, we will refrain from adding descriptors for all of these marvelous sites. 
Info to research is what the web is for. :0) Maneuvering down a side street during our drive, Sam called out to a young bagel seller carrying a huge basket perched precariously on his head, and purchased three foot long, button-hole shaped bagels sprinkled liberally with sesame seeds. Chewy...wonderful! Down in an olive grove off to our right, a group of young boys used long sticks to bash the trees to loosen the olives; surely offensive to die hard olive pickers who would insist on lovingly twisting each olive off individually...
As afternoon approached, Sam suggested that we spend the night at a hotel in Bethlehem, stating that he could get permission from the sheikh for us to enter the Dome of the Rock and the Al Aksa Mosque at Haram al-Sharif early the following morning. We didn’t hesitate.
Sam switched back and forth between Arabic and Hebrew as he phoned the ship’s agent in Ashdod to notify them not to expect us back on the ship when it departed that afternoon; we would embark the following evening when the ship departed Haifa for Kusadasi, Turkey. And off we went to the West Bank, to Bethlehem, where Sam lives. A Christian Arab, he explained that he is an Israeli by birth, and ergo has an easier time traveling in and out of the artificial boundaries separating Israel from the Palestinian territories.
He also has a UN connection; those same letters emblazoned on his car helped us sail through all checkpoints during our two days with him...this in contrast to the slow moving line of Palestinians we saw alongside the daunting security walls 
as they traveled back and forth between their homes, jobs and/or families. Sam’s perspective is intense; he feels nothing but disdain for the suicide bombers who destroy not only their own lives but those of innocent civilians, and thus understands the intent of and need for these security walls, 
yet with equal fervor he is angered by what he sees as the intentional routing of these walls (sometimes electric fences thorned with barbed wire)
into Palestinian territory to encompass Jewish settlements (considered illegal by the international community) along with natural water wells, depriving Palestinians farmers of much needed sustenance for their crops and separating neighboring families from each other. He kept shaking his head as he explained the permit card (“family reunion”) system, relegated to only a chosen few, difficult to get, and requiring renewal every three months. 
Should Israel keep to the Green Line (the border established by the 1949 Armistice Agreements) when building these walls? Do good fences really make good neighbors? What if the fence annexes land ceded to the Palestinian Authority before the '67 war? Who has the right to the land? How much of a say should the international community have? Is there such a thing as a “Palestinian?” Rather than feeling that we are on a path to enlightenment, we realize that with each perspective comes layer upon layer of assumptions and dogma that blur any understanding of this ever evolving struggle that defines the Holy Land. So we decide to simply carpe diem, savoring the moments as we experience them. Passing yet another peace sign,
we drove by the Deheishe refugee camp, boxy apartments haphazardly stacked one upon the other – we can now envision this camp mentioned so frequently in the film “Promises,” a documentary worth watching -- and through streets piled with rubble and graffiti splattered walls. A visit to the Church of the Holy Nativity proffered the grotto where Jesus is thought to have been born; Fred captured the ecstatic look of a visitor as he touched the noted spot. 
Walking back through Manger Square we begin to feel tiredness setting in, so Sam dropped us off at a nearby hotel (run by his cousin, of course, and where we were the only guests), to freshen up for dinner, before driving us to a huge restaurant cum Bedouin tent, sectioned off in small enclaves encircling sets of sofas, chairs and nargileh (waterpipes). We had, honestly, the best lamb shishkebabs we’ve ever tasted. Vanilla tobacco wafted through the air, families conversed happily, and couples discreetly flirted in the shadows of the couches. The place is new, the previous structure having been burned to the ground last year by Palestinian youth who were furious when they were kicked out by the owner for being rowdy. So much anger seething right below the surface...Back to the hotel for a quick night’s rest as we faced an early get up the following morning... waking before dawn, we climbed up to the rooftop to a spectacular view, the sunrise creeping up the valley to the east and one of the sprawling settlements at issue shining atop the hillside behind.
We could see sheep grazing in the sod scattered across the ground level of houses as the call to prayer from the distant minarets echoed through the air. 
Breakfast was served in a large dining area, with a table piled full of goodies: olives, tomatoes, hummus, egg, toast, thyme soaked in olive oil, falafel, pita bread, sesame sauce, fresh orange juice...and strong, very good coffee. Seeing Sam’s car enter the portico, we rushed past the flag stand
(one American, one Palestinian, and one from Vatican City) and the antiquity/artillery display 
in the lobby, and jumped in the car, heading back to Jerusalem... to Temple Mount, or Haram al-Sharif, depending on one’s perspective...After some haggling with one of the underlings working for the mufti and showing him the signed permission sheet, we were allowed entry through the back gate and into the compound. Sam expressed relief that the Israeli soldiers guarding the entrance from the outside were Ethiopian Jews (this is another complicated story...) as to him they are less apt to hassle visitors, which soldiers apparently tend to do even though the Muslim Council (waqf) has been given full administration of this site.
The Dome of the Rock is beautifully proportioned, an architectural wonder...
pillars on the periphery, tiled artwork everywhere, and sporting a fairly new gold leafed dome gifted by the late King Hussein of Jordan. Covered properly with an overskirt for my jeans provided by the Muslim caretakers... this stitched straight down each side allowing only minimal movement, consequently making me feel like a geisha walking in small, mincing steps to avoid tripping flat on my face (Fred not needing any garb as he wore long pants and a long sleeved shirt), we entered the cavernous dome. Coming up from the ground in the middle of the structure, a vast bedrock... marking where Mohammed ascended to heaven on his flying horse, or, again, depending on one’s perspective, where Abraham nearly sacrificed his son Isaac. 
The intricate designs on the walls and ceilings
so different from the iconic images, prohibited in Islam, profusely displayed on the inside of Christian churches. 
One level down we came to a cave 
where Abraham et al (also revered as prophets by Muslims) are said to have prayed. We greeted the worshippers there in Arabic – asalaam alaykum – and left quietly back upstairs and outside to the courtyard to retrieve our shoes. From there to the Al Aksa mosque, 
with its landscape of red carpets and exquisite windows (this mosque survived a fire set by an evangelical Christian in the late 1960’s who hoped to hasten the coming of the Messiah by clearing the area so that the Temple could be rebuilt... yet another perspective enters the fray....sigh.) 
Accusations continue to fly as excavations/renovations promoted by differing groups weaken the surrounding supporting walls. Which brings us to the Western Wall (Wailing Wall), a section of ancient wall situated just below the Dome of the Rock... one of the holiest places in Judaism. 
Men gather on one side, women on the other... a plethora of small, folded bits of prayer-carrying paper peeking out from the cracks between the stones. We could feel a deep sense of spirituality seeping through the air...
Leaving Jerusalem behind, we headed for the Dead Sea, almost a thousand feet below sea level. Glancing out the window along the way, we saw a Hasidic Jew mirthfully perched on a heavily decorated camel... but...drat...couldn’t get our camera focused in time!
The Sea is located in a pretty spot... several bathers floated effortlessly on the surface, 
giving evidence to the extreme density of the salty water... and it is salty, and metallic to the taste. From there we traveled past the Qum Ran caves, site of the Dead Sea Scrolls, to Jericho, where archaeologists continue to explore and excavate the ruins surrounding one of the most ancient cities in history. Riding a cable car up the mountain, a Greek monastery
literally carved out of the hillside slowly emerged into view...an astounding sight. 
We enjoyed fresh lemonade with mint at the summit cafe, looking out over verdant fields of bananas, papayas, pomelos, dates, tomatoes and oranges.
The hour in which we needed to be back on board the ship fastly approaching, we sped up to Tiberias and the Sea of Galilee,
with a quick stop at Yardenit (where Christian pilgrims come for baptism,
believing that this part of the river is where John baptized Jesus), then West to Acre (Akko). A remnant of the Kingdom of Jerusalem in the 13th century,
the ancient city tells the story of those who built, fought for and glorified this town. We specifically came to see the citadel, prison fortress and underground tunnels
used by the Crusader Knights (both Templar and the Hospitallers). It did not disappoint, the stone work simply stunning, the walls majestically fronting the sea. By the time we left the ‘castle,’ the inner courtyard had been taken over by a Druze Olive Festival... 
tables and tables of food crowded the expansive lawn, and Sam quickly blended in with the dignitaries in order to partake of the feast to sustain him for his drive back to Bethlehem once he dropped us off in Haifa. Where we went poste haste, as the ship was leaving momentarily. We’ll have to go back, as we define Haifa simply by the beautiful Baha’i Gardens stretching up the hillside, slowly receding as we sailed towards Turkey.
Over dinner we ruminated over our compressed experiences.... thinking about the conflict that overshadows all the wonder that is Israel and the Palestinian Territories... how Israelis are perceived as victims and oppressors, and Palestinians perceived as victims and terrorists, each terrified of the other... when there is vastly larger segment of the population on both sides consisting of people who just want to live out their lives as best they can with their families, jobs that can sustain them, and an interest in building community...musing if sports could serve as a unifier
(football [soccer]immensely popular with the young in every town we visit, crossing all cultural lines...), hoping that a solution would/could be forthcoming... wishing that both sides would give a little... that the moderate imams who know in their hearts that suicide bombing is just not acceptable and most likely contra Qur’an would raise their voices and be heard... that land divisions were more equitable.....and sitting there at dinner we realize that there is still so much we don’t know about the nuances of this struggle. Sigh. But there is hope: we heard mention of an elementary school called Hand in Hand, whose philosophy is to teach in both Arabic and Hebrew, to teach critical thinking...and there is a waiting list to get in. A good night’s rest (after much pampering and commentary on being sorely missed the night we were gone by the maitre ‘d and waiters in the specialty restaurant where we have become permanent fixtures)
, anticipating our next stop as we sailed towards Turkey. Kusadasi is just as we remembered... an enormous, borderless bazaar fronting the bay, but with one very noticeable difference: the hawkers were eerily low key in their entreaties to draw in customers. We’re curious if this is a newly imposed government sanction. Our previous sojourn to this area included a trip to Ephesus for a private, champagne glutting evening soiree replete with small orchestra, music wafting through the air as we mingled with others around the delectable goodie table in front of the majestic library, strikingly lit up at sunset... we could not do one better, and as such elected to roam the town and boardwalk, do a bit more Internet-ing, then relax back on board. (Walking back we spotted an amusing poster of the ruins of Ephesus, conveniently transposed as if located right next to the seaport town...)
Patmos, Greece -- famed for St. John the Baptist’s banishment to a cave here where he scripted the Book of Revelations -- gave us Alex, the dog....
as we stepped onto the boardwalk from the gangway, this marvelous mutt came up to us and leaned against me, like a long lost child. We decided to hike up rather than cab up to St. John’s cave and then onward to the monastery, and Alex (we discovered his name when a truck driver called out to him as Alex led us up the hill) stayed right alongside as we trekked up the road and arrived at the cave.
Worried that he was going to get hit by a passing car or bus on our second hour long leg up the mountain, we hid behind a tour van while Alex greeted other tourists... he wandered around as if looking for us, subsequently trotting down to the cave area beyond our vision. We hightailed it up to the monastery, feeling a bit glum without our protector, figuring we could visit the caves on the way back down. Two hours later we returned to said spot, and Alex apparently sat patiently by the entrance during our absence, and began romping up and down when he saw us... he followed us around the grounds and into the caves, not letting us out of his sight. We then began our trek down to the sea port, Alex in front, checking back every few meters to make sure we were still there. As we neared town, he started going down a short cut, barking at us to follow, and we did. It was simply too cool for words! We hated leaving him...Our last stop, scenic Santorini... such a beautiful spot... and the best gyros we’ve had, bar none.
We are so, so fortunate to have these opportunities to travel....
