We head to the open air market in a time zone haze, pausing along the way to point out the Dome on the Rock, the Old City, the wall separating us from the West Bank. The afternoon sun is white, hot and oppressive. The city feels familiar, if only in its urbanness, similar in a hundred ways to any other city: traffic sounds, busy sidewalks, shops full of cheap plastic crap. Jewish girls with black hair and brown eyes drink espresso and smoke cigarettes at a sidewalk cafe. We pause outside a bar to watch a minute of the World Cup game between France and South Africa commentated in Hebrew. Suzi catches a few words and phrases; I am reminded how far from home we are, though it doesn't feel that way.
At the market, the smell of fish laid gaping on tables mixes with garbage and spices rusty red and mustard yellow and fills the air. Burlap sacks overflow with cashews and pecans next to barrels of fruits I've never seen: lychees, passionfruit. Olives in all colors bob in vats on tables where men shout sales pitches in garbled dialect to one another along the line. Orthodox men in proper suits and hats pass by, curls framing their faces and blowing in the desert wind. Boys hold their kippahs tightly to their heads as they scurry between cars zipping past.
Everywhere, bi-lingual signs hock deals, Hebrew letters curling and exclaiming above blocky English text. "She can speak English to me," the felafel man says to Suzi, gesturing to me. She is translating sauces and spices and vegetables, paying in shekels as I stand mesmerized by the choices and the bustling corner where we've crammed into the tiny shop with fourteen other people. We eat at a dirty table by the roadside as the sun sets and the wind picks up. On the walk home, we turn into an alley near Suzi's apartment and a man, peeing in the corner, mutters as we pass by. Once home, I am asleep within 30 minutes and do not stir for 12 hours.
At the market, the smell of fish laid gaping on tables mixes with garbage and spices rusty red and mustard yellow and fills the air. Burlap sacks overflow with cashews and pecans next to barrels of fruits I've never seen: lychees, passionfruit. Olives in all colors bob in vats on tables where men shout sales pitches in garbled dialect to one another along the line. Orthodox men in proper suits and hats pass by, curls framing their faces and blowing in the desert wind. Boys hold their kippahs tightly to their heads as they scurry between cars zipping past.
Everywhere, bi-lingual signs hock deals, Hebrew letters curling and exclaiming above blocky English text. "She can speak English to me," the felafel man says to Suzi, gesturing to me. She is translating sauces and spices and vegetables, paying in shekels as I stand mesmerized by the choices and the bustling corner where we've crammed into the tiny shop with fourteen other people. We eat at a dirty table by the roadside as the sun sets and the wind picks up. On the walk home, we turn into an alley near Suzi's apartment and a man, peeing in the corner, mutters as we pass by. Once home, I am asleep within 30 minutes and do not stir for 12 hours.
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