After an informative bus trip from the Moshav, I saw the Old City for the first time. I waited in eager anticipation of the city of the Israeli kings. Our first approach to the city brought us by way of the largest gate, Jaffa. The gate had heavy metal doors, and both the original gate, which we passed though on foot, and the modern gate which allows cars passage were larger than large. It was designed with an “L” shape bottleneck, in order to slow the advance of invaders. Once they breached the gate, they had to break rank and then turn to enter the city. What an ingenious design. Upon entering Jerusalem, the hustle of the city was overwhelmed me. Cars passed close by pedestrians in narrow streets that would only pass for a “one way” in the States. The transportation situation seemed insufficient to support the size of the teeming population, but here, it works. The first place the group went was the Citadel of David. As soon as I arrived at the top, I took in my first view of the Dome of the Rock. I was astounded. “Jesus loved this city enough to die here, and yet that temple stands in defiance to all of God’s people as a desecration of such a Holy site,” I thought to myself. The Citadel itself left me speechless. As part of the city walls, it guards the Jaffa gate, and is the largest structure in the city. I was even more amazed to learn that this citadel is the only one remaining tower of the original three. How grand these bombards and walls must have been before Rome tore them down. 
Next stop, Church of the Holy Sepulcher. Frenzy gripped my body and my heart was a humming bird as I strode pace by pace down narrow, crowded, dingy, stone streets lined with merchant shops leading to the site, and as my mind raced with thoughts of Jesus’ burial, I was soon caught off guard by the smell of tobacco and the shop keeper’s raised voices. This was not the Jerusalem I imagined. I thought of streets wide enough for royal chariots to pass though and turn around in. I thought of regal foreign dignitaries like the Queen of Sheba parading down wide avenues painted by Thomas Kinkade. I never thought that on the triumphal entry, one palm branch would be long enough to lay from one side of the street to the other. Such notions were quickly cleared from my head as I realized keeping up with the group was more important than philosophizing. The Church of the Holy Sepulcher was under construction, and the main tower was walled by scaffolding from top to bottom. On the inside, it felt like an ordinary castle, but it was built over the rock quarry Jesus was said to be crucified on. Even a little bit of the rock stuck through the floor on the second story. The decorations inside were gaudy and priceless. The image of Jesus wearing flashy silver garments in a glorified state hung over the place of the rock outcropping. The tomb itself was less appealing. It was housed in a brown cottage within the church, and about it there was a year round candle light vigil which is reported to start every year with the head Orthodox Priest going into the “cottage” and coming out with a candle “miraculously lit.” I have a healthy skepticism for such pomp and circumstance, seeing that most church traditions are much less valuable than vaunted.
Next we went to Shabaan’s, a local shop owner and money changer where I had a free drink and picked up 325 shekels for $80 approximately a 4.06% rate, but in order to get there, we had to pass from the Jewish quarter to the Muslim quarter. I immediately noticed the difference of the head coverings, skin tone and pressure of the men soliciting me for my American tourist dollars. We walked past more Hookah pipes and raw meat hanging in the open air then I have ever seen and we also passed by three old men playing dominos in the street. I hope I have given the impression this quarter is far different than the first. From Shabaan’s we left the city headed out the northern Damascus gate, where we stopped and noted the modern arched gate entryway is built above the antiquated arched gate entryways. We then saw the protestant version of Christ’s burial called the garden tomb, which failed to really grab my attention.
We then walked outside the city walls around the north-eastern corner to St. Steven’s/the lion’s gate. We entered here and explored the pools at Bethesda where Jesus healed the paralytic man. These ancient water storage facilities were fed by the aqueducts, and were at least 40 feet deep and 200 yards long, and dated back to well before Christ. We also entered St. Anne’s church and sang hymns, which was a refreshing time of worship. Afterwards, we walked back out of St. Stephen’s/ Lion’s gate and around the South-eastern side of Jerusalem through a Muslim grave yard overlooking the Garden of Gethsemane, which is now marked by a roman-catholic church. We continued on until we came back into the city through the southern dung gate which was built for Muslims because it is very close to the Dome of the Rock, but I wasn’t very interested in it. I fixed my eyes on the western wall of the temple, where the segregated Jewish men and women were praying, and some no doubt still looking for their messiah earnestly. Oh Lord, may you come quickly, like a thief in the night and give your people back their rightful land. You are praised forever in allowing this desecration even though I don’t understand it.
From here we moved with god speed out of the city to catch our waiting buss back to the Moshav. Exhausted from a long day of walking in the Israeli 105 degree sun, I slept on the way back home.
A busy Sunday morning and the streets of 
We then passed through a catholic cemetery overlooking the Hinnom valley, past some ritual baths, and to the City of 
