Homeless in Jerusalem

It took ten days for Jon David to break down, but he finally did. After our third night in The New Swedish Hostel (an ancient establishment that is owned and operated by Palestinians), Jon David asked me how long it had been since I had showered.

This morning, why?

Oh. (Slightly let down and changing the subject.)

I pursue: Why did you ask me that? When was the last time you showered?

Um, it's been longer than that.

When? (Voice rising.)

I haven't showered since we arrived. (He ducks in an effort to avoid the verbal onslaught.)


What?! I've been walking around and introducing you to people as my friend (read: direct reflection on my character and tastes) and you smell like garbage! I've done my part...finagled my way into a new pair of socks for you, so you could retire the week-old ones, supplied you with toiletries, offered to wash your clothes, and you can't even bathe yourself?

Well, it was too cold in there. I can't take my clothes off here.

Granted, the temperature isn't ideal but that's no excuse for poor hygiene. You have to shower. Immediately.

Our compromise, and perhaps the salvation of our friendship, came via JD's credit card. JD decided that he had "money in the bank...I mean thousands of dollars," which translated as, "We don't have to live like this." So, we packed our bags and boarded a bus to Tel Aviv where he intended to book a room in the Sheraton or some comparably nice hotel, and then collect our luggage (which we had entrusted to a swindler named Hageet). All went well, and we were soon showered and sitting down for dinner at a quaint Italian restaurant. The combination of his fresh attire and my glass of wine allowed me to begin to love him again.

It was a happy ending to our first travel experience together. Now my dear friend is somewhere in South Africa, presumably safe and sound and I find myself once again in Jerusalem at the New Swedish Hostel. The pieces of my life here haven't quite fallen together yet. I don't have a home, a cell phone, a class schedule or a job though I'm pursuing leads in all the aforementioned areas. The one thing I did have—privacy—is quickly being taken from me. The man who runs this hostel has become exceptionally friendly toward me, perhaps too friendly. He now knocks on my door and brings me tea, telling me stories of his ex-wife and offering to help me hone my Palestinian dialect. He invited me to dinner tonight, but I skillfully declined in an effort to make sure he understands that our relationship is purely business. Somebody send me some good housing karma so I can get on with life.

The following pictures have nothing to do with this story, but were taken in Jerusalem. Top to bottom:
1. Me in front of the Mt. of Olives, Church of Nations and the golden Russian Orthodox Church
2. JD and me trying to take a picture of ourselves and salvage the background. The Old City, Al-Aqsa mosque, and Western (or wailing) Wall are behind us.