But what makes it whimsical are the times the city does something that can’t be explained, something beautiful, unusual. Like close in the whole city center and make it one huge outdoor fair for days on end; like announce the light rail or the buses are free for the day. Like fill an alleyway with hanging umbrellas.
Like when kids dance and play music in the streets to collect money for charity, and like when strangers walk up to you and ask you to hand this cup of hot soup to Shoshana…and you ask them, “Who is Shoshana?” and so they tell you this is the name of the woman who sits on the steps as one descends from the Jewish Quarter to the Kotel (Western Wall). And because you can’t think of any other response, you take the soup and walk towards a woman you have never met.
And when you give the cup of hot soup to Shoshana, she blesses you and wishes you health and happiness, children and grandchildren.
Like when the man at the top of the steps grabs the arm of your visiting Hindu friend from India and showers him with blessings in a language the visitor can’t possibly understand. And so you translate – he wishes you a long life and children. And a good living and health…my guest smiles, convinced this is the holiest of men and this blessing comes straight from God. And a good living…
And then, as the visitor smiles and believes that perhaps in some way this is a blessing straight from God, the man turns to you and says in Hebrew, “Is this your husband?”
To which I, as an Orthodox Jewish woman with her hair respectfully covered, respond, “Does he LOOK like my husband?”
And so the man cuts to the bottom line, “Does he have money?” Oblivious to the conversation, my Indian friend keeps smiling, hoping I’ll explain the significance of the red string now tied around his wrist. I tell the man, “No, he doesn’t,” thank him, and walk away.
This is Jerusalem, where beggars bless you and tie red string around your wrist to warn away the evil eye; and where umbrellas hang in the streets, and large lions adorn the streets.
On the light rail today, on a trip that took only minutes, I met tourists from Africa, Europe, and the United States. I heard the sound of the shofar blowing, horns honking, sirens wailing, and children laughing as they waited for the train to take them home. A woman who lives on the eastern coast of England, in a small fishing village, asked me if I ever miss living in the States and without hesitation, I answered, “not once in more than 20 years.”
If you have never been to Jerusalem, a city that has known too little peace, you might think we spend our time wondering when the next war will come, the next terror attack.
I once stood with a friend who was visiting Israel for the first time about a year or two after the Second Intifada had calmed a bit. Her husband was back in the States, not thrilled that she’d chosen to come visit. As we stood in the center of Jerusalem, she spoke to him about how amazing the city was, how calm, how peaceful.
I let her finish her phone call, and then walked her from one memorial to another because Jerusalem can’t be defined by any single status or term. It is peaceful and yet at war; it is divine, and yet entirely set on earth; it is abrupt and rude and polite and helpful.
