It was the first Saturday in January, and there was only a week left in the fall semester at Tel Aviv University. While lying in bed that night, I allowed my mind to wander. I thought about the last six months. I could hardly believe that in less than one week, I would be boarding a plane bound for New York City. It occurred to me that in six months I managed to go to Jerusalem a surprisingly few number of times. I went to the Kotel only once. I never even made it to Ben Yehuda Street and I had a list a mile long of people I needed to buy gifts for. So, as I drifted off to sleep, I decided that the next morning I would catch a bus and make one last trip up to the holy city.

I awoke at eight o’clock to find that the sky was an ominous shade of gray. It appeared as though my hopes of the weather cooperating, would be defeated by the infamous winter rainy season. I pulled the covers back and realized that it was also very cold. Well, for a girl from Florida, 40° Fahrenheit is freezing. Nonetheless, I was determined to go through with my travel plans. So, I got out of bed and proceeded to put on two layers of clothes and, knowing that I wanted to go into the Old City, I topped the whole ensemble off with an ankle length denim skirt. I informed my roommates of my plans and I went down to Einstein Street to wait for a bus that would take me to the central Tel Aviv Bus station. At the central bus station I went up to the ticket booth and, in broken Hebrew, asked for a roundtrip ticket to Jerusalem. I climbed onto the bus, found a window seat near the back, and settled in for the 45 minute ride.

We passed by the Tel Aviv suburb of Petah Tikvah. A while later there was a turn off to Bet Shemesh and then one to Modi’in. Then the landscape changed and the bus was traveling down a narrow road framed on either side by grassy hills, dotted with flat-roofed Arab houses and surrounded by small grape vineyards. Finally, we began the slow trek up the familiar winding road which marks the final aliyah (ascent) to Jerusalem. At the top of the mountain I realized that the gray clouds were breaking up and the sun was feebly trying to make an appearance.

At the Jerusalem central bus station, I transferred to a bus which would take me to one of the gates leading into the Old City. Passing through the gate, it occurred to me that I did not know my way around the Old City. It was obvious that I was not in the Jewish Quarter. On other trips to the Old City I was with organized tours. What if I accidentally wandered into the Arab quarter? While I was frantically looking around for a map, a street sign, a landmark, anything that would point me in the right direction, a little old man came up to me and asked, in heavily accented English, "You Jewish? You want to see the sights? Want to go to the Wall?" Wearily I nodded my head. He said, "C’mon. I will show you." I knew that this man fancied himself to be a "tour guide" and that after showing me the sights he would ask for payment. Quickly, I analyzed the situation, calculated my budget, and decided that I could afford to allow the man to show me around.

The old man led me down a narrow, winding, stone path to a small synagogue. Upon entering he took me to a back room with a large box covered by an embroidered velvet sheet. He informed me that this was the tomb of David. It was dubious. I honestly did not know whether or not to believe what the man was telling me, but in spite of this I was enjoying the private tour. After spending another half an hour wandering around from one historical sight to another the little old man pointed out the way to the Kotel and asked for his usual fee. I paid him and walked, with determination, toward the large golden dome in the distance. After all, this was why I had come into Jerusalem.

As I waited my turn to approach the Wall, I looked up at the sky, as if I were somehow looking for God. At once I realized that the sky was no longer gray. It was a pale shade of blue and the sun was shining down on my upturned face. I glanced back down to find that there was a small empty space among the line of women in front of the Wall. I quickly stepped forward and pulled out my siddur. I turned to the Minhah service and began the Ashrei. During the Amidah I put my forehead on the cold stone in front of me and I felt an overwhelming rush of kavanah (spiritual intent) flood every inch of my body. I felt tears well up in my eyes and my shoulders shuddered. I was glued to that spot. I knew that I should step back and allow someone else to approach the Wall, but I simply could not move. I just let the emotions wash over me. After what seemed like an eternity I pushed several small pieces of paper into the cracks between the large bricks and started walking backwards. I did not turn around until I reached the end of the mehitzah (divider between men and women).

The rest of the day I walked around in a blissful daze. I did go up to Ben Yehudah Street. I bought gifts for almost everyone on my list. I had shwarma and fresh squeezed pomegranate juice from a small stand operated by a man who did not speak a word of English. That evening, as the bus back to Tel Aviv was winding away from Jerusalem, I thought of Isaiah 65:18. God said, "I will rejoice in Jerusalem and delight in her people." It was then that I made myself a promise. I would be back. I would once again rejoice in Jerusalem and delight in her people. My heart is in the East even though I am at the ends of the West.