“Are you alright?” Nick whispered to me, as I gazed out the window into the darkness on the car ride back from Acre to Haifa. Earlier that night I had stumbled upon an old friend from New York, and had a long conversation complete with laughter and Persian tea overlooking the Mansion of Bahji. The week before, I had been wandering aimlessly through the streets of Barcelona, staying in a cheap hostel just off the main square, running my hands across the mosaic walls of Gaudi’s creations, hiking spontaneously through the mountains outside the city. I had kneeled in the olive gardens of Gethsemane where Jesus went before Judas betrayed Him, and laid my palm against the Western Wall. I had come there from the deserts of Navajo Nation, the red sand and canyons and the endless skies. I had no money or property to speak of, other than a ticket leaving for Hong Kong in a few weeks, and no certainty as to my fate or my future to speak of.
“Are you kidding?” I whispered back with a peaceful smile. “I am ready to die.”