Bethlehem Innkeepers Still Jerks

(Jerusalem — Tel Aviv-Gaza Evening Post — December 21, 2015)

We arrived at Quo Vadis International at around midday on a hot desert afternoon and waited an hour for a rickety bus to the tiny village of Bethlehem. All around us stood Israeli soldiers armed to the teeth geared up for who knew what.

It was mid-week during the slow tourist season in the Holy Land and subsequently we had made no lodging arrangements. With the legacy of rude innkeepers on our Biblical minds we boarded the bus and headed out toward the evening’s destination.

In about 40 minutes the bus pulled up to a nice enough adobe-type hotel on the outskirts of Bethlehem. Several Americans departed to inquire about lodging for the night. The bus driver was more than happy to wait knowing we would return in no time. He smirked. The innkeeper apologized but insisted she had no rooms even though there were no people in the lobby and no cars in the massive parking lot. We traveled further.

The next potential oasis was the center of the village itself. The bus driver giggled and pulled over to the side of the road. This time to hotel was outwardly obnoxious. The clerk there ridiculed us for not making reservations beforehand, muttering something in broken Arabic as he slammed the shutters and turned off the welcome light.

We were quickly back in out seats and rolling down the highway again.
One fellow traveler, from Marseille scoffed at the rude behavior saying these hoteliers had inherited their bad attitude from Roman times when the accommodation charade first began.

“On my last trip here,” he began, “ I solicited ten hotels before retiring to a vacant barn on the outskirts of Bethlehem. We then decided to dispense with all the tomfoolery and follow suit. Unfortunately upon our arrival it became clear that someone else had beaten us to the punch.

A young family with a newborn had taken over the digs. The three were  surrounded by some hastily arranged livestock and some strange looking royals from another planet They appeared to be preparing some nomadic dinner. We found a place in the corner and dropped our gear.

“Hey Joe, are there any decent restaurants around here,” I asked the father figure who sat by the slowly dying embers in the shadowed regions of the old barn.

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