Story by Rachel Ross
“I can tell you’re a traveller and not a tourist,” said the man behind the traveller’s information desk in Tel Aviv airport, eyeing my giant backpack. “This is good.”
I was in Israel to join a group from the School of Media and Journalism at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. The rest of the group was already in a remote town called Huqoq, where we were documenting an archaeological dig. I had to fly in a few days late so that I could attend my younger brother’s high school graduation.
Upon arriving in Israel, I was in a mild panic. All public transportation was closed for the holiday Shavuot. I had no idea how to get to Huqoq.
When the man at passport control in Israel asked where I was going, he had not heard of it. I explained that it was in Galilee, a little north of Tiberias and repeated the name.
“Ahh,” the man understood and corrected my pronunciation. “That is not near Tiberias.”
His comment threw me off, but I disregarded it and adopted how he said “Huqoq.”
When I finally got through security and picked up my enormous, blue pack, I wandered around the airport looking for a sign from God that would magically get me to Huqoq. I was in the Holy Land, after all.
I walked into the main area of the airport where I was struck by the sight of a giant poster of Kim Kardashian West. It was my sign from God. Seeing Mrs. West’s familiar face made me feel like all would be well.
Spurred on by Kim K., I approached the traveller information desk and explained my dilemma. The friendly man there told me to take a shared taxi to Haifa, a town about an hour north of Tel Aviv, and take a taxi from there.
I thanked him, feeling bolstered by his remark about travellers and tourists, and strutted toward the shared taxis, certain of my plan and how to execute it.
Steps away from the taxi, I realized I did not have my wallet. I thought, “not again.”
When I was 16, I lost my wallet in the Louvre on a school trip. I sulked back inside, my newfound confidence scattered by the all-too-familiar hysteria of losing my wallet abroad, and scanned the ground.
But, like a knight in shining armor, the man from the information desk came running toward me, my wallet raised high in his hand.
I thanked him profusely and walked more soberly to the shared taxis.
But I did not get bogged down by this slip. I chanted “I’m a traveller not a tourist,” to myself. Losing my wallet was my one allotted tourist snafu. I would be a traveller from now on, no more mistakes.
After throwing my pack in the taxi, I hopped in a seat by the window and cheerfully texted my group that I would be there soon.
At a corner in Haifa, the driver yelled at me to get off the van and wait for another that would take me to Huqoq.
When on the second shared taxi, I looked at road signs, hoping to see indications of an archaeological site. One sign just before an exit read “Akko.”
The way that I pronounced “Akko” in my head sounded suspiciously like the way I had been taught to pronounce Huqoq by the man at passport control.
Things got even more suspicious when the driver took the exit to Akko.
Upon reaching a barren bus station next to a park, the driver barked at me to get off the van.
I was alone. I was in the Middle East. And I was an hour away from Huqoq.
I had chosen not to take a taxi straight to Huqoq because the man at the traveler’s desk at the airport said it would be expensive, and I was emboldened by his comment about being a traveller and not a tourist. A tourist would take the easy way out and call a taxi. A traveller would take the road less travelled to become acquainted with the foreign land.
But I was defeated. I called a taxi.
After the hour-long drive, I made it.
When I was 16, I had gotten lost in Paris. When I finally made it back to our hotel, everyone rushed out and hugged me. We all cried and my teachers apologized for losing track of me. It was dramatic.
In Huqoq, everyone was napping when I arrived. Later, I was greeted warmly, but with a more “Oh, you’re finally here. Let’s get to work,” reception. It was uneventful.
This was a small nuance, but, to me, it was the slap of realization that I am now an adult, going into the real world. Part of growing up is learning to be proud of yourself without seeking approval from others. From this experience, I learned that I am strong, and I don’t need anyone else to tell me.
With my two “getting lost abroad” stories, my career at UNC came full circle. I wrote about getting lost in Paris in my application essay to UNC. And now, this last piece that I will write for UNC is about getting lost in Israel.
Getting lost got me into UNC and now it got me out. Cheers to getting lost.
