AN INNOCENT ABROAD M
Y first trip overseas was so unexpected I had to get a temporary passport. My fellow travellers were worldly travel agents and a TV crew.
On arrival in Jerusalem, we were told our first day would be “at leisure”. Everyone else knew what they wanted to do. I didn’t have a clue. I’d done no research (assuming it was a guided tour); nor had I bought a trusty copy of Lonely Planet.
Two of my fellow travellers said they’d like to see the Israel Museum. Apparently, it’s quite the piece of architecture. I like museums and architecture, so I asked if I could tag along — surreptitiously eyeing their notebook and highlighted Lonely Planet. They had clearly done their research.
We shared a taxi to a hill on the outskirts of the city and joined the queues — quite impressive queues, I thought. I got to the window first. The lady asked me something, but her accent was strange and I just nodded. As it turns out, I had bought a ticket to the special exhibition of the Impressionists and Expressionists. I couldn’t believe it!
My new friends were envious but decided they couldn’t afford it (I hadn’t even thought to do a rand-shekel conversion) and, besides, they’d seen Impressionist art before. I said I’d see them later in the actual museum and cheerily waved them off.
I spent a delightful two hours surrounded by Van Goghs, Matisses, Monets, Modiglianis, Klees, Kandinskys, Picassos and more. I constantly took deep breaths, not quite believing where I was. This was something I could never have planned for.
Moving on to the museum, I saw all manner of Biblical bits and bobs (figurines, necklaces, coins, crucifixion nails), but not my fellow travellers.
I went to the exit but they were nowhere to be seen. I checked the canteen. No luck. After half an hour, sitting in a spot everyone had to pass to leave the grounds, it dawned on me that they might have left without me. We had not made any plans for the rest of the day. I was all alone, in a strange land, with absolutely no idea of where my hostel was. I did not know what street it was in; I did not even know its name.
My mind started racing. Who can help me? How do I explain? The hostel was a nondescript building. The only thing about the area it was in that stood out to me in the short time I’d been there was that I’d seen real Hassidic Jews on the streets. But that’s pretty common in Jerusalem.
I had no cellphone and no numbers to call. Should I go to the police? The SA embassy? I counted my cash. Maybe just enough for a taxi. How long would it take the organisers of this trip to discover I was missing? Would they even notice? I pictured the headlines in SA newspapers …
I decided to take one last stroll up the path to the museum. It was almost closing time. If my friends were still here, I’d see them. Halfway along, I spotted a sign to the Shrine of the Book, where the Dead Sea Scrolls are kept. I was curious and needed to pretend I was still sightseeing, still getting the full “Israel experience”, even if I was missing.
In addition to the scrolls, there was a display of personal items confiscated during the Holocaust — shoes, combs, ribbons, books, photos. It was very moving. My own troubles seemed minor in comparison. I went back outside and just then, on the other side of a sculpture whistling hauntingly in the wind, I saw my friends. — © Caroline Webb
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