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Travel Stories
>> Jerusalem, for the not-so-true believer… Oh, come on, I don’t mean I’m not spiritual, perhaps the right word is “poly-religious”…. with dear friends and family of many different denominations. But a trip to Jerusalem for someone like me, well, let’s just say, it was weird, it was wild, it was historical, and it was hysterical… and it reinforced the cynicism I carry about any ‘organized’ religion. It is a great and wonderful thing to have a “faith”, and no one should be denied this. The belief in a higher power, whether God, Allah, Yahweh, Buddha, of a multitude of Hindi deities, for example, is something that most human beings hold dear. However, the absolute evils that have been perpetrated in this world in the names of Jesus, Mohammed, God, and others, well… let’s just say, the part of me that is the not-so-true believer refers to “religion”…not to faith. For someone who comes from a world of reality, this world of ‘symbolism’ really stretched me. Since the Muslim holiday of Eid Al-Adha fell this year from March 16-19, it meant a long weekend for Roger, Terri and myself. Two weeks earlier we’d sat around the kitchen, drinking red wine (of course) and thinking about our escape. We love Amman, really, it’s an easy city and the living is fine… but for a bunch of itchy feet like we three – sometimes you just need to “get away” – regardless of where you are getting away from and where you are getting away to. We knew that during the Eid it wasn’t likely that we could get into the Temple Mount or visit the Dome of the Rock, but we decided that Jerusalem was worth a road trip anyway. Roger and I had driven through it back around Christmas and we wanted to see more, to “do” Jerusalem. For most Jordanians a trip across the Jordan River can be belabored with headaches and the probability that passage might be denied, so many don’t bother. For a car load of expatriates, a trip across the Jordan River is still pretty belabored – but the probability of passage is almost assured, so we bother. The first time we traveled to Israel, this is how it went: 1. (Ok campers, get out your atlases) You can take a personal vehicle over the border between the two countries ONLY over the Sheik Hussein Bridge in the north near Lake Tiberius OR the Araba Bridge at the Aqaba/Eilat border in the very south. No personal vehicles will be permitted over the Allenby Bridge (which is only 30 minutes from Amman and would be the closest and most logical crossing otherwise) 2. Since the Sheik Hussein bridge is two hours to the North and Araba Bridge is three hours to the South, the Northern bridge seemed the way to go. 3. At the bridge on the Jordan side you go through a couple of checkpoints during which they will inspect everyone's papers, and all the vehicle papers - you should have IN the car: all the information about the vehicle's insurance coverage, AND the slightly pink, laminated square card which Hammad (and other Jordanians) call the car "license". When they are examining the "license" you need to tell them that they need to "translate" that document for you. They will take that document and copy the information about the vehicle onto a shabby little form that the Israelis will ask for. Also make sure that you show them your residency cards. 4. Once you are through at the Jordan side process, you will go sit at a green gate until the Israelis say the Jordanians can raise the barrier and let you across (the Jordan River is a piddle of a stream – All this hype about “The River Jesus was BAPTISED IN” – a shocker to see it in real life. The actual “bridge” is a metal frame and a few wooden slats.) [ In December, we did not know about the “translation” of the license and so when we got to the Israeli side the first time they sent us back to Jordan… the easy-going, endomorph who had examined our papers took the license again and “translated” it – so badly that we weren’t sure we’d get through the second time either. By the time we got back up to the Jordan gate, the Israelis would not let us back over and we waited for three hours – we still don’t know why, but we played cards, ate, and shared food with the Jordan gate guards, Rami and Ahmad (of course) while we waited for the Israelis to re-open their side – which they eventually did ] 5. Once you are across the bridge and on the Israeli side... the first thing you will notice is that there is no one in a ten mile radius over the age of twenty. These pups will inspect the car (mirrors, etc.) and ask you lots of questions about where the car came from, if anyone gave you anything to carry, etc.... it is at this point that they need that piece of paper that the Jordanians "translated". Whew, made it – although the translation listed our car as a “Hundy” – sort of a cross breed between a Honda and a Hundai ? 6. Then you proceed to the passport control... they ask lots of questions, including father's name... (I kept thinking, “hey with a good Old Testament name like Rachel, and a father named David, can this be a bad thing here?) and they will ask if you want your passport stamped - of course you will say no - they won't ask why - but if they do the best response is that you want to do some shopping in "Syria" later in the year and the Israeli stamp might cause problems. 7. Then you proceed to a place where you must remove all your luggage, food, anything from the vehicle. They take the vehicle into a closed garage to check it thoroughly as you proceed across the road to get the car "insured" while it is in Israel. They take only sheckles - but you can change dinars or dollars or anything into sheckles right at the window behind you (when you are at the insurance window). You can buy the insurance for three days, or one week, or a month, or any number of months. Of course we were going to be there four days – so it was a week’s worth for us. You must then take all the paperwork back across the street (where they will have finished with your vehicle) and go into the final customs check where they record all the car info (insurance policy number, etc...) and your info - and release you. 8. The fastest this will all happen is about an hour. Then you need to proceed down route 90 through the West Bank to Jericho – hang a right after Jericho and in minutes you are in Jerusalem (from bridge to Jerusalem takes some two hours) Crossing the Allenby Bridge So my office staff helped me draft a letter (in Arabic) to the Jordanian Ministry of Interior telling him what the vehicle was (a Honda CRV Jordan yellow plate number: 19379) and that we wanted to cross the Allenby Bridge with it. Hammad took me over the Ministry of the Interior with this letter, my passport, and the car docs, and we began to search. The Government of Jordan was officially closed for the Eid – however, the Ministry of the Interior, which handles all the police and customs work, had – we were told – a skeleton crew on duty for services just like this. Here I must mention that the idea that somewhere in the Jordanian government there are people who provide a ‘service’ – well, I nearly fell over. My only regular interaction with the Jordanian government had been at work. On our project we deal with the Ministry of Health which prides itself on being as obstreperous, avaricious, ignorant, and power hungry as possible – and they are damn proud of it. So Hammad and I wandered around this cavernous, empty building until we found our man, Omar Mufi, in an enormous room that looked just like a war room or boardroom (is there a big difference?). He and a colleague seemed to be manning the phones, one white and one red. He kindly took my papers, picked up the phone, placed a call, finished, handed me back my papers and said in lovely English, “When you get to the bridge, go to see Lt. Najib in Public Relations, he will give you the right paper.” I thanked him and asked if I needed to show Lt. Najib anything, and he smiled and said, “no, tell him if he has some problem to call me back!” And having just learned in Arabic how to wish him a good Eid, I wished him so. He smiled again and wished me one as well. I am sure the Arabs smile because I butcher this lovely language with every attempt – but hey, a smile is always better than the alternative. We packed up the car (loaded for a serious road trip – just in case Lt. Najib was not feeling as magnanimous as Omar had felt and we would be forced to traipse back to the Sheik Hussein bridge up North)… and we were off.. Forty minutes later, we managed to find Lt. Najib in the Public Relations office and he stood up and smiled as we entered his room. I offered my hand, to which he put his hand on his chest and shook his head ever so slightly. I am always sort of taken aback when I meet Arab men who will not touch a woman, like I want to whip my hand up and run it through my hair as if I hadn’t “REALLY” meant to put it out in the first place. But the Lieutenant was very kind, he grinned at us (with an upper bite that would make an orthodontist salivate with anticipation) and invited us to sit while his people did whatever they had to do. His English was excellent and he quizzed Terri a bit about her project (in enterprise development) and offered up the fact that he had a master’s in Economics that was really going to waste here in Customs’ Public Relations. And we were off across the border. The Allenby Bridge crossing is a little different from the others. Once through the Jordanian gate, we traveled through what seemed like a couple of miles of absolutely lifeless, barbed-wire infested, bunkered, sand dunes before we got to the actual bridge, another tiny clunker of a structure over the trickle of holy (apparently) water. The Jordanian in the room there recorded our passport numbers and vehicle info and across we trundled. On the Israeli side, immediately after the bridge, we stopped the car and unloaded everything. For the first and only time we have been in Israel we encountered an official who was ‘middle aged” – a man who was tanned, bald, and near-sighted, with a big handle-bar mustache and a grin you could just love. He was a tangle of nerves answering three phones, a beeper, and greeting guests (like us) all at once. Roger had to take the car back over the bridge for something, and Terri and I were instructed to wait. Although instead of doing it in the waiting-room in the back we sat in our man’s office. He told jokes and winked at us like a kindly uncle and managed to engage us in conversation in spite of the three phones and the beeper. While Roger dealt with the vehicle as was his wish, Terri and I paid ‘the’ taxi to take us the couple of miles to the Israel Customs compound in-land. Rather quickly through customs, we waited for Roger amid the busloads of ‘Christians’ from North Dakota and from Oklahoma (replete with “Sooner” t-shirts and baseball caps). Our passage was uneventful although the car took some time, but we were soon on the way to the holy city. As we drove around Jerusalem at dusk, traveling in circles, it seemed, in an effort to find a road leading to our hotel, we happened upon a little neighborhood that reminded us a little of Adams Morgan (in Washington DC). Out of the right rear window, Terri caught a glimpse of a sushi bar. “Oh wow, did you see that?” she asked. “You mean that sushi place?” I said… “oh YEAH, this was going to be a good weekend! As Roger slowed the car and we began to eye the nifty little boutiques and cafes, and hole in the wall restaurants, we saw a wine shop. More than the wine, it had a parking space right out front! In we pull, thinking that if we dash into to glance over the wines, maybe even buy a bottle for later, we could stay parked there while we survey the street and maybe even find a great place to eat dinner. Dash in? Whose idea was that….? An hour and seven bottles (and three cigars, martini glasses, and a nice glass stopper) later we were tippin’ back a nice glass of white with Noam, the nice redheaded manager behind the counter, and thinking maybe dinner could wait just a few more minutes. We were in the neighborhood called the German Colony. A nice area of little one way streets and just what we had seen; beautiful jewelry, Asian food, vegetarian cafes, and an all around homey and artsy feel. As we finished our sushi and dumplings we agreed that we had to come back here – at least for an afternoon. OK, back to where we were going to sleep that night. Since we had made our arrangements at the last minute (you see, we are becoming “Jordanian-ized” -little or no planning necessary) we had to settle for the only hotel in Jerusalem that had available rooms, The Seven Arches. After our visit with Noam and the sushi meal it only took us about half an hour driving in more circles to arrive at the hotel. Since the Seven Arches Hotel is located on the Mount of Olives, we could see it from every corner of the city – but could not, maddeningly enough, seem to find the road to take us there. The Seven Arches Hotel The hotel itself is not much to speak of, although it is obvious that it did in fact have some glory days at some point about 20 years ago, but the view from its rooms is spectacular. So spectacular are the views that 3,956 tour buses daily fight along the narrow roads leading to it to dump their contents out on the roadway in front of the hotel to oooh and aaah whilst they snap away. Every morning we awoke to the sounds of tour bus drivers arguing amongst themselves with their horns, and tour guides blaring over their megaphones in every conceivable language. We became privileged enough to preview, over coffee each morning, the groups we would have the opportunity to be pushed and shoved by later in town. We began to refer to them collectively as, “The yellow scarves”, or the “white hats”, or the “orange t-shirts”. We also began to notice that they were almost all Christians. We were on the “Muslim” side of town, and in fact, later in the trip, had Jewish taxi drivers refuse to take us to the hotel. The Muslim tour groups were staying in our hotel, who knows where the Christians where staying - they only came up for the view every morning. The Muslim groups were unrecognizable in town (except that they traveled with all their children and extended families. The Christians were very recognizable – largely due to their attire (tough to miss 50 senior citizens from Italy with bright yellow scarves on. twice). The Mount of Olives (2 Samuel 15:30, Acts
1:12), the Kidron Valley, and Jehosephat (Zechariah 14:1-9) Continuing down the path we passed by the Russian Church of Mary Magdalene – topped with a series of gorgeous, golden, gleaming, onion-shaped domes - and closed to the public. Although Terri pressed up against the outer doors and tried to hear and then translate what was being discussed within (always nice to hang out with multi-lingual friends). Below the Russian church sits the church of All Nations (built by the same Italians who built Dominus Flevit) with a golden mosaic above the entry depicting Jesus assuming the suffering of the world. The Church is also called the Basilica of the Agony for the mosaic out front (and the tourist feet inside). Actually the structure is called All Nations since it was built by donations from 12 nations, all of whom are given their due in the various stained glass windows and the painted mini-vaults inside. Gethsemane (Matthew 26:36-56, Mark 14:32-51) As you are reading through this recollection – it is worth noting that most of the sites, and all of the structures are “popularly believed to be” what they are told as. This is because no one can be sure that these are in fact, the places where these various biblical stories take place. In fact, on a number of occasions, it is clear that the structure or item or site is NOT in fact where a given event took place – but because it was logistically easy to place an event somewhere – there it ended up. So, for people who are interested in the historical value of a trip like this one…Terri and I (in particular) found this somewhat discouraging. “Ok, so was he REALLY arrested here? Or was this the closest place that “looked” right?”. Even more discouraging was watching people swoon, ooh and ahh over, for example, the slab of marble in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre where Jesus was (popularly believed to have been) laid after being removed from the cross – commissioned from a quarry in Italy in 1810. Hello. Eighteen Ten. Gee, what an extraordinary thing – Jesus was laid on a slab of marble some 1,780 years after he died. As Terri said, “Whew, I bet he really stunk by the time they got the slab here.” I suppose what any visitor to Jerusalem must do is to put aside any expectation of true history, and instead recognize that all of the events mentioned in the bible did in fact, occur in this general area, and that this fact alone should be enough to put one in a certain awe of the blood this land has absorbed. So on we walked, passing by the Church of St. Stephen’s and along the road leading along the old city walls and around to the entrance to the old city. As we walked along we could glance down over our left shoulders to the Kidron Valley (the near end of which is called the Valley of Jehosephat). Sitting in the valley we could see a number of tombs (Absalom’s, Zechariah’s, the Tomb of Jehosephat, and the tomb of B’nei Hezir – a family of Jewish priests. Jewish priests? Hey, that’s what the guidebooks say) representing the bulk of what remains of the Second Temple (era). Jehosephat, in Hebrew, means, “God shall judge”, and it is believed that here the events of Judgment Day will occur. All human beings will be assembled on Mount Olives (although on most mornings it seemed they already were) and two bridges will appear spanning the valley; one made of paper and the other of iron. Accordingly, all will be directed to one or the other of the bridges – and those who read the bible know that the iron bridge will collapse and the paper bridge will lead to eternal life. So think paper, y’all. This is terrible, but I kept thinking about Monty Python’s Holy Grail, “What’s your favorite color? Blue, I mean GREEN, ahhhhhhhhhh.” The Walls and the Gates The walls of the city support two kinds of architectural structures, gates (entrances) and ramparts. We walked the ramparts the last morning we were there and were a bit disappointed by what we saw. Having done quite a bit of the interior earlier, the rampart walk (we did only the section from Jaffa Gate to Herod’s Gate) did not provide us with the hoped-for view of the old city, but rather only a clear view of all the poor backyards in the Christian and Muslim quarters (lots of clotheslines and trash bins). For security reasons the public is not permitted to walk the entire perimeter, and may either walk clockwise from the Jaffa Gate to St. Stephen’s Gate, or from Jaffa Gate counter-clockwise to the Dung Gate. The section containing the Golden Gate (along the Temple Mount) is closed, they say, until the appearance (The Second Coming) of the Messiah. No breath-holding, please. The Gates are another story. All of the Gates have names in Hebrew, Arabic, and English, although some are commonly known by their English name, the guidebooks mention that a few are known locally by whichever name is used by that population. They say, for example, if you ask a taxi driver to take you to “Herod’s Gate”, and he is an Arab, he may not know what you mean unless you ask for Bab as-Zahra (Flower Gate). The following is a quick briefer on which gates lead to what: The southernmost Dung Gate is closest to the Western Wall (The Wailing Wall) and into the Jewish Quarter, moving clockwise the Zion Gate puts you into the city close to the Cardo (a big sunken shopping alley that divides the Jewish and Armenian quarters), Jaffa Gate is the biggest tourist entrance and is located at the Citadel and puts you into David Street, dividing first the Armenian quarter (on your right) and the Christian quarter (on your left) then dividing the Jewish Quarter (on your right) and the Muslim quarter (on your left). Ok, everybody got that? (Sounds like a Twisterä game, doesn’t it?) The New Gate, the most northwesterly gate, puts you in the heart of the Christian quarter. The Damascus Gate (another large and heavily trafficked passage) leads into Souk Khan as-Zeit Street – separating the Christians (right) and the Muslims (left) and leads to the middle of the nearby “Via Dolorosa” and the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Herod’s Gate is next, I’m still taking you clockwise, named for Herod’s Palace which was erroneously thought to have been located close by (“popularly believed…”). The last gate is St. Stephen’s Gate, leading into the heart of the Muslim quarter and along the northern edge of the enclosed Temple Mount. For those seeking to follow the Via Dolorosa from station one on, this is the appropriate entrance. The Western (Wailing) Wall So we passed through the Dung Gate metal detectors with waves of Hasidim on their way to the Wailing Wall. Dung Gate opens to a large open block-paved esplanade that permits the visitor to take in the multitude of humanity and then to the right, the Western Wall. Although it is really nothing more than a large bare wall, it is immediately impressive and powerful in its presentation. The books tell us that this is the remains of the retaining wall of the compound that held the Second Temple. Although the Roman’s destroyed the Second Temple in 70AD, the Jews believe that the divine presence exists in this wall and it is a most sacred place for the Jewish population. It was during the time of the Ottomans that it became known at the Wailing Wall as Jews regularly came here to lament their losses. For much of its history the Wall was almost hidden behind a neighborhood of Arab tenements. When the Jews stormed the city during the Six Day War in 1967, the first thing they did was raze the neighborhood in front of it – leaving the enormous open patio that is before it today. The space directly in front of the Wall serves as an open-air synagogue and the wall itself is separated for men and women. While we were there three bar mitzvahs were taking place - fascinating events – men trussed up the arms and heads with thin black leather bands holding little black boxes (that contain scriptural texts). Since modestly dressed tourists (and yarmulked men) are permitted to approach the wall, Terri and I went to the women’s side and took our turns touching this holy place (it was cold, and sort of damp, since you asked). Roger, who demonstrated more reverence for a holy place not his own, was initially was a little taken aback by the atmosphere and was not sure if he should put on the requisite paper yarmulke and go down to the men’s side. “Oh, go ahead, “ I urged, “This is the Wailing Wall! Go on down and ask God for a couple of healthy babies.” And off he strode to put his hand where so many other petitioners had gone before him. Besides the enormity of the space and the volume of bodies accumulated around it, there are two other immediately visual things about the Wall. The first is that there is a clearly visible dark yellowed beige line on the stones from about 4 feet to about 6 feet high representing the centuries of human oils from the heads and hands pressed upon it. The second is the sheer numbers of tiny pieces of paper and post-it notes (3M meets God) that are stuck in every conceivable crevice. In fact, so modern is man’s connection to God here that if by chance you cannot get away to put your plea in a crevice in person, you can fax the Almighty on: 561-2222, and well-meaning telephone company employees will take it down to be wedged in amongst the others. I kid you not. We left the Wall, and turned our walk to the inner passageways of the Jewish quarter. We wandered the little alleyways – beset with stalled vendors of every conceivable item. Glass (much of it opaque and ‘marbled’, or cobalt), leather bags, inlaid wooden trays, chess sets, embroidered backpacks and pocketbooks, dried fruits and nuts, fresh-squeezed orange and grapefruit juices, and in the alleyways closer to the Christian quarter you could buy a thorn of crowns (“Hey look!” Roger exclaimed, “something for my mother!”), and let’s not forget the ubiquitous velvet-Elvis-like prints of Jesus on the cross and prints of the Virgin with tiny blinking lights around their heads (hey, one AA battery and you have a working halo!)… it was wonderful, MUCH better than the West End Fair (sorry Aunt Alice, but it’s true). And of course we had many opportunities to be push and shoved by the yellow-scarved Italians and blue-baseball-capped North Dakotans who were making sure they didn’t miss a chance for the religious bargain of a life-time. My true regret was that in our wanderings that day we missed the wonderful Cardo which was closed later when we went back to look at the gold jewelry. We finished our Old City tour at the Citadel (The Tower of David), unanimously decided we were too hungry and beat-up to trek through the museum there, and opted instead for lunch at the Armenian Tavern. One of the treasures that the Armenian’s produce in Jerusalem is ceramic work. We ventured into a number of shops and saw a couple of things we liked (bought a long thin three tiled skyline of the old city done by a local artist, lovely), but didn’t really hit the jackpot until subsequent visits to the Old City when we found a little shop run by a man whose father and grandfather before him designed and produced tiles and plates. After our lunch we stopped into the Armenian Church of St. James (Jacques) where we watched quietly while the young priests sang mass in the dark, dank, tiny chapel – strewn with a clutter of incense burners (not lit) and lamps (also mostly not lit) on chains hanging from the ceiling – the high priests in outfits that suggested Obi-Wan Kenobi or other Star Wars characters. The Church of the Holy Sepulchre Once the Romans were out of fashion, Constantine’s mother, Helena (the same women who picked out Jesus’s birth spot in Bethlehem and had the Church of the Nativity built on it) erected the first of what was to be a number of structures over the site. It is a strange place, the books mention that people who don’t know what it is often wander and in and out not knowing what they’ve seen, and people who know exactly what it is all about come out disappointed by what they find. For someone who has seen the insides (and outsides) of a hundred cathedrals and churches, I was unimpressed with the sloppy architecture, the lack of any exquisite stained glass or other aesthetic features. The last four stations of the Via Dolorosa are located in this church. Once inside the front doors, you must climb a steep set of stairs found to the far right to a small chapel on the second floor. It is here that you can hear the guides pointing out exactly where Jesus was disrobed (the 10th station), nailed to the cross (the 11th), where he died on the cross (12th), and where he was removed from the cross (13th). The 14th station (where he was laid in the Holy Sepulchre) is downstairs – you can find it by looking for the long line of tourists/pilgrims that snakes across the back of the church. I was finding this all pretty fascinating and moving (people all around crossing themselves and kneeling and praying) until it was pointed out to me that the line in front of me was in the process of stopping at the altar (station 12) and putting their arms (up to mid-armpit) into a hole on the floor. The hole is where the cross is said to have been placed – so people wanted to touch the ground where the cross touched – HELLO! WE ARE ON THE SECOND FLOOR!!! See, these are the things I just can’t swallow. How can I get excited about touching the place where the cross that Jesus was crucified sat when I know that Jerusalem was approximately 10 meters (30 feet) lower, geographically, during the time of Jesus, and in addition we are on the second floor. Ugh…it just ruined the whole feel for me. This church is the place where (I mentioned earlier) the Italian marble slab, set in place in 1810, is touched and kissed by thousands because it is the “place where Jesus was laid when he was removed from the cross.” Please. Ok, so we wander around the Church and explore the various chapels and watch the various services and are pushed, shoved, and cut in front of by “Christians” from all over the world. We actually waited in the line to enter the little “room” where Jesus is said to have been buried, I must be a glutton for punishment. I think what really pushed me over the edge was that all of the guidebooks relate the fact that instead of being good Christians, all of the denominations who claim part of this church have been in a cold war with each other for centuries about “what is theirs”. The Roman Catholics, the Greek Orthodox, the Armenians, the Copts, and the Christian Ethiopians and Syrians all lay claim to various corners of this structure. They behave so non-Christian-like about their possessions that should even a folding chair or a rug cross the imaginary lines between ‘their’ sections, fisticuffs are often the result. It didn’t happen while we were there, but can you even imagine a couple of priests giving each other black-eyes or breaking each others’ arms? It is said that during the 1800’s clergy would regularly and proudly show their visitors the scars from wounds inflicted by fellow ‘Christians’ (I REALLY use the term loosely here). In 1927, after an earthquake seriously weakened the structure, the Christians had such bad blood between them that it took some thirty years to complete the necessary repairs. The coup-de-grace is that the keys to this church are held by a neighboring MUSLIM family who has held them since Ottoman times. Since Ottoman times. Let’s see….that would mean that for the last 500+ years a Muslim has had to be responsible for opening the doors every morning (and locking them every night) to one of the most holy places for all Christianity. And people wonder why I am a religious cynic. If this isn’t a good reason, I can’t think of one. Feeling “touristed-out”, we hiked back through the old city and up the hill past Gethsemane (where Judas is popularly believed to have…), the Tombs (where Mary is “popularly believed to be…”), the Dominus Flevit (where Jesus is popularly believed to have…), and the Russian Church of Mary Magdalene (I suddenly wanted to cheer those Russians who steadfastly refuse to let the public hoards enter their sanctuary)… to the top of the Jewish cemetery on which our hotel sat. After a nice glass of wine and some munchies in the room (Roger had done a swell job of packing the cooler for our road trip, and there were lots of goodies to nibble with the wine), we got into the car and headed into town for a meal. Since we had unwittingly driven around most of Jerusalem (New City) the day before, we were quickly oriented and found a parking spot in Nahalat Shiv’a (a neighborhood resembling a large mall, only outside). Wandering the streets and gazing in the shop windows, this was another spot we would put on our ‘must do’ list. We ended up at a little Korean restaurant and had a lovely meal. Terri, who had lived near a Korean restaurant in Detroit years back, was in a small heaven recalling the kitchen there and the good kim chee. So if anyone ever asks me if I’ve ever eaten Korean food, I have. In Jerusalem. Of course. A Holiday Weekend Since it was Friday morning, anything Muslim was closed, so we dared again to drive into the New City (parking is notoriously difficult) and Roger (this man has parking karma like no one I know) found a public parking near Ben Yahuda Street – the main strip in neighborhood we’d visited last night. It was a wild and beautiful morning, the mostly pedestrian streets of Nahalat Shiv’a were simply teeming with people, many shopping, but also many just out for a walk – some in costume (for Purim), the pedestrian streets hosted a cellist, and further along a violinist, and every couple of shops a little old lady singing and playing a mini grinder organ or a musical toy. Terri dug into her pockets for the old beggar ladies saying, “I just can’t walk by those.” Many of the shops were of Judaica and I picked up all sorts of neat things for friends at home. One of the stores we went into was full of backpacks and fanny packs and canvas gym bags, called “Steve’s Packs.” After examining everything in the place, Roger and I bought a backpack to replace the pretty but not so utilitarian one I’d purchased at Petra months earlier. Terri bought a small gym bag and later went back and bought a backpack, too. Roger began to look for fanny/belly packs, thinking of both himself and my father for camera gear. Not finding exactly what he was looking for, he pointed to one displayed on the wall behind the cash register. The stocky, talky woman who ran the shop pulled it down and unzipped in and said matter-of-factly, “This one is especially designed for your pistol.” And sure enough it was. The little strap into which you could fit the barrel, and a convenient zipper to ensure quick and easy access. Where is Gerard Ryan when you need him? Guns. The most disconcerting thing about walking around Jerusalem was the visibility of guns. Everywhere and on everyone. Sure the streets are lousy with the youthful Israeli police/army (again, all appeared to be WELL under the age of 20) with large, nasty looking pieces of machinery – most stretching from well below the hip to well over the shoulder. But the general public carried guns, too. We had stopped at Café Chagall, a charming outdoor café with a delectable menu, to sip espressos and cappuccinos. The sun was bright, the streets were busy, we were happy – hey, this would make a great picture, and up hops Terri, camera in hand. Suddenly the kind businessman sitting at the table next to us says, “Oh, here, I’ll take one of all of you!” Swell, we think, and as we arrange our chairs we notice that on his table next to his coffee, papers, and cell phone, is his pistol. I couldn’t stop thinking, “smile pretty for the nice man so he doesn’t pick up his gun and shoot us”. I was also suddenly thrust into that double-think of, “uh, oh…I hope I haven’t said anything offensive in the last ten minutes.” And as we finished our drinks we noticed people all over the place with their guns; teens on mopeds with rifles strapped to their backs, an older man walking a dog with a pistol strapped to his chest. In an attempt to understand this scary phenomena a bit further, I began to read about it. Apparently at the tender age of 18 all Israelis are drafted (hence the somewhat prepubescent look to the many uniformed youth all over the place). The Israeli Defense Force (IDF) is a citizen’s army, made up of just that – citizens. Once the 18 year olds have put in their compulsory three years (two for girls), they are placed with a reserve unit and are called up for a month or so each year until they are 51(men). It is not always necessary to wear one’s uniform, hence the shoppers and coffee drinkers with their arms worn freely. In fact, one article said that losing a weapon can land the owner in prison for up to seven years – so rather than try and find a safe place to store them (“Check your gun, sir?” I don’t think so.), off-duty soldiers end up having to haul their weaponry with them wherever they go. One author describes watching a couple of men trying to boogie down in a night club with machine guns strapped to their backs. Glad I missed that one. The kind picture-taker was enough for me. So the morning wore on and we shopped and walked and talked, and Roger took some pictures, and Terri looked for ceramics and jewelry and I looked for dreidals and menorahs and mezuzahs and yarmulkes. Terri found earrings of coins she had been searching for and managed to get them at a decent price after haggling with a handsome young man who claimed to be a descendant of the Maccabees (of Hanukkah fame) and, when Terri asked, “Come on, is this the best offer you can make me?” responded, “well, hmmm, what are you doing tonight?” It was a chortle a minute. As time passed we began to get hungry and we realized that the world was going to shut down sometime around 3 or 4pm and we needed to eat before that happened. Back in the car we decided to return to the German Colony for two reasons. First, we’d seen and then read about a little B&B there that had received some nice reviews so we figured we’d check it out, and second, there had been a lot of good eating spots along the main strip there. Back to Emek Rafa’im Street and off to The Little House in the Colony, a pleasant B&B just off the main stretch with tiny rooms but a terrific atmosphere, and great prices. After doing the quick tour, we walked back out to the strip and walked along looking for a place to eat. Not realizing how close to the Shabbat we were, we were a bit disappointed to find only a couple of cafes left open. We settled on one and had a lovely late vegetarian lunch. I should mention here that while many practicing Jews in the US don’t keep kosher, it is de-rigueur here (of course). Restaurants are listed as either dairy/vegetarian or ‘meat’.. and never the twain shall meet. Most restaurants are kosher (the ethnic ones being the exception, I mean kosher sushi?) and if they are “glatt” or “badatz” kosher it means that the food preparers are strictly religious Jews. So, if you have a hankering for a pork chop or a shrimp salad it may just be easier to wait until you get home. The Orthodox Jews fuss sometimes over the McDonalds (‘they’re everywhere, they’re everywhere”) just off Ben Yahuda Street where, the manager is said to have stated that the meat is kosher and anyone can certainly ‘choose’ not to have cheese on that burger. So we finished our salads and soup and make our way back to the hotel where two of us – who had shopped ‘til we dropped – took a nap and the third re-packed her new gym bag with all the good kitsch she’d been spending her sheckles on. Up once more and ready to explore again, but realizing our options were limited, we decided to drive to Bethlehem (only 6 kilometers out) to see if we could track down Ra’ed (our friend from Amman whose family lives in Bethlehem and with whom we’d spent Christmas). No Ra’ed, but we found great parking right up near Manger Square. It was a cold and windy evening though and we wandered around looking for a manageable place to have dinner and realized that the reason everyone goes to Jerusalem for a good meal was that there weren’t any manageable places to eat in Bethlehem. Now what. Well, we knew that the Jewish side of town would be more or less closed, so we stopped on our way back from Bethlehem at the Mount Zion Hotel (it was the Guinness sign out front that moved Terri to urge the stop), the nice bartender there, when quizzed about where we might find a place for a few drinks AND a decent meal, suggested Shonka’s – just off Jaffa Street, near the New Gate. Shonka’s (for the owner’s ego, his last name) was a lovely spot. Very contemporary in both architectural design and menu, we sat at the bar and started the evening. Terri and Roger were both eager for some port and the bartender, a nice young woman who had been wearing a hot fuchsia wig when we had entered (Purim), was happy to oblige. It must be noted here that Terri is what might best be called a ‘dry martini enthusiast’… live in Russia long enough (and drink enough bad vodka martinis) and, well, this is the result. We sat at the bar and began to note the wide variety of bottles on the shelves behind it, and discussed, at length, the many types of drinks one could make with the various potent potables we eyed. Much of the dialogue began, “did you ever have a X?” Our bartender translated the bar food menu for us (it was heavenly) and patiently followed Terri’s instructions for how to make the perfect dry martini. After a few hours of good food and good drinks, and as we about to leave, our friend from the wine shop, Noam, came in with his family, a reminder that Jerusalem is populated by only some 500,000… a small world, and a small city. We made our way back to the car and back to hotel – now feeling like absolute experts on the road systems in town. Via Dolorosa and the Last Supper As with almost everything in the Old City, the “popularly believed” route that Jesus took that fateful day is the result of many centuries of various Christian sects deciding arbitrarily which of their churches should fall along the route. Historians point out that Pontius Pilate condemned Jesus on a platform at his palace which is what is now the Tower of David (the Citadel near the Jaffa Gate), on the other side of the city. So the ‘real’ Via Dolorosa is probably along David Street and up through the Butcher’s Market and then through Golgotha, but try telling that to a busload of blue hairs from Texas. Guess we’ll just stick with the program, I was taught by Sesame Street early on that “pretending” is fun! Station One: Jesus is condemned by Pilate – currently the inside of the Islamic Al-Omariyeh College Station Two: Jesus is sentenced to crucifixion, and was cursed, mocked, and given the crown of thorns and the cross – currently found near the Chapel of the Flagellation where Jesus was beaten by Roman soldiers. Station Three: Jesus fell the first time (under the weight of the cross) – currently a Polish chapel, and a site where any repentant tourist may ‘rent’ a cross to carry. I kid you not. Station Four: Jesus looks at Mother Mary in the crowd of on-lookers – currently the Armenian Church, Our Lady of the Spasm (no lie) where a mosaic in the courtyard floor holds a pair of (her) inlaid sandals (she was a size seven). Station Five: Simon the Cyrenian (Libyan) was forced by Roman soldiers to help Jesus carry the cross – Currently marked by a sign, and a handprint in the wall where Jesus is (popularly believed) to have rested his hand. (Matthew 27:32, Mark 15:21, and Luke 23:26) Station Six: Veronica wipes Jesus’s face, and where then the image of his face appeared on her handkerchief (hence her name, vera icon, Latin for true image), a piece of material that is apparently kept somewhere in Rome. Of course, the Greek Orthodox Patriarchy claims the cloth they display in the Christian Quarter is the actual cloth. This whole story came to being in the 7th century, so for the true believers out there – you decide. I know what I decided. Station Seven: Jesus falls for the second time – currently a vendor of velvet-Elvis portraits. Station Eight: Jesus tells the weeping women of Jerusalem to weep for themselves and their children, not for him. (Luke 23: 27-31) – currently next to a Greek Orthodox chapel Station Nine: Jesus falls for the third time – currently next to a Coptic church. Station Ten: Inside and up the stairs in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre (to “Golgotha”) where Jesus was disrobed. Station Eleven: (also upstairs) Jesus was nailed to the cross. Station Twelve: (also upstairs) Jesus is crucified. Station Thirteen: (also upstairs) Jesus’s body is removed from the cross and given to his mother. Station Fourteen: (downstairs): Jesus is buried. Since we had seen the last five Stations during our earlier visit to the Church of the Holy Selpuchre, we opted instead to shop a little. Although we had to resist the temptation for a crown of thorns and a poster of the biblical lineages (which was actually pretty cool – nice to have some one else track all that Old Testament “begetting and begotting”), there was plenty more to look at. Having seen a preview of the Armenian ceramic works earlier in the weekend, we started to look for a place mentioned in some of the tourist materials. Right on the Via Dolorosa (and, their business card says, ‘near the Sixth Station’) we stumbled quite by chance into Jerusalem Pottery run by the Karakashian family. We walked into a tiny alley that opened into a tiny room where we encountered a lovely older gentlemen and walls of ceramica. Easily the calmest, sweetest vendor we encountered the entire trip, Mr. Karakashian patiently waited while we picked through his beautiful tiles, plates, and bowls and asked him lots of questions. We bought tiles for a little table top, and tiles for gifts, and tiles for just the beauty of having them. We left the Christian Quarter with an eye toward exploring the Cardo (Roman for ‘Main Street’) where, it is reported, some of the best jewelry shops in the Old City are located. We had forgotten that it was Saturday and these Jewish shopkeepers were all at home keeping the Shabbat. What was next? Well, we were near the Zion Gate so it seemed only logical to head off the Coenaculum (Latin for “dining room”. Well, where else would you have the last supper?). The dining room is part of the complex that houses King David’s Tomb, and like many other things, did not come into ‘existence’ as a revered place until the time of the Crusaders (during the 1100s), suggesting that this may be another of those “popularly believed to be” sites. As we approached the complex, we were accosted by a rude tourist junk vendor (the only rude one we encountered in all the weekend though) who got right up in our faces, and in fact, prevented Terri from taking a once in a lifetime picture of a older, traditionally dressed man coming through the courtyard entrance… ah, tourism…. We had some difficulty finding the actual room due to some unclear directions in the guidebook we had on hand. When we finally did get there, a guide who was traveling with a family of Spanish tourists assured us that this was the room. Even after the marble slab where Jesus sat (!) was pointed out – we still remained somewhat skeptical. Once again tired of being tourists, and hungry for a late lunch, we worriedly (it was Shabbat) entered again, the New City looking for food. It was a bit bizarre to walk along Jaffa Street where, just yesterday the streets had been jammed with traffic and the sidewalks so busy they were almost a hazard. It was a ghost town. We saw a few Hasidim walking hurriedly along (one who passed us glared at Roger’s camera – not taking kindly to photography) but few others. We entered an alley way and found ourselves at the end of the Nahalat Shiv’a neighborhood where we’d been before. Along this alley were a number of restaurants, all busily serving late lunches. We stopped at one and decided to stay, choosing a sunny outside table. Eldad Vezehoo, I haven’t figured out what it means, but their food was outstanding. And in that little alley the sunny table we chose was quickly in the shade and we finished our meal shivering and with teeth chattering. Late afternoon, everything is closed, Terri needs money, and we all need a cab back to the hotel. Both of those events took a little time, but Terri did find a machine and after a few attempts, we found a cabbie willing to climb the Mount of Olives for a small fortune. Back in the rooms we re-grouped and considered the evening meal. (Ha! And we had just finished eating!) The American Colony and Fink’s (no
biblical references for these) Well, we could have lounged about some more, but any more booze without the accompanying sustenance and bed would have been the only answer. Every guidebook we had mentioned Fink’s. We had passed it numerous times and had tried the door, too, to no avail, so now we were beyond curious. Now we were on a mission. Roger re-located the parking lot in Nahalat Shiv’a near Steve’s Packs, and we headed toward this reputed landmark. Reputed, you ask? Apparently an article in a 1994 Newsweek listed it as one of the “world’s best bars”, and in fact, the bartender proudly showed us a Newsweek from November 1999 with the same kind of review (Terri and I didn’t have the heart to tell him that it was part of a large, multi-page advertisement section). Fink’s is exactly the same size as our living room, ok, maybe a little smaller. Seven can fit uncomfortably at the bar and there are five small tables at each of which four could just squeeze if they all weighed less than 100 pounds. That’s it. Claustrophobic alcoholics need not apply. There are no windows to assist the spaciousness of the ambience, and the kitchen in the back made our bathroom look roomy. A favorite of journalists and statesmen during the British Mandate, it is absolutely chock-a-block full of bar kitsch. The walls are full of plaques and bumper sticker type mostly-misogynist ‘sayings’, and behind the bar are dusty shelves with dusty bottles crammed into every spot not already occupied by plastic figures of the Seagram’s Scot and the billion other tacky plastic things that the alcoholic beverage industry used to send to drinking establishments as promos. Moulli, our large flirty, chatty, 65 year old bartender told us all about the history of the place and gave us each a postcard of the interior (the bar only, belying the fact that there was NOTHING else in the place) with his father and himself standing in somber poses behind the bar (“God,” whispered Terri, “he looks like Herman Munster in this.”). Moulli joked with the old men at the other end of the bar and engaged the young Japanese couple at our end (who had obviously been as misled as we by the guidebook industry). When we had finished our drinks (Terri decided that this dry martini did not hold up against Ibrahim’s at the Colony) and Roger and Terri had finished their cigars (it was a cigar kinda place)… Moulli pulled out the menus and raved about the food. If you lived in a very cold place, and were a big fan of British pub-food (deep-fried breaded hunks of questionable meat), this is your kind of place. We finally settled on the veal schnitzel and some soup to start. The soup was wonderful, the veal was fair… but we were long past expecting the food to be anything other than a place like this was going to serve. To me, Fink’s is like Paris, I have been there, I can say I’ve been there, and I don’t ever need to go back. Coming to the end We had parked the car (Roger, parking karma king) on a side street near the New Gate and after our walk, we returned to find happily that our meter had not run out and the vehicle was intact. As we got into the car, which was quite dusty after the weekend, Roger noticed someone had written something in the dust on the hood. Should I wipe it off? It was clearly in Arabic – a response to our Jordanian license plate? We were parked in a Jewish area – was it something offensive? I could only imagine. Roger suggested we wait (no need to scratch more dust into the paint) so we did. We wove our way through the Jewish, then Muslim streets of Jerusalem, picked up the highway out of Jerusalem, drove along past Jericho, sat briefly at Israeli Customs (with more 15 year old agents) crossed the tiny, rickety Allenby Bridge, and pulled up to the Customs complex on the Jordan side. We left the car and took our passports back into the building where we had encountered the kind Lt. Najib the Wednesday afternoon before. As luck would have it, we arrived in Jordan just after two hundred women on bicycles (Women Biking for Peace or some such tour of Egypt, Israel, and Jordan) and discovered that their two hundred passports were in the process of being processed. So we waited. And we waited. And while we waited Terri saw a taxi driver she used to know from the InterContinental Hotel in Amman. We decided that she should ask him what had been written on the hood of our car. So ask she did, “what does that say? Is it something bad?” “Oh yeah,” he replied with a slight grin, “Real bad...it says, ‘I love you’.” In the city of religious turmoil, where factions within the same religions abuse one and other, where the pace is fast and emotions run high, where anger seethes everywhere just under the surface, and where more have died at the hands of hatred, someone had written “I love you” on our car. Copyright © 2000 by Rachel Peterson |
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