• 16/08/2022
  • By wizewebsite

About the journey from Safed to Tiberiads or Angels are among us<

On the road I am quite often reprehensibly reckless.I let myself be carelessly carried by the sea of colors, sounds and smells, floating by seemingly endless time.I still fall asleep in the park on the grass or in the desert, nothing escapes, every minute is a holiday.The soul floats like wings and looks everything from a different perspective.Everything always turned out somehow.The worries and anxious thoughts remain packed far, under another heaven, at home.Sometimes a person's own recklessness simply gets into trouble.

A few years ago I carried a few colleagues after Israel, returning from Metula, which lies in the north on the slope of Hermon, and our journey led to the holy city of Safed.It was a cold February day, it was soon to be sown, the gray shreds of clouds were chasing in the sky, and the ice wind was blowing.We had another overnight accommodation in nearby Tiberiard, so we calmly looked at Safed with the knowledge that we have a lot of time.

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Accompanied by meowing ubiquitous cats, calling sellers of pomegranate juice and oranges, inspected into interpreting many small galleries and jewelery, which stands for tourists, respectfully greeting small schoolchildren from CHEDER, whose ritual culias are evidenced by the old deals.Israeli Montmartre and timelessness of Chasidian spirituality.

We walked through the ancient streets of the city of Kabalists and world -famous Torah commentators, visited the famous synagogue of Jicchak Luria with colorful carvings and the blue Separdic synagogue, so beautifully painted by Marc Chagall, we sat with coffee on Jerusalem Street near a miniature cannon called Davidk.In May 1948.The mostly intimidation effect of his inaccurate but extremely noisy shooting is nicely written by Leon Uris in his novel Exodus.

We got to the top of the hill to the debris of the Crusader Citadel, where there is a nice view of the sacred mountain of Meron with the graves of important scholars between Vysoké porovice and cypresses.And I also went through a narrow alley where there is nothing interesting at all today, but once there was an old lady who put a glass of tea on her window sill every morning to make this modest refresh.When I was in Safed for the first time, the cut glass stood there and the devoted grandmother was still waiting, now the window has been empty for many years.

"We have to buy gasoline," we thought lazyly.The tank was empty.But there are gas stations everywhere, there are several of them in the Safed itself, we refuel when we leave.The tank was really empty, literally ejected, we parked on the last petrol hiccup.

O cestě ze Safedu do Tiberiady aneb Andělé jsou mezi námi

Suddenly a storm, a whirlwind and a torrent of water like the flood of the world.If you know the Mediterranean Winter Rains, you know what such elements can do.The water rolled almost horizontally and its ropes cold as ice was so thick that it was not visible even to a meter.It thundered and the lightning blinded not only the sky but also everything alive on earth, the ancient worshipers of God Baal would already run to bring victims.

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One lightning slid down the trunk of a high pine and with a stunning bang separated from the trunk burning branch.We hid ourselves as quickly as possible in the car, but we couldn't resist the wetting and we brought the puddles of the water.The wound like at the end of the world pounded our hearts and we saw a fiery ball over the foggy window that rolled out from behind several closest houses.So rather away from a mountain town that stands so close to heaven, somewhere to safety, to the hotel on a gentle genezaret lake… I let our Mazda without an engine downhill, beyond the corner to be a gas station.

The pump is barely visible behind the aperture of the rain, moreover its neon.A pumper packed in a winter jacket and a blue beanie climber.He scratches on the ribs and his face radiates a mixture of shock, fear, but also a certain cuddly and some euphoria because "something is happening".So often the people who have just gone through some interesting disaster and have already realized that with their heroic narration will soon be the darling of society.Yes, the pumery like Davidka was a lightning strike just in this pump.No, gasoline can not get us in the beanie, electricity is fired.No, no gasoline in the canister.No, he doesn't know how to help us.They say we go elsewhere.

Other pumps are nearby, but we would have to go through the hill.Yes, the tank is empty and our further movement is only possible thanks to gravity.Yes it rains and will soon be dark.Yes we are in the oven.Our navigator Petr stares to the map and reports that the nearest gas station is about seven kilometers away.At that moment, she falls on me the fatalistic surrender and the feeling that everything will turn out somehow.I would have collapsed at home and fell into self -blaming.But here we are “on the way”.I let a car without an engine downhill knowing that we will stand under the mountain and maybe we will have to spend the night there.We slowly tolerate the serpentines into the valley and fall around us by the fiery spear of the archangels.

And then I saw her.At the shoulder in that freezing downpour stood a curled girl and waved at us.Another time I would take the hitchhiker, but now?Stop with the risk of not going to start anymore?Open the car of rain and take another passenger with liters of water on clothing and shoes?Bring the girl to the valley and then tell her that she has to walk?Nonsense.I stop.

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Miss thanked quietly and squeezed on the back seat.No one we have a desire to ask her where she wants to go, and she is also silent.Maybe they just desire to disappear from the mountain exposed to lightning.I take off and let our sheet toward Jordan's depression.In the rearview mirror I see golden brown eyes and mane of hair that rolled as a sheep fleece.The girl can be about sixteen years old, she has no military uniform, she is probably a schoolgirl on a trip.

Smallly and a little mysteriously smiles like Mona Lisa and says, “We'll get to the gas station in a moment, turn right here."She probably noticed shining lights and our tight mood.What can we do other than go as far as possible and hope?The road loses its gradient, we will stop soon, only inertia will give us a kilometer to good.I turn right, and since we slow down, we slow down the engine without thoughtfully.

There is a smooth grur, I step on the gas and Mazda cheerfully starts.We are going to an empty tank Mile to the south around Mošava Elifelet, Miss Mysteriously smiles, and we are seized by a strange euphoria as the hope rises that we will reach the goal in time, or at least so far that then we go to Tiberiac on foot.In addition, the Tjavec stops, drips just a little and somewhere in front of us behind the off -road wave and the white fog lies a beautiful lake named after David's Harfa Kineret.The girl breaks silent for the second time and quietly navigates us to the pump called Dor Alon.We have already driven about seven kilometers without gasoline and we arrive comfortably to the stand.

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We get out of the car and stretch ourselves, from the west it is clear and above the Jordanian valley with a tall two rainbows above each other.Here, too, a pump with a beanie and a feather jacket, laughs at us from ear to ear and enjoys it after the flood.“You will have a good journey tomorrow.“ - assures us."Don't you want coffee?"

There's no lady in the car, I'm looking for her to get on and go with us on.He's not in the car, there is no one around the pump, he's not in the store or in the toilet, he's not on the road.I ask a pump where our hitchhiker went.“What hitchhiker?In the car you were four and four here are you.“ - wonders the beanie and scratches on the ribs.So we meet angels…

Mgr.Věra Tydlitátová, pH.D.is religion and Judaistics dealing with the issue of extremism and xenophobia.He works at the Faculty of Philosophical University of West Bohemia in Pilsen.