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Francisco, was having a similar experience.
    Murphy-O’Connor’s book was precisely the kind of guide I was looking for. For one thing, his reputation was sterling. 1 A scholar at the École Biblique in Jerusalem and the author of numerous books on the New Testament, Murphy-O’Connor was eminently trustworthy. 2 He deployed words like “unlikely,” “possible,” and “very probably,” as he carefully sifted through the entirely authentic and the obviously legendary places in the Holy Land. Every few pages his wit would shine through. Writing about the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, he said, “In subsequent centuries the church suffered desecration and destruction more than once. Inept repairs were no less damaging.” His book helped me pass ten hours in relative peace.
    B EN G URION I NTERNATIONAL A IRPORT , in Tel Aviv, was stunningly modern, with a high-tech fountain that poured water from a circular opening in the ceiling into a pool on the floor. My friend David had told to me to locate a sherut to Jerusalem.
    I had no idea what a sherut was. So I followed all the other tourists, had my passport stamped by a friendly Israel official (“ Shalom! ”), exchanged dollars for shekels, and eventually spied a row of vans outside, idling under the broiling Middle Eastern sun. Immediately I felt that frisson of embarrassment you experience in a foreign country when you realize that you are about to sound like a fool for not knowing the most basic words.
    â€œIs this a cheroot?” I shouted over the din of the motors. The driver laughed and said, “ Sherut! ” (It’s the Hebrew word for “service.”)
    â€œAre you going to Jerusalem?” I asked.
    Laughing, he jerked his thumb to a sign on the bus that said “Jerusalem.”
    Aboard was a mix of Israeli citizens, Orthodox Jews (from my flight), and an American student, all of whom chatted merrily as the sherut bounced down the streets. We wended our way through the sandy countryside dotted with olive trees and scrub, and passed by the high metal fence that delineated the Palestinian territories. America magazine had published many articles about the wall, but it was still a shock to see: tall, gray, metal, forbidding.
    We entered a small town. This was an Israeli settlement, a city for Jewish “settlers” within otherwise Palestinian territory, a deeply controversial political issue. I asked our driver the name of the town, but he declined to give it, instead outlining the various forms of governance: A, B, and C. A: Complete Palestinian autonomy. B: Shared control between the Israeli military and the Palestinians. C: Full Israeli control. The other passengers fell silent as he spoke.
    Our sherut dropped off several people at their tidy yellow sandstone houses. After we pulled back onto the highway, I saw signs for Jerusalem.
    Soon we were in Jerusalem’s bustling center, threading our way through its narrow streets. Many buildings—from skyscrapers to more modest dwellings—were creamy white, built from what is called Jerusalem stone, the pale limestone used to construct everything from a corner drugstore to the Western Wall. Often highly polished, it gleams almost pure white in the sun. Enchanted, I thought of the Bible verses about pilgrims “going up” to Jerusalem and what a glorious sight it must have been in ancient times. 3
    â€œThree Paul Émile Botta Street, please,” I said to the driver. When we entered the heart of the city, I was the only passenger. My heart leapt when I saw the walls of the Old City. Among the most ancient structures in Jerusalem, the walls, or at least their outlines, date back to biblical times; they were improved on by rulers from around the time of Christ, and by Suleiman the Magnificent in the sixteenth century.
    â€œHere!” said the driver, as he parked beside a high metal gate. I offered what I calculated to be the