She had a porcelain snake about her upper arm. Long dark and coal hair. Black eyes that followed me about the room, lizard like.

She was young, perhaps twenty. Her broken English was intriguing.

Standing about five foot ten. Tall petite. She resembled the Cleopatra in my mind—Cleopatra in tight blue jeans and a halter top. Purple. She wore no bra.

“What’s your name,” I finally asked.

“Ayala, Ayala Levy.”

“Where are your people from Ayala?”


“You’re an Arab Jew?”

“Ken” (Hebrew for ‘yes.’)

“Would you like to come with me back to my hotel?”

“Lo.” No.

“Why not?”

“You America.”


She grabbed her purse in one hand and took my hand in her other. Then she led me out of the Flat. We took the stairs down to street level. I hailed a taxi and we rode in silence to the Sheraton Hotel. My hotel.

I Wanna Write So Much More About Israel, But I Cannot Do Her Justice Right Now. There Are Too Many Unsaid Words Left To Say,,,, I’ll Get to them. Just Gimmie Some Times & Some Dimes… I Spent Way Too Much Time And Left Too Many Bits and Pieces of my Mind & Heart & Soul Scattered All Over that Beautiful Land. Israel–I Cannot Work This Post Right— I Get Too Emotional. If Yu Have read Me, Yu Know Why

Too R

I speak just enough Hebrew to get me into trouble—- in Cairo

(Oh My Gawd! This Beautiful Sabra Melts My Eyes!)

I’ll finish this later.

if I live.


Y’all Know what




My History!