Cheating On Israel

I feel like I’m cheating on Israel.

On my domed Old City apartment, my whispering cobblestones, walls that beat with the heart of man.

On my Aldo gelato. Late night karaoke. Upstairs at Sideways. The romantic Xmas lights at Mamilla. The dangerous beauty and mystical mountains.

With a country that has scarlet creeping up her cheeks, fifty blue freckles scattered over her pasty white skin.

So basically, I’m cheating on Israel with a much dumber, less hot country.

If you’re going to cheat, I figure, now that I’m some thousand miles and one ocean away, it should be with a much cooler, hotter country. Like Greece or Africa.

I’m not really very experienced in the art of two timing. I tried it once before with two cell phone carriers. I ended up paying two very large bills. And come to think of it, having two phones never did make me feel like “The Man”.

It occurs to me as we cross over Reykjavik that there really is no turning back- unless, of course, I pull out my tefillin and get all Britney in the aisle. But I don’t want to make a scene.

I can’t help but wonder though, what possessed me to leave the greatest place I’ve found so far in the world, aside from Six Flags?

It comes down to two things. Or twenty little things, to be precise. My phalanges. Yes, my phalanges. They’ve have been starved of attention for nearly five months and if you must know, they craved the TLC of a delicate Asian.

So now I’m cheating. And I can’t tell if it’s worth it. Is it? Is it ever? The question has to be, why cheat when you have everything back home?

...Aldo gelato. New Deli subs. Late night karaoke. The Kotel. Upstairs at Sideways. Romantic xmas lights at Mamilla. Chevron. The paradox of safety and danger both racing down my spine…

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