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The sun is setting over Ashdod, where Ruthie and I came to relax following the hospital experience. There is nothing wrong with Ashkelon, but Ashdod, a fifteen minute drive up the super-urbanized coast, somehow turned into our romantic getaway over the past few months. If you wonder about this strange attraction to a modern mammoth of a port city, ask our taste buds.
It was here that I ended the full day I devoted to Ashdod on the September Journey, as well as the day I dedicated to the Russian community on the Christmas journey. Ilya is in the house and so is his wife, whose name I never catch, and they are both surprised at the size of my beard. This is what a man looks like near the end of a long journey. I am truly near the end now. In fact, I am determined to conclude the journey tonight, despite the concussion and having lain on a hospital bed only this morning.
Before leaving Ashdod I take a photo of another culinary palace. The Mamounia building was designed to host Moroccan weddings and henna parties, but is also home to a wonderful Indian restaurant named Namaste. Time to take the sherut minibus north, minding the head this time. Everyone on the sherut but us has roots in the Ethiopian Jewish community.
At least one fellow is clearly out to paint Tel Aviv red. Ruthie continues to the city, while I get off at an interchange near the town of Yavne. No need to rush now that I am so close to my goal. The highways are grand here. The hum of the metropolis is heard. I am at a point on its external ring of suburbs.
Independence Day is over — what now? Can we really hold on to all this pride and joy on regular days? Spending an evening in Ashdod with a fork in hand helps me feel good about this place, but while the Szechuan duck gets digested quickly, other things I have seen, felt and learned over the past three weeks do not. This was a journey full of tall fences, some invisible, like the one that kept Umm Jihad away from her home for 30 years.