| Mideast Travels |
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Page 2 of 2 Despite his undeniably morbid occupation, Manders was, at heart, a zealous optimist. He insisted that our predicament with the car’s gas tank was a rare and exciting opportunity. As he saw it, the true purpose of travel was to make heedless and ill-advised decisions, which might cause some immediate discomfort but would furnish the sort of stories you could tell your grandchildren and, at the end of your days, would serve as proof that you had in fact lived. This, he claimed, was ultimately more important than relaxation—not only because it provided endless barroom banter, but also because a great story engrossed and renewed you in a profound way. Manders’s plan was simple—even elegant. To minimize our load, he had us remove every item from the Fiat that weighed more than half a pound. Soon we had stacked the curbside high with suitcases, books, water bottles, cassettes, towels, and a great deal of other crap. (If all went well—and that was a big “if”—we would soon return to this very gas station to recover our things.) Manders even argued that we should strip down to our underpants to make ourselves truly streamlined. I refused this last request. The image of Manders and me hitchhiking back to Tel Aviv in our tighty whities was more than I could bear. And so, as the sun set over the Judean Hills, we drove to the crest of the mountain road that led down toward the Ein Kerem monasteries and the Mediterranean beyond. In the distance we could hear the city of Jerusalem grinding to a halt— buses, cars, mopeds, and even lawnmowers were shutting down in honor of the Sabbath. The only sound was the crackly call from a distant minaret. Neither Manders nor I looked back. Soon we were careering down the narrow mountain road like champion bobsledders. “Don’t you dare hit the brake!” Manders yelled. The speedometer crept up, past 80 miles per hour. “Holy smokes!” he shouted. “Hard right coming up.” The car’s tires whinnied and screeched. “Yoweee! What a story this’ll be!” exclaimed Manders. We made it back to Tel Aviv, just barely, and promptly abandoned our plans for Egypt, as well as our baggage at the petrol station. Instead, we sat around, smoked apple tobacco from my hookah, sipped whiskey, and pondered the meaning of life and travel. We were both feeling elated, as if we had just returned from a splendid getaway, even though we had gone effectively nowhere. We were right back where we started, in my dingy Tel Aviv flat. When I pointed this out, Man- ders was unfazed. We had accomplished our goal, he insisted, because we had returned home with a tale to tell. “Fair enough,” I conceded, “though I’m still glad we didn’t strip down to our underwear.” “That’s debatable,” said Manders as he puffed out a smoke ring. "Think of the stories that would have made.”
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