"Look, here is the date palms. This grove belongs to the kibbutz where my son, who is colonel in the army, is stationed. We stop for a moment at the gate to the kibbutz. The date palm takes fifty years to make the dates."
Then he points beyond the dates toward a great field of prickly-pear cactus. "And this is the sabra."
Hundreds of plants display flattened oblong cactus pads that each support a row of spiny pears along their crests. The thousands of pricklypears are turning purple.
"The sabra is delicious, but you have to know how to peal it." He gives us his rearview mirror smile. "This is what the first generation of Israelis born after the war is called. We are the Sabra. Hard and spiny on the outside, but sweet on the inside."
He drives into a parking lot and stops beside a dusty Arab on a bench with ajar of water filled with cactus pears. The Arab watches us climb down from the van into the heat.
Sol says something to him, then turns to us. "There is nothing to see here, but we stop so he can peal you the sabra. A shekel apiece. As I say, it is very sweet, and his fruit is the best in the area."
