Closing Down a Wine Bar in the Negev: ‘We only have 30 Minutes’
In the few visits my father made to Israel over a two-year period, he mentioned Masada 499 times. But I only heard it the 500th, when my wife, Abby, nudged me to sit down and plan a trip for him. How many more trips do I have to plan? Over the past two years, I’d become the designated family tour guide, historian, and travel expert. I was tired!
The problem wasn’t that I didn’t want to go or give my dad that experience, it was that trying to plan it for the entire family didn’t align with school schedules. And I’d just sold our car to prepare to move back to the United States. “He really wants to go. Just do it with the two of you.”
Thank God I did. We were in for an adventure.
Instead of driving to Masada and taking a cable car to the top, we opted for a more adventurous day trip. We’d hop an early train in Haifa to Beersheva, taxi to Masada (on a friend’s advice), and hike to the top. Brilliant!
Off we went. We made the three-hour tour from Hof HaCarmel to Beersheva. Just as we pulled near the Beersheva station, I hopped on a quick call with a friend, Doron, who immediately let me know the lack of foresight in my plans.
“Why would you do that? No, no, no. That’s not smart. You must rent a car.”
I could picture him wagging his finger at me. Early on that kind of directness would have hurt my pride. By now, I just smile and say thank you, because he was right.
Pride still intact, I googled a rental place right outside the station. Bingo. Ten minutes later we had keys. I texted Doron, expressing my thanks for his good idea. His response was iconic: “It’s a pity you didn’t tell me before. I would have taken you.” And he would, too.
Dad was nervous – though he wouldn’t say it – about driving in Israel, and to be fair, it is a cultural experience all on its own. But I convinced him, and before we knew it, we were making the one-hour trek through the Negev to the less-visited Western entrance of Masada. As he drove, I jumped on the phone to text Doron about a local winery, Yatir, I’d seen near Tel Arad on a past visit I’d made to the area.
I wanted Dad to see Tel Arad, a site famous for exhibiting a holy of holies outside of the Jerusalem Temple, and which was buried and covered over during the centralization of worship under King Hezekiah (8th century BCE). But Dad had seen a ton of archeological sites. Wine was the better option this time.
Doron was the best guy to call, as he was an award-winning wine sommelier and dealer. “Is Yatir winery any good?” I asked.
“Yes, it is excellent. You must go,” Doron replied. “Let me call the winemaker. Call me on your way back and I’ll let him know you’re coming.”
Brilliant again! The day was planned.
Dad and I arrived at the entrance of Masada late morning. We were the only two there. An ominous sign of toils to come. “Arrive early to beat the heat,” warned the Masada website. We looked upwards. Mordor. 100 °F (38 °C).
Up we went.
We sweated it out, step-by-step, up the Roman Ramp Road, the outline of the Roman Tenth Legion campsite at our backs. One quick sip and stop at a shady rest spot about three-fourths the way up, and then up to the top. My face beet-red, I looked at Dad. Sixty-six years old, I knew he was acting tired so as not to make me feel out of shape. He wiped some sweat from his forehead, smiling. A good dad.
At around 2:40 pm, after our visit to the sites at the top, we rushed back down the path to make a wine tasting at Yatir. But not before a quick popsicle to cool down at the empty outdoor snack shop near the parking lot.
It was now 3:20pm. The winery closed at 4:00pm. Yikes. We jumped in the car with 30 minutes to make a 40-minute trip, hoping to get there with at least a few minutes to taste some wines before they closed.
In the following moments, I thought twice about asking Dad to drive. I honestly forgot he had a racing license. He proved it. He took every turn at breakneck speed such as I’d never experienced. Was he racing for pole position? I clutched the seat, shoulders raised, tense. And there he was, just casually talking away.
I laugh now, but I was scared to death. Thankfully, once the windy roads spilled back onto the highway, I relaxed. Back on the straight and narrow.
I jumped on WhatsApp, texted Doron, and let him know we were running late. “I can’t get ahold of anyone to tell them we’ll be there just before 4.” He instantly replied, “You don’t have to schedule. Try to get there. I will try to speak with someone.”
At 3:33, he texted again. “No one answered. Anyway, go there. Israelis are used to a rude attitude. Just say a quick wine tasting.” He meant that we needed to push them to stay open. I was no stranger to the tactic, either. I’d learned to hold my own or get mowed over.
We screeched into Yatir at 3:52, barely getting the car into park before swinging the doors open. Dad pulled out his classic black comb and fixed his hair as we walked to the door. Empty except for a bartender cleaning glasses and corking bottles.
Dad turned on the charm, I refused to leave, and together we convinced her to pour exactly two wines. No more, no less. But only two, she said. Agreed. Deal.
I checked my phone. Doron had texted a few minutes before: “The winemaker is on the way to meet you.”
At 3:58, I responded, “He is not here. We had to push to get a taste of two wines. What’s his name?” and then finally, at 3:59, “They are closing on us. We have to leave.”
But then, alas, right at 4:00pm, the head winemaker, Eran Goldwasser, walked in. Immediately, I texted Doron, “He is here. You saved us.”
Befitting his personality, Doron sent a GIF of a silhouetted man tipping his black bowler hat, bowed over, and accompanied it with the message, “At your service.” But not without one more reminder that I ought to have called him first to take us: “Next time consult with me.”
Eran spent an hour with us, pouring us some of his best wines. His day was over, but he knew ours wasn’t. In that short hour, he educated us on Yatir’s winemaking process. My Dad shared about his own winemaking experiences, and we left better educated about winemaking in the desert and the replanting of the Yatir forest back in the 1960s. It was an introductory course on winemaking and aggrotech. And Doron was right, the wine was excellent, too.
Our minds full of new knowledge and our bodies much refreshed, we didn’t leave empty-handed. Dad picked up a handful of the best red wine they had to offer, Yatir Forest.
Just recently, two years later, we shared the last one together, reminiscing on one of the best trips of our lives. Worth every one of those 500 mentions and every bead of sweat. Cheers, Dad!
