The Blog
Diary of a solo traveler wandering around Europe

Like my paternal great grandmother, my maternal grandfather, at the age of 12 or 13, with his parents and six or seven siblings embarked on a journey from Priluki in the Ukraine to Liverpool in the United Kingdom. I asked ChatGPT about this journey and here's what I got: Traveling from Priluki to Liverpool at the beginning of the 20th century would have been a long and complex journey, likely taken by people emigrating due to war, pogroms, poverty or persecution.

The rain continues in full force when suddenly the app, in a pleasant Australian accent, informs me that the M25 motorway—that is, London’s orbital road—has been closed due to maintenance work. “What?” I cry out to the calm Australian, while the wipers fling back and forth with all their might and no one can hear me. The app also reports that diesel engines are forbidden in the capital city, and that anyone who dares to drive through it will be heavily fined.

The drive isn’t long, just 286 kilometers, so I choose to to drive through quiet villages and farmland dotted with Frisian cows, just like the ones on my kibbutz. The day is beautiful, the green fields are of a deeper green, and out of nowhere, a tsunami of fear washes over me. Images of a tunnel carrying hundreds of thousands of tons of water above it race through my mind, along with the unreasonable crossing time I chose in my well-known thriftiness—three o'clock in the mo

I stay in the village of Ørbæk for about three more weeks, during which the hot water pipe is finally replaced, the hole is sealed, and the floor returns to its original state. However, the vacuum cleaner has disappeared from our lives forever, and the tractor hasn't moved an inch. But I’m having fun.

At the entrance to port of Flensburg stand a statue of the Naked Christophorus.

The blonde asks, “Welche sprache sprichst du?” A second passes before I find my voice and explain that I do not speak German. “What language were you talking?” she asks. “Hebrew,” I reply. “Oh? you are from Israel…?” The blonde smiles and sneaks a glance at her friend. Somewhere in the back of my soul I feel a fleeting sense of loneliness. I want to sit between them, have each of them hug me from either side, and then quietly die.

Everything in Berlin is big - the streets, the buildings, the history, the wall, everything. For the next week or so I will stay at Krosinsee Camping in my humble camper van and just enjoy being nobody in Berlin.

Here in Jena, in the light rain, among the tall trees, I become a Jew. I long for this landscape and this coolness because they are embedded in my history, yet I do not belong here either. Not here, nor in the Near East, where I truly suffer. What will become of me?

Unfortunately, the room that is closest to the Winery, is the Music Room, where a wind orchestra practices every day. I assume the players are quite young. Their breathing power fails to sustain long notes. It sound as if all the music students at every hour of the day are preparing the same musical piece and it is obvious that many of them are completely tone deaf.

I walk down a dark hallway until I come to a door behind which a female voice is instructing, "Inhale and exhale" in French. Is it possible that a French yoga class is taking place here? Yoga is good. Yoga means that these people are also breathing so there's a better chance that no police will be involved. I knock on the door, and on the other side all goes quiet. Eyes wide, I wait, and then the door opens. "Yoga!" I say, "C'est très bien!"

tonight I realize there’s no one to rely on but me and my father in heaven, and so I say to myself: "first of all, let’s calm down." How in the world do you calm down when no air is going into your lungs? You meditate.

But in Alcala de la Jovada, beneath a peach tree, sleep is sweet, and early the next morning, I heat the water in my van and take a shower outside, under the canopy, with warm water washing over my bodyand a dense, cold mist surrounding me. Inside Nadedet, I dry off and put on clean clothes, and the new day smiles, promising to be better than yesterday, and I believe it.

The parking spot is perfect. Behind me are the silent village houses, and in front of me the sun is setting over a mountain. I roll out the awning that creates a sort of porch, open the back doors of the car, and lie down on the bed. If earlier I thought that the chirping of the birds was excessive, now, in the sunset, the choir has settled on all the treetops surrounding my Nadedet, and is simply chirping to its heart's content. I lie there and listen. Today is Friday. Tomor

On May 29th, after a refreshing sleep, I wake up in a hotel room in Lyon, stretch, and replay the yesterday's entire film in my mind. A wave of self-satisfaction washes over me. If I got through that, it seems I can handle anything that comes my way. At this moment in time, what I cannot imagine is how much this realization will be put to the test.

The scenery here is breathtaking, and the rain that had fallen has vanished as quickly as it came, and once again the green glistens, with the villages blending perfectly into the hillside, and the camper fills with adjectives that suit one of the most beautiful regions in the world.

With all the excitement and fear, my body, quite literally, begins to tremble. Do I need to register? Where do I park the camper? How do I connect to electricity? Who do I ask? I pull over to the side of the road, turn off the engine, and slowly make my way from the driver's seat to the ground. After so many hours of driving, I can hardly walk, and my blood pressure feels like it has dropped to an all-time low. I have to lean against the car to avoid falling to the ground.