Traditions

It’s my last day in Jerusalem. Tonight, or rather early tomorrow morning I’ll get back on El Al and come home.

Last night, after we came back from Caesarea I thought I’d write an entry and go for a pnice dinner. I washed, sat on the bed. The door facing the Old City was open, and it was perfectly quiet. Jerusalem may be the quietest city in the world on Friday night. I promptly fell asleep, the computer in my lap keeping me warm.

Late this morning I went back to the Old City for coffee and baklava. I thought that I ought to walk there though, so I set out to walk down into the Hinnom Valley and back up to the Old City.

As I entered through the Jaffa gate two men were standing, blocking the entrance to the maze of the City. One man, in his sixties, wearing decrepit clothes, a long white beard and huddling against the rain said to the other in an English accent: “Archaeologists have confirmed that it’s the tomb. Inside they found…” I pushed by him, I have no patience left for this. Still I smiled as I rolled my eyes.

I thought about what my shows on Judas and Pilate are really about: the tension between tradition and archaeology. On Thursday evening we interviewed Rabbi Berel Wein who said: “The foundation of Judaism is the family and the handing down of tradition from generation to generation through oral history.”

Today in the Arab Quarter I was half heartedly accosted by a number of shopkeepers. The rain seemed to have dampened their enthusiasm. Still, they are persistent. “Don’t think sir, just buy” was the approach that made me laugh the loudest.

The moment which seemed most typical was the American tourist asking a man in the street, “is it far?” “No far,” said the man pointing up the street. “You have Visa card?”

The antiquities dealers, the Dead Sea pharmacies, the food shops left me alone. I walked by a crowded barber shop where the men do the same things they do in Toronto: talk, read the paper, drink coffee, get a shave, or a haircut. I resolved to get a shave there next time I’m in Jerusalem.

At a little shop with an amazing variety of junk a man beckoned me inside, saying: “Sir, you speak English, I need help.” He explained that his store was closing for good in three weeks, and he needed help spelling “Clearance.” “You think ‘clearance’ or ‘closing sale’ sounds better?” I wrote it for him. With the same pen I had spelled ‘clearance’ for him in December of 2005. I don’t think the spelling has changed in two years, but I could be wrong.

“Now I make nice price for you, nice earrings for your wife. What her favourite colour?” Saying ‘no’ gets easier.

If you had your heart set on earrings, Vera, I apologize.

Yesterday we arrived in Caesarea on a beautiful clear morning. Ten minutes after we stepped out of the van Simcha started shouting “Shabbas”, his way of hurrying us along on Friday. Of course it was 9:30 in the morning.

We shot all over the incredible restored city. At the Roman theatre Simcha suddenly stopped the interview, and said: “Put the camera on me, I’m going to say something important. Every fifteen minutes I say something important.” I can’t remember what he said.


Joseph Patrich, an Israeli Antiquities Archaeologist showed us around the site, at first reluctantly – the moment he caught sight of Simcha, his expression changed. He hadn’t realized who was going to interview him.

But Simcha, who has recently been accused of being a kind of Rasputin, worked his charm, and by the time we got to the forum where they raced chariots, fed some criminals to bears, and crucified others, he was joking, and laughing, and enjoying himself. By the forum Simcha made an interesting comment about Roman rule. Joseph Patrich nodded thoughtfully and said: “I guess fifteen minutes has passed.”

As we walked to the car at the end of our last shoot day Simcha gave me a big hug, thanked me, and said: “I have to go. I want to take my kid to soccer.”

In the Old City I followed a family up a street, knowing that it led to the entrance to the grounds of the Al Aqsa Mosque. I hoped to be able to peek through the door in the wall, but fifty meters away the Israeli soldiers at the gate pointed at me and gestured for me to stop and turn around.

There are police and soldiers at almost every intersection here on Saturday. Probably mostly to make sure that tourists don’t take a wrong turn and end up where they shouldn’t be on the Sabbath.

I walked out the Lion’s Gate – just inside the gate I shook Ibrahim’s hand one last time, and said goodbye. He tried to sell me something.


I walked down into the Kidron valley toward the Mount of Olives and looked back up at the walls of the Old City. Around the corner I could just see the road leading toward the Damascus gate. Last Saturday I walked out there past the street vendors, and Shish-kebab stands and up toward the Arab neighbourhood. It’s there that you see the buses lined up, with place names in their windows. The few written in English say: “Nablus” or “Hebron” or other names not so familiar from the news. The Palestinian men, women and children board the dozens of buses to go home.

In August when I was here, I walked through the same neighbourhood on a hot summer evening. A family – a man, a woman in a Niqab, and four children – were waiting to get on the bus. The kids played soccer on the sidewalk. When the ball got away from them, I flicked it into the air with my toe, and kicked it back to the youngest. He was about the same age as my son, and probably almost as good at soccer. Their father smiled and waved.

I ended my tour today, walking up the Mount of Olives, and to the cemetery, where I resisted taking what may be the most photographed vista in the world. Whenever a television reporter shoots here, they stand in front of the camera with the view of the Dome of the Rock in the background. Leslie swears that you can see the imprints from the tripod where everyone shoots.

Still I took a picture, a different one of the cemetery. The cemetery, it seems to me represents thousands of years of tradition and family.

And tonight, after one last beer with Noam, I’ll go home to my own family.

When I started this adventure in writing I wanted to let all my friends at home keep up, and, I hoped, to tell a few funny stories. It turned into something different, and perhaps modestly more. And writing about my ten days here has helped me understand what I think about the place.

Thanks for reading.

Shabbat Shalom. Yalla, bye.

Antiquities

Yesterday we walked part of the Via Dolorosa with our expert Helen Bond. Next to the first Station of the Cross is a store full of Christian souvenirs run by two Arab brothers. One of them, Ibrahim showed us into the store, promising that the base of the Antonia fortress extended into his store.

It turned out to be bedrock. But maybe the fortress had been built on this bedrock. Or maybe not.

When I met Ibrahim last summer he took Tara and me to the first station of the cross where he told us the story of Jesus and showed us one of the best views of the Al Aqsa Mosque. As I looked at the Dome of the Rock he moved closer to Tara and asked her if we were married. She said no. He placed his hand on the small of her back.

Ibrahim didn’t remember me yesterday, and if it weren’t for his reluctance to appear on camera I suspect that he would have made discreet enquiries about which of us was married to Helen.

Across the narrow street from the Antonia fortress are the remarkably well preserved remains of a two thousand year old water system. We descended to the cistern deep below the street where we stepped over the barrier and climbed down to the floor of the giant cistern as Ibrahim meekly told us that it was forbidden and then threw his hands up in the air.

Helen told us why the Antonia Fortress, the traditional site of the trial of Jesus probably wasn’t the right place.

We went to David’s tower, where some say Jesus was held before his trial. The bottom of the tower, the first ten or fifteen meters are undoubtedly from the time of Herod, but the upper part, and the rest of the fortress is much more recent.

We went to an archaeological site which, it has been suggested was Caiaphas, the High Priest’s house. Helen suggested that it was unlikely.

Underneath the Church on the same property is an impressive dungeon cut out of the rocks. I walked down the stairs into the dimly lit prison with Helen who explained that the tradition is that the High Priest held Jesus here and some say he was tortured. In fact, when the church was built twenty or thirty years ago, and archaeologists excavated this dungeon, one of the rock pillars seemed to have a red stain on it. It was removed and put on display.

Where do these traditions come from?

Last summer in Jordan we were shooting by the Dead Sea, about as hot as I’ve been in my life. We were at the ruins of the ancient city of Zoar. Camera rolling Simcha pointed at the thousands of Bronze Age tombs dotting the hillside: “Some of those tombs may have held the remains of the victims of the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah.” From off camera our expert from the British Museum, Dino Politis, said “I think that's stretching it.” Simcha looked at him, shrugged and replied: “I said may have.”

After we were done yesterday, Felix and I took Helen for dinner in the City Centre. We looked in the shops, Felix bargained for a Menorah (he’s Russian and shameless and the perfect shopping companion) and we looked through the window at Biblical Antiquities.

The stores here have impressive collections of pottery and tools at equally impressive prices. These are the reputable ones. There’s an entirely different kind of Antiquities store in the Arab quarter, tiny shops piled high with junk mixed with treasures. Or maybe they’re just objects with good stories attached to them.

At the American Colony Hotel – was that last week or this week? I don’t remember – Felix was at the bar talking to a small curly haired man in a windbreaker at the end of the day. I stood by them waiting to ask Felix about the next day’s schedule.

They shook hands and the man walked away. “Bye Oded,” Felix called after him.

Without hesitation I told Felix to call him back. This was someone I wanted to meet. Depending on who you side with Oded Golan is either one of the finest living dealers in Biblical Antiquities or he is the most notorious forger in Israel.

He is currently on trial in Jerusalem.

Hebrew Lessons for Beginners

On the way back to the hotel on my second night here I stopped in at the Yellow, a gas station with a convenience store, to buy beer for my room. I put my two bottles of Goldstar on the counter.

The young woman said “Shalom” without looking up.

I said “Shalom”

She said something which I took to be the price without looking up.

I handed her a hundred Shekels.

She said something without looking up.

I said: “I’m sorry I don’t speak Hebrew”.

She looked up, paused, then smiled a big smile. Would you like me to open the bottle? she asked.

I smiled and said no.

As she handed me my change she asked where I was from. I told her. Visiting, she asked. Yes. She smiled again, looked me in the eyes and said “Welcome to Jerusalem”.

At Chakra, a terrific restaurant on Shlomzion, when the waitresses realized I didn’t speak Hebrew they seemed to pay special attention. They often came by my table to ask if everything was fine. They brought me an extra little dish of eggplant when I told them how good it was. They recommended wine. They chatted. And they all said goodnight when I left.

Elsewhere it’s mostly been the same. At Adom, at the hotel, at the falafel shop on Ben Yehuda, they smile, they ask questions, they joke. Not necessarily in the street, or in all the shops, but young people especially seem eager to be warm when I say those words: I’m sorry I don’t speak Hebrew.

On Sunday I asked Noam how to say thank-you in Hebrew. Toda. I can handle that. I asked how to say “you’re welcome”. “Start with thank-you,” Noam suggested.

I’ve been using my newly acquired Hebrew frequently since then, and although there are none of the difficult guttural sounds there are in other words which I either roll around like an ‘r’ or overemphasize as though I’m coming down with bronchitis, I still think I mispronounce ‘toda’. As though I’m French, maybe.

In Jordan last summer I learned to say ‘Shukran’: Thank you. But even though hardly anyone spoke English it didn’t seem to make any impression at all. And the only time I remember any young women looking at me at all was in the streets of Madaba when two school girls glanced at me sideways, like they do in Korea and Japan. When I caught them, they held their school binders in front of their faces so I wouldn’t see them. But I could hear them giggle.

And when you say "As-Salaam Aleikum" in the shops in the Arab quarter, the younger men respond enthusiastically: “wa Alaykum As-Salam” But they still ask a hundred shekels for a handful of beads and claim they never negotiate.

After a long tough productive day today with Helen Bond, a divinity professor from the University of Edinburgh I felt worn down. I went back to the Yellow and bought snacks.

The young woman said: “Shalom” without looking up.

I said: “Shalom”

She said something I took to be the price without looking up.

I handed her a hundred Shekels.

She made change and handed it to me without looking up.

I said: “Toda”

She said something I took to be “you’re welcome”.

Without looking up.

At all.

I’m giving up my Hebrew lessons.

On a clear day you can almost see the schedule

The fog set in today. Overnight the temperature dropped more, and it was damp.


We were set to shoot on the Hill of Evil Counsel in the morning, and around the Old City this afternoon. The Hill (some note wryly that it is where the U.N. building is situated) is south of Jerusalem overlooking the Hinnom Valley. The Tomb of Caiaphas is here, maybe. And the view is stunning. You can see right down the valley, past villages and settlements to the Temple Mount where the golden Dome of the Rock stands. Generally. But not today.

The weather seemed to seep into our psyche today. There was a long argument in the van in Hebrew. If the only words I understood were Kassam, Gaza, Hamas and Fatah, I understood the argument perfectly.

Alon boiled coffee on the hood of the van, Simcha and I walked to the gates of the U.N. to ask the guards if they had any archaeology inside, Noam searched for a tomb on the side of the hill in the fog, Felix worried about tomorrow, Amir recorded a herd of goats bleating when they walked through the shot, and Eyal worked harder than all of us, as usual.

In the afternoon the rain came, ruining our plans. We filled in as best we could.

As I walked Simcha to his car at the end of the day I told him I was worried, that we had a lot to make up. He looked at me, pinched my cheek, smiled and said: “don’t worry.” And for a couple of minutes I took his advice.

Jerusalem Syndrome

One of the shows we’re shooting this time around is about Judas Iscariot. Early in January Leslie sent me an email with the following description for a potential interview:

Rick Sacks is a crazy guy who doesn't exactly think he's Judas -- but something like that. Can't remember. Noam has been selling him for some time now. Worth getting for some Naked something or other!

Naturally I said: “book him.”

Well we shot Rick yesterday, and he was better than I imagined.

Simcha came in the morning, one ear glued to his cell phone, talking to someone – anyone – about the Tomb. He asked what we were doing. I told him: Rick Sacks, and explained approximately what I’ve explained here. Simcha looked as though he might spit.


Well fifteen minutes into our interview with Rick, which we conducted as publicly as possible on Ben Yehuda street in the City Centre, Simcha leaned over to me and whispered: “this guy’s great”.

I can’t exactly take credit for this choice, after all he’s Noam’s friend, and having spent a little time with Noam in the summer I guessed that someone he recommended would have a good chance of being at least interesting.

But Rick was more than interesting. He was bordering on nuts.

And I use the word 'bordering' loosely.

Rick is from L.A., although he’s lived all over the world (“A Jew should wander”, he told me), and he believes passionately that Judas is the most maligned Jew, the most maligned person in the history of the world. If only we would embrace him as the Messiah (and he believes the Gospels tell us that we should) the world’s problems would be solved. Or, to put it another way, Christianity would be erased off the face of the earth and all the rest of the peace loving religions (like Islam and Judaism, to choose but two) would be able to fulfill their pacific destinies.

Simcha, being nuts in his own way but no slouch when it comes to recognizing television gold suggested that we should introduce Rick to a few American Evangelical pilgrims.

So we loaded Rick into the van and took him to the old city. Because you know that if you want a subtle, quiet, nuanced discussion of religion, the Old City is your place.

It went awfully well.

The crowds lined up to argue with, berate, and shout at the founder of the movement of the Righteous Double Cross. He gave as good as he got, and then some.

In the end Rick was thrilled at the attention, Simcha was happy that he hardly had to do anything except let Rick loose on the unsuspecting tourists, and I’m happy that when I get back to the cutting room I’m going to be able to use each and every one of those drunken teenage Australian pilgrims. Cause they all signed releases.

We ended the day at the American Colony Hotel, a real institution in East Jerusalem, the place where movie stars, and foreign correspondents on an expense account stay. If your sympathies push you toward the Arab side of town, your bank account allows, and your taste runs to colonial excess, this is your joint.

We came here to interview Professor James Charlesworth from Princeton.


The hotel was built in the nineteeth century, the home of Pasha Rabbah Daoud Amin Effendi el Husseini who built a wing for each of his four wives. And it’s exactly what you are imagining.

After our interview ended, and the sun set, I sat in a wing back chair in the bar of the hotel, sandwiched between the huge wine cellar and the fireplace, behind me a view of the impossibly blue swimming pool. I watched more than listened to Simcha expound the umpteenth iteration of the Tomb theory and thought back over the last few days.

The American couple: “He coulda got right down off that cross anytime he wanted, called the whole thing off…” The pilgrims singing tepid folk songs at the stations of the cross. The Arab teenager shouting “allahu Akbar” at the top of his lungs in the crowds of the Damascus Gate, just to see the tourists flinch. And the Hasid peeing voluminously on the door to the garden of a Catholic Church, paying special attention to the brass handle, a men’s washroom not ten meters away.

And it dawned on me: Rick Sacks may be nuts, but in Jerusalem he fits right in.

Is that Kippa a C?

I had a great time on Saturday. I slept til 11 then got up, took a cab to the old city and just walked around taking pictures. I can mostly find my way around the old city now -- it's a real rabbit warren so this is no small achievement. Also, I dress plainly, carry no bag and hide my camera. I almost look local, so no one bothers me. As soon as you carry a plastic bag, or camera they know you're a tourist and you're dead.

I hung out mostly in the arab quarter which is the most fun – a lot of people, a lot of stores. I had really good coffee, and maybe the best baklava ever. I sat in a cafe for an hour just watching people here.

They're all nuts.

At the end I got a cab (he overcharged but I don't care.) The guy was really nice. He stood by his car and said "half price if you drive." So I got in the driver's seat of the white Mercedes and fired it up. He laughed. I told him to get in.

He changed his mind.

It was my finest moment.

On a less triumphant note, proving that I am not yet a Jerusalemite, a few minutes earlier, in the Arab Quarter, I was looking around. I saw tables with all the different designs of kippas -- hundreds of them. Around the corner there was another stall, with really colourful designs, and even lacy ones. And I noticed that they seemed to be attached in a peculiar way. And had straps. I picked one up.

It was a table of bras.

Merry Christmas

We shot with Simcha at David’s Tomb Friday.


The building, that’s a picture I took of the courtyard on the left, is beautiful. And it’s full of Christians and Jews, because upstairs is the room where some believe the Last Supper took place. Now at the risk of running afoul of some of our archaeologists and a whole lotta Christians, the evidence for this being the place is, um, slim. I’ll leave it at that.

In any case, Simcha was recognized by several people, and I’ve been struck on this trip at the difference in tone of those people. There tends to be a little combativeness, even in those who love him. And he’s in a combative mood.



The most fun was the Rabbi at King David’s Tomb, above. He enthusiastically greeted Simcha, and blessed him at the Tomb, holding his head and making Simcha shout out his request for prayer. It was all very Southern Evangelist Healer. Even Simcha said so.

Best guess? He's from Brooklyn.

Last summer his fans were more, shall we say, adoring. Here’s my note from August:

A young woman, maybe twenty five, recognized Simcha in the old city today. She insisted that she have her picture taken with him. Okay, insisted is a little strong. More like:

Young Woman: (reaching for her camera) Could I...

Simcha: (sliding over on the bench to make room and licking his lips): Of course you can take my picture.

So she slides next to him and they proceed to do the "squeeze your faces together" for the camera. Her boyfriend looked on, torn between the excitement of recognizing a (insert your own adjectives) tv star, and the alarm he feels that there is a very real possibility that this man might swallow his future wife whole.

It’s January now, and things have changed a little. Maybe it’s just that there are fewer American tourists at this time of year.

Our shooting day ended with Simcha on the phone, calming an archaeologist who seemed to want to get out of our show, then the rest of us chasing him around town trying to beat sunset because he’d left his necklace with us.

Funny how that seems so ordinary these days.

The crew went to the Old City for an abortive attempt to shoot the procession at the Stations of the Cross. It’s every Friday of the year at 3. Except this Friday. Because it’s Eastern Orthodox Christmas. Who knew? About a hundred million people. Just not this Presbyterian.

Picky, Picky, Picky

This really doesn’t have anything to do with the Naked Archaeologist, nevertheless…

I’ve noticed that the world is divided into two types of peoples. Not Jew and Gentile, not Muslim and Christian. Not white and black. Not even men and women.

The World is divided into people who use toothpicks in public and those who do not.

Now, the thing is I straddle these two worlds. I am married to a wonderful Czech woman who is nearly completely assimilated. In other words I have never seen her use a toothpick in public. But her family is a different story.

Tonight I ate at a restaurant in the City Centre of Jerusalem that Leslie recommended (thanks), and at the end they made a bit of a ceremony of bringing the toothpicks at the end of the meal. Not just one, but a whole cup full of individually wrapped toothpicks. And not the cheap thin kind, but the heavy ones, pointy at each end.

So I unwrapped one, and discreetly picked away, trying to be effective and yet ashamed at the same time.

Which was when I looked at the bar, where a woman, early thirties, short Louise Brooks hair, slim, elegant, striking, in what I judged to be a Coco Chanel cocktail dress was boldly mining the perfect gaps between her blazingly white teeth.

And there was no notion of shame here. But there was elegance.

Her boyfriend (also early thirties, athletic, toned, looked as though he knew three different ways of incapacitating you without even touching you. Still he was bald which made me feel better) sat with his lips pulled back over his teeth in a grotesque grin, picking away. Totally unmoved by my obvious fascination.

I was tempted to say that his elegant girlfriend’s tooth picking was erotic or seductive. But it wasn’t even close. I wavered on elegant. Bold, definitely.

I thought to myself, well this makes sense, because of course so many people came here from Eastern Europe, it’s a custom brought with them. But that’s not right.

Because when I eat in the Arab neighborhoods the same thing happens. And it was the same in Jordan. The presentation of the toothpicks was less ceremonial, and of course you would likely not see a woman in a Chanel dress, but the picking was an important part of the meal.

So the world is divided into two kinds of people: toothpickers and non-toothpickers. And I will never be able to pick my teeth in public unselfconsciously.

But while I’m in Israel, I’m doing my best.

Waiting for Godot

We had, I think, a typical day today. At least, it’s a kind of day we have often enough. The picture on the left illustrates what we did today. Yes, that is a parking lot. No, the talent is not there.

When I arrived last night I walked to the conference area of the Mishkenot, knowing that a conference on the Jesus tomb was just wrapping up.

As I turned the corner, I heard the shouting. And then the room came into view. I could see a group of people holding an academic back, and he was pressing hard toward Simcha, trying to hit him.

Ah, how I’ve missed the Middle East.

Call time this morning was a comfortable 11:30, so I had plenty of time to review the scripts, note important questions for Professor James Tabor, and apply several varieties of expensive facial moisturizers and hand cream (duty free was good to me).

The sun sets here about five o’clock at this time of year, so we had a tight day, shooting material for three different shows at the traditional site of the Last Supper, and if possible the site where Tabor thinks Jesus sentencing actually took place.

Then CNN called. And ABC. And God knows who else. And they all wanted to talk about the Tomb (I was shocked that no one used the headline: “Tomb Debate Resurrected”) And Simcha wanted to talk. And talk. Still running on adrenaline, I assume, from nearly being assaulted by a man in tweed and elbow patches.

We started shooting at 3.

All of which explains how we ended up behind schedule, standing on a street corner in East Jerusalem as the sun set up the Kidron Valley while Simcha stood praying and a group of Arab men began to gather.

Felix stood beside me saying “this is bad.”

What, the obviously Jewish and Western crew gathered around a six-foot-two praying silhouette in a Kippa in the middle of an Arab neighbourhood, as the call to prayer from the mosque echoed down the valley? You think?

Well, I’m back at the hotel now, and I have to tell you Felix didn’t worry me. He’s the producer famous for making the worst of a good situation. And famous for getting out of any fix. I mean he’s the only Russian Jew I know who’s been to the Khyber Pass to visit the Taliban.

The moment that worried me was when I asked Eyal, our always cool cameraman if it was safe. He glanced at the setting sun and murmured: “umm…”

Back into the abyss

I flew El Al from Toronto to Jerusalem to start my second Naked Archaeologist shoot, and I have to say the experience was terrific. The service is great, the food is good, those ex-IDF pilots make you feel safe, but mostly they’re extremely polite during the body search.

After the requisite ten minutes of questioning at Pearson, they took away my carry-on, promising to return it at the gate. Two hours later they did, and then took me aside, down a corridor to conduct a body search. Just as the nice fellow passed his wand (that is not a euphemism) across my ass, my phone rang. It was my wife. She has a wicked sense of humour.

The only other moment of note, since I slept through most of the flight, was at the de-icing station, when an elderly man suddenly fainted. The flight attendants rushed about, and the captain came on the intercom asking if there was a doctor on board. On El Al. What are the odds?

Seventeen people stood up.

If you’re gonna be sick on a flight, make it El Al.

It only seems like 40 years in the desert

Here’s the thing: I was offered the chance to edit an entire season’s worth of… well, disaster reenactment docutainment. For an entire year. Good pay, nice, intelligent people. And I just wanted to slit my wrists. Did I mention it was for an entire year?

The alternative was, of course, to submit a short film I had made to "On the Lot". Course I was delusional at the time and didn’t quite realize that it's a fucking game-show.

So instead, I got myself into a room with two producers who asked why a seemingly sane and well adjusted (they have no idea) person like me would want to direct “The Naked Archaeologist.” Good question. I gave all the stock answers. They didn’t believe me. So I pulled out my secret weapon. I had already worked with Simcha Jacobovici a.k.a. "The Naked Archaeologist". In fact I had been to Israel with him. On another project. “The Lost Tomb of Jesus”. Top secret. So secret, in fact, that apparently no one knew I had worked on it. Even the Producers of the show were only vaguely aware of my existence. This is a fair precis of my career.

But, I had an ace up my sleeve. "The Lost Tomb of Jesus" was so secret that every single cast and crew member had signed a confidentiality agreement.

Except, as it turns out, me.

So I told them all about it.

And, like Martin Sheen said in Apocalypse Now: “I wanted a mission, and for my sins, they gave me one.” And God knows, it was just as hot and sweaty as Mr. Sheen’s mission.

In fact if you look at the picture to the left you’ll see me in the process of becoming glued to Simcha during a two hour drive down a forlorn Jordanian highway. It was only about 45 degrees.

The picture nicely illustrates the balance of power between me (writer-director) and Simcha (talent). He’s full on, middle of frame, engaged in an important phone call. I’m half cut off, amusing myself by taking a photograph of my own nostrils.

Actually, this may overestimate my power on the shoot.

But I take heart in the fact that we have matching baseball hats, matching glasses and his arm appears to be around me.

Thankfully neither of us is actually naked. That's a different blog.

So that’s how I ended up driving around the deserts of Israel and Jordan for two weeks in August, directing "The Naked Archaeologist." Two weeks in a van with Simcha Jacobovici is better than “On the Lot” isn't it? Right? Right?