Photo by Sebastian Davenport-Handley on Unsplash

I woke up on the morning of January 1st, 2019 in a whirlwind on a naked, rock-hard child-sized bed that was not my own. As I had the heat on full blast, a blanket, ordinarily a necessity for me, wasn’t missed. But a complete set of flat and fitted sheets would have been a welcome creature comfort after a long night out.

I had only been asleep for a few hours when I was awaken by loud banging on the door. Disoriented, I sprang up as my mind raced to figure out whether or not my grogginess was due to a lack of sleep or a lame attempt at a hangover. The door banged again. And although I knew who it was, it did little to quell the panic that washed over me. Although I had only come back to Tel Aviv with a dress, a pair of jeans, a change in underwear and a new pair of shoes, it was still strewn everywhere leaving me no time to pack.

So, instead I threw everything in my book bag and ran to the door determined to answer it before the third knock. In the doorway was the brother of my Airbnb host. A handsome man of Peruvian descent who had been given the task of kicking me out as soon as the sun rose. But I can’t say that it was all work for him. He left the apartment wit the keys and my phone number in hand.

It was, in fact, one first New Year’s Eve since I’d left New York four years earlier that I spent dancing the night away. All my previous New Year’s Eve nights had come at the tail end of a Christmas vacation. Ones that on average included heading to at least 3 different countries in less than two weeks. As New Year’s Day is one of the cheapest flying dates of the year, it was always that day that I selected to head back to Spain. But this year was different.

This year, I had decided to embark upon a journey around the world. One that was filled with intrigue and adventure. A journey that was certain to change my life.

And change my life it did. Although whether or not it was for the better I am still undecided. But after 3 months dragging my suitcase up the hills of Lisbon and three more months dragging them down the hills of Istanbul, through sheer chance I had made it Israel—a place I never wanted to visit in the first place.

I’ve owned my ignorance about this region of the world in a previous post. And admit now that I knew very little about it aside from the Bible stories that I remembered from my Christian upbringing. Bible stories and suicide bombers. That is all I knew of Israel.

And after a month into my sojourn there, I still was little the wiser. But as the weeks spent in Tel Aviv, first in an Airbnb, then after one night spent in a small town near Jerusalem, (read more about that here), then a few weeks in a flea invested roach motel masquerading as hostel back in Jaffa, I was ready for a change. Luckily for me, a shift in tides was just on the horizon—with the change of the New Year.

In January, I was meant to begin working as a volunteer ballet teacher in Palestine or the West Bank. I had only a few days to spare. So I decided to clear out of Tel Aviv and head to Haifa, a small city in Northern Israel that was geographically closer to Nablus, Palestine (where I was meant to teach) than Tel Aviv. It was also considerably cheaper than Tel Aviv and (bonus!) sported a beach. The plan was to spend some time beachside before heading to the brisk mountains and rocky valley to what I was told was the second oldest city in the world to pass on the art of the perfect plié.

Unfortunately, like most things on my journey so far, it wasn’t that easy. The city of Haifa, while lovely, turned out to be a bit of a bust. As it was the middle of winter, the beach was a no go. And aside from the Bahá’i Gardens, there was not much to see and do. I did and learned little in that time, aside from a new Spanish phrase to speak to this. My fellow boarder, Argentinian motorcyclist who was also running low on money, told me “No tengo ganas a salir” when I asked him if he was heading out to the city to explore. It was only his second day, but even he had had enough. Instead, he was planning on heading back to Europe to pick up his motorcycle before carrying on his journey. Honestly, at that point, I would have considered joining him. But I was a life-long lover of the ballet, I was excited to share it with the young girls across the border.

Suffice it to say, I knew that this impossibly boring city would not be the right place to celebrate the end of the year. So, I wrote to a former roommate in Tel Aviv and told her to get ready. We were going out!

While Tel Aviv is just a short train ride from Haifa, I knew that a night of dancing would require me to wait until morning to return to my Airbnb. So, despite having already paid for accommodation, I knew that I would have to find someplace else to crash for the night.

As I was only going to be there for a few hours, I decided that a hostel would probably be the best option. But unluckily for me, seemingly, all the rest of the travelers in Israel had the same thought. Try as I might, I could not find a single bed available at any hostel. Everything, and I mean, everything, was booked.

Despite this, I was determined to spend the last night of 2018 in Haifa. My Airbnb host, who while quite hospitable, was rather odd. In fact, even though I stayed with him for nearly a week, in which time he occasionally went to work, I had no idea what he did. And while it may be unkind to say aloud, every time I saw him I couldn’t help to think that after a few acting lessons, he could have easily found work as Shrek in the live-action version of the series.

If that wasn’t bad enough, unluckily for me, I lost the key to the door on my second night. The lock on the door of the apartment was a dead-bolt, meaning that as my host left the apartment, with him went any chance of heading out or back in until he returned. So, if I didn’t manage to head out when he did, I was trapped. Suffice it to say, after a few days sleeping in, I started feeling less like a guest and more demented princess trapped in a strange smelling dungeon. And given my host’s unfortunate resemblance, this was not a situation that I wanted to be in.

The trouble is, I still had no place to stay—even for a few hours. So, with few options left, I booked another single room in an absurdly overpriced Airbnb that was within walking distance from the Tel Aviv train station. The total cost was nearly half of what I was already paying for a week’s stay in Haifa. But in a choice of boredom over expense in an adventure around the world, expense was going to win out every time.

So, just as the sun was beginning to set on the last night of 2018, I arrived back in the tiny city in which I had already become so familiar. While walking down the I walked down the massive hill from my Haifa Airbnb to the train station, already regretting the return trip. But there was no need to worry about that now. It was time to put down my things, find the mall, and get ready to party!

You can read the rest of my story here.

New Year's Eve in Tel Aviv! Part 1