How to Solve Israelitis

A few readers have commented that there is too much criticism and not enough praise of Israel in this blog. Given the state of the country, it is hard to see through the gloom and doom sometimes.  Mind-rending frustration is an inevitable consequence of dealing with any government office, bank, telephone company, healthcare provider, etcetera, etcetera.
The other day I went to Arlozorov station to catch a bus to Jerusalem.  Because boarding typically involves elbowing your way through a horde of travelers massed before the door of the bus, Egged (the company operating the line) recently installed a series of barriers and benches meant for people to form a queue.  

The concept is simple: line up, and when the bus pulls up to the beginning of the line, board.  No one followed this procedure and, instead, continued to crowd the sidewalk and street and bludgeon their way aboard.  I only succeeded to board the fourth bus that arrived after the better part of an hour in the sun.  

Enough my kvetching.  Now for the praise.

Nothing assuages the aches and pains of life in Israel better than leaving the city.  Getting out to the countryside, immersing oneself in the sunshine and fresh air is the best remedy for Israelitis (inflammation of the soul by prolonged exposure to Israeli society, politics, or people).  

Abu Ghosh and the Vineyards of Kiryat Anavim (click to enlarge)

I disembarked at Mevasseret Zion and hiked to Har Adar.  To be alone amidst a sea of silence was splendorously calming, especially after being crammed into a bus like a sardine in a can.  The air in the hills around Jerusalem was far more arid than the coastal plain where I reside, clearer and fresher, too.  Scaling a hill and rising above the surrounding landscape, the wooded hillsides were a pleasant change of pace from the concrete jungle of Tel Aviv.  As I mounted the crest, a bowl shaped valley spread beneath me, its sides coated in parallel rows of grapevines.  Beyond, the town of Abu Ghosh, nestled close to the side of the mountain like a child to its mother.  The sun, oppressive when combined with the humidity of Tel Aviv, was in its last quadrant, setting towards the horizon, and comfortingly warm.  Taking a refreshing quaff of my lime water, I looked out over the Judean hills and, like god at the end of six days of creation, said "הִנֵּה-טוֹב מְאֹד": "behold, it is very good."  

Har Adar, a few rises later, was perched atop the summit of a forest-capped mountain, its red-tiled roofs and whitewashed stucco walls a beacon of my arrival at my cousins' house.  

The vineyards of Kiryat Anavim

The next morning, refreshed and still sated from enough sushi to feed a small army, I descended the heights by a different route.  At a clearing in the forest I espied the barrier fence, whose concertina wire and patrol road cut a vicious and hideous scar in the deceptively tranquil panorama.  I sighed deeply and continued my way down to the wadi below.  

Leaving the city was a much needed escape from the taxing reality of life in Israel.  Thankfully, the natural beauty found outside settlements (in general, not the politically charged ones) more than makes up for it.  Praise be the natural beauty of Israel.