Thoughts about Safety

Imagine my surprise when I looked out my balcony window the first morning I was in Cyprus and saw a white car marked with the huge letters, U.N., on its roof! The only other time I had seen similarly marked vehicles was in the movie Hotel Rwanda. Then, to discover, that its owner, an official with the U.N., lived in the flat above me, I certainly felt I protected by the world. I have always honored the U.N. troops that are called to duty in crisis areas, who risk their lives to keep others safe. Unfortunately, I’ve seen another side of their lives.

I went to a bi-communal event (on U.N.-protected territory in the Green Zone) last night. It was a simple book launch of a text examining the history and growth of ethnic nationalism, written by two professors (one Greek, one Turk), called Tormented by History. It was sponsored by a peace group, PRIO. To get there, I had to send my name to a website. The event was held at an old hotel (Ledra Palace) that used to be the key meeting place for subversive groups before the U.N. took it over. Now, it’s used often for events. I expected a Hilton Hotel atmosphere even though it's surrounded with fences and rolls of barbed wire. What I found was something quite different. At the side entrance drive, a young military guy was there to let guests in. . .checking his list carefully. . .although he had no idea what he was checking the list for. I said, “I’m here for a book launch.” He said, “No, this is a U.N. event.” He checked the list anyway, and my name was there. He pointed down a side drive. I saw no way to enter the building, but there was a small enclave and a door about halfway to the back of the hotel. It’s a strange place. There is none of its past majesty, except the physical outline of the buildings. Currently, the Ledra Palace houses the U.N. troops who guard the Green Zone and keep us safe. Their personal items hang from the balconies outside; they chatter informally in the hallways; I felt like I was in the boys' locker room in middle school. It is their barracks, their home, so to speak. However, on the first floor there is a community meeting room. I had to guess which door to enter, listening for sounds of a social gathering. There were no signs.

Inside, it was a regular conference room, cookies, coffee, tea, juice before the presentation. After brief moments of social exchange, everyone sat, facing the long head table, complete with microphones. A moderator introduced the three speakers who gave their impressions of the book, Tormented by History. One was Yiannis Papadakis, who wrote the novel, Echoes from the Dead Zone, the book which prepared me for divided Cyprus. Once these three finished, three other speakers (including the two authors) spoke. After that, there were a few question (taken all at once) and the authors made closing remarks. Meeting adjourned. While most of the other guests (or PRIO members, mostly) talked among themselves, I decided to slip out. I only knew two people there, anyway, and one of them an angry man who thinks the solution will never happen. I didn’t want to have that discussion again—especially at that event, where there was a element of hope for change. I exited the way I came. It was dark outside and the gates at the end of the drive were padlocked. Oops! I backtracked and found a guy sitting outside smoking. He said, “Sometimes, we have to go another way, but we have to find the guard first.” He took me to an office where a U.N. soldier was playing games on his laptop. He fumbled around, got his keys, took me to the front gate, unlocked it, and I walked out onto an empty, dark street in the Green Zone (what I call a dead zone within the dead part of the old city). He locked the gate behind me. With nothing but a gentle breeze to keep me company, I walked to my car--about four blocks away, parked along the street by a series of deserted, crumbling buildings. No problem. But, it was so odd. Why are the U.N. troops living behind barbed wire, padlocks and protocol, and yet it's safe for them to send a single woman through the barriers to walk anywhere in Nicosia alone at night? Is the U.N. necessary in Cyprus after 40 years of occupation? Is it just habit? Is it economics? Strange questions, indeed.

The day before, I spent a full day at Eastern Mediterranean University, near the eastern shores of Cyprus. Driving home, as I approached the last checkpoint, I was tired. It’s forty-five minutes one-way, and it had rained, hard. Cypriot drivers are impatient anyway, and slick roads made the travel even more treacherous. Speed limits vary 50-100 km at random points; traffic control cameras are ready to snap infractions; roundabouts are strategically placed to control the traffic flow, so it is a challenge to know what to do when. I drive carefully and am always glad when I know I’m ending the trip. So, when I lined up at the checkpoint, got out with my passport to go to the window to have it stamped, waited in line a bit, returned to my car (in two lanes of autos in the same process), I was eager to merge toward the exit, back to the other side. Suddenly, a white truck cut in front of me. At the same time, a second white truck whizzed by us both. Both had the letters U.N. on the top of the cabs. I watched as these two trucks raced each other down the narrow lane to the final check point exit, slowed to be acknowledged by the Greek Cypriot police, then continued their joy ride into the streets of the city. I was appalled. They acted like teenagers, showing off, gunning the motors, weaving in and out recklessly.

This morning, considering both “events,” I find myself saying, a bit tongue-in-cheek, “Ah, thank you, U.N.; I feel so much safer now in Cyprus.”

Climbing to the Top of the World

The childhood story played in my head as each painful step forward was an excruciating step upward, "I think I can, I think I can, I think. . . ." But, in all honestly, the last phrase was, "I think I'm going to die." I'm not a mountain climber--I'm a flat-land walker. The idea of physically moving my body upwards to a spot 3083 ft. into the clouds was totally beyond my comprehension. Why would I do that? Just to see some castle ruins at Buffavento? Are you kidding me?

And, yet, I climbed. This is what Buffavento Castle looks like in the guidebooks: It is described as "one of three castles of the Kyrenia Range. . .the lofty fortress of the Buffavento is the one that plays hard to get." The guidebook continues, "This majestic castle, whose name means 'buffeted by the winds', perches precariously 940 m above the sea, overlooking the plain of the Mesarya to the south. It dates at least back to 1191 when Richard the Lionheart took it over from the Byzantine emperor Isaak Komninos."

This is what it looked like at the beginning of our climb: Honestly, you can't even see it in the upper left hand corner of the mountain top. From the "main" road, it was a 5 km, 15-minute drive along a dirt track to a small parking area below the base of the cliff. The "walk" up, under normal conditions, is supposed to take 40 minutes. I know my body was functioning under abnormal conditions.

This is what I saw looking down, halfway up: The cliffs were rocky and vegetated. Tiny lizards darted out across the path. Wild flowers clung to nooks and crannies. Pausing to look back at the panoramic scene below, stretching across Nicosia to the Troodos Mountain range beyond, was breath-taking. The air was a bit hazy, like Southern California smog. "It's Egypt dust," Evi my friend, colleague and guide confirmed. I might add at this point that Evi is Austrian and half mountain goat. This climb was a simple jaunt for her. But, she was kind, moved slowly, and was delighted to take photos of my success.

And this is me joyfully greeting the world from the top window of Buffavento Castle:

In one of the roofless castle "rooms," we paused to share a fresh orange and our water. My heart was racing. "I did it!" At first it was just the fact I climbed the mountain. Then, I realized those others who had been before, especially those who had constructed this magnificent structure! What a mighty effort that was, one stone at a time.

Ah, what a journey. Who knows? I might be bungee-jumping from the Pentadaktylos next.

Just kidding, family, just kidding.

What It's All About, Really

This morning I received another welcomed email from my sister-in-law in Illinois. She is a regular reader of my blog and I appreciate that--I need to stay connected to family. But, I was also reminded at how different our views of the world can be. I share the following because I have tried to explain to others (and to myself) the reason I am traveling at this stage in my life. To me, there is so much to learn about our world and the people who inhabit this global space.

She wrote:

Your brother and I have OFTEN said that we have absolutely no
desire to leave this wonderful United States of America.

There is nothing anywhere else that we want to do or
see. We have it all right here on Gentleman Road to
make us happy and content. God Bless the USA!

We do enjoy reading about your adventures!
Love,
J & N

I responded:
Hi all:

I can understand your desire not to leave, and I respect that. But, there's something very positive that occurs in going to other places as well--it's certainly not all negative--toilet paper and traffic. It's comforting to see the human side of the world--that people love their families, worship God in many ways, respect the earth and its beauty. And, it's a real joy to see that traditions mean something to cultures--dance, music, laughter, food, and friends.

I like knowing that everyone doesn't have to look just like me or to be just like me to have real value in this world.

It's not just the travel; it's the people I meet.

Tonight I'm having coffee with Tony Angastiniotis, aka Chief Tony Night Eagle Angastiniotis (Judge for the International Human Rights Tribunal into Genocide in Canada). His is a Greek Cypriot who works at a Turkish Cypriot University (very unusual) and is involved in peace efforts in Cyprus. He works to bring both sides together--starting with the admission that there were murders and mass graves (on both sides) in 1974. He was also part of the effort to expose the atrocities of the Church with Native American children in the residential schools in Canada. He is a Native American (Cherokee) from Canada with mixed ancestry from Cyprus. An interesting history. His website is http://fems.emu.edu.tr/tony/

Today, I'm off for a trip across the northern range of mountains in Cyprus, to visit a monastery, a castle, and a quaint restaurant tucked in the hills. It's a sunny day, 70 degrees. More SEA to SEE and roads to travel.

Love to all,
Nancy

Road Trips

In general, the roads in Cyprus are super. Wide, well marked motorways connect major cities--Paphos, Limessol, Larnaca, Agia Napa, Nicosia, Kyrenia, Famagusta. No problem, once you are able to do everything katywhompus--drive on the left side, remember the left lane is the slow lane, drive prudently over the posted speed limit to prevent tailgaters from blasting their horns, use the lever on the right to signal turns, not the windshield washer. Little things.

The problems occur when one believes the road maps. Friday, my friend Evi and I decided to take in the Rose factory in Agros, then drive to the lace-making villages of Lefkara, and then home. It was a four-hour trip that turned into eight. For our return home, the highway from Lefkara to the motorway looked simple enough, but we missed a turn. Immediately, Evi found the alternate route--a little longer, but truly, she assured me, it would be scenic. The problem was, the road started out paved, moved quickly to gravel, then to dirt, then to deep ruts and pot holes ground down to bare mountain craggy rock. And, it narrowed to one lane, most of which was shared by rock slides on the left and a cavernous drop off--without a barricade--on the right. Still, it was gorgeous. I was most interested in the colors of rock in the cliffs--always seeing the Kodak moment! In the photo to the left, we stopped to take the picture. Fear wasn't part of the experience because it wasn't till I saw the photo last evening that I would admit to myself what I really was driving on--or not on, as the case may be. Even 10 miles of this at 5 mph, it was a road trip for sure!

ΚΑΛΟ ΠAΣΧA !

Greek Orthodox Easter is April 27 in Cyprus. Last week, street decorations sprang up everywhere—huge eggs, rabbits, baskets—even street banners. This enormous ceramic basket with colored eggs sits in the middle of the round-about a few blocks from my apartment. In the background, please note the Papa John’s Pizza. Just like home. ΚΑΛΟ ΠAΣΧA. Happy Easter!

Walking down Ledra street

Recently, a colleague asked me if there were any "old" buildings left in Long Beach, California. How could I answer that? She is from Greece, we are living in Cyprus, and we are near to the birthplace of civilization. How could anything be considered "old" in California?

"Well," I stammered. "My house, a bungalow, was built in 1916."

"Wow," she said, "that is old!"

It's all relative, I suppose. A cathedral built in 1100s A.D., Kourion ruins from 11th-mid 6th century B.C., Aphrodite's birthplace in a cove at the edge of Cyprus and the sea. . .these are all moments recorded in myth and in time.

That sense of historic moment was with me yesterday, as I walked down Ledra street in Old Town Nicosia. Last week, mine fields in the U.N.-manned Green Zone were swept, barriers were torn down which had been erected 44 years ago, new checkpoint guards in Greek Cypriot and Turkish army uniforms were positioned at the representative borders, and the pedestrian crossing at Ledra street was opened, for the first time since the 1960s. The street, the main artery of commerce between the two communities in this divided old city, this divided capital, in this divided land of Cyprus was finally OPEN! All one had to do was wait in line, show a visa or passport, have a page stamped, and then, step into the future.

News agencies around the world proclaimed the opening of the divided capital as though all the facets of "The Cyprus Problem" had been resolved. They have not been. Unification talks are still being organized. In THE CYPRUS WEEKLY on Friday, another news story promised more mingling: The two presidents' wives (Mrs. Christofias of the Republic of Cyprus and Mrs. Talat of the Turkish Cypriot community) reportedly had tea, exchanged gifts (a potted lily for peace for Mrs. C and a traditional piece of delicate, Cypriot lacework from Lefkara for Mrs. T.) They promised, too, to do their part toward unification by facilitating social gatherings between the two communities.

What was the mood on Ledra street yesterday? Festive, I would say. People—families with children, tourists, Cypriots from both sides—walked the promenade, looking into store windows, buying ice cream cones, watching each other. Several balloon men fought with the wind, trying to keep huge metallic shapes and strings untangled. Ledra street was crowded. The checkpoint, however, still was ominous. Military uniforms in brown and blue were present. Guns were not hidden.

Interestingly, many pedestrians just walked to the border’s edge, stared at the "other" side, and turned back toward home, without crossing. Another day, perhaps. Another day, when “The Cyprus Problem” is solved and its resolution is simply, history.

İsmet Tatar, Artist

I was fortunate, indeed, to be invited into the life and art world of İsmet Tatar, Kyrenia, Cyprus. In a brief afternoon, I was profoundly touched by both the woman and her work. The reflections below are only a beginning of what I would like to know, to see, to feel about her ability to move life’s emotions into image.

That day, after an introduction to the numerous “series” she has already exhibited, Ismet explained her current work, which includes making her own paint colors and the paper for her news constructs.

First, the colors. Ismet has created and uses in her work forty-one different paint colors. All come from natural elements in Cyprus: rocks, shells, sand, earth, stone, and bark. She identifies the material, pulverizes bits of it, mixes it into paint, and uses it to bring the land, literally, into her art.

Next, the paper. Huge tubs of wire, with a liquid, white paper-maché-like mixture, bits of color and objects, drying racks, and butcher-paper, model forms cover most of the expanse of her airy studio. In process are additional works in her “paper” series. The largest, finished construction in her studio is a horizontal, three-dimensional collage of colored rolls of handmade paper tied with string, mounted side by side. Attached also by string to the bottom of each roll are pieces of old land deeds and parts of architectural drawings—both proof of property ownership. Even in the stillness of the studio, they seem to move in the wind. The official documents—deeds and drawings rent apart—symbolize the divided Cyprus and the loss of property experienced in 1974. To someone to whom the land is life itself, this ripping away from family homesteads, from ownership and the “land of my family” brings unending anguish and frustration—how can that loss be resolved? Her work inspired my own, in the poem below:

Artist’s Rendering April 4, 2008

Bits of string flutter in the breeze
Attached, torn remnants--titles, deeds
And architect’s dreams--
Move furtively
No rest, no resolution in the art.
Memories, too
Are buffeted by gusts and storms
And homes, once theirs, are lost
Refuge in a new land but not the same
Earth of many colors form the images
Giving shape to claims, dispute, and rights--
Hard copy for the bitter dream gone wrong.


Another painting in Ismet’s villa that moved me was Four Faces. It is a large oil painting, hanging above an antique wooden chest in her home. It is a portrait of four women from her village. It is almost haunting in its intensity, its reflection of these women, real women İsmet has known. Each has her own story—of grief, of despair, of madness, perhaps—but, too, of life as it is and will be—endured.

Vanity, Thy Name Is. . .Redux

It was bound to happen--something so major, so disastrous, such a reflection on me personally that I would feel a general ill will toward someone, if not the entire country. I have tried so hard to be the good tourist, the gentle ambassador, and now I want to pull my hair out by its roots—literally.

To be truthful, it all started with a really bad hair day. I thought I needed to have my hair cut, shaped—after two and a half months in Cyprus. Yes, I’m particular about my hair. I especially have two phobias—the dreaded “hair helmet” and over-peroxided, yellow hair. So, I conferred with everyone I know here and selected only the best salon in Nicosia. I booked with “the” person for flattering cuts. And then it happened. “Do you want highlights?” the receptionist asked. “Why not?” I thought. My blondish hair already stands out in this land of brunettes. A little lift couldn’t hurt.

I know, you’re ahead of me on this one, too. The colorist did a meticulous job, weaving bits to color, layering the foil just so. One hour later—voila! I looked in the mirror and did not recognize myself. Who was this red-faced person with canary yellow straw for hair? It was worse than a wig—it was really mine! Choking back hysteria, I said calmly, “I’ve never seen my hair so. . .so. . .blonde before. . .and it’s still wet!” The colorist, too, was shocked, but tried to pacify me. “Wait till it’s cut and blown dry,” she said, and rushed away to hide in the back room.

Ohmygosh. I sat in the chair while the stylist sliced and chopped, and hay-mowed my hair. A quick cut, dry, and finishing spray. She, the owner, hoped to whisk me out of the shop before I exploded. The rest of those moments are a blur. I know I said, “Thank you, but it is so. . .so. . .blonde!” The shop owner conferred with the colorist, “Is there anything you can do to make it right?” The colorist was befuddled. “I don’t want to ruin the highlights,” she said of her work. (“What highlights?” I shouted to myself. “My head is yellow platinum with whiter platinum streaks!”) But, to them, I was just babbling, once again, “I’ve never seen my hair so. . .so. . .blonde before!”

They offered to “work on it” and try something to give it a little more color back. (“Something basic, like a full and radical scalp transplant might work,” I thought.) The colorist said, “How soon could you come back in?” I looked at her, incredulous. “I don’t want to leave. I thought perhaps I could spend the night." She thought I was kidding. I simply couldn't envision myself out in public.

We agreed that I would come in the next day at 3:00. In the meantime, I had to go to the University (where one of my colleagues honestly failed to recognize me in the hall. “I had no idea that was you, Nancy,” she said). Worse, I had to teach my class. Cypriot students are so polite. Their eyes widened when they took in the yellow glow atop my head, but they didn’t say anything. No one shouted, “Dr. Sheley, what the hell happened?” But, I’m sure that was the collective question hovering in the air.

Oh, did I mention the bill? For this fiasco, a color, cut, style, and blow dry, Subtotal: 164 euros, 30 euro tip. Total: 194 euros. At today’s exchange, that’s food for a month. That’s a flight to and from London. That’s four tanks of petrol. In American dollars, it’s way too close to $300 to matter. Three hundred dollars??? Three hundred dollars??? And, it’s both a hair helmet and yellow straw!


When I turned off the lights and went to bed last night, I could still see my hair reflecting in the window glass. Reflecting is a calm word. The hair was radio-active. This afternoon, I’m returning to the shop. Hopefully, tomorrow brings a New Dawn. Or is that L’Oreal? At least, this time, I’m ready. I have a brown bag, with eye slits, in my purse.

Vanity, thy name is. . . .

For those of you who have wondered what effect this six-month "assignment" in Cyprus has had on me, I offer you this self-portrait, taken today in my home office. I was experimenting with my webcam and was surprised at the results. Yes, I'm happy. Yes, I'm tan. Yes, my hair is longer. And, I feel good.

Expectations and Realities of Israel

My seven-day side trip to Israel, March 24-31, was such an interesting experience, so different from what I expected. I thought Ben-Gurion Airport in Tel Aviv would be heavily armored and our midnight arrival scrutinized. It wasn’t. We passed through security, barely noticed. I thought Jerusalem would be dirt roads and camels, but it was very progressive—right down to the King David Construction company and the Sixt Schlomo rental car (Israel’s version of Thrifty), just like home. I thought Bethlehem would be a religiously peaceful village, but it was militarily walled and anxious. I thought driving to Nazareth would be scary; yet, it was like driving through rural California and Iowa combined. I thought the Nof Genosar kibbutz would be basic camp; instead, it was a lovely resort. I thought Akko would be the most “Westernized” beach resort. It was the most orthodox, controlled, intimidating, and isolating place we visited.

However, Akko, too, had its moments of fun, especially when we enjoyed watching a photographer arrange the scene with three kids, a parrot, and a boa constrictor! In general, Americans are outnumbered by German tourists and all are outnumbered by travelers with ever-expanding families of 2-3-4 children under five. In Israel, no matter what religion, raising a family is most important, and the love and commitment were always evident.

Still, although I expected to feel religiously moved by a visit to Israel, it had almost the same effect on me as Reverend Schuler’s ministry at the Crystal Cathedral in Garden Grove: I was impressed by the structures and the messages, but felt detached somehow. Perhaps, in Israel, I was disconnected because I was neither Jewish, Greek Orthodox, Roman Catholic, Armenian, nor Muslim. It was wonderful to be in the land where three religions began, and I value that. But, for a religious pilgrimage, I will always return to Mt. Carmel Methodist Church in Marshall County, Kentucky, to the small wooden church my great-great grandfather built and where my ancestors are buried. That is the religious center of my universe, although Israel holds its creation.

Another observation: Israel knows how to build fences—from the steel battleship wall around Bethlehem to the chain-link grill and barbed wire around the sea side resort at Akko, everything is marked and divided by barriers. Signs, not always in English, are stumbling blocks. A lack of directions is often unwelcoming. Barricades and roundabouts are deterrents to free-flowing traffic. Security guards everywhere, always with guns, are a reminder of ever-present violence simmering under the surface. Even in the market today in Akko, I saw a five or six-year-old boy, eying the candied treats, with his toy rifle on a strap, slung over his shoulder, looking just like his young adult male mentors who stroll about in public, nonchalantly, loaded with lead.

How Great Thou Art

Sitting in a white plastic beach chair on the shore of the Sea of Galilee, I watch a busload of tourists straggle down a long, rusty pier onto a boat that looks like an armored vehicle from Apocalypse Now. As they pull away from the shore, the recorded music begins. “Ohmygod,” I say to Justine. “They are playing the “Star Spangled Banner!” Sure enough, on the bow pole, the Stars and Stripes flutters in the holy breeze. “How bizarre,” we say simultaneously. She records the scene and the music on her video phone. I shake my head, almost embarrassed to witness this capitulation to the U.S. dollar. Perhaps, others see it as a welcoming gesture, but to me, it seemed colonizing to have the U.S. claiming its place on this space, this ancient sea.

We watch other rickety “cruise” ships dock, de-board, and reload. The parking lot at Nof Genosar is a tourist haven; huge busses come to Sea of Galilee and tourists from all points of the globe take a fifteen minute tour to soak up sun and sea and soul’s blessings.

Nof Genosar behind us is the kibbutz where we have spent the night. Its beach area is next to the dock. Several Jewish families have gathered, kids playing in the clear, shallow waters, fathers chasing after toddlers on the rocky sand, women chattering in clusters, all enjoying the sun. It is a peaceful place—despite the busses and boats which come and go.

Another cruise boat motors away from the dock; another song begins. This time, “How Great Thou Art” wafts across the waters, a tribute, perhaps, to Christian pilgrims aboard. My memory flashes back to the day before, in the walled city of Bethlehem. I was standing under the dome of the beautiful Church of the Shepherds when a Christian group, mixed African and Portuguese, entered and spontaneously began to sing "How Great Thou Art," same tune, different words: Então minha alma canta Ti, Senhor: Quão grande es tu! That was a holy moment. My response then, as now, was to hum, “Surely, the presence of the Lord is in this place,” the hymn that often closes worship in many Methodist churches I’ve attended over the years.

That reflective mood is momentary. As one of the ships returns to dock, its speakers are blaring a rock tune. The young captain has done his job, and his musical choices for 2008 reverberate across the waves.

Awestruck in Israel

As I stood with my feet cooling in the shallow waters at the shore of the Sea of Galilee, last Wednesday, I was awestruck. Jesus was here, right here, calling to fishermen to be his disciples. This is the water on which he walked. This is the land where he was born. Israel. I was in Israel. Amazing.

For the last seven days, I toured the country with my art historian Fulbright friend, Justine—Tel Aviv, Jerusalem, Bethlehem, Nazareth, Akko, Haifa, and points in between, like the castle ruins at Belvoir and Kibbutz Nof Genosar. I have seen divided cities, security guards, check points, barbed wire, barricades, and chain link fences. I have also seen verdant valleys filled with fruit trees, olives, figs, and oranges--the desert, too, and rolling hills, the sea and the dry plains.

Justine’s purpose for the trip was to study Crusader architecture; I wanted to see first hand the divided communities and how Christians, Arabs, Muslims, Jews, Palestinians, and others live and work together; how they isolate their communities or how they blend the divisions between cultures.

Israel is a country of contradictions—modern and ancient cities meld into one; Muslims and Christians, Arabs and Palestinians, Jews and Armenians, Greek Orthodox and Anglican--churches, synagogues and mosques. There is poverty in Israel and incredible wealth. Parked by the roadside stores are camels and BMWs. Our taxi from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem at midnight careened up and down hills at top speed, with songs like “Besame Mucho” and “The Great Pretender” blaring from the cd player on the dash.

On the first full day in Jerusalem, we went to the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, walked the twelve stations of the cross down Via Dolorosa, saw the Wailing Wall, visited St. Anne’s Church, garden, and ruins, got lost in the alleys of the underground market place by taking several wrong turns--several times, saw a woman in a berka and a man in a Palestinian head cover, and bumped into any number of other tourists—Americans, Germans, Nigerians, Australians, and Jewish pilgrims from across the globe.