Doing the Loop - Part 6

Well, when we rolled into that Chevron station on a flat tire, it was very soon evident that the Lord had us covered before we arrived.  Inside the gas station were two members of the Black Sheep biker club of which Greg is a member.  Todd and Sam scrambled out of the station where they had been drinking coffee waiting for the rain to pass.  

As we came rolling into the gas station they had observed Greg's flat tire.  Todd immediately started digging into the huge pack strapped on to the back of his Harley Low Rider.  After rummaging around in there for a few minutes, he pulls out a kit.  In it is "Slime" which is a liquid flat fixer and a very small compressor about the size of two bars of soap placed side by side.  I have never seen such a small air compressor in my life.  

I am thinking this is so providential.  What are the chances of finding friends who have the stuff to fix the flat tire in Nenana on a Sunday on Memorial Day weekend?  Not even the Harley Shop in Fairbanks will be open until the next Tuesday.  God is obviously watching over us.

Todd and Sam go right to work on the flat tire.  They try to determine the cause of the leak by examining the tire as much as is possible without a jack.  Nothing is obvious.  There is a piece of rubber missing from the sidewall that looks suspicious, but doesn't seem to penetrate the tire.  I am thinking back to that odd chunk of something that Greg's back tire flung at me just out of Denali Park as we were traveling the construction sections of the highway.  I'll bet that was the culprit.  Nothing is conclusive or obvious. 

So, the first task is to try to get the contents of that bottle of Slime into the tire.  It is thick, viscous, zombie-green stuff and it has to go in the tire through the air nipple.  Todd gets right down on the dirt to screw the little tube from the bottle onto the air nipple and begins to transfer the Slime to the tire by squeezing the daylights out of the bottle.  

It's not a perfect process and a lot leaks out and Todd about wore out from applying all the pressure to the bottle in an awkward position.  We all judge that "enough has gotten in" and replace the Slime bottle with the little air compressor.  We look for a power source for the little air compressor.  

The reason we need the little air compressor even though we are at a gas station is because it is a gas station, not a service station.  They only sell gas, they don't provide services like, air for your tires for example.  So, the little air compressor needs a 12 volt connection, like the kind we used to call "cigarette lighters" in a car.  Now I think they are called "power ports".  Unfortunately motorcycles don't generally come with a power port.  Most bike riders do have a 12 volt lead connection from their batteries for a "trickle charger" which keeps the battery fully charged over the long winter storage period. 

This is my one contribution to the whole fix.  I have a power port connection for my 12 volt connector that I brought along to charge my cell phone while I am riding.  I dig in my trunk for a minute and viola, we are in business.  Todd connects the tiny compressor to the power port and it makes a little buzzing sound.  It takes probably 12 minutes to pump enough air into Greg's flat tire.

While we wait, a long line of Harley Davidson motorcycles thunders by the gas station in Nenana where we are fixing Greg's tire.  There is the bright yellow Ultra Classic with black pinstriping - it's Peppermint Patti and the HOG group.  They all wave at us as they continue their journey on to the next stop, Fairbanks.  

  

The air compressor is disconnected and we all wait anxiously to see if the tire will hold air.  The hole in the tire is now obvious and right in the middle of the tread.  They pour a little water from a bottle on the hole in the tread which has been located by the bright green Slime that has leaked out of it.  Miracle of miracles, it seems to be holding air.  We all are pleased and begin to put everything away which over the course of the fix is quite a bit of stuff.  

We all agree that we should ride together through to Tok "just in case" the tires goes flat again.  We are looking forward to this leg of the trip as it leaves the relatively featureless, flat, straight country we have been riding through and we begin to climb the ridge of hills that form the edge of the basin that Fairbanks is located in.  The highway has curves and elevation changes which most bikers long for.  It is a great ride into Fairbanks, although I am still riding wing to Greg and watching his tire all the way in.  

By the time we get to Fairbanks we are all convinced that the fix is good and we are on our way.  Todd had arranged to meet a friend for lunch in Fairbanks, someone he has been witnessing to for a few years.  We all decide to get lunch which is a little more difficult with four bikers instead of two.  ONE of the group is more opinionated that the other three and all the easy choices do not satisfy.  Someone remembers a little Thai restaurant in downtown that seems to pass muster as a place to go.  

We all thunder up to this little place which is open on Sunday afternoon, downtown on Memorial Day weekend in what looks like an old neighborhood next to some hotels.  I am a little amazed.  

We all noisily walk in with our helmets and leathers.  We take the table in the middle that will seat all of us.  We wait for Todd's friend to show.  We wait.  And wait.  We look at the menus which mean nothing to me.  Someone makes up their mind.  I decide I will have the same thing whatever it is.  We drink all the water on the table and ask for more while we wait.  i am starving by now.  The friend finally fulls up.  We order.  I am asked how "hot" I want my meal, I have to pick a number between 1 and 5, 5 being nuclear hot.  I decide to go with a "2".  

Thai food is mostly like Mexican food.  It is pretty much all the ingredients except assembled differently.  You know, "what is a taco?"  "Well, it's beef or chicken on a tortilla, with lettuce, cheese beans on it."  "Oh, what is a tostada" "Well, it's a tortilla with beef or chicken with cheese and lettuce and beans on it."  Thai is essentially the very same description except with noodles, beef or chicken and bean sprouts or whatever those things were. Everybody's stuff looks pretty much the same.

I am starved.  I begin eating my plate of food right after prayer.  It tastes pretty good.  Oh, the little "kick" starts to kick in.  Glad I only went with a 2, it's getting pretty warm.  I eat more.  It's actually more like a "4" after a few bites.  No, I am pretty sure he mistook my "2" for a "12".  All the water is gone.  I think the skin on the top of my tongue is gone too.  Oh, yes, they will bring us more water.  I hope they do because I pretty much have hot lava in my mouth.

I am in a dilemma, I am still quite hungry and only 1/3 of my meal is consumed.  Do I give up or risk the China Syndrome with a nuclear meltdown? I am hungry, I decide to eat as much as I can until I can't take it anymore.  Fortunately, the pain index on my meal levels out about "15".  I imagine it can't get much hotter than that.  I do feel like I am radio active and glowing with the heat.  I am done.  It sit not saying much as Todd and his friend catch up.  

I wonder how long is it going to take to get to Tok today?  It is already 2 pm and we have a long way to go.  I am anxious to get on the road again.  It would be really rude to insist on leaving our rescuers behind so we wait patiently.  The friend finally decides he has to go.  So, we pay our EPA nuclear clean up bills at the counter and head outside to check and see if the tire is still holding air.

There is a little trickle of Slime in the tread that is fresh.  It is decided that a "plug" is needed to really fix this tire.  Where will we find an auto parts store open on Sunday afternoon on Memorial Day weekend?  Believe it or not, at the end of the block is a NAPA auto parts store, open, on Sunday afternoon, on Memorial Day weekend.  I am amazed.  

The plugs are purchased.  They are inserted into the hole in the tread.  Something seems wrong as usually the plugs are a little more "sticky" than these seem to be.  We pump the tire full of air.  It seems to hold.  We hope that is the last of it.

We must gas up in North Pole in order to make it all the way to Delta Junction on Greg's small gas tank.  So, we leave Fairbanks behind and go to North Pole.  Just about the time we get there, Greg tire shows signs of going flat.  The plug did not hold.  We find another gas station.  They actually have a air compressor which we commandeer for our purposes.  Todd and Sam work on getting a plug to seal for several minutes.  

This must be the only air compressor in North Pole because while we are working on this tire, half a dozen other cars/trailers show up to use the same air we are using.  For those of us standing around watching Todd and Sam work, it is a chance to talk to others.  Greg helps a young man dig the spare tire out from under a stinking pile of gym clothes and shoes in the young man's trunk.  

It is decided that another NAPA store must be found and another kind of plugs be purchased.  Somebody zooms off to find both.  We wait.  I contemplate the nature of this trip.  From the stop, start, stop, start, flow of traffic in Anchorage to the short little hops between gas stations and destinations this trip has been a lesson in the ebb and flow of how motorcycle trips work out.  It's different than driving all together in a car.   There are so many more variables when riding separate bikes together.  You just have to be flexible and patient and eventually you will get there.

The new plugs arrive and are inserted with the same uncertain results.  The tire is aired up and the four of us  head on to Delta Junction our next stop.  

Day 4 Part 3

We leave Chorazin on buses that are cooling us down nicely.  We head to the shore area of the Sea of Galilee.  Before long, we pull into what looks like a place where people keep their vacation trailers / boats / water craft / campers / etc.  Not really a "resort", but maybe a campground that you can keep your stuff at year 'round. Not far from the lake shore, is a restaurant of sorts.  It is set up with numerous tables and chairs, more than half of which are already full.

It's kind of a funny thing on these trips when it is feeding time.  There always seems to be a little anxiety about how long it is going to take to get your food.  There are long lines of our group who fidget a little waiting to be shown where to sit.  I tell myself that we haven't starved yet so we probably won't die waiting in line for our food.

Eventually we are asked to follow our host who takes us to a further seating area and we are seated.  On the way, we are scoping out what other people are eating.  It looks like there is falafala (surprise!), a deep fried fish fillet and on some people's plates - an entire fish, it looks sort of like a bass, from scales to eyeballs it is all there.

The seating areas are covered and somewhat shaded for which I am grateful.  The other nice thing is that they provide our drinks sooner than later which helps.  I perceive that it is cooler because of the proximity to the lake and there is a little breeze.  

Our host informs us that our choices for lunch are, you guessed it, falafala and talapia (the deep fried fish fillet).  I am pretty much thinking I will go with the talapia.  We are sitting next to some really fun friends, Juan and Patty from the midwest.  They pastor a hispanic church.  Juan inquires about the other fish we saw on people's plates, "can we have one of those?" he asks.  I am a little surprised that someone would want one of those other fish, but Juan insists that is what he wants.  

We are informed that it is called a St. Peter's Fish.  Traditionally it is said this is the type of fish that Peter found the coin in  the mouth for the temple tax when Jesus instructed him to go fishing for it.  Well, all of that is fine, but I still wasn't interested.

We now wait for our food.  We have fun conversations and talk about what we have seen in the morning.  We drink our drinks.  We talk some more.  Ah, here comes our food....no, it's for that table that came in after us.  We kind of run out of conversation as our stomachs make those dying whale sounds as our hunger increases.  Oh, just in time, here comes our food...no, that is for the table that came in after the table that came after us.  We are out of drinks.  We try to catch the attention of our host who is flying around serving way too many tables for one person.  "Can we have some water?", "yes, of course!"  We never see the man again.  

Some tables have finished their meals and are getting up to leave.  We look around, the anxiety is not spoken but is felt by everyone.  More tables finish and leave.  Here comes our food!  Yes, it is for us this time.  I am very hungry and anxious to try this talapia.  It is amazing!  Amazingly unremarkable.  It tastes like whatever oil it was deep fried in, hmmnn...no salt or pepper on the table.  No where do they have salt and pepper on the tables, it must be a western or American tradition to want to have some flavor on your food.  

I eye Juan's plate.  He is delighted with his meal.  He stabs right through the skin and digs out the white, flaky meat underneath.  He declares it is wonderful and keeps busy eating.  I don't want to ask if there are really "guts" in there too, but I am really curious.  I am a little bothered that his meal keeps staring at me the whole time.  I want to poke out the eye of his fish.  Pretty soon his St. Peter's fish is reduced to spiky bones poking out of the skin.  The dying whale sounds diminish and my hunger is not raging like it was.  I am thinking I still have some of those snacks in my satchel on the bus.  At least they have some flavor in them.  

It is finally our turn to get up and leave.  We are not the very last table to do so, but nearly so.  

We wander outside to look around.  Ah!  A genuine Israeli soldier!  I am curious about the weapons he carries.  I try to engage him in conversation.  I ask "is that a Jericho .45 acp double action pistol?"  He nods his head  as he looks at me out of the corner of his eyes.  I point to his carbine and ask, "M16?, 5.56 Nato round?"  Another nod and a dismissive look away.  OK, I get it, he's been through too many of these pointless conversations.  One more thing, "can I get a picture with you?" He nods a bored nod yes and we have some pictures snapped.

Now we are bid to use the restrooms and get on the buses.  I hope my description of the restrooms in Israel are not offensive to you, I'm not trying to make them so.  First, they are more scarce than they tend to be where I am from.  When you find one, it is best to use it because you don't know when the next one will be found.  Second, they don't think of privacy in the same ways we think of privacy.  There are of course separate facilities for men and women, sort of.  In this particular case the restrooms are housed in the same building, men to the right, women to the left.  There is an open ceiling in this building and the dividing wall between the men and the women is only slightly taller than my head, it doesn't go all the  way up.  ALL of the same sounds, conversations, noises,  ah, smells, are clearly experienced on your side and their side.  It is too weird.  One cannot get in, take care of business, wash and get out fast enough.  Once outside you want to just walk away quickly and not look around.

Privacy in the restrooms is the most unusual thing to get used to in Israel.  It doesn't seem to occur to the designers of most of the restrooms to use things like angles and corners to keep things a little more private.  Many times you can be legitimately headed to your own restroom and the coast is not clear in terms of unavoidable awkward eye contact with people who are on the other side, or people who can casually look into the restroom as they pass by on to somewhere else.  It can be a little creepy.  

Third, sanitation in most of the public restrooms is less than desired.  How could it be otherwise when they are used so heavily?  It is no different than here at home so I don't fault them too much on this.  We DO have hand sanitizer with us which is used gratefully but we should have purchased the gallon jug so we could just pour it over our heads.  I am not really a "germ-a-phobe", but living here I could easily become one.

We board the buses to go on to Magdala, the possible home of Mary Magdalene.  

Doing the Loop - Part 5

I awake at 7 am.  There isn't much light streaming in the large sliding glass door to our room.  I look outside.  Grimm.  Lowering overcast, and I detect a trace of rain.  I take a long hot shower anticipating a wet and cold day on the bike.  I pack my stuff extra tight to keep out water.  I pull the insulating layer for my riding jacket out and snap it in.  As anxious as I am to get on the road, there is a certain amount of dread to battle the rain all the way to Tok which will be our destination today.

I get dressed, put on my chaps and hat and go down to the little gathering place where they are serving a "continental" style breakfast.  As you probably know, that stands for the large muffins that come by the dozen from Costco and some too hot and too weak coffee.  I make my muffin selection and take a styro cup of the coffee and sit down to consume them while I wait for the "church service" to begin.  

It is Sunday morning.  It is rare for me to be away from my own pulpit on an outing such as this.  It is also Memorial Day weekend.  I can imagine I am not the only one absent from New Life this particular morning.  

There are a few Black Sheep milling about but where are the HOG's?  There are not nearly as many bikes at the campground as there when when I turned in late last night.  Man, these HOG's are early risers.  Maybe that's how Peppermint Patti gets her 500,000 miles in - you gotta get up early.  I am kind of amazed that all those Harley's with their upgraded exhaust (read "LOUDER") systems slipped away without waking me up.  

This whole event was planned as an outreach to the HOG group, hoping they might out of respect or gratefulness stick around for the devotion offered this Sunday morning.  Judging by their absence, most of the HOG group respectfully declined to come.  

Too bad.  The devotional is really good.  The president of the Black Sheep was once a youth pastor somewhere in Alaska.  He is doing something else now and lives with his girlfriend, they have new, beautiful matching Harley's.  Anyway, we sing a worship song weakly, there is a prayer for safety for all the riders and it's over.  

It is time for Mark, our third rider to turn back home for his wedding in just a few days.  From this point, it is planned that it will be just Greg and I on out to Tok and back to Anchorage.  I am hoping that we will be traveling a little longer and with fewer stops that more riders need.  

We bring our stuff out of the room and stow most of it in my trunk and saddlebags.  I really like having a touring bike on a trip like this.  I only lash my sleeping bag and a smaller bag to my back seat, which doubles as a great back rest.  Other riders with non-touring type bikes have elaborate lashing systems, packs and improvised ways of attaching their stuff to their bikes.  It is a little "Beverly Hillbillies meets Hell's Angles" with all the bungees, straps and trash bags lashed down to the sissy bar.  It works and that is the main thing.  

There are a few more droplets making beaded designs on my waxed gas tank.  I am resigned to a tough day of riding.  I do hope the further north we go the better the weather which is often the case.  Being in the mountains tends to create its own weather and sometimes is only local.  At least we can hope.

We say goodbye to Mark, making jokes about the wild bachelor party he had with two old preachers.  He lingers seeming reluctant to leave the fun and ride back home to the peninsula by himself.  He won't actually be riding back all the way by himself.  He is meeting his soon-to-be-wife in Anchorage at the new Cabela's store.  While we were there, he got her OK to purchase a gun safe that could qualify as a small room addition to their home it is so big.  Greg and I nod our heads in approval not saying what our wives would have to say about that.  She will bring up their pickup truck, load up the small room and they will travel back to the peninsula together.  I feel no sympathy for Mark having to travel back to Anchorage by himself.  Serves him right for buying a gun safe that big right in front of us.  The nerve.

Mark decides to ride with us to Healy and gas up there.  We think he really wishes to ride the whole loop with us, which would be fine with us, but when you put on a small addition to your house, there are just certain consequences to that.  

Mark, Greg and I start our bikes and warm them up to head out into what looks like honest to goodness rain.  We putz out to the highway and power out.  About a quarter mile up the road there is a definite line on the road that signifies where the real rain storm begins.  We hear the "sizzle" of our tires on wet asphalt as spay flies everywhere.  We continue up the road passing through the Denali village and on toward Healy.

Such a shame.  The road in this area is beautiful for bikers.  Hills, curves and the asphalt is fairly new - crack free.  The State of Alaska must want to make good impressions on the tourists at the number one destination in the state.  Not far out of Denali village we pass a diner on the side of the road.  There are what looks like a million Harleys lined up outside.  There is one huge, bright yellow one, the "Bumblebee".  This is where the HOG's ditched out on us.  They are having a real breakfast and skipping the Sunday service at the same time.  There are waving hands through the windows as we pass by in the rain and the spray.  We pass a few vehicles hoping get out of their tail wash as the rain continues to pound down.  Greg on his V-rod and little gas tank need to stop in Healy to top off on gas so we can get to Nenana, the next place without running out of gas.  

As we near Healy, the rain lightens up and it seems like the overcast is not so low.  There is a brand new Chevron station in Healy and that is where we turn off the road.  For something to do, I decide I will fill up too even though I can easily make it to Nenana on what I've got in the tank.  As we fill up, the rain stops.  We approve. 

There is a man and his family who have stopped for gas.  They have a long travel trailer they are pulling.  Their dog has escaped and is playing "you can't catch me" running in circles just out of their reach.  Waiting around as the weather continues to improve, we strike up a conversation and help catch the canine.  Harley Davidson motorcycles always add to people's curiosity and extend the conversation.  It is always interesting how these bikes make quick friends wherever they go.  

The mutt is stowed in the trailer and we say our goodbyes to Mark as he heads south.  NOW, we can really ride, I say to myself.  It is quite a ways to Nenana and we are gassed up and have used the rest rooms.  What else could possibly go wrong?

Greg and I are soon back on the road which is drying up quite quickly and the sky is brighter too.  We soon pass Healy and the Assembly of God church on the side of the highway.  I feel a twinge of guilt not stopping for the service which must be just getting started but we do have to get to Tok tonight which is a few hundred miles away.  

It is soon clear that the State of Alaska's pride in their roads does not extend very far from Denali.  There are orange signs telling us to slow down, be ready to stop.  There are a series of breaks in the road that are being repaired.  Each break is a couple miles long and then pavement again, and then gravel for a few miles and then pavement.  It begins to rain again.  A leak develops between my face shield and  helmet.  Drops of water drip on the end of my nose inside my full face helmet.  Oh great, mud, spray and rocks.

I am now wing man as Greg is lead.  I don't yet realize that riding wing is not necessary for a couple of reasons in construction areas.  First, there is no passing in these zones and the speed is controlled to 35 mph.  Second, the wing position is a great place to be for catching rocks being thrown by the lead guy's back tire.  Greg's V-Rod has a wide, low-profile back tire which seems especially prone to throwing a few rocks.  I drop back and behind just in time to avoid an object flying out from Greg's back tire that looks rectangular, about two or three inches long.  It sails past my windshield and on to my right.  I drop back even further.

After a few sessions of broken road and 35 mph, the only orange sign we love to see is the one telling us that construction is over- for now.  We power up on our muddied bikes as the rain once again stops.  It is really nice riding if you like flat, straight road with a lot of wind thrown in.  This part of the Parks highway doesn't offer much in terms of interesting terrain or scenery.  I am looking around for something of interest and my eye catches sight of Greg's back tire.  Is it looking "squishy"?  Nah, it's one of those low-profile tires that always look flat.  We go on.

We are about 20 miles from Nenana at this point.  I look at the tire again.  It is going flat and Greg doesn't know it yet.  We are in the middle of nowhere.  To stop here and talk while the remaining air leaks out will do us no good and make it more difficult to get the bike to some help.  I decide to watch the tire closely.  We are about 5 miles from Nenana and I see Greg's back end "fish tail" which is a sign the tire is flat.  I decide it is time to tell Greg.  I power up next to him and point to his tire.  He looks like he was suspicious already and now knows something is up.  We see the outskirts of Nenana and another Chevron station.  It will ruin a tire to run flat but again, help is within sight and we slow down but keep going.  

We roll into the Chevron station on a completely flat tire.  I am wondering who can fix a motorcycle tire in Nenana on a Sunday morning on Memorial Day weekend.  I think our chances are small of finding someone.  What are we going to do?

Day 4 Part 2

We board the bus and travel only a short distance to a site that we can more clearly see the area of where Jesus spent 95% of his ministry.  We can see the mouth of the Jordan River where it empties into the Sea of Galilee, Capernaum, the area where Bethsaida is likely to be, the area that is also likely to be where Jesus was baptized by John, the Sea of Galilee that is stretched out before us, we can see Tiberias and the Arbel Pass.  The air is heavy and must be full of moisture as the distance is hazy in the heat.

Below you are looking at the Arbel Pass which is the main way of travel on foot in Jesus' day when heading to Jerusalem.  If you look in the background of the Arbel Pass, that two horned mountain on which the last of the Crusaders perished is visible.  

It is hot, perhaps the warmest day so far.  I am scouting out shade from what look like eucalyptus trees.  There are large stones, and small boulders that look like they should provide some seating.  However not one of them seems to have an appropriate flat spot to sit on.  So you either have to sit on an uncomfortable point of rock or stand in the heat.  I do both.

This particular area has a strange looking monument.  It is to memorialize an Israeli outpost of a dozen soldiers or so that were killed at this site during one of Israel's many armed conflicts.  It was a dastardly attack that came during a "cease fire" and the soldiers let down their guard.  There is a melancholy feel to the place.  One wonders how many reminders there are of the bloodshed that continues to mark Israel's right to exist.  

Like the Chapel of the Beattitudes, there is no archaeological finds in this place.  The temperature seems to be rising slowly and the warm bottled water in my satchel doesn't really slake my thirst.  They tell us in just a month from now the temperatures at this location can be as high as 114 degrees.  Our guides talk about leading tours in that kind of heat.  How miserable that must be. I am grateful we are here in April.  When we get on the bus, the little LED sign says it is 33 degrees, celsius of course.  It means nothing to me except that I'm too warm.  Fortunately it is not overly humid. 

I take my seat at the back of the bus and focus all the little air conditioning vents towards me.  Fortunately the air conditioning works and I am cooling down nicely.  Now if only I could find something a little colder to drink.

We move on to the next place: Chorazin.  

Chorazin is about a 13 acre archaeology site, not very large for a city.  There are rocks everywhere and I lose sight of Indiana Jolie as soon as we step off the bus.  We madly snap pictures of all the rocks.  

Chorazin was mentioned in Jesus' rebuke of the cities of this area for not responding to His message and offer of salvation:
Matthew 11:20-21 (NKJV)  
    Then He began to rebuke the cities in which most of His mighty works had been done, because they did not repent: [21] "Woe to you, Chorazin! Woe to you, Bethsaida! For if the mighty works which were done in you had been done in Tyre and Sidon, they would have repented long ago in sackcloth and ashes. 

This passage of scripture goes over and over in my mind, especially the phrase, "mighty works which were done in you."  I look around the 13 acre site and wonder just where among all the stones and all the streets that Jesus did these "mighty works".  I wonder if I am standing on a place Jesus walked when He was here.  Perhaps that place under the tree, or maybe here in the large community square, or one of these little homes where people lived.  Did He open blind eyes here?  Was a lame person made whole?  Was someone raised from the dead in this place?

I do realize that the layer of earth that Jesus actually walked upon is a layer below us.  We are seeing the Byzantine era ruins that were built on top of the biblical era layer.  That tree did not exist when Jesus walked through Chorazin.  But it is deeply impacting to be in a place Jesus himself mentions being in, in the gospels.  

It is still hot in the sun but we are quickly trying to see everything at this site.  All the stones are black basaltic rock which only magnifies the warmth of the sun.  I wonder, "how did people live in such places when this was all there was?"  We gather at what was once a Jewish synagogue.  It is known that this is what it is because of the "mikvah" (mick va), or ritual bath where Jews would immerse themselves for ritual cleansing for worship.  It is quite small (I don't think I would fit in there) and covered with long, narrow basaltic stones.  It still holds water, not that it looks like you could purify yourself in it any more.  I think as I stand in this hot place I am more "pure" sweating profusely as I am than getting in that particular water.  

I am impressed and disappointed at the same time.  I ponder this for a moment.  Again, I think I was thinking that a mikvah would look a lot more inviting, like our baptistry at home.  Seeing the reality of life in the Bible as opposed to the flannel graph depictions from Sunday School is hard to reconcile at times, even when you know it had to be different than imagined. 

We move over to a Jewish style "insula" or home.  It is very interesting and brings so much understanding to the biblical passage:
John 14:2 (NKJV)  
    In My Father's house are many mansions; if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you.

The common courtyard is wide and covered in paving stones. They are round topped and hard to walk on, making it feel like you are about to twist an ankle anytime.  In antiquity, the cracks between the stones would all be filled in with a sort of plaster.  As would all the walls and columns so everything would be smooth.  You wouldn't necessarily see all the separate stones as we are seeing.  Apparently the plaster coating is not durable through the centuries.

I am attempting to photograph a page from my journal so you might be able to see the layout of a Jewish home.  

The "father" would build a home in which he would raise his children.  This home was small but had a large outdoor courtyard.  When the father's sons would marry, they would build their homes on the perimeter of the same courtyard.  Over time, several families would live in houses around this common courtyard area.  

So a new understanding of "in my Father's house are many mansions" comes into view.  The entire compound is the "house" of the father, but there are many rooms (mansions = residence/abode) or families that live within the complex.  

Since I have been a grandfather for five months or so at the time we are seeing this site, I am thinking of how wonderful family life must have been.  I would see my sons, their wives and grandchildren daily.  Maybe we could all take turns fanning each other in the heat.

Our attention is called to a small, square stone box that was chipped out of this lava stone.  It is a manger.  That's right, this is the kind of thing Jesus was "laying in a manger" the night He was born.  These mangers have been everywhere we have been.  There were several in the castle on Mt. Hermon, there were mangers at Dan.  The manger we will see when we visit Jerusalem at the Church of the Holy Nativity is like this one, except a little bit longer.  Not quite the little wooden mangers of Christmas dramas I have seen all my life.

We move to the reconstructed main part of the synagogue.  The columns here still have some of the smooth covering on the bottom part.  The chiseled stone blocks and lintels, capitols and the like are just amazing.  For the more important archaeological finds, replicas that look every bit authentic are placed where the originals were while the real ones reside at the Israeli National Museum.

Outside the entrance to the synagogue is the seat of the chief priest of this community.  It was a place of honor.  It is in front much like the king's seat at the entrance of Dan.  All who would enter the synagogue would honor the chief priest of the community before they would enter the synagogue for worship.  The scripture comes to mind of Jesus' rebuke of the Pharisees:

Luke 11:43 (NKJV)  

    Woe to you Pharisees! For you love the best seats in the synagogues and greetings in the marketplaces. 

I avoid the seat.

There are many rocks here and we are up to the task of photographing them all.  Once again, we are directed toward the buses as we have more places to explore.  But first, lunch.