Tomorrow's the big day: last morning in Jerusalem

I'm sitting on my hotel balcony, watching Jerusalem wake up under a hazy morning sun. It's my last full day here, and tomorrow I turn fifty. Fifty. The number keeps rolling around in my mind like a coin that hasn't decided which side to land on.

I woke up at 6:30 feeling restless. My original plan was to visit Yad Vashem today, but something in me is pushing against it. Perhaps it's the weight of history I've already absorbed in the past few days, or maybe it's the approaching milestone making me seek something different for today.

After a quick breakfast at the hotel (decent coffee, but nothing to write home about), I walked through the Armenian Quarter, which I hadn't properly explored yet. The narrow stone streets were quiet at 8:30, with just a few locals starting their day. I found a small pottery workshop where an elderly artisan was already at work, his hands moving with the confidence that comes from decades of practice.

The weather forecast shows rain coming tomorrow - my birthday gift from the Jerusalem skies, apparently. I'm still undecided about where to spend the day. Part of me wants to be here, in this city of profound significance, but another part is whispering that I should move on, perhaps to Tel Aviv or the Dead Sea.

I've spent the past hour researching options. Tel Aviv is only an hour away by bus, and the forecast there shows less chance of rain. The Dead Sea is slightly further but offers a completely different experience. I could float in mineral-rich waters on my birthday - there's something appealingly symbolic about that.

This restlessness isn't new. Throughout this journey, I've had these moments where staying put feels wrong, where the need to move becomes almost physical. Is it the approaching birthday? The halfway point of my journey? Or just my nature?

I arrived at a small café near Damascus Gate at 9:50, ten minutes before they officially opened. The owner saw me waiting and waved me in anyway. "Coffee is ready," he said with a smile. We chatted briefly about the weather while he prepared my espresso. When I mentioned tomorrow was my birthday, he nodded knowingly. "Fifty is nothing," he said. "I am sixty-seven and still learning to live."

I've been thinking about what I've learned in these 135 days of travel. Have I changed? Am I any closer to understanding what I set out to discover? The answers feel both tantalizingly close and frustratingly distant.

Jerusalem has been a place of contrasts - ancient and modern, peaceful and tense, sacred and mundane. Walking these streets, touching stones that have witnessed thousands of years of human history, puts my fifty years in perspective. Yet at the same time, it makes me acutely aware of how fleeting our individual experiences are.

I need to decide soon where I'll be tomorrow. The practical part of me says to book something now, while the dreamer in me wants to leave it to chance. Perhaps that's what this journey is teaching me - to balance the planner and the wanderer within.

For now, I'm heading back out into the city. There's a small bookshop I passed earlier that looked interesting, and then perhaps I'll visit the market one last time. Tonight, I'll make my decision about tomorrow.

One day until fifty. 365 days remaining in this journey.

Whatever I choose, I know this: I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be.