Early January 1977
Jerusalem, Israel

Tour busses, lines of tourists, one trinket shop after another. I was tired of it all! At the age of 23, I had signed up for this whirlwind tour because of the great opportunity to visit the Holy Land accompanied by Ron Sumpter, our minister and friend who had been here many times. Our group had been in Israel for 8 days and we had only 2 more to go. Yesterday we had visited the Old City of Jerusalem. I was enthralled—and frustrated! I wanted to wander the streets, savor the aromas—really get a feel for this foreign place. But it was not to be. “Tour 201—boarding in 5 minutes.” Uggghhh!

Please….Not Another Day on the Bus!

The next day, we were to travel south of Jerusalem taking in Masada and other sites. I asked if we would get to swim in the Dead Sea—something I really wanted to do. No, there wouldn’t be time. RATS! That night, I brooded. But I never brood for long—I take action. I made my plans. I would just miss the bus. I told my roommate and friend, Ellen, that I wouldn’t go—I was sick of being herded in and out of that bus. Ellen always followed the rules. She was appalled, “You’re not going to the Old City? Ron specifically told us not to go out alone!”

“Don’t worry, Ellen. I’ll be okay—I just want to wander around. I’ll be back before dark and Ron doesn’t have to know—if you don’t tell him.”

I waited until the tour bus left and then hastened to the nearby bus stop. My hands were sweaty with excitement as I deposited my fare and asked the driver to let me know when we got to the Damascus gate.

Jerusalem on My Own!

I spent time at the Wailing Wall—jotting feelings in my journal and was admonished once by a guard: “No write here!” I watched a line of Hasidic boys dressed in black coats follow their rabbi into a synagogue, their side locks dangling from under their black wide brim hats. I tried not to stare at Muslim women covered from head to toe—how did they see? The Old City is a melting pot of cultures and religions–an amazing place! I walked through the market, stopping to bargain for a sheepskin. I hesitated to browse in shops because I didn’t like being harangued by shopkeepers who thought I was a RICH American.

Finally, I decided to walk toward the Jaffa Gate to visit David’s Tower. I opened my map to determine the best route through the maze of shops, hovels and ancient churches and synagogues. If you get turned around in the Old City, it takes a while to get your bearings. While I was studying the map, a young boy—about 14 years old—asked helpfully, “Where do you want to go?” I told him and asked if he could point the way. “Here, I’ll take you there,” he said, gesturing for me to get on his donkey. I hesitated—I didn’t want to be a conspicuous American tourist riding through the streets of Jerusalem on a poor boy’s donkey. I’m not some holy person, for goodness sake!

The Donkey Ride

I asked if he would just lead the way and I’d follow. He agreed, but when the streets got crowded and I fell a little behind, he insisted that I mount the beast. I did so but felt like an idiot towering over all those people. I knew everyone was looking at me. I tried to think of a way to gracefully end this embarrassment. I also tried to examine my map to figure out where I was and where we were going. Finally, it dawned on me that he couldn’t be taking me to David’s Tower. We were going the wrong way.

“Are you sure we’re going to the Jaffa Gate?” I asked without a lot of confidence. After all, he had probably been raised in this labyrinth. He reassured me. Now that I had looked up from the map, however, I noticed that the streets weren’t so crowded—actually, they were looking less and less crowded at every turn. In fact, we were now in what looked like a blind alley. The end of politeness met the beginning of desperation.