Another whole day! I need to spend it wisely.
I got up at 7 AM. Guided by the attentive directions of the indispensable Google Maps, I headed to the bus stop, from there to the second Tel Aviv bus station, which, fortunately, is smaller than the first one, and from there - on an intercity bus to the Eternal City.
The second station
I hadn't prepared to visit Jerusalem at all, and therefore knew nothing about it except the usual layman's fluff. I had to look at everything on the go, burying my face in the glowing screen of my bucket-droid. After scouring the web, I found a culinary guide which persistently repeated the idea that anyone who hasn't eaten in Jerusalem hasn't eaten anything in life at all. This statement intrigued me, and upon arrival, my first order of business was to head to the famous Mahane Yehuda Market, where I tasted Kurdish soup with dumplings – Kubbeh, at a place called Murdoch.
The soup turned out to be unusually sour, but it was to my liking. The price, though, 5 euros a bowl – is not for the likes of us
I was greeted somewhat ungraciously, even though I was the first customer, since I walked in right after 10 AM.
Decor
Most establishments hang a kashrut certificate
I really liked the market. Long tables piled high with grub: pastries, the freshest fruits and veggies, nuts and spices, dried and candied fruit. Everything piled in a heap, no plastic bag-condoms that kill the taste of bread. Crowds of diversely-formatted shoppers of all nationalities, subspecies, and colors of the rainbow, dressed in a variety of suits, tunics, kippahs and hats, shawls and scarves, pantaloons and trousers. Life, bubbling and boiling, just the way I love it, in those rare moments of feeling its fullness, of approaching the absolute and the ideal, that each of us occasionally gets to experience.
The southern cat, as usual, is small in size
Next, I headed to the prostituted Ben Yehuda Street, prostituted not in the sense of a red-light district, but in the sense of shopaholics. In the well-known 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 don't even remember when I last tried such ones, they also poured on some hummus, so spicy that I almost burst into tears.
Next to me sat people who didn't particularly stand out visually, but their conversations were quite thuggish: about money laundering, how someone recently went to jail, recently got out, which lawyer someone needed, and the like. I felt uncomfortable next to them and was glad when they took off. It was time to get to the Old City to look for a cult establishment there for dessert.
Somewhat abstract graffiti
Amusing figures
A gathering
Spice shop, very authentic and atmospheric
Muslim music was playing in the shop, and the seller was swarthy, lean and bearded, an exotic Arab, a women's dream. A guy from Chicago and I admired together how authentic the place was, and went on our way.
My road led to Jaffar’s, where they serve mainly the famous knafeh (Knafeh). It's a sweet made of vermicelli and goat cheese, served with syrup. Curiously enough, Google Maps, which served as a truly magical lifesaver since it plots routes in Israel taking even public transport into account, chickened out in the Old City: the labyrinth of tangled streets is so dense and twisted that not all houses here have addresses. That's why the guidebook simply says: “At Jaffar’s, Old City”.
Here it is, knafeh
There is always a glass of water on the table, and the establishment itself looks curious, with chrome walls, mirrors, and all of this deep in one of the Old City's main shopping streets, above which there are many more layers of residential and other buildings. So it's kind of like the basement of a castle, if you will.
Fresh juice is squeezed 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 incenses
Sellers here will mutter a dozen words into your ear in any language tourists use, and Russian is far from the last on their list. One guy was pushing jewelry on me so slickly that I almost fell for it – his manipulation with gestures, words, and distraction was just terrifying. He was hardly actually offended when I didn't buy anything, but still, that's how they roll here – once you start 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 past hundreds (without understatement) of souvenir shops for believers unnoticed, but no chance – there are special people everywhere eager to lure you inside, passionately seeking your attention.
Crosses and icons of all colors and sizes, altars, candlesticks, candles, patterned carpets, caps, kippahs, and tunics are sold here, and even Buddha statues pop up in places. I wouldn't have the vocabulary to describe even ten percent of the junk they push onto pilgrims thirsting to see the Lord. Obviously, all this cloying tinsel doesn't bring them one iota closer to God. However, the clientele of these shops is probably more pseudo-spiritual tourists who inappropriately remembered that they were last in church half a year ago, or that they are 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 charm of gilded sparkling chalices and crosses if there's no practical use or meaning to them.
Having wandered properly through the Old City, I headed back. For some reason, I didn't get on the tram; I walked on foot, dog-tired, my mind fogged 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 on huge baking sheets, often hot right out of the oven, rosy buns and croissants gleam invitingly. I tried the latter, a local subtype called rugelach – so soaked in syrup and cream that they simply melt in your mouth. A bit too sweet for my taste, but they can't be denied.
You might ask, what about the Wailing Wall, the famous HaKotel , also known as the Western Wall? Did you check off your visit there?
Yes, but it causes me nothing but distress. Hundreds of pilgrims stand next to a stone mass, addressing their pleas to God. Why doesn't the Lord hear them somewhere else? Why is a fragment of a wall built by humans two thousand years ago more valuable than modern walls? Why are men and women in the twenty-first century segregated, and god forbid you wander into the wrong section?
Rhetorical questions. Or maybe I'm the one who's mistaken and wrong, since studies show that believers have an easier and simpler life. So let them remain in darkness, let them not wake up from the sleep of reason of their own minds, since they love this sweet slumber so much.