Last night, after we came back from Caesarea I thought I’d write an entry and go for a pnice dinner. I washed, sat on the bed. The door facing the Old City was open, and it was perfectly quiet. Jerusalem may be the quietest city in the world on Friday night. I promptly fell asleep, the computer in my lap keeping me warm.
Late this morning I went back to the Old City for coffee and baklava. I thought that I ought to walk there though, so I set out to walk down into the Hinnom Valley and back up to the Old City.
As I entered through the Jaffa gate two men were standing, blocking the entrance to the maze of the City. One man, in his sixties, wearing decrepit clothes, a long white beard and huddling against the rain said to the other in an English accent: “Archaeologists have confirmed that it’s the tomb. Inside they found…” I pushed by him, I have no patience left for this. Still I smiled as I rolled my eyes.
I thought about what my shows on Judas and Pilate are really about: the tension between tradition and archaeology. On Thursday evening we interviewed Rabbi Berel Wein who said: “The foundation of Judaism is the family and the handing down of tradition from generation to generation through oral history.”
Today in the Arab Quarter I was half heartedly accosted by a number of shopkeepers. The rain seemed to have dampened their enthusiasm. Still, they are persistent. “Don’t think sir, just buy” was the approach that made me laugh the loudest.
The moment which seemed most typical was the American tourist asking a man in the street, “is it far?” “No far,” said the man pointing up the street. “You have Visa card?”
The antiquities dealers, the Dead Sea pharmacies, the food shops left me alone. I walked by a crowded barber shop where the men do the same things they do in Toronto: talk, read the paper, drink coffee, get a shave, or a haircut. I resolved to get a shave there next time I’m in Jerusalem.
At a little shop with an amazing variety of junk a man beckoned me inside, saying: “Sir, you speak English, I need help.” He explained that his store was closing for good in three weeks, and he needed help spelling “Clearance.” “You think ‘clearance’ or ‘closing sale’ sounds better?” I wrote it for him. With the same pen I had spelled ‘clearance’ for him in December of 2005. I don’t think the spelling has changed in two years, but I could be wrong.
“Now I make nice price for you, nice earrings for your wife. What her favourite colour?” Saying ‘no’ gets easier.
If you had your heart set on earrings, Vera, I apologize.
Yesterday we arrived in Caesarea on a beautiful clear morning. Ten minutes after we stepped out of the van Simcha started shouting “Shabbas”, his way of hurrying us along on Friday. Of course it was 9:30 in the morning.
We shot all over the incredible restored city. At the Roman theatre Simcha suddenly stopped the interview, and said: “Put the camera on me, I’m going to say something important. Every fifteen minutes I say something important.” I can’t remember what he said.
Joseph Patrich, an Israeli Antiquities Archaeologist showed us around the site, at first reluctantly – the moment he caught sight of Simcha, his expression changed. He hadn’t realized who was going to interview him.
But Simcha, who has recently been accused of being a kind of Rasputin, worked his charm, and by the time we got to the forum where they raced chariots, fed some criminals to bears, and crucified others, he was joking, and laughing, and enjoying himself. By the forum Simcha made an interesting comment about Roman rule. Joseph Patrich nodded thoughtfully and said: “I guess fifteen minutes has passed.”
As we walked to the car at the end of our last shoot day Simcha gave me a big hug, thanked me, and said: “I have to go. I want to take my kid to soccer.”
In the Old City I followed a family up a street, knowing that it led to the entrance to the grounds of the Al Aqsa Mosque. I hoped to be able to peek through the door in the wall, but fifty meters away the Israeli soldiers at the gate pointed at me and gestured for me to stop and turn around.
There are police and soldiers at almost every intersection here on Saturday. Probably mostly to make sure that tourists don’t take a wrong turn and end up where they shouldn’t be on the Sabbath.
I walked out the Lion’s Gate – just inside the gate I shook Ibrahim’s hand one last time, and said goodbye. He tried to sell me something.
I walked down into the Kidron valley toward the Mount of Olives and looked back up at the walls of the Old City. Around the corner I could just see the road leading toward the Damascus gate. Last Saturday I walked out there past the street vendors, and Shish-kebab stands and up toward the Arab neighbourhood. It’s there that you see the buses lined up, with place names in their windows. The few written in English say: “Nablus” or “Hebron” or other names not so familiar from the news. The Palestinian men, women and children board the dozens of buses to go home.
In August when I was here, I walked through the same neighbourhood on a hot summer evening. A family – a man, a woman in a Niqab, and four children – were waiting to get on the bus. The kids played soccer on the sidewalk. When the ball got away from them, I flicked it into the air with my toe, and kicked it back to the youngest. He was about the same age as my son, and probably almost as good at soccer. Their father smiled and waved.
I ended my tour today, walking up the Mount of Olives, and to the cemetery, where I resisted taking what may be the most photographed vista in the world. Whenever a television reporter shoots here, they stand in front of the camera with the view of the Dome of the Rock in the background. Leslie swears that you can see the imprints from the tripod where everyone shoots.
Still I took a picture, a different one of the cemetery. The cemetery, it seems to me represents thousands of years of tradition and family.
And tonight, after one last beer with Noam, I’ll go home to my own family.
When I started this adventure in writing I wanted to let all my friends at home keep up, and, I hoped, to tell a few funny stories. It turned into something different, and perhaps modestly more. And writing about my ten days here has helped me understand what I think about the place.
Thanks for reading.
Shabbat Shalom. Yalla, bye.
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