Waiting for a sign: morning reflections on departure day

It's 11:40 am, and I'm sitting at a small café near my hotel, nursing what must be my third coffee of the morning. The gentle January sun is warming my face through the window, creating that peculiar winter light that makes everything look slightly overexposed. Outside, Haifa continues its Thursday routine, a mix of people hurrying to appointments and others lingering at cafés just like me.

I'm leaving today. My bag is already packed and waiting at the hotel, and I have a few hours before I need to head to the bus station. It's strange how four days in a place can make it feel like a temporary home, how quickly we humans establish routines and favorite spots. This café, for instance, with its mismatched chairs and excellent coffee, has been my morning sanctuary since I arrived.

"Another coffee, sir?" The owner asks, already knowing the answer. We've established a rapport over these past mornings – he no longer tries to explain what shakshuka is, and I no longer act surprised when he remembers exactly how I like my coffee.

"Toda," I reply, using one of the few Hebrew words I've managed to learn. "Last one today. I'm leaving Haifa this afternoon."

He nods with what seems like genuine disappointment. "Where to next?"

I pause, realizing I haven't actually decided. After 142 days on the road, I've gotten comfortable with this uncertainty, but it still feels strange to admit out loud. "South, I think. Maybe Tel Aviv for a few days."

Morning wanderings

Earlier this morning, I took a final walk through the German Colony, arriving at the bottom of the Bahá'í Gardens just as they opened. I didn't go in again – once was enough to appreciate their terraced beauty – but I stood at the entrance, looking up at the geometric precision of the landscaping against the natural backdrop of Mount Carmel.

The gardens are a fitting metaphor for what I've found in Haifa: order within chaos, a deliberate attempt to create harmony in a region often defined by its divisions. I've appreciated the city's relaxed atmosphere after the intensity of Jerusalem. Here, different communities seem to coexist with less visible tension.

I wandered through the side streets, noticing details I'd missed on previous walks – a tiny bookstore with volumes in five different languages, a wall covered in street art depicting olive trees, an elderly man carefully sweeping the sidewalk in front of his shop though it was already immaculate.

The weather has been kind today – 61°F according to my phone, with partial sunshine that makes the Mediterranean shimmer in the distance. Tomorrow would have been perfect for that cable car ride to the Stella Maris Monastery I never got around to taking. There's always something left undone, I suppose. A reason to return.

The restlessness returns

I've felt it building since yesterday – that familiar itch that tells me it's time to move on. After nearly five months of travel, I recognize the pattern. Three or four days in one place, and something in me gets fidgety, eager for new horizons.

Is this what María meant in Jerusalem when she suggested I was running from something rather than toward it? I've thought about her words often since my birthday. The Argentine woman saw something in me during our brief encounter that I'm still trying to understand myself.

Perhaps the restlessness isn't about running at all, but about seeking. The distinction feels important somehow, though I can't quite articulate why. All I know is that Haifa has been good for me – the museum visit that made me think about displacement and belonging, the unexpected joy of finding the arboretum at the Technion campus, the simple pleasure of watching the city wake up each morning from my hotel window.

But 358 days remain in my journey, and there's still so much world to see.

What's next?

I pull out my phone and check the bus schedules. There's a bus to Tel Aviv at 3:15 pm. Another to Tiberias at 2:40. I could even head all the way down to Eilat if I wanted to see the Red Sea.

The beauty of this journey is that I don't have to decide until I'm standing at the ticket counter. Though I've booked my transportation out of Haifa, my destination remains flexible. This balance of structure and spontaneity has become my preferred way of traveling – enough planning to feel secure, enough freedom to follow my instincts.

I notice a news alert on my phone about a police operation in Haifa's Halisa neighborhood last week – something about cannabis and illegal workers. It's a reminder that every city has its complexities, its hidden stories beneath the tourist-friendly surface. I've barely scratched Haifa's surface in four days.

Outside the café window, I notice a group of schoolchildren walking in a neat line, each child holding onto a rope to stay together. They're laughing and chattering, completely present in this moment, unburdened by thoughts of what comes next or what came before.

I finish my coffee and leave a generous tip. The owner waves goodbye with a warm smile. "Next time in Haifa, come back!"

I promise I will, and for once, it doesn't feel like an empty traveler's promise. There's something about this city perched between mountain and sea that I'd like to experience again someday.

But not today. Today, I'll collect my bag, check out of my hotel, and head to the bus station ten minutes early, as always. I'll stand at the platform with 358 days of possibility ahead of me, waiting for a sign about which direction to take next.

Until then, lehitraot, Haifa. Thank you for these quiet days of contemplation.