Until the age of 56 the thought of settling down in a place like Israel didn’t even cross my mind. I had visited the area, but it was on a business trip, even though I had some personal interest in the residents of what then used to be Palestine and their way of life. I remember that when the ship sailed from the Haifa harbor and someone beside me said it’s good to be going home, I nodded in consent to myself and didn’t pay any attention to the notion of what might happen if one day I’d have to live here. So when on a hot august day in ’87 I found myself in the blazing hot, not air-conditioned office of a Nazareth garage waiting for one of the boys to finish working on my car – which turned out to have a worn out axle ceil – I asked myself what the hell I was doing here and how I got here. For a moment it seemed to me that the time since I saw the waters surrounding the western beaches of Israel once again, at the age of fifty six, had gone by while I was asleep. It wasn’t just the heat that led me to these thoughts, which would seem illogical to me at any other time; and it wasn’t only the fact that the office I was waiting in had no air conditioning, just a ventilator that was merely pushing the soot of the cars back outside and not cooling the air at all, it was also a phrase from a Wordsworth poem I had stumbled upon when paging through a pile of newspapers on the small table that separated between me and the other waiting men:  Â