For a land so deeply steeped in religious lore and history, Israel's been a bit of a fizzle for me in the theological department so far. Sure, while traipsing from Tel Aviv to Haifa over the past six weeks, I'm not exactly getting my fair share of temples, yarmulkes, and insane facial hair. The only mosques I've seen so far have been converted into nightclubs.
Imagine my relief, then, to reach Elijah's Cave a few days ago. Home to the prophet Elijah--yeah, well done there, brain surgeon--the site is pretty much a holy go-to for every cat and dog who's praising Allah, Yahweh, or assorted other gods nowadays.
So yes, of course, I'm going to make a faux pas. Two? Sure. Why not?
Naturally, I'm barely 5m into the cave when I see a guy beckoning me over, looking nervously at the cluster of Orthodox Jews in the corner who are now glaring at me. This young guy slips me a yarmulke, and I quickly realize I'm the only guy in this holiest of holies with out a covered head. Right, moving on, Fegelklutz.
And then it's only a record-breaking five minutes before everyone's staring at me again. I've been lost in the illuminated manuscripts and beautiful Torah typefaces adorning the walls. A sharp poke in the ribcage alerts me to the fact that I've blundered again. Looking down, a Jewish mama's giving me the death stare. I look up and see about 10 more such mamas, all with the same stinkeye trained on yours truly. Yup, it seems i've managed to transgress thousands of years of religious tradition and wander into the women's area of the cave. Shite. I make a dash for the nearest yarmulke I can see.
At this point, you'd think I'd call it quits, but the intrepid reporter in me--or perhaps the distinct lack of shame that comes with perennial embarrassment--wants to watch the service that's now starting. I retire to the back of the cave where I can't find any trouble.
But it'd be too much to ask trouble not to find me. It comes in the form of a boy no more than 5 or 6. Feeling a tug at my sleeve, I look down to see what seems like the paradigm of innocence, a young Sephardic kid with an overbite who's looking at me inquisitively. He's just staring, smiling. I think nothing of it.
The prayers are now well on their way, the god-fearing group determinedly nodding their heads in penitence. I look down. The kid is still there.
"Inngglisshh?" he nigh-on shouts out of nowhere. A few worshippers look back. I offer him a curt nod to get him away and ward off my detractors.
"Amairrrikahh?" even louder now. Bollocks. This guy's not stopping. An Orthodox man hurries up to him, grabbing him by the scruff of his neck and putting him in the rows of the praying. It's too late. This kid seems to be part of a school, and no less than 10 of his friends have suddenly descended on me from the wing
"Nuuu Yakkh?" "Bahhstoonn!" "Cahhliihfawniah!" They're putting on mock slack-jawed drawls and going positively crazy. There are too many to stop. I've clearly begun to ruin the service as more heads are turning round.
So I'm starting to feel pretty penitent myself by this point. The kids are going wild with their faux American accents, the idea of a dumbfounded Yankee college student clearly being too much a novelty to pass up. With a particularly angry-looking Orthodox man approaching, clearly deadset on breaking up the ruckus, I decide to make a run for it, tearing off my yarmulke with a sigh of relief.
I get the feeling Elijah's cave won't be converted into an upscale underground electro bar anytime soon, so I'll probably be staying away for good.