I don’t know much about the Dead Sea except that it’s been around since Biblical times and, because of all the saline in the water, contains no life whatsoever. Zilch. For most of its history, there has been little life around it. In fact, it’s surrounded by some of the starkest, most unforgiving terrain on earth: rugged mountains made of dirt, baked by a blistering sun, accessible by a lone highway that cuts across a desert from Jerusalem. It’s not an insignificant fact that it’s also the lowest place on earth –1,300 feet below sea level in a geologic fault that extends to Africa.
Yet thousands of sun-worshippers and those seeking the fountain of youth flock to its shores every year to soak up the health benefits thought contained in its minerals and mud. (The potash in its waters is also heavily mined for fertilizer and shipped all over the world.) Some call the Dead Sea mysterious and mystical. I call it ‘circling the drain.’
Along the rim of the Sea is a lone compound of hotels. The compound reminded me of Vegas – towering, tightly clustered hotels that sprout out of a barren desert. Except unlike Vegas, there was no party atmosphere. Just big, imposing places to eat and sleep—no loud restaurants, no revelers on the sidewalk. Although I did overhear one American tourist—the only one we came across (the tip-off: the huge purse strapped across her chest)—whine to her companions. “It just feels like there should be casinos here.” Indeed, the atmosphere was somber and oppressive. It was the only time in my life I almost yearned for the fake-happy, all-American cheese-fest of a place like Senor Frog’s. Granted, it was March – the low season – so there weren’t that many tourists around, and those that were all spoke Russian. Apparently, Israel has experienced a huge influx of Russian immigrants since the 1990s—they now represent something like 20 percent of the total population—whose Jewish-ness has been called into question by some. It’s rumored that the Russian mafia has been making inroads here.
We checked into one of the less expensive hotels that was, not surprisingly, the furthest from the water – The Tulip Inn – where the doors were kept fastened at night by a heavy chain. The concierge, a young African, carried a gun (it is Israel, after all). The place was clean but depressing. So we dropped off our bags and left to go have a drink at one of the newer, flashier hotels on the other side of the compound – a luxe monstrosity called The Isrotel, a name so cheesy it made Kitt wonder if we’d stumble across an “Isro-teque” or “Isro-rant” while we were there.
By the time we made it back to the Tulip Inn, it was late, we were tipsy. We went ahead and cracked open another bottle of wine we’d brought from Tel Aviv to enjoy from the balcony of our fourth floor room, which overlooked the hotel’s outdoor courtyard.
As we were drinking and carrying on, a man stopped underneath our window and turned up to look at us. He was in his mid-40s, reasonably dressed, a slight bald spot shining from the top of his head. He just stood there.
“He looks Russian,” murmured Kitt.
“Just ignore him,” I said. “He’ll move on in a minute.”
But he didn’t. He kept staring up at us while we pretended he wasn’t; we continued to talk and laugh and act not the slightest bit unnerved.
After a few minutes, he motioned to us by holding up four fingers.
“What’s he trying to say?” whispered Kitt.
“I don’t know. Maybe he wants to borrow four rubles?”
“Maybe it’s his Eastern European gang sign.”
“Wait—is he signaling he wants to have a foursome?”
“Ewww.”
“Dude, we don’t want a threesome, foursome or onesome,” I whispered. “Just go away.”
“Gawd, what is it with this place?” She got up to refill our glasses. “Why is everybody so weird?”
After about 10 minutes of this uncomfortable charade, we looked down and he was gone. The air suddenly felt less stifled. We got up and began taking goofy pictures of ourselves on the balcony.
After 20 minutes or so, Kitt decided to go make a call from a phone in the downstairs lobby that accepted calling cards.
“Watch out for your new boyfriend,” I said as she got up from her chair.
“Yeah—maybe we need a secret knock,” she said in mock seriousness. “Only open the door if you hear this.” She gently tapped ‘knock-knock—knock—knock-knock” on the side table. “Don’t open for anyone else.”
“Gotcha. Seriously, though…if you’re not back in 20 minutes I’m calling the concierge,” I grinned. “He has a gun, you know.”
“Ha ha.” She walked to the door. She opened the door—and screamed.
Her new boyfriend was standing right outside our door.
To be continued…..
All original content © 2012 by Jessie Knadler