Written by Jonathan Aryeh Wayne, May 11, 2016

Mid afternoon, I walked up Ha Nasi street in Safed, on my way to the summit of the city. Mount Meron was to my west and the Sea of Galilee was to my east. I was at an elevation of nearly 3,000 feet. I was searching for my friend Matthew or my sister Esther or any sign of human life whom I knew. I was bewitched by my surroundings, with translucent clouds limiting my intake of Vitamin D and the impending moonlight creeping up on me. We were in the final hours of the Sabbath, the holy day of rest for most of the Jewish people in this hilltop city of Northern Israel.

As I ascended the mountain, bristling with Atlantic Cedar, Jerusalem Pine and Arizona Cypress trees, I walked past fragrant sage-leaf rockrose, anemones, cyclamens, buttercups and huge swaths of yellow flowering Spanish broom. Scenic lookouts were all around, never needing signs for Bohemian tourists like us. The sun was on its way down on the horizon, but I was still climbing higher and higher, hoping to outlast the sunshine longer than the highest trees dozens of feet above me. The steps never seemed to end, the streets never seemed to bend, the stones never seemed to lend a hand to my aching legs. I finally found myself in HaMetsuda Garden, with Jerusalem Street outlining the park below me. Nearby were the crumbling remains of a citadel built during the Crusader priod from over nine hundred years ago. Signal bonfires were lit on this mountaintop twelve hundred years prior to this. There was a time when people were gripped in fear, when they noticed a cloud of dust rising up into the sky from the valleys below, as approaching armies marched towards the fortress. Now, as the modern trees guarded the last vestiges of ancient rock walls, I saw young adults and families dressed in white and black sitting along the steps of the modern memorial for the 14 fighters who died in the War of Independence. Matthew and Esther were somewhere nearby with their gazes interlocked with mountains from tens of miles away, interluded only with silence and wind. Unwavering wanderlust propelled my journey around the remains of the citadel. I stopped for several minutes observing a large ant colony on the neglected concrete pathway. The dry, dusty, sun bleached grass intermingled with the deep, lush green of cypress trees.

“One could feel the pleasure of meditation throughout the hilltop city. One could hear the faint voices of singing and prayer. One could smell the fresh high altitude air from every direction.”

As the evening approached rapidly, I saw blinking lights from buildings in the distance and a haunting glow of the orange sunset blocked by rolling mountains. I was on guard for apparitions and paranormal activity, that possibly were the result of misspent life energy. Yet in this world capital for Kabbalism, the center for Jewish mysticism, the only thing that came close was the “ghost town” I found myself in for the past 24 hours. Nary an automobile or storefront looked alive. Narrow streets were empty with only the evening songs permeating from nearby synagogues. I descended from the summit and cherished the temporary technological suspension that was soon to end within the hour. Nature appreciated the respite in bustling human activity for this one day, but there was no rest for the righteous. I was corralled up a thin cobblestone road, and religious men channeled my spirit that led me towards the music-filled Carlebach synagogue. Matthew strolled up an alleyway and we entered the synagogue together. It was night now, with twinkling stars adorning the sparkling horizon behind the building. Men’s voices grew in unison as song and dance flowed free. Women stood behind the curtain watching their husbands. An amplified acoustic guitar punctuated the voices. Time stood still. Does this happen every Saturday night in Safed? Is this one of the great benefits of living in a small city of 30,000 people, to be able to have a weekly party, stretching back decades if not hundreds of years? Is this a long term cure for depressed lost souls, of having a village come together to rejoice in religious fervor, of feeling a belonging in a sort of community, not lost in the endless mass of anonymous strangers? I watched Matt spin slowly around in circles, hand in hand with the Jewish men, with some wearing shtreimels, or wide fur hats (made from the tips of the tails of gray foxes, sables and martens). Yes, these joyous, pious men who wore the tails of arboreal weasel-like mammals on their heads kicked and swung around in circles with my friend Matthew, and hours of food and drink were to follow on this lively night in Northern Israel. We shook hands, we smiled, we emerged, we surged, verging on a Kabbalistic bliss we had never experienced before.

Walking up mysterious corridors of limestone steps, we heard more music blasting nearby. Outside, young Chassidic men danced in a frenzy while waving yellow flags. One wanted me to speak into the microphone, but I was not ready for this unjustified honor. We noticed a scattering of pizza parlors opening up at this late hour. I wanted to go back to those 24 previous hours of technological remediation and social alleviation. I liked the ghost town vibration of Safed that pervaded for half the weekend. One could feel the pleasure of meditation throughout the hilltop city. One could hear the faint voices of singing and prayer. One could smell the fresh high altitude air from every direction. Fossil fuel pollution was nowhere to be found. Televisions and electromagnetic devices were nonexistent in the palms of the people. It was nearly a retroactive experience, something timeless that I have yet to find anywhere else. Yet, this uncomplicated tradition repeats itself every Friday evening much to nobody’s surprise in this city. To outsiders, I can imagine the bewilderment in their minds, but Matthew and I adapted and adopted for just this short time. The night prior to this we roamed the city, after slipping out of a Rabbi’s synagogue dinner nearly unnoticed, only to find ourselves back in the apartment we were renting, eating spoonfuls of fresh avocado and chocolate pudding out of bowls while smearing butter and cheese on doughy pita. Days later we joined the generous apartment renters for brunch, and avoided stepping on their pet turtles who munched on red cabbage and sticks of cucumber.

“The trombone voice fractured our thoughts, ruptured our emotions and even caused the large refrigerator doors to swing wide open. Yogurt and pudding containers with Hebrew lettering flew around the room.”

In the colorful apartment where we stayed, directly next to the ceiling fan above our beds we noticed an engraved 8 pointed star with a spiral pattern in the center. Was this a mother spider spaceship with a vortex in the middle along with a fan that was going to automatically speed up and suck us up after we fell asleep? Would a new subspace energy field open up underneath this mysterious 8 pointed star and create a portal or wormhole for extraterrestrials to break into our reality and willfully abduct us later that night? Along the outer edge of the ceiling was broken plaster, possibly signifying collision points for people who were not in harmony or in tune with the vortex. We came to a conclusion that they smashed their heads on the way up and fell to their deaths. A large refrigerator sat idly in the corner. We theorized that perhaps this apartment might have also doubled as a survivalist’s bomb shelter. We discovered artifacts such as hand-powered survival radios and flashlights, several thick blankets rolled up neatly on a shelf, and peculiarly comforting framed photographs of nearby holy sites. Along with the happy, yellow painted walls and turquoise blue door with paned glass, we confirmed our suspicions when Matthew noticed one of the flashlights read: “U.S. Women in Nuclear”. There was something more at play here that we didn’t know. Suddenly, the power went out. Outside, a poisonous green light beamed through our glass door. A bizarre Charlie Brown trombone voice was suddenly audible. We didn’t understand a single word, but it was so horrifying that we broke out in unending spasms of deadly laughter. The trombone voice fractured our thoughts, ruptured our emotions and even caused the large refrigerator doors to swing wide open. Yogurt and pudding containers with Hebrew lettering flew around the room. After hemorrhaging with laughter, we suddenly felt light and airy, much like the detached tails of arboreal weasel-like mammals on the heads of dancing Chassidim. While lying on our twin mattresses, we were jettisoned up through the 8 pointed star vortex and soon appeared as twin tarantulas on a rocky alcove.

It was over 2,000 years ago, and we were equipped with gold metal detectors. We both had 4 extra limbs and 10 extra eyes to work with. I had to clean up all the rooms in the castle. There were cartoonish red and purple puppets made of chocolate I had left in various places. I needed to round them all up and put them back in my 10 foot suitcase. I couldn’t hear anything. My orange foam earplugs were blocking out the esoteric sounds of the artist colony. I heard either a goose or a car honking. I slowly opened my eyes and realized it was all a dream, ever since we lost power. The great German choreographer Pina Bausch once said: “Dance, dance, otherwise we are lost.” To that I could only follow up with: “Dream, dream, otherwise we are found.”