T H I S+W E E K Gonzo Congo Redmond O'Hanlon hunts dinosaurs in the African jungle By Don George, Editor Fetishes and fossils A talk with Redmond O'Hanlon > Kidnap my heart By Alison Buckholtz An Arab taxi driver takes a lone American where she never planned D E P A R T M E N T S The Surreal Gourmet By Bob Blumer Dahling, you taste fabulous! Mondo Weirdo More strange food tales Postmark By Tessa Souter Harlem on my mind Readers' Tips and Tales The ugly American - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Your virtual travel agency - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - LA S T+W E E K Tuesday, June 10 Tiger Leaping Gorge By Simon Winchester Greed menaces a Chinese treasure A full list of all Wanderlust articles

Alone in Jerusalem, a young woman yields to a taxi driver's smile. BY ALISON BUCKHOLTZ | i've never been one for official guides and maps, so on one steamy morning during a recent trip to Israel, I set off on my own personal walking tour of Jerusalem. Destination: wherever whim -- and air conditioning -- dictated. Just before noon I found myself wandering through the dim, damp, maze like byways of the souk, blissfully lost in the sounds and smells of the marketplace. As I followed the crowd and emerged in sunlight again, I found myself on the steps of the Damascus Gate and began to think about my next stop. A pea green Mercedes taxi pulled up, and the driver rolled down the window closest to me. "Ten shekels, 10 shekels, anywhere you want to go." I wasn't ready to give up my walking tour just yet. I wanted to go to the Wailing Wall and although I wasn't sure how to get there, I was certain it wasn't far. I politely declined the cab. But the driver didn't go away. "Anywhere, anywhere, 10 shekels. Where you going?" "I don't want a cab." "Where you going?" "The Wall." "I take you, 10 shekels. How much you want to pay?" "I'm going to walk." "Five shekels. You pay 5 shekels? You tell me what you want to pay." I did some mental math. Five shekels came out to less than two dollars, multiplied by the amount of energy I would use to convince the driver to leave me alone, divided by the pain of my sunburned shoulders. My quick calculation came out in his favor. I peered through the high-noon glare at the driver. He was handsome, and he was smiling. In the office building where I work in Cambridge, Mass., even corporate neighbors riding the same elevator can't bring themselves to smile at each other. I got in. Sitting next to him, I had a better look. I guessed he was Arab, in his early 30s. He was circumspect but friendly, and eager to take me anywhere. Anywhere, it turned out, except for where I wanted to go. "I show you Mount of Olives," he said, "the beautiful panoramic view. You like it?" No, no, no, I insisted. (My brother had instructed me in the firm but persuasive art of dealing with Middle Eastern cab drivers.) "I've already been to the Mount of Olives," I said. "I want to go to the Wall." I kept repeating myself, and he began telling me what a beautiful American girl I was, so pretty, imploring me to take off my sunglasses so he could see my eyes. When we drove by the sign that proclaimed we were on our way to the Mount of Olives, it seemed like it was wagging a finger at me. Somewhere between my heart and my stomach, regret poked itself like a cold metal compass in all four directions. I chastised myself as if I were my mother. I hadn't paid attention to my surroundings -- and because I started out somewhere I shouldn't have been, I was going to end up somewhere I shouldn't be. Maybe no one smiles at you on the elevator, I scolded myself, but at least you get to the seventh floor without incident. The driver steered the car slowly up a dirt path, up and up and up. We passed ancient cars poised on cement blocks, ready to careen across Jerusalem if only their owners would return to claim them. But there was no one for miles. It seemed to me the entire country had emptied itself at that moment. My companion was trying to talk to me about computers. His English was very good. What was my name? I told him. He rolled it on his tongue, "Al-i-son. Al-i-son." I glanced down at the Star of David charm around my neck and wondered if he had seen it, or whether it mattered to him that I was Jewish. The only thing that mattered to me was that he was a man, and that I was stuck in his car. Had I really come all this way to get charmed into a situation that I would have carefully avoided at home? There was no room for weakness, I realized, and I chatted back as cheerfully and confidently as if we were on our way to the movies. Make him laugh, I told myself. Make him your friend. At the top of the Mount of Olives I jumped out to take the requisite pictures of the beautiful panoramic view. It's halfway over, I figured. The sooner I take the pictures, the sooner I'm on my way back. As I snapped away, I felt a hand on my shoulder, pulling me close. I moved away. "I am Mahmoud," he said. "It's very nice to meet you, Al-i-son." He took my hand and kissed it, and then pulled me forward toward his mouth. I quickly stepped back. He again held my arm and pulled me into a too-close hug. I moved away and shook my head, scanning the desolate landscape. There was nowhere to go, no one to run to. "I take a picture of you," he suggested. Loath to prolong our time together, I reminded him that I already knew what I looked like, and he threw his head back and laughed and laughed. At that moment I felt pure relief. We had finally connected. He wiped his eyes and looked at me differently, with a wary respect. We were no longer native and tourist, Arab and Jew, man and woman. We were friends. "So, do you normally go around picking up American girls?" I asked as we buckled ourselves back into the car. Mahmoud's smile faded into the lines of his face. "Oh, never before. I saw something in you. I saw we should be together. You are very special. I could see that at the very beginning." Friends? I had been fooling myself. "Now can we go to the Wall?" I asked, trying to sound nonchalant. But when Mahmoud started to drive, he navigated down the mount a different way, into throngs of pedestrian traffic, into the markets of East Jerusalem. He negotiated the car slowly through the people, almost at pedestrian pace himself, greeting everyone he knew. Every man and woman in East Jerusalem peered into the car, it seemed. Mahmoud, you going home later? Mahmoud, how is your mother? He translated for me as we crept through the street. "Al-i-son," he said, turning toward me, "we go to Ramallah, meet my mother. You want coffee? Real coffee? We have coffee with my brothers." He smiled again, that Damascus Gate smile, the smile that lured me into the car. "I take you, I take you," he repeated, as if the sheer force of words would produce this happy family scene. But then he stopped asking even before I could tell him no. He pulled up to a small market and announced he was buying us drinks. "I don't want a drink," I said. I wanted to go to the Wall. "Well, I am thirsty," he said. "I am getting a drink. What would you like?" "Nothing." "What would you like?" "Nothing." He gave me an exasperated, married-for-decades look. "Diet Coke." He disappeared into the store and quickly poked out his head. "No Diet," shouted my abductor, my would-be husband, my companion in weight loss. "Anything else you want?" Finally, we started again and he drove me to the Wall. Just outside the gates, he stopped the car, gripped the wheel with both hands and turned to me. "I want to see you again." "I don't think so." "I need to see you again. Can I please call you?" I looked at him. Maybe the spark that his Damascus Gate smile had ignited deserved attention. I didn't dislike him, and for a while, we really were at home in our bizarre coupling. Then again, he was kind of kidnapping me. I hadn't wanted to go the Mount of Olives. I hadn't asked for any of this. But maybe he thought my sheer act of getting into the car expressed a wordless acquiescence. Cultural cues and everything. After all, he hadn't rushed me off to Ramallah. Could I possibly see him again, explore this weird thing? "I'm sorry, no." He sat quietly, chin on chest. He thought for a moment. "Do you have paper? I give you my phone number. You call me. I need to see you again. You call me?" He scribbled some numbers of a scrap of paper, kissed my hand, kissed me on the cheek. I hurried away and stood behind one of the colossal stone gates shielding Jerusalem from the rest of the world. I unfolded the crumpled rectangle he had pressed on me. Mahmoud had scrawled his name as if it were a miniature mountain, as rough and strong as the one we had just traveled far, far away from. I held it in my palm long after I heard him drive away. June 17, 1997 Alison Buckholtz will be returning to Jerusalem, this time for a year-long academic fellowship. She works as a public relations executive and lives in Boston. Have you experienced romantic tension while traveling? How did you deal with it? Join the ongoing discussion in the Romacing the Road section of Table Talk. Learn about Jerusalem's thriving nightlife or the historical significance of the Mount of Olives in Wanderlust Marketplace's coverage of Jerusalem and its surrounding areas.

W A N D E R L U S T

A R C H I V E S N E W S L E T T E R T A B L E T A L K M A R K E T P L A C E