Still a whole day left! I have to spend it wisely.
I got up at 7 AM. Guided by the sensitive directions of the indispensable Google Maps, I headed to the bus stop, from there to the second bus station of Tel Aviv, which, fortunately, is smaller in size than the first one, and from there — onto an intercity bus to the Eternal City.
The second station
I didn't prepare for visiting Jerusalem at all, and therefore knew nothing about it except the usual layman's fluff. I had to look at everything on the go, buried in the glowing screen of my Android. After rummaging through the web, I found a culinary guide, which insistently repeated the idea that whoever hasn't eaten in Jerusalem hasn't eaten anything in life at all. This statement intrigued me, and upon arrival, the first thing I did was head to the highly famous Mahane Yehuda Market, where I tasted Kurdish soup with dumplings — Kubbeh, at an establishment called Murdoch.
The soup turned out to be exceptionally sour, but it was to my liking. The price, though, at 5 euros a bowl — isn't really for the likes of us
I was greeted somewhat ungraciously, even though I was the first customer, having walked in right after 10 AM.
Decor
Most establishments have a kosher certificate hanging up
I liked the market a lot. Long tables piled high with victuals: pastries, the freshest fruits and vegetables, nuts and spices, dried and candied fruits. Everything is piled up in heaps, no condom-like plastic bags killing the taste of bread. Crowds of diverse buyers of all nationalities, subspecies, and colors of the rainbow, dressed in various suits, tunics, kippahs and hats, shawls and scarves, pantaloons and trousers. Life, bubbling and boiling, the way I love it, in those rare moments of feeling its fullness, of approaching the absolute and ideal that each of us gets to experience at times.
The southern cat, as usual, is small in size
Next, I headed to the commercial Ben Yehuda Street, commercial not in the red-light district sense, but for shopaholics. In the famous establishment “Moshiko” I tasted falafel, which is a mass of chickpeas with spices, fried in olive oil until a crispy crust forms. By taste — almost like meat, but the dish is strictly vegetarian. Besides the freshest vegetables, so tasty that I can't even remember when I tried the likes of them, they also poured some hummus, so spicy that I almost burst into tears.
Sitting nearby were some people who didn't particularly stand out visually, but their conversations were quite mob-like: about money laundering, how someone recently went to jail, recently got out, who needs which lawyer, and stuff like that. I felt uncomfortable around them, and was glad when they took off. It was time to get to the Old City to look for a cult-favorite establishment there for dessert.
A somewhat abstract graffiti
Funny little figures
A gathering
Spice shop, very authentic and atmospheric
Muslim music was playing in the shop, and the seller was a dark-skinned, skinny and bearded, exotic Arab, a woman's dream. A guy from Chicago and I marveled together at how authentic the place was, and went on our way.
My path led to Jaffar’s, where they mostly serve the famous knafeh (Knafeh). It’s a sweet made of vermicelli and goat cheese, served with syrup. Curiously, Google Maps, which had served as a truly magical lifesaver since it routes you in Israel taking even public transport into account, completely gave up in the Old City: the labyrinth of tangled streets is so dense and twisted that not all houses here have addresses. Hence the guidebook simply says: “At Jaffar’s, Old City”.
Here it is, knafeh
A glass of water is a must on the table, and the establishment itself looks curious: chrome walls, mirrors, and all this deep inside one of the main shopping alleys of the Old City, above which there are many more layers of residential and other buildings. So it's kind of like a castle's basement, if you will.
Fresh juice is pressed right in front of you; the price, however, makes your wallet cry — 3 euros for a large glass, 2 for a small one.
Frankincense, myrrh, and other incense
The sellers here will mumble a dozen words into your ear in any language that tourists use, and Russian is far from the last on their list. One guy was pitching jewelry to me so smoothly that I almost bought it — the psychological processing via gestures, words, and distraction is simply terrifying. It’s unlikely he was actually offended when I didn't buy anything, but still, that's how it is here — if you've started showing interest, it means you've signed up to play this game, and you have to haggle to the end. By nature, I really dislike all this pestering, and I tried to slip by the hundreds (no exaggeration) of shops with souvenirs for believers unnoticed, but fat chance — special people are everywhere, eager to lure you inside, and passionately seeking your attention.
They sell crosses and icons of all colors and sizes, altars, candlesticks, candles, patterned carpets, caps, kippahs and tunics, and even Buddha statues pop up in places. My vocabulary isn't enough to describe even ten percent of the junk that they peddle to pilgrims eager to behold the Lord. Obviously, all this sickly-sweet tinsel doesn't bring them an iota closer to God. However, the contingent of these shops is probably more like pseudo-spiritual tourists, who inappropriately remembered that they were last in a church half a year ago, or that they're full of sin and need to somehow compensate for it, rather than truly religious people. On the other hand, I'm not a visual person, and it’s hard for me to understand the appeal of gold-plated glittering chalices and crosses if they have no practical use or meaning.
After wandering properly around the Old City, I headed back. For some reason, I didn't take the tram; I walked, tired out of my mind, with my brain fogged up from the noise and crush, sleep-deprived, but full of new impressions. On the way back, I swung by the market again, where I finally managed to find the famous Marzipan bakery, where golden-brown buns and crescents, often hot right out of the oven, gleam invitingly on huge baking sheets. I tried the latter, a local subspecies called rugelach — so soaked in syrup and cream that they simply melt in your mouth. A bit too sweet for my taste, but you can't say no to them.
You might ask, what about the Wailing Wall, the famous HaKotel , aka the Western Wall? Did you check the box for visiting it?
Yes, but it causes me nothing but dismay. Hundreds of pilgrims stand next to the stone mass, addressing their prayers to God. Why doesn't the Lord hear them in another place? Why is a shard of a wall built by humans two thousand years ago more valuable than modern walls? Why are men and women segregated in the twenty-first century, and God forbid you wander into the wrong section?
Rhetorical questions. Or maybe it's me who is lost and mistaken, since studies show that believers have an easier and simpler life. So let them abide in darkness, let them not awaken from the sleep of reason of their own minds, since they love this sweet slumber so much.