Jerusalem is the kind of city where you want to walk everywhere in bare feet. There's no beach or boardwalk – nothing but Jerusalem stone, which is used to face every building, and often to pave floors, sidewalks and outdoor plazas. And when I spent my first summer in Israel, I really did slip off my sandals at every opportunity. The stones are big and square, smooth and warm and polished by time. I was just a typical university student, away from home and doing something that would make my mother cringe, but walking
everywhere with my shoes in my hand made me feel as free and wild as a travelling hippie.
Warm stone underfoot is not the only feeling I associate with Jerusalem. I loved the wind that would pick up out of nowhere and blow through the hot city at dusk, suddenly cooling the buses and crowded streets. The sounds were unforgettable, too – the rapid Hebrew, the Muslim call to prayer, even the odd silence on Saturdays when everything just stopped. You can't understand a place without knowing how it tastes, and Jerusalem was exotic that way as well. For a few shekels, my friends and I would go to a falafel joint downtown and load our pitas with fried chickpea balls, hummus, smoky eggplant, cabbage, pickles, lemony salad, tahini and hot sauce. We smelled like garlic all the time.
When my time in Jerusalem ended, I was sure that I'd be back soon – and often. Was I ever wrong. I got involved in school, then marriage, kids and work. Whenever it was time to choose a big destination, Israel was always too … too far, too expensive, too political, too dangerous. Exactly what drove me to get up and buy a ticket one dark Toronto morning was not so much a quest for religion as a search for a buried self.
And just like that, I was driving into Jerusalem on Route One, not knowing what to expect. I'd more than doubled my life experience since my last visit; how could anything about Jerusalem be the same?
At first, it wasn't. I walked into the Mamilla Hotel with the thrill of entering a sophisticated new space, rather than the comfort of rediscovering a familiar one. The attached outdoor mall, full of fancy international shops, seemed too slick. But as I walked under its graceful arches and felt the tumbled stones under my feet, I changed my mind. Maybe this was the real Jerusalem? Munching on a flaky spinach boureka from Roladin, I strolled happily, somehow managing to keep my shoes on.
To really get my bearings, I needed to walk. And so I walked – for the next five days. I started by entering the Old City at nearby Jaffa Gate, working my way through narrow paths and ancient sites where time hadn't made a dent. In search of a place where we used to get hot flatbread topped with za'atar (a Middle Eastern spice mix), I wandered from quarter to quarter, wondering if the sections had become more distinct from each other, or if I just hadn't noticed their sharp differences before.
Mornings were a time of joyful overeating. An Israeli breakfast isn't a bowl of cereal or a little croissant. I loaded my plate with cottage cheese, feta, cucumber and tomato salad and many types of smoked fish, as well as my new favourites – labne, a thick and tangy Lebanese yogurt, and ikra, a rich dip made with fish roe. To drink, I ordered botz – literally mud in Hebrew, but actually Turkish coffee made thick from boiling and lots of sugar.
Good thing I kept walking. I passed the stately King David Hotel, and the Montefiore Windmill, poised above a valley that looked and smelled just as I remembered. Setting out in the other direction, I found bustling Ben Yehuda Street and the falafel places that were still serving it up crispy with all the toppings. But the vibe felt touristy, so I ate one standing up, and pushed on.
Source: The Globe and Mail
0 comments:
Post a Comment