A taxi ride to The Hilton

I was here. I had taken the decision to follow my destiny. Made plans and left my home and family; now alone in a strange place. A holy land journey; but I did not follow a star: I pursued a box.

On my own except for the taxi driver who slotted the gear in Drive and moved the green and white Volvo forwards; my body jerked right to left. Bright lights from the windows of the airport blinded me. Cars honked sharply within my hearing while we manoeuvred unsteadily; shadows crossed our path as alien sights passed me through misted windows.

The city of Tel Aviv - modern Jaffa - a major tourist destination known as "The City that never sleeps". My taxi ride from Ben-union International airport - about 12 miles outside of the metropolitan area - a scenic manifestation of man's creations ancient and modern. Steel structures reached towards the moon; rectangles of light interrupting their shiny exteriors. Stone edifices lit up with subtle glows from lights placed at their bases.

We journeyed on in the night light, and I noticed, through the windscreen, vaguely discernible red and white striped market stalls. Orange-tinted night-light from street lamps gave an eerie glow to cardboard which flipped to a gentle breeze; lost phantoms: moving aimlessly. The taxi braked suddenly - my body thrown.

"Sorry, Sir," the bearded driver said over his shoulder, "the other drivers do not observe my signals."

Scanning the flapping identity card attached to the steering column by a black cord, I said, "that's okay ... Ahmed. We're in no hurry."

In my mind I reasoned: 'I've crossed the globe to fulfil my destiny: not to become a road-traffic casualty. So take it easy, Ahmed.' White smoke trailed from a car that sped past us.

"This is our harbour, Sir," the driver spoke again, interrupting my thoughts. "Over four thousand years she remains. Much blood has been shed."

My spine tingled. I faced my own conflict. My finger-tips felt the chilly wetness when I wiped the misted windows; nose pressed against the cold glass I could make out the Mediterranean lapping gently against the steps of the stone esplanade like probing wet fingers. There stretched before the taxi headlights a mammoth lake of black ink streaked by moonlight. Silvery-white waves splashed against the eroded harbour wall. Well - trodden grey stone steps snaked to the ocean as we drove by; circumnavigating the old parts of Jaffa. Over his shoulder the taxi driver gave me a potted history. Perhaps he did the same for tourists. I appreciated his effort. He had a job to do.

Ahmed said, "That is the Clock Tower built by Sultan Abed-el-Hamid II. The famous Abulafia bakery and Yoezer wine bar are in the square. You must visit them while you are here."

Not here for the tour I reached for the photo in my jacket's pocket. I asked myself questions I'd asked on the plane. "Would he be as amiable as his brother? Was the story true?" When we circumnavigated a traffic island with an ancient clock tower I looked at my watch. Holding the passport-sized black and white I gazed at it for the hundredth time. "Would this man lead me to my destiny?" My stomach churned.

I looked again at my watch, apprehension rising within me: like a petulant toddler demanding attention. I settled on the taxi's back seat concentrating on the task ahead. 'Come on, John, stay sharp', I thought, 'be firm and clear'. I heard Liz's voice in my head say, 'and no daydreaming.'

I cleared the cold misted window again. My heart beat against my chest as I glanced at the photo and my watch. From the corner of my eye I noticed the Clock Tower again, and breathed a prayer.

"God, I hope you can help. Time is running out." Looking again at the photo made my hands clammy. I put it away. Soon I would meet a man who could change our lives forever.

"We'll be there in a few minutes, Sir," Ahmed said over his shoulder.

I noticed we exited at a sign saying 'Arlozorov' and kept right. After a few minutes a sign for 'Hilton Hotel 1km.' appeared. A few jerks and gear changes later we had arrived at 205 HaYarkon St. Independence Park.

"Thanks, Ahmed," I opened my wallet and placed the fare and a tip in Ahmed's hand. Exiting the taxi I took a deep breath, shaking Ahmed's hand. I was here. What would the next few hours bring?

The large stainless steel "H" logos caught my eye. The familiar gave me a semblance of cheer miles from home. It had proud prominence on the modern brick-facing wall and above the double-glazed aluminium doors. Palm trees shone in the foyer lights. Stars danced above the brown-tiled roof. Outside the hotel forecourt a smart-uniformed porter quickly approached the Volvo taxi. I smiled, amused that hotel porters around the world appear mysteriously when a taxi arrives, as if they have been tipped off. The smell of a gratuity draws them out of their lairs like hyenas.
I wanted to hasten the night's passing; I stepped aside not minding his assistance. The porter bundled my blue and white metal suitcase and flight bag onto a luggage trolley, seeming surprised at their lightness. I waved bye to Ahmed and followed the porter. I hoped I would be taking home one more item than I had brought. If I left everything else behind, I determined- if there was a box - I had to bring it home. Except for my flight bag containing my passport and travel documents, I had only a toilet-bag plus a change of shirt, socks, and boxer shorts in my suitcase: not expecting to stay more than a few hours. It would either go well or not.

The hotel deputy manager gave me a room card and the porter disappeared with my luggage. Despite being eager to get the evening over I enjoyed a Budweiser Light in the bar to slake my nervously dry throat.

"Do you want a snack, sir?" a barman said shuffling glasses around.

"No thanks, just the Bud. I want an early night."

It felt late. A digital clock behind the bar displayed midnight local time. There were several people at the bar. I nodded, trying to avoid conversation. With so much on my mind I didn't fancy being drained listening to others' problems: only one voice I wanted to hear.

Reaching for my mobile I called my wife, Elizabeth. I didn't have any news; just an excuse to hear her voice. I imagined her rubbing her eyes. Raven-black hair falling across her soft cheeks, billowing soft strands on her neck, not to cascade softly on my pillow that night. I would miss her shapely warmth and voluptuous curves nestling against me.

"What's the hotel like, darling? Is it comfortable?"

"Yes thank-you, it seems very pleasant." I said. "I've just arrived. How is he?"

"Not good. Becky and I are staying in London. Let's hope you find good news". I sensed Liz's voice breaking.

"Yes I hope so too, something spectacular. Love you. I'll see you soon." Brief and to the point, I closed my phone.

Ascending the well-carpeted hotel stairs I opened my walnut-veneered room door, visited the bathroom, folding my trousers I draped them on a chair. I drew back the quilt and went to bed; anxious about the next day. Would sleep elude me, chased away by thoughts of a magical artefact?