My landlord Mitri's a geography teacher. Man, did he ever teach geography that day. It's January. Orthodox Christmas. Palestinian Christians from the West Bank are allowed each year to enter Israel. Some good old divide et impera. A permit for worshipping in the nebula of holy places that is Jerusalem. The joy. 

"Our church always organizes a trip to Nazareth," Mitri says to me, he says "then it's always pray here, pray there." He rolls his eyes. What to do? They got the old Opel Astra, however meticulously maintained, it doesn't discount the little fact of 'green plates'. The verdant registration brings a car, qua usefulness, on a par with the average wheelbarrow. A very expensive, air-conditioned wheelbarrow. What to do?

Time to get away. Escapism. We're riding up North for three days. Beach, mountains, old stones, and a blissful absence of checkpoints.

A day earlier I go to Jerusalem, get us a yellow-plate car. No use for the green-and-white. Makes me chuckle sometimes to see a green-plate Mercedes SUV in Ramallah. Where you gonna drive that thing? All the way to Beitunia and back, ey?

Anywayz, I'm at Rentals-R-Us, looking at a minivan. "Can I take it into the Territories? Like, say, Bethlehem?" I inquire.

"Why, sure," says the guy. "No problem at all."

A minute later we're going over the forms, and he turns pensive of a sudden. "Oh, by the way, the insurance only covers you to where the army goes."