Arriving in Nazareth

When I studied the map of Nazareth from the comfort of my hostel in Haifa, I had no clue that the map would basically be useless once I got there.

I arrived on the bus, just south of the City Center and the large Basilica of the Annunciation, where tradition holds Mary used to live in a cave there and where she was visited by the Angel Gabriel to tell her that she would bear the Savior of the World in her womb. I'd looked at another girl's map of the city in a guide book that she had, and it seemed fairly straightforward in terms of how to find my hostel. Little did I know, the "roads" that were drawn on the map were not actually roads at all, but the narrow streets of the "Old City" area, much of which is a market, brimming with spices and fruits and televisions and scarves and shoes and toys and souvenirs, packed in so tightly that there's barely enough space for a walking path through the chaos. I'd read that Nazareth is a heavily Arab city, but I was surprised by how much the vibe had changed from Haifa. It felt in many ways like I was back in Turkey.

I also didn't know that not only were these streets narrow and tight and bustling with people and things and food and trash, but that they were mostly up-hill. When the Bible says Jesus was from the "hill town of Nazareth," it isn't kidding!!! My map was useless, and as I basically HIKED up these narrow streets with my backpack on my back and my side bag pulled around in front of me, I couldn't help but think, "Where in the world AM I??!??!" Finally I stopped at a souvenir shop and asked directions, since "Nazareth - Souvenirs from Holy Land!" was printed in huge letters on the top of the store and I figured they'd speak English.

"Ah, Fauzi Azar! That is in the market," the man told me. "But you can sleep here, no problem," he said, pointing to the Catholic guest house right beside the basilica.

"Well, I already have reservations at this other place," I told him, thanking him, and went on about my way. Once I got into the market area, I started to see signs for the Fauzi Azar Inn. And thank God for those signs, because it would have been hopeless trying to find it without them. The streets of Nazareth reminded me a lot of Venice, in that they were tight and narrow with no cars, and lots of little dead-ends and courtyards and totally disorienting -- almost like you're in a maze. I remember going out for a walk by myself one night in Venice and enjoying the peacefulness of the quiet in that city, only to suddenly realize that I might be completely lost! "Um, am I going to be able to find my way back to the hotel??" I thought, slightly panicked. I had the same feeling here. Luckily, in both places, I did indeed find my way back to the hotel.

Finding a restaurant for dinner was another story -- I went out Wednesday night in search of a restaurant supposedly close by to the hostel and that offered a discount to people staying in our hostel… but I wound up walking all the way up the hill to the other side of the city through the narrow streets of the Old City, often feeling like I was walking into people's backyards or garages, and once actually doing so! I made a HUGE loop around the city that took me nearly an hour and a half. (After it was all over, I realized I'd gone "off the map" that I'd had with me, so no wonder I couldn't figure out where I was!!) I eventually found myself back in the Basilica square, finally to something that looked familiar, and as I crossed the street toward a bunch of falafel and shawarma shops, resigning myself to a "fast food" dinner instead of the sit-down restaurant experience I'd been going for, a man walked out of the first shop on the corner and, smiling widely, said, "Welcome!" in English.

"Hello!" I said, with a sigh of relief. "I've just managed to walk all over the whole city unintentionally. I was looking for a particular restaurant and I couldn't find it. I'm ready to eat."

"Well, good!" he said. "I have the best restaurant in town! Come in, come in!"

Inside it was hot and greasy and smoky, as the grill where the food was cooked was right there with the eating area.

"You like sandwich or plate?" he asked. "Sandwich," I said.

"Shwarma or falafel?" "Falafel."

"Ok, sit down. You like to sit outside?" he asked, directing me toward the tables outside on the sidewalk. I decided to sit out there, and he came out, asking the requisite "Where are you from?" question, and telling me about an American man who'd come and sat there recently, who was studying Arabic and waited a long time for his Palestinian-American friend to arrive, who had gotten held up at the border and questioned for six hours, even though she had an American passport.

When I went in to pay (there was no cash register and no posted prices for anything, which I've noticed is relatively common here), he asked me, "What's your hurry? You want to stay? You can sit, it's ok!" "No, no," I said, "Thanks, but I'm ready to get back." He shrugged. "Okay. 15 shekels," he said, and then walked away. I looked around, confused, and saw the cook behind the counter ready to accept my money, for which he gave me change out of his pocket.