I look back to see a person on the phone waving a hand. I head back thinking I am about to scolded or fined for something I did or said. Boy was I wrong!
Seems my story has circulated amongst the higher ups at the border crossing until it made it's way to the highest levels. This is a sleepy, uneventful place, so apparently my pleas have made for entertaining gossip to the office of the border crossing manager. The boss. The Big Boss. I am told to wait for further news. I am promised nothing, but I am hopeful for anything. I wait among the guard staff, who's attitude has changed from official to friendly. It is like night and day. I have gone from pesky nusiance to welcomed guest. I am hopeful. I am told THE BIG BOSS is coming. I imagine a gruff, wrinkled, cigar chewing, frowning hulk of a man come to look me over. Probably to tell this idiot tourist to hit the road in no ucertain terms. I wait. And wait.
Eventually a car pulls up from the direction of the border. Everyone stands a bit taller, a bit more stern, and I am sitting among them, waiting. Out of the car comes an atractive woman in her late 30s or early 40s. Hr name is Shiela, she speaks English, and as heard my plight. She offers to personally escort me to the Allenby Bridge. Therer is still some minor paperwork to do, and then we start off in our respective cars after mine is inspected underneath by mirror. For what I can only guess. Stowaway midget mice? Errant mustard seesds?
The road to the bridge is through a barren desert landscape, flat and almost plantless. We soom arrive at group of smal buildings that process border crossers. There are a couple of unmanned military towers. I park my car and join Shiela in hers. I start again on the story of Allenby, my father's unfinished quest and the family connection. I realize from her questions that my father's unfinished journey was what struck a chord with her. Maybe I added too much to the story for her requirements, but who knows what wa deeded to propell it to her attention?
We get to the bridge with me telling her the history of the place, which she knows nothing about. The old wooden bridge is but 50 yards downstream, but the riverside brush obscures most of it. We walk out on the bridge, I take a few photos and she drives me back to the car. Turns out she is a little rustrated at hr job because she is technically a contractor, so she doesnt feel permanent. And this may be as high as her career will go. I consider asking her out to dinner but then she lights up a cigarette and that idea literally goes up in smoke.
I am torn about the idea that I outdid my father by getting to the Allenby Bridge. The times are different now, Israel's peace with its neighbors seems more permanent these days, so I am not sure it was a fair test. I also had my father's quest to use as a way of entry, but I am not sure if that is a cheat or not. My father could have easily spun my yarn to make his attempt, just as I spun mine. None of it has to be true, all of it could be true. That is the essence of the tale. It is nothing but smoke until you really see the fire, but how can there be smoke if ther is no fire? And therein lies the rub, the bard would say.
Did I out Ronald Ronald? If I say yes, I might have done something unintentional to my memory of him. If I say no, I might have done someting to my memories of myself. I intended neither to start, but somehow I have ended up at a bridge in the middle of nowhere trying to figure out being effects my memories of my father. And that was NOT the intent of my tale or the journey.
And so for now I shall leave the question open and unanswered, in a place where I am both happy and content. You may decide otherwise, and that is your priviledge. For that, be you listener or reader, is the one priviledge you enjoy of any tale: the final judgement.
Even after these photos the Allenby Bridge, you should wonder if this is all whole or spun cloth? Is that REALLY the Allenby Bridge? Is that REALLY Sheila, the big boss? There are many stories behind these photos. You have just been subjected to one of them. With all that detail and some last minute doubt I may have, in some small way, out Ronalded Ronald after all. And therein lies the tale!
Or maybe Neo you chose the wrong pill after all.
