New year, new salt: first impressions of the Dead Sea

There's something poetic about starting the first day of the new year floating in a place that feels completely otherworldly. After bidding farewell to Amman this morning, I arrived at my Dead Sea resort just after noon. The bus journey took about an hour, winding down from Amman's hills through increasingly barren landscapes until we reached this strange depression in the earth—the lowest point on the planet's surface.

I'd read all the facts, of course. 34% salinity. 430 meters below sea level. Border between Jordan and Israel/Palestine. But facts don't prepare you for the actual experience of this place.

The resort I checked into sits right on the shoreline, with a series of terraced pools leading down to the sea itself. After dropping my bags in the room (and arriving exactly ten minutes early for check-in, giving me time to people-watch in the lobby), I headed straight for the beach.

The shoreline here isn't what you'd expect. No soft sand—instead, large salt crystals form a crunchy white border between land and water. The water itself has an almost oily appearance, with a strange blue-green tint that doesn't look quite natural. Signs everywhere warn you not to splash or submerge your head—the salt content would make your eyes burn terribly.

I couldn't resist the main attraction, so I changed quickly and headed down to experience the famous floating. Walking into the water feels normal at first, until you reach about knee depth. That's when the buoyancy takes over. I leaned back, and suddenly I was bobbing like a cork, my feet popping up in front of me. It's the strangest sensation—your body simply refuses to sink. I laid back, arms spread, staring up at the partly cloudy sky, and just... floated.

What struck me most was the silence. Despite other tourists around, everyone seems to enter a meditative state in these waters. There's something about being suspended effortlessly that quiets the mind. I found myself thinking about the year ahead—372 days of journey still remaining, my 50th birthday just nine days away. Floating between sky and salt water seemed like the perfect place for such reflections.

After about twenty minutes, the salt began to sting slightly on a few small scratches I hadn't even realized I had. I waded back to shore and followed the crowd to the mud area. The Dead Sea mud is supposedly packed with minerals that benefit the skin, so naturally, I had to try it. The resort provides buckets of the dark gray mud, and soon I was slathered head to toe, looking like some kind of swamp creature. The mud dries quickly in the sun, pulling tight on your skin before you rinse it off in the sea.

Back in my room now, my skin feels unusually soft, and I'm watching the weather change through my window. The forecast mentioned potential rain later today, which is apparently quite rare here. The staff warned that in case of rain, the beach area would close immediately—something about flash flood risks in the surrounding valleys.

There's a strange contradiction to this place. It's called the Dead Sea because almost nothing can survive in its hypersaline waters, yet people flock here for its life-giving properties. The water that kills most organisms apparently revitalizes human skin. The barrenness of the landscape contrasts with the luxury resorts dotting the shoreline. Even the name itself is a contradiction—it's not actually a sea but a salt lake.

I've noticed some interesting plants near the resort—salt-resistant species that somehow manage to survive in this harsh environment. Their resilience is impressive. I'm planning to ask more about the local ecology tomorrow.

As the afternoon progresses, I can see the mountains on the opposite shore becoming less distinct. The staff says rain is definitely coming. I'm hoping to catch the sunset over the water before dinner, but the increasing cloud cover might interfere with that plan.

Tomorrow, I want to explore more of the shoreline and perhaps visit one of the spa facilities for a proper Dead Sea mineral treatment. For now, though, I'm content to rest on my balcony, watching the strange, salt-heavy waves lap against the crystalline shore, contemplating what it means to begin a new year in a place where almost nothing can live, yet people come to feel more alive.

The first day of 2026, spent 430 meters below sea level. There's probably a metaphor in there somewhere about starting from the bottom, but I'm too relaxed from the salt water to figure it out right now.