Sometimes it is good not to drive. All too often (and rightly so) motorists are so busy concentrating on the road, they fail to see the world passing by.
And what a world to miss, particularly in Israel.
I am typing this item sitting on the 7:35 a.m. 417 bus from Ramat Beit Shemesh to Jerusalem.
To the right, the sun’s rays are warming my face through the window, to the left I see we have forded a narrow brook, which Israelis call a “river” – such is the scarcity of water here.
I am surrounded by a microcosm of Israeli life.
The bus is largely filled with religious Jews, the men reading from the Talmud, the women reciting morning prayers or psalms, the children completing their religious-education homework.
The bus is passing moshavim (collective communities where farming is still the mainstay) where Indian, Yemenite, Iraqi and Moroccan Jews dominate.
The cars are filled with upwardly mobile young Israelis off to make a living in the high-tech centers of Jerusalem to the east, and the coastal plain to the west.
Times in Israel are changing. The roadside coffee canteen is no longer a ramshackle affair with dirty cups and no smile, but a gleaming, dark brown wooden mobile, replete with espressos, umbrellas and service.
The main Tel Aviv-Jerusalem highway is, truth be told, too narrow, too windy and too busy. The route makes its way from the coast through Jerusalem’s foothills. One or two cars have stopped on the roadside, smoke pouring out, their drivers scratching their heads while talking to the repair people on their mobiles.
But this road is also a tribute to the days of yore. Peppered along the left side of the road are dozens of military vehicles dating back to the 1948 War of Independence and the battle to free the Jews caught in a tight Arab lock in Jerusalem.
Fierce battles took place along this road. The Arabs held the high ground and could easily launch attacks on the soon-to-be Israelis in the valley below. Eventually history would show that the young Jews fought the odds to win the battle. But the dead are never forgotten in this tiny state. And so the shells of the vehicles have been painted and left as a reminder.
Now we are high up on the road and looking down on villages to our right. It is here a decade or so ago that a Palestinian terrorist grabbed the wheel of a bus from its driver and forced the vehicle off the road, plunging hundreds of feet to its total destruction and that of most of its passengers.
The shopping mall of Mevasseret Zion now looms to the left. The double arches of that fast food chain that seems to think a clown says something about the level of its cooking are a magnet for the area’s young.
Motza is where the traffic really begins to crawl. It is the start of the last climb into the capital. Looking up at the stunning mountainside scenery, one is impressed by three things (in no particular order): the stunning scenery; the fact that the village is the home to the man who perhaps more than any other in recent years has disappointed the entire nation with his political indecision, his illegal philandering and his lies; and the winery that lies just 10 yards from the highway – another example of the dozens of excellent wine producers that have sprung up around the country. “It’s a shame the bus doesn’t decide to skip the traffic jam and stop off for a tasting session,” I smile to myself.
In a few minutes we will be in the heart of the Western half of Israel’s capital. The children on the bus to their classes, the men and women either to work or to study, the driver to a quick coffee break and then back the other way.
And me? Well, I have got a ten-minute walk to the office, but this morning I will enter much fresher than usual, and with far more understanding of this fascinating country.
Try public transport.