Israel, Not a Land for the Shy

Kim Marcus
Posted: February 3, 2000

Israel: Not a Land for the Shy

Assistant managing editor Kim Marcus recently returned from a trip to Israel. His full report on the country's wines and wine industry can be found in the Sept. 30, 1998 Wine Spectator, but he also found time to send Wine Spectator Online some of the observation he made during his travels:

Israel is a land like few others in the world, defined by the limits of its territorial boundaries and the history of the many cultures and religions that can lay claim to its heritage. This is the enduring perception I came away with after a recent trip to the Jewish state to investigate the progress of its wine industry.

The assignment came in mid-May during a meeting of leading editors of Wine Spectator. With the 50th anniversary of the founding of Israel being celebrated this year, and a growing perception that the quality of its wines have improved after years of mediocrity, the decision was made to see what was happening.

I bought a couple of tour books on Israel and fortunately found at least some passing mention of its wineries and wine regions. I was thankful because I knew of no definitive books on Israeli wine or other guides I could use to orient myself. Other wine regions of the world--most notably those of Europe and California, and even Chile and Australia--have handy references that can be used to plan a trip.

For Israel, I was working on the fly, which brought with it unique challenges and potential rewards. I would be going into uncharted territory, with the promise of finding some truly new developments and angles for my story.

Before I left, I made some contacts in Israel who helped me plot out an itinerary. I was to visit about a dozen wineries in six days, a route that covered all the major Israeli wine regions. I booked a flight to Tel Aviv and took off from New York late one night, landing the next afternoon amid the bustle of Ben-Gurion airport.

Israel is not a land for the shy. I am a native San Franciscan, but after five years of living in New York City, I have become accustomed to, shall we say, a lack of concern among most of the residents of my adopted home town for the finer points of good manners and courteousness.

To be fair, New Yorkers are mostly reacting to the stress of living in such a densely populated environment. Israelis face the same stresses, though on a different order of magnitude--they have had little time to worry about manners in their struggle for survival in the hostile environs of the Middle East.As an American, I also had a few advantages going for me in visiting Israel. English is almost universally spoken in Israel, and American culture pervades the country. Israelis are keenly aware of American political and economic life, because their fate depends so intrinsically on what the United States does or doesn't do. That, and the connections between Jews in America and Israel, make for more than a formal relationship between two sovereign states. The politics of the two nations are inextricably bound together.

After a day resting up in Tel Aviv (which fronts a magnificent stretch of Mediterranean beach), I decided to rent a car and drive up to Jerusalem. The journey between these two cities, and the differences between them, goes a long way to explain the political and cultural forces at work in modern Israel.

Whereas Tel Aviv is built for the here and now, Jerusalem exists for the ages. Located on a plateau about 2,500 feet high on the edge of the Judean Desert, Jerusalem truly is the "City on a Hill." It's undergoing tremendous growth (like most of Israel), and it's amazing to see apartment buildings snaking down the ridgelines that define its perimeter. Normally, the trip between the two cities would take only about an hour, but on the outskirts of Jerusalem, I ran into a traffic jam. True, it was 9 a.m., so I figured I was in the midst of the morning rush hour.

I soon discovered I was mistaken. The traffic was slowed by the residents of some surrounding small towns who were protesting plans to enlarge the boundaries of Jerusalem by incorporating their jurisdictions. The proposal was being opposed, I learned later, because the relatively well-off residents of the villages didn't want their taxes diverted to Jerusalem. Also, being mostly secular Jews, they did not want to be subject to the Orthodox religionists who are wielding more and more power in Jerusalem.

Indeed, the divide between the secular and the religious in Israeli politics was brought up repeatedly by those I meet. Some even warned that if present divisions continue to sharpen, a civil war may occur. As an American and a believer in the separation of church and state, I thought about the centuries that were required before the Christian West defined the roles of church and state so that democracy could flourish. Jews were stateless until 50 years ago, and all those arguments the West battled so long over, and have more or less settled, are now being addressed in Israel.

When I finally arrived in Jerusalem, I wanted to visit a wine shop to find out whether there was a wine culture in Israel. It's an important question, because without a domestic interest in fine wines, there's no way Israel could support a modern wine industry.

Fortunately I found the Avi Ben wine store, where I witnessed a tasting of Spanish wines, talked with a knowledgeable store manager and surveyed a international mix of wines for sale on the store's shelves. Of course, there was a big selection of Israel's wines, some I had heard of, others I had not. The store offered a good overview of the wines I would be tasting over the next week.

At last, after a long journey across the Atlantic and the travails of driving from Tel Aviv (including plenty of narrow streets within Jerusalem proper), I finally had some reassurance that my trip was going to be worthwhile. I left Avi Ben with a couple of bottles of wine that I hoped would help me sort out the mission that lay ahead of me: defining the current state and future direction of Israeli wine.

Over the next week I would visit vineyards in the dry plateaus of the Negev Desert and long the humid coastline between Haifa and Jerusalem. Two of the most interesting vineyard excursions would come in the north, along the Syrian border in the Golan Heights and along the Lebanese border in the Upper Galilee region. In both locations, Israeli grape growers cultivate some of the country's best fruit in close proximity to potential battle zones.

But before that would come, I wanted to spend a little more time in Jerusalem. I gave myself an afternoon--too short, I know, but better than nothing given my tight schedule. I had been to Israel in 1981 and spent some time then exploring Jerusalem, but I felt that returning to some sites I had visited before would give me some added perspective for my story. For wine is not just an agricultural product, in my book, but is reflective of the culture in which it is made.

My visit to Jerusalem came on a Friday, and by the afternoon, most of the businesses in the Jewish sector of the city were shut down for Sabbath observance. I decided to walk to the Old City, which still remains the heart of Jerusalem. It is flanked by walls built mostly by the Turkish sultan Sulieman the Magnificent about 400 years ago, and they truly are impressive. Before the Six-Day War in 1967, this part of Jerusalem had been in Jordanian hands. It is still organized around the major religions that see Jerusalem as a holy city: There are Jewish, Muslim and Christian quarters within the walls. There's also an Armenian quarter.

Entering through the Jaffa Gate, I made my way down bazaars and cobblestone streets to the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, said to be the site of Calvary, where Jesus Christ was crucified. The church is large and at first glance underwhelming. Inside, the air is dark and dank, and the smell of incense wafts through a labyrinth of chapels. They have been built by the various Christian denominations, mostly Eastern Orthodox, who have claimed a piece of the holy site. Any construction within the church is a highly politicized affair: No denomination wants its place subordinated to another. The keys to the church itself are supposedly in the hands of a Muslim family, so quarrelsome are the Christians over the church.

I emerged from the darkness through big wooden doors into the bright sunlight of an adjoining plaza. The police were mediating a dispute on the other side of plaza involving some Eastern Orthodox priests and monks. Still, I sat down to relax and soak in the history of the place. The sandstone-colored limestone that dominates Jerusalem's architecture enclosed the plaza in a soothing and serene assemblage of clean lines. A few tourists milled about in the late afternoon heat, but not too many. It was a good respite, and put me in the mood to see a sight I had not visited in my previous journey to Jerusalem: the Mount of Olives, which lies on the eastern edge of the city.

I left the Old City and made my way back to the car. The air was hot and dry, and I was quickly consuming the liter of water I had been carrying. But the streets were quiet, and I felt confident I could reach the Mount of Olives with little trouble. All that lay between me and my destination was the Old City. I put the car in gear and drove away; despite the warnings I had heard about bad Israeli drivers, I found them no worse than New Yorkers, and even a bit better--due no doubt to the many traffic police I saw on the roads.

I left Jewish West Jerusalem and quickly found myself in the din and crowded streets of Arab East Jerusalem. Elongated Mercedes with roof racks congregated outside Herod's Gate waiting to pick up passengers for trips to the surrounding Arab towns and villages. I had a map of Jerusalem with me, but I didn't dare take my eyes off the road. However, I knew if I kept the walls of the Old City in sight, I would at least be going in the right direction. Finally, I found my way to the Valley of Kidron (or Jehoshaphat), which separates the Old City from the Mount of Olives.

This is the site of the Garden of Gethsemane, where Christ prayed after the Last Supper before his arrest. The site is also filled with significance for Jews and Muslims, who both place key events for their end-of-the-world scenarios within its confines. However, my mind was on more mundane matters in my attempt to reach the summit of the Mount of Olives. The roads in the Arab part of Jerusalem reminded me of those in Indian reservations in the American West: potholed and dusty. There were no signs to the top--at least none that I could find--so again I relied on my sense of direction.

Fortunately, it was still in good working order, and I suddenly found myself at the end of a cul-de-sac with tour buses, photogenic camels and plenty of cameras clicking. I parked, knowing the journey had been worth it. Across the small valley, the ramparts of the Old City rose up from steep, rocky slopes. The vista was dominated by the golden Dome of the Rock, one of the oldest and most beautiful mosques in the world. Church spires also punctuated the skyline, and farther in the distance, the new apartment buildings of West Jerusalem provided a modern backdrop to the historic panorama.

I took a few pictures, but knew that the afternoon sun and hazy summer atmosphere would not provide the best exposure. In the following days, I would see many other beautiful and inspiring sights, but none would equal the unique perspective of space and time that the view from the Mount of Olives gave me.

--Kim Marcus