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I can smell my sweat. I’ve been awake since four in the morning and I’m starting to feel it. My feet are tight in my shoes from the flight. My shoulders ache and my back is hot under my bag and guitar case. But it’s okay. I have a plan: First, take the train from Ben Gurion to Jerusalem, the tram to the Damascus Gate. Then the 231 bus to Bethlehem, meet Lola, and travel back to Hebron with her and her friends (who were curious to see the Australian who lived in Spain and is coming all this way just to see her!) Over in Palestine, Lola is waiting. Between pragmatic messages of logistics we send pictures of smiles and little messages that say, soon, soon! The ride to Jerusalem is a wi-fi blackout and I sit on the edge of a seat and close my eyes. The train is delayed somewhere halfway. So I do what I can; I breathe. Change of plans. They can’t meet me in Bethlehem; it’s too late. The Jerusalem station wi-fi doesn’t allow me to call Lola but we send voice messages. She wants me to take the bus to Hebron instead of Bethlehem. I feel fear in the back of my throat like there’s something half-chewed stuck there but I swallow it anyway. I tell her I’ll be there soon. I tow my bags past the 231. Sweat drips from my brow across the lenses of my glasses. The bus station is open-air with tiny shelters for passengers to wait under, the signage mostly in Hebrew and Arabic. My hands are full and I nudge my face against my shoulder to push the frames back up. There is no bus to Hebron. As I leave the bus station towards the car park with the ‘private buses’ -- taxis -- a man pulls up next to me in a sedan. He’s thin, in his sixties, missing a few teeth, and he asks where I’m going. ‘I can take you to Hebron.’ He says. I tell him, ‘thank you, but I’m looking for a bus.’ A couple of guys are chatting by one of the cars and I ask them if anyone is going to Hebron. One of them points to a van and says, ‘that’s the bus that goes to Hebron but it is not going to fill tonight because it’s too late.’ The private buses only depart once they’re full. ‘But I can take to Hebron for 100 shekels.’ The man from the car gets out and approaches me. ‘I will take you to Hebron for 200 shekels.’ In a moment I take stock of it all, since four in the morning: from Madrid to the airport, the flight to Israel -- and here I am with a lady waiting for me and well behind schedule. I smile and turn back to the two guys and say, ‘this guy just offered to take me for 100!’ He laughs, ‘that’s right, brother!’ And he shakes my hand. ‘You’ve got yourself a deal.’ I said. He and his friend lead me to his car. I unshoulder the guitar and feel the cool relief of my decisiveness on my back. I alternate between observing the ancient Jerusalem streets and my position on the GPS. As we cross over to the West Bank, into Palestine, the GPS stops. I swallow the concern that I’ve just entered a private vehicle with strangers and I ask if I may borrow one of their phones. The friend obliges and shares his wi-fi. A flood of worried messages chime their way onto my screen and Lola gives them a rendezvous point. For the rest of the car ride Lola and I share our locations on WhatsApp and watch our two little icons get closer and closer until they form one. In Hebron, I look up, scanning around me. I see Lola across the road and wave. She’s looking down at her phone, messaging me. I type to her look up! When I look up she’s waving to me and we smile. I’m not nervous. I’m not scared of anything. I’m in a new, strange place. And I’m grateful to be here.