She called for me. She knows I yearn for her. My precious. I closed my eyes and blinked once, twice and then some more, unable to believe that the endless sea of red sands before me is real. Oh, but to touch the ground that Lawrence of Arabia once treaded on, as away he galloped off with the Bedouins. Is it a dream? No, my love. Drink of her incessant beauty. Drink and be filled.
So off we ran up the mound of the red beauty that laid before us. I chased her – the red-haired hippie from the north. She flashed me her beautiful grin as she reached the top, giggling like there is no tomorrow. The wind blew, I hope it’s not sand storm. Not far away our Bedouin guide concerned himself only with one task: preparing the traditional Middle Eastern meal, a sumptuous buffet for his odd group of tourists – the Asian American from California, the most vivacious, larger than life hippie lady from Ireland, her mum and her lovely sis, and my beautiful best girl from Singapore.
So there it was, forever frozen in time, one of the greatest travel adventures of my life. There in the middle of Wadi Rum as Ali, our amazing Bedouin guide, romanced us with his wartime stories in the Jordanian army, as we all communed under the same rocks and desert that bore witness to the journey of the man from England; there my soul soared high, edified once again. My predispositions changed. I still love Israel so very much indeed, more than my own life. There is no force on heaven and on earth that could change that. It is as sure as the sun rising in the east, as guaranteed as the cycles of the earth but this time around I found that small as my heart is, there is ample space left for Ishmael. And when it came time to cross the Israeli border in Eilat, I had a hard time parting with the beautiful man from Jordan. My belief was renewed, my hope strengthened that someday, somehow Middle East will know peace – the kind that endureth forever. It will happen, I know it will. They’re brothers, after all.
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