byChrisWhite – 2025

To wander through the Upper Galilee is to engage in a most peculiar conversation, one in which the past does most of the talking and the present is reduced to nodding politely and trying not to step on something of great historical significance. In most places, history is a thing of books and museums, carefully preserved behind glass and protected by stern-faced curators. Here, history litters the ground like an absentminded child’s forgotten toys. A person can hardly go for a stroll without kicking up a Roman coin, a Crusader’s brick, or a relic that some poor archaeologist has been hoping to unearth for the last twenty years.

There is something profoundly unfair about this. If I were to find so much as a single pottery shard in my backyard, the Smithsonian would expect a formal report, and my wife would expect an apology for digging up the garden. Yet here in Galilee, history is underfoot like common gravel. The hills roll gently but purposefully, as though nudging travelers toward discovery, and the air carries an odd mixture of wildflowers, distant woodsmoke, and the unsettling realization that every step is crushing something of archaeological value.

Camels, Contradictions, and the Unpredictability of Travel

Of all the regions of Israel (aside from Jerusalem, which carries the weight of history like an old man with a full set of luggage), Galilee is the most picturesque. That is, unless you happen to be in an area where nature has had to compete with the more modern contributions of mankind. The nomadic Arab communities that drift through these lands bring with them a rich cultural heritage, a well-earned reputation for hospitality, and, it must be said, some truly magnificent camels. There is something oddly dignified about a camel, standing tall and unimpressed by the modern world, as though it alone remembers a time when the earth was wilder, quieter, and far less paved.

However, one must also contend with the fact that not everyone treats this ancient landscape with the reverence it deserves. There is a curious tendency among certain travelers, who shall remain nameless but may or may not have an affinity for a transient lifestyle, to use the land as though it were a personal wastebasket. This, of course, does not apply to all, but it does add a certain unpredictability to an otherwise breathtaking view. One moment you are gazing upon the same hills that framed the miracles of Christ, and the next, you are sidestepping empty soda bottles, left as a testament to modern civilization’s own peculiar form of legacy.

From Mystical Cities to Miraculous Waters

This second chapter of our journey takes us from the Mediterranean coastline, across the Upper Galilee, north into the mystical city of Safed, and finally southward to the fabled waters of the Sea of Galilee. Each of these places has a way of insisting upon its own importance, as though daring the traveler to remain indifferent. Safed is a city of mystics, scholars, and artists, a place where one is never entirely certain whether they have entered a gallery, a synagogue, or a philosophical debate that has been going on since the 16th century. And then, of course, there is the Sea of Galilee, whose waters have witnessed more miracles than most theological textbooks combined.

A wise traveler comes to Israel prepared for contradiction, ancient ruins and modern espresso bars, biblical history and everyday commotion, sacred silence and a passing truck that absolutely refuses to observe the holiness of the moment, let’s all agree to pass on conversations of the Iron Dome. But that, perhaps, is what makes it so deeply compelling.

If you are looking for a place where history remains in textbooks and the past is a polite exhibit behind velvet ropes, Israel is not for you. But if you have the slightest interest in walking through a land where the past refuses to remain quiet, where faith and reason wrestle like old friends, and where a simple journey can feel like a step through time, then, my friend, you will find no place on earth quite like this one.

And if nothing else, I promise you’ll never look at a camel the same way again.

Daliyat al-Karmel: Hats, Hospitality, and Hidden Wisdom

Driving east toward Nazareth from Haifa, we found ourselves on a detour that turned out to be one of the most unexpected delights of our journey, a visit to a Druze family’s home. Now, I pride myself on being something of an armchair scholar of obscure trivia, but I’ll admit, the Druze had somehow slipped under my radar. This enigmatic religious sect has been around for centuries, quietly keeping their secrets while the rest of the world bickers about whose version of divine revelation is correct.

The family welcomed us with open arms and an impressive spread of food that made it clear we were in for both a culinary and intellectual feast. The table groaned under the weight of dishes I couldn’t begin to pronounce, let alone identify, which posed a particular challenge for my wife, Emily. She’s blessed with many fine qualities, but adventurous eating isn’t one of them. Emily’s travel kit always includes a stash of Butterfingers, her edible insurance policy against uncharted culinary waters. But even she had to admit, between bites of what she cautiously referred to as “mystery stew,” that the meal was downright delicious.

The Druze religion, however, was the real showstopper. Just last month, I’d watched a documentary on the Shroud of Turin, the supposed burial cloth of Jesus. Imagine my surprise when I learned that scientists had traced DNA from the shroud back to the Druze, a group so insular they make the Swiss look like social butterflies. The Druze don’t marry outside their faith, they don’t allow converts, and their bloodlines are as tightly woven as one of their own colorful tapestries. Their holy book, the Epistles of Wisdom, is an esoteric trove that emphasizes the pursuit of truth through intellect. It’s the kind of scripture that would’ve impressed even my Mamaw White, who was as devout as she was suspicious of anything “too fancy.”

Speaking of fancy, the Druze also believe in reincarnation and Theophany, ideas that would’ve sent Mamaw into a tizzy. But here, they felt like a natural extension of a faith that weaves together elements from Islam, Christianity, and Judaism. Their prophets include luminaries from across the spiritual spectrum: Adam, Noah, Abraham, Moses, Jesus, Muhammad, and a few others I suspect most people haven’t met in Sunday School.

Their history, like their theology, is layered and complicated. With a population of just over a million scattered across Israel, Lebanon, Syria, and Jordan, the Druze have faced centuries of persecution yet managed to thrive with resilience and no small amount of style. Let me tell you, the men’s hats alone deserve a chapter in the history books. These aren’t just hats; they’re statements. If there were an international ranking for religious headgear, the Druze would sit comfortably at the top, their crowns unchallenged.

As we lingered over the last of the meal, the family’s warmth and humor made it clear that while their faith is shrouded in mystery, their hospitality is as open as the Galilean sky. By the time we left, I felt like we’d stumbled upon something extraordinary, a secret society that not only guards ancient wisdom but also serves a falafel so good it could convert a skeptic.

Even Emily, ever the Butterfinger loyalist, admitted it was worth the detour. “That stew was pretty good,” she said, a rare concession. And coming from her, that’s high praise indeed. So, if you ever find yourself near Nazareth with an appetite for both food and philosophy, take the road less traveled. You might just find yourself enchanted by a people whose secrets are as rich as their cooking, and whose hats are, without question, the finest in all the lands.

A Stroll Through Nazareth: Grace Amid the Rubble

Now, if you’ve ever cracked open a Bible or been to Sunday school, you’ve probably heard all about it, Jesus’ childhood home, or at least his post-Bethlehem hangout. Let’s be honest, the man got around. Today, Nazareth is known as the Arab capital of Israel, where the population is 69% Muslim and 31% Christian. It’s a bustling little city, though “bustling” here feels more like a polite way of saying “chaotic.”

The city itself isn’t much to look at. Imagine a hill dotted with random, junky-looking buildings, some precariously perched like they’re auditioning for a landslide. Decomposing trash decorates the streets like confetti after a particularly uninspired parade, and every new construction project seems destined to outdo its neighbor in ugliness. But, rising above all that, both figuratively and literally, is the Greek Orthodox Church of the Annunciation.

The church and its grounds are stunning, a shining example of what happens when reverence meets architecture. Inside, you’ll find Mary’s Well, a cave housing a spring of water that’s still flowing today. This is the very spot where the Archangel Gabriel is said to have appeared to Mary, delivering news that would change the course of history, and here’s how I imagine that conversation might’ve gone if Gabriel had a touch of Southern charm:

Gabriel: “Well, hey there, Mary! Don’t be scared now, sugar. You’ve caught the Lord’s eye, and I’m here to tell you somethin’ real special.”
Mary: “Alright… uh, what kind of special are we talkin’ about here?”
Gabriel: “Here’s the deal. You’re gonna have a baby, yep, the Son of God himself, and you’re gonna name him Jesus. He’s gonna be a big deal, sittin’ on David’s throne, ruling forever. Kingdoms will rise and fall, but his? It’s eternal, darlin’.”
Mary (eyes narrowing): “Okay, but just how’s that supposed to work? I mean, not to be blunt, but I haven’t, y’know, been with a man.”
Gabriel (grinning): “Oh, don’t you worry about that. The Holy Spirit’s gonna handle all that. You’ll be overshadowed by the power of the Most High, then voila. Trust me, it’s all in the plan.”
Mary (after a long pause): “Well, alright then. If you say so.”

And just like that, history, or salvation, depending on how you see it, was set in motion.

Aside from its spiritual significance, the church grounds are riddled with archaeological digs that keep unearthing bits of history, adding layers to the already rich tapestry of the place. You can’t walk ten feet without stumbling across something ancient and fascinating. It’s the kind of place that makes you feel like you’re straddling the line between the sacred and the historical, and it’s nothing short of awe-inspiring.

As we left, the beauty of the church and its grounds stayed with me, a stark contrast to the rest of Nazareth. While the city’s modern facade is, let’s face it, less than attractive, the Church of the Annunciation rises above it all, a reminder that even in the messiest of places, there’s room for something extraordinary. And for that alone, it’s worth the visit.

Kafr Kanna

We left Nazareth, still heading east, winding our way through Kafr Kanna, a town that holds its claim to fame as the place where Jesus performed his first miracle, turning water into wine. It was, as the story goes, an emergency act of divine hospitality when John, a top-tier apostle but a bottom-tier wedding planner, somehow underestimated the wine budget. Jesus stepped in, of course, and the wine he produced was reportedly the best anyone had ever tasted. It’s the kind of thing that makes you wonder: did the bride’s family write a thank-you note, or just let it slide because, well, He was already there?

From Kafr Kanna, our road trip led us to the Sea of Galilee, a place as serene as its name suggests. Crossing over to the opposite side, we visited the Church of the Beatitudes, perched on a hill overlooking the water. This was the site of the Sermon on the Mount, where Jesus delivered some of his most famous teachings. Standing there, I couldn’t help but picture the scene: the crowds sprawled on the hillside, hanging on every word, with the Sea of Galilee shimmering in the background like a divine screensaver. It’s the kind of spot that almost demands contemplation, though Emily and I mostly just marveled at how Jesus managed to project his voice without the aid of a sound system.

We stayed long enough to watch one of the most beautiful sunsets I’ve ever seen, the golden light spilling over the water and painting the hills in shades of amber and rose. It was the kind of moment that makes you feel small in the best way, as if the world is quietly reminding you of its grandeur. But as the last rays of sunlight dipped below the horizon, it was time to head to our lodging for the night: a kibbutz called the Pastoral Kfar Blum Hotel.

Now, if you’re unfamiliar with kibbutzim, they’re communal, quasi-communist settlements where everything is shared, from meals to duties. Except, apparently, for electrical outlets. Our room, a tidy little throwback to the early days of austerity, had exactly one outlet, strategically located as far away from the bed as possible. This left me borrowing an extension cord from the front desk so I could charge the array of modern conveniences we’d lugged halfway across the world. It’s the kind of setup that makes you appreciate the irony of staying in a communal living space that also birthed one of Israel’s most famous capitalist triumphs: the Galil assault rifle. Nothing says “teamwork” quite like inventing a weapon of national defense. And the money ain’t bad either.

By the time we’d wrestled with the logistics of phone chargers and settled in for the night, the day’s adventures were beginning to catch up with us. As I lay there in the dimly lit room, listening to the hum of the borrowed extension cord, I couldn’t help but chuckle at the contrast. Here we were, fresh from exploring some of the most spiritually significant places in the world, ending the day in a room where the most pressing challenge was whether my phone would be at 100% by morning.

Tomorrow promises to be another full day of exploration and discovery, but for now, I’m content to rest my weary feet and marvel at the curious mix of the ancient and the modern, the sacred and the practical, that defines this fascinating corner of the world.

A Jaunt to Agamon Hula Nature Reserve

This morning, after a breakfast that neither inspired poetry nor caused indigestion, commendable in itself, we set off for Agamon Hula Nature Reserve, a sanctuary that sits like a gem in the crown of the Middle East’s landscapes. It is a patch of wilderness that has been both abused and redeemed by the hands of man and now serves as an eloquent argument for the resilience of nature, provided humans don’t meddle too much.

Upon arrival, we were greeted by an expanse of marshlands and a restored lake so picturesque that one might suspect it was assembled by a committee of landscape painters, had the water buffalo not been lounging about in the shallows, wholly indifferent to aesthetic considerations. Speaking of water buffalo, this reserve boasts the largest herd in Israel. They are majestic creatures, though prone to expressions of bovine ennui that could put the most world-weary philosopher to shame.

The birdlife is, of course, the reserve’s main claim to fame. Agamon Hula is a veritable feathered carnival, teeming with herons, pelicans, and cranes that strut, soar, and splash about with an air of entitlement. The papyrus and reeds stand tall as their silent sentinels, creating a labyrinth of greenery where ducks vanish like Houdini only to reappear on the far side of the lake. The reeds, though charming to the eye, are not without their secrets; rumor has it they were once privy to the whispers of smugglers. Today, they keep the company of biologists and birdwatchers instead, which seems a step up.

We climbed an observation tower, which, I suspect, was designed more for the enthusiastic ornithologist than for those faint of heart or lung. From this lofty perch, we surveyed the land, binoculars in hand, and spotted deer so elegant they seemed borrowed from a Persian miniature painting. These fallow deer, common to the region, move with such grace that one is almost ashamed to watch, as though intruding upon a private ballet.

The visitor center is a marvel of modern interpretation, featuring interactive displays that make one feel rather clever for pressing buttons and learning without the usual toil of opening a book. There’s also a garden shelter showcasing rare water plants that once defined this region before agricultural ambition drained the area and sent them packing. Some species are endangered, clinging to life here like eccentric relatives at a family reunion, refusing to be forgotten.

A floating bridge leads across the lake, offering views so serene it could lull even the most restless spirit into quietude. The walk around the reserve is an exercise in tranquility, save for the occasional squabble of birds or the snort of a water buffalo, which I took as a timely reminder not to get too self-satisfied in my musings.

The accommodation and upkeep of the park deserve commendation. Everything is clean, orderly, and yet brimming with the untamed energy of nature. If you visit, and I strongly recommend you do, allow yourself time to linger. Bring a good pair of walking shoes and a heart ready to be humbled by the sheer resilience of life in a place once brought to the brink of desolation.

Irony abounds here, for this patch of paradise exists not despite humanity’s interference, but because of its half-hearted repentance. It is proof that sometimes, even when we set out to destroy, nature finds a way to strike a bargain, so long as we’re willing to meet her halfway.

A Sojourn in Safed

From our last stop, we wound our way northward to the venerable city of Safed, perched like a crown atop the mountains of the Upper Galilee. Safed is not just old, it is ancient, a city so steeped in history and legend that it seems to carry the weight of millennia with a kind of regal nonchalance. As one of Judaism’s four Holy Cities, its streets resonate with whispers of mysticism, the faint echoes of Kabbalistic secrets murmuring through the cobblestone corridors. If rumor holds, Noah’s grandson Canaan himself founded this city, a claim which, while dubious, adds an air of grandeur that’s hard to resist.

Safed’s location is as strategic as it is scenic, nestled near the Lebanese border and a stone’s throw from the Golan Heights. The city stands as a sentinel over the region, its elevation affording views that could compel even the most jaded traveler to pause, reflect, and possibly compose bad poetry.

For lunch, we stumbled upon a small treasure: Lahuhe Original Food Bar, a haven of Yemenite hospitality tucked deep within the labyrinthine streets of the old city. Here, we encountered the marvel of culinary fusion, a dish I can only describe, with affectionate irreverence, as a “Yemenite burrito.” Wrapped in flatbread and brimming with falafel, spices, and a touch of culinary magic, it was as satisfying as it was unexpected. Nestled amidst ancient shops and weathered stone facades, this eatery is a testament to the enduring spirit of Safed, old-world charm infused with modern vibrancy.

After our feast, the city’s art colony beckoned. Safed’s reputation as an artistic haven is well deserved, with galleries and workshops lining the streets, their windows aglow with vibrant canvases and intricate sculptures. While wandering, Emily and I each caught sight of a painting that seemed to capture something ineffable, though we kept our thoughts to ourselves. After lunch, she turned to me and declared, “I want to go back and look at that painting I saw earlier.” To my surprise, I had my sights set on the same piece.

We retraced our steps to Sarah’s Tent Fine Art Gallery, an unassuming gem bursting with works that felt as if they belonged not only on walls but in the annals of artistic triumph. The piece in question spoke to both of us, a rare alignment of taste that defied the odds. Emily, ever the diplomat (or shark, depending on your perspective), engaged in a spirited negotiation, demonstrating a knack for bargains that would impress any seasoned haggler. The result: the painting now embarks on its own journey, bound for our home, a tangible piece of Safed to grace our walls.

Our final stop was the 16th-century Abuhav Synagogue, a structure as unique as it is sacred. Its blue-painted adornments are striking, as though the heavens themselves had lent their color to the decor. The atmosphere within is a blend of reverence and artistry, the kind of place that inspires both quiet reflection and the occasional whispered exclamation of awe.

Safed is a city of contrasts, ancient and contemporary, sacred and artistic, serene yet bustling with life. It stands as a testament to resilience and reinvention, a place where mystics, artists, and falafel enthusiasts alike find their spirits nourished. For anyone who appreciates history, beauty, or the simple joy of a well-made “burrito,” I can think of no finer destination.