Late afternoon, we pass through Jaffa Gate into the old city Jerusalem under stone arches three meters thick. Once inside, the scale changes: narrow walks and tight corridors pressed in on either side by vendors' wares: leather bags and sandals, beads and glass, ceramics, cookware, hardware, sweets. Gauzy fabric slung across open passages dims these spaces and makes them glow. We serpentine past watchful salesmen leaning in doorways trying to catch our eyes, then turn the corner into an open courtyard where throngs of tourists are gathered outside the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Said to be the place where Jesus was crucified, suffered and was buried, this spot draws Christian Pilgrims from the world around. In one corner of the courtyard is a "bomb box," a gray, metal, spherical container for stuffing ticking bombs, backpacks, individuals, should they appear in the square.
In 326 A.D., Roman Emperor Constantine ordered his mother Helena to erect churches on sites that commemorated the life of Jesus Christ. And so, upon this site Helena was said to have discovered during excavation the tomb and true cross of one Lamb of God. Hotly debated and historically questionable, this claim holds sway over the hallowed structure and over so many willing believers. Outside, a ladder said to be unmoved for generations leans against an upper wall. The various Christian sects that claim ownership of this place stand in such opposition to one another that they cannot agree on where or even how to move it. Impartial Muslims hold the keys to the church, locking and unlocking it each day to avoid further inter-sect conflict. We cover our shoulders and go in.
Inside, women swoon at the stone where Jesus bled; they kiss the rock, pour oil, rub crucifixes and rosaries carried from afar. One woman dumps a small plastic shopping bag of WWJD bracelets on the altar and pushes them around, perhaps to absorb some of the holiness. I watch solemn, holy faces and bowed heads from a balcony just beyond and wonder what it's like to believe the way these people do. We forego the cramped line waiting to enter Jesus's tomb and explore dark, forgotten caves instead. Aside from its storied holiness, this church seems to me little more than a dank cellar space.
Outside, the market bustles like Algodones and we wind our way to the Arab quarter where Suzi's money changer gives us the best rate in town. As is his custom, Shaaban invites us into his shop for Arabic coffee, sweet and rich like molasses, from small plastic cups ordered by phone from a boy in a stall down the lane. We sit amid ornately painted cups and bowls, shawls and scarves of every color and camels carved of olive wood. Shaaban's nephew badgers us gently: "You can take pictures of our shop. Take pictures of our shop! Take pictures. Just one of me and Suzi." She obliges. He asks of our travel plans and invites us to his home in Hebron. "On Saturday, I will take you. You will come?"
As we leave, a chaotic collection of young Arab boys runs shouting down the lane, all bike wheels and sneaker treads and clanging, excited voices. I step quickly to avoid a collision with one as another runs headlong into my side. He looks up at me, eyes twinkling and grinning, and laughs.
We wind our way back toward Jaffa Gate where an outdoor bar under a stone passageway is showing the U.S.-Algeria Wold Cup game on a projector screen suspended from the mouth of a stone archway. We sit amid fans rooting for the only Arab team in the tournament and drink overpriced Palestinian beer, cheering and gasping as the competition takes shape. The afternoon sun is setting against the white walls of the old city, reflecting a gentle light down the length of the passageway where we sit. The breeze against my neck is a relief. After every Algerian near miss or slide tackle, our fellow patrons go mad. When the U.S. scores in the last minutes of stoppage time to break the 0-0 tie, we woop and holler and find two small groups of Americans nearby doing the same. We high five, then sheepishly find our seats.
As the sun sinks, we filter out of the bar and head for the Wailing Wall where Ultra-Orthodox families gather and divide, women to one side and men to the other. An ambulance unloads a stretcher where an old, ailing Jewish man with a long gray beard lays, and medics with sidearms wheel him toward the wall. On the womens' side, a set of shelves of holy books lines one side as visitors walk backwards away from the wall so as to not turn their backs on God. Suzi and I find our way toward the front where girls and women press prayer books to faces and rock back and forth, lips moving quickly, eyes closed. I watch them in their unselfconscious acts of public piety, surrounded by a community of like minded souls. The crevices in the wall before us are crammed to the gills with slips of paper, prayers placed their on the hope that the wall's magic will hold true. According to our guide book, prayers placed here are thought to have "higher than average odds of being heard and answered by God." Funny how sometimes faith and playing the odds are not so different from one another.
The blue light of dusk settles around the Old City as we walk atop the ancient wall up the hill toward Abu Tor. Green lights of neighborhood mosques glint on, dotting the city night.
In 326 A.D., Roman Emperor Constantine ordered his mother Helena to erect churches on sites that commemorated the life of Jesus Christ. And so, upon this site Helena was said to have discovered during excavation the tomb and true cross of one Lamb of God. Hotly debated and historically questionable, this claim holds sway over the hallowed structure and over so many willing believers. Outside, a ladder said to be unmoved for generations leans against an upper wall. The various Christian sects that claim ownership of this place stand in such opposition to one another that they cannot agree on where or even how to move it. Impartial Muslims hold the keys to the church, locking and unlocking it each day to avoid further inter-sect conflict. We cover our shoulders and go in.
Inside, women swoon at the stone where Jesus bled; they kiss the rock, pour oil, rub crucifixes and rosaries carried from afar. One woman dumps a small plastic shopping bag of WWJD bracelets on the altar and pushes them around, perhaps to absorb some of the holiness. I watch solemn, holy faces and bowed heads from a balcony just beyond and wonder what it's like to believe the way these people do. We forego the cramped line waiting to enter Jesus's tomb and explore dark, forgotten caves instead. Aside from its storied holiness, this church seems to me little more than a dank cellar space.
Outside, the market bustles like Algodones and we wind our way to the Arab quarter where Suzi's money changer gives us the best rate in town. As is his custom, Shaaban invites us into his shop for Arabic coffee, sweet and rich like molasses, from small plastic cups ordered by phone from a boy in a stall down the lane. We sit amid ornately painted cups and bowls, shawls and scarves of every color and camels carved of olive wood. Shaaban's nephew badgers us gently: "You can take pictures of our shop. Take pictures of our shop! Take pictures. Just one of me and Suzi." She obliges. He asks of our travel plans and invites us to his home in Hebron. "On Saturday, I will take you. You will come?"
As we leave, a chaotic collection of young Arab boys runs shouting down the lane, all bike wheels and sneaker treads and clanging, excited voices. I step quickly to avoid a collision with one as another runs headlong into my side. He looks up at me, eyes twinkling and grinning, and laughs.
We wind our way back toward Jaffa Gate where an outdoor bar under a stone passageway is showing the U.S.-Algeria Wold Cup game on a projector screen suspended from the mouth of a stone archway. We sit amid fans rooting for the only Arab team in the tournament and drink overpriced Palestinian beer, cheering and gasping as the competition takes shape. The afternoon sun is setting against the white walls of the old city, reflecting a gentle light down the length of the passageway where we sit. The breeze against my neck is a relief. After every Algerian near miss or slide tackle, our fellow patrons go mad. When the U.S. scores in the last minutes of stoppage time to break the 0-0 tie, we woop and holler and find two small groups of Americans nearby doing the same. We high five, then sheepishly find our seats.
As the sun sinks, we filter out of the bar and head for the Wailing Wall where Ultra-Orthodox families gather and divide, women to one side and men to the other. An ambulance unloads a stretcher where an old, ailing Jewish man with a long gray beard lays, and medics with sidearms wheel him toward the wall. On the womens' side, a set of shelves of holy books lines one side as visitors walk backwards away from the wall so as to not turn their backs on God. Suzi and I find our way toward the front where girls and women press prayer books to faces and rock back and forth, lips moving quickly, eyes closed. I watch them in their unselfconscious acts of public piety, surrounded by a community of like minded souls. The crevices in the wall before us are crammed to the gills with slips of paper, prayers placed their on the hope that the wall's magic will hold true. According to our guide book, prayers placed here are thought to have "higher than average odds of being heard and answered by God." Funny how sometimes faith and playing the odds are not so different from one another.
The blue light of dusk settles around the Old City as we walk atop the ancient wall up the hill toward Abu Tor. Green lights of neighborhood mosques glint on, dotting the city night.
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