The olives gleamed as if brushed with oil. There were barrels of them, succulent pearls of briny fruit, and the man in the stall behind them lunged toward the passers-by and called out in a language that could have been Arabic or Hebrew or Persian. Other vendors also beckoned the crowd from under tattered awnings, and soon it was hard to decipher who was speaking what ancient language.
I took about 50 photographs that day at the Jerusalem market, Mahane Yehuda, and each time I look at them I suffer a Pavlovian response. Rows of merchants hawked translucent green grapes, perfectly formed tomatoes, and figs and dates that melted on the tongue. Eden had scored a bumper crop.
At a fish shop, an Orthodox man with a bushy gray beard in a black topcoat and hat waited for his order. Behind the counter, the merchants pulled the live catch from water troughs and slit them down the belly. In front of the customer, dozens of recently gutted fish, some still struggling for air, lay in bins of shaved ice. Next door an old man hosed down bloody farm-animal appendages.
That Sunday at the market was my last afternoon in Jerusalem. A friend and I had spent the day atop the Temple Mount in the Old City and gone window shopping along Jaffa Street. We were exhausted by the time we found a bustling cafe just a block from the Ben Yehuda pedestrian plaza.
Modern Israelis sat all around us, smoking, chatting, conversing on cellular phones (one of the great Israeli pastimes). European clothing boutiques and shoe stores lined the stone walkway. Israel will celebrate its 50th anniversary as a state in 1998, and the youthful energy of its modern city streets contrasts enormously with the weight of history, politics and religion that international news reports convey.
My girlfriend and I people-watched and luxuriated in our tourist high: drained of energy, flushed with excitement and satiated by a heaping plate of vegetable lasagna — we had already eaten way too much falafel during the week.
Just an hour before and perhaps a mile away, we had wandered through an ancient stone maze — down shadowy alleyways leading to sites where, thousands of years ago, humanity had forever changed its course.
There are no cell phones, hip shoe stores or dishes of lasagna in the four quarters of Jerusalem’s Old City. In this square mile of frozen history that embraces the sacred sites of Islam, Christianity and Judaism, Hasidic men pray night and day at the Western Wall (also commonly known as the Wailing Wall); groups of Muslim women sit cross-legged in the Al-Aqsa mosque studying the Koran; Coptic monks in dark robes speak softly on the steps of their ancient church.
The Old City is Jerusalem’s volcanic core. Within it, a burbling mix of nationalist groups and religious zealots compete for elbow room. It is the throbbing heart of perhaps the most complicated political issue of the 20th Century. Its landmarks are silent, austere and uncompromising: There is no separating Judaism’s most holy site, the Western Wall, from the sacred Muslim plateau it abuts, Haram ash-Sharif (or Temple Mount). When the bells of the Church of the Holy Sepulcher ring, they wash the entire Old City in their music.
This was my first trip to Israel, and with only two free days to explore Jerusalem I barely scratched its rocky surface. Touring the Old City is any traveler’s first priority here, and the sooner the better. You’ll undoubtably have missed something the first time and need to return for a couple of more hours.
Judaism’s holiest site: We entered through the immense Dung Gate, at one time the doorway to the city’s trash dump. This is a major entrance and exit point for Orthodox and Hasidic Jews, since the gate leads directly into the Jewish Quarter and the wide-open plaza adjacent to the Western Wall.
Jews from around the globe — dark-skinned African Jews, strict European Jews, devout Middle Eastern Jews and Gap-clothed American Jews — pray at the wall. The more religious rock back and forth within inches of banging their heads and occasionally kiss the cool stone. A low murmur of voices rises, filling the square with the white noise of men and women at worship.
Tourists jockey for position to watch the religious at the wall, the only remaining evidence of Solomon’s First Temple and thus the most holy site in Judaism. Anyone can touch the stone, but women and men must pray separately. The day we came, prayer books were available in the women’s section for a small donation, but to participate in the tradition of stuffing a prayer into one of the wall’s crevices, bring your own pen and paper.
Bar mitzvah boys celebrate their passage into adulthood with services at the Western Wall on Mondays and Thursday mornings, complete with readings from the Torah and blessings by rabbis in elaborate dress. Photography is allowed except on Saturday, the Jewish Sabbath.
The Stations of the Cross: From the Western Wall we followed the Via Dolorosa, the route Jesus is said to have taken while bearing the cross to his crucifixion. Historians will argue the accuracy of the trail, but it follows a fascinating route, leading to the 10th through 14th Stations of the Cross inside the Church of the Holy Sepulcher.
The first nine stations are easy to miss — the sixth is etched on an otherwise unmarked wooden door, the ninth cryptically noted by a painted cross at the entrance to the Coptic (Egyptian) Church. And distractions along the route are plentiful, especially if shopping is your forte. Laconic vendors stand or sit outside their spaces occasionally pitching to tourists who pass. Their merchandise overflows onto the walkways. Wispy dresses, baskets and rugs hang from the awnings, nearly obliterating the sunlight.
When it comes to cheap souvenirs, the Old City rivals even Graceland as a tourist trap. T-shirts, stuffed camels and Holy Land oven mitts fill vendors’ stands. But there are bargains to be had, especially if you’re willing to haggle for a deal. Ubiquitous as it is in Jerusalem, Armenian pottery has a charm and old-world feel that is hard to find elsewhere. And it can be incredibly inexpensive.
We snacked along the way, too, stopping at an unnamed bakery just across from the stairs that lead to the Coptic Orthodox Patriarch on Souq Khan as-Zeit Street. The owners served us a variety of Arabic sweets, similar to and including baklava, and thick Turkish coffee to wash it down. Bring your own tissue paper, though. The restrooms here are rustic.
The line to enter the Church of the Holy Sepulcher moved quickly up a flight of stairs to Calvary, the 10th through 13th stations. Candles are about the only source of light here, and you have to look hard to see beneath the glass to the rock upon which, many contend, Christ was nailed to the cross. While we stood silently gawking, a Greek Orthodox priest approached ghostlike to relight a candle.
The line to view Golgotha, where some believe Christ was buried, stretched 100 yards toward the church doors, so we skipped the last station in exchange for more time to explore the Old City’s side streets.
Temple Mount: We had scheduled our day to assure that the mosques on the Temple Mount would be open when we got there. Al-Aqsa and the Dome of the Rock close to the public several times a day when Muslims are called to prayer via loudspeaker.
My friend and I had both worn long pants and brought shirts that covered our arms and shoulders. The Islamic “administration” advises at the entrance to the Mount that visitors “dress and behave modestly . . . Intimate behaviors such as kissing and embracing are strictly forbidden.”
Groups of Muslim women, their hair modestly covered in white cloth, sat undisturbed in the shade of the trees and watched their children play. They granted us permission to take pictures of their children, but after shooting a posed group of little boys, the children followed us, angrily demanding money. It was an ugly situation and I ended up offering them each an American quarter, the only change I had.
My friend and I latched onto a tour group from San Antonio and overheard the guide telling them that 300,000 Muslims had gathered on the Mount on the last day of Ramadan this year, the holiest day in Islam. The absence of violence seemed amazing, considering the proximity of the Western Wall to the Mount (they are one and the same structure) and the hatred that exists between some Arabic and Jewish zealots.
The insides of the mosques are a must-see, even if it does mean leaving all your possessions, including your shoes, outside. Our steps were padded by hundreds of intricately woven carpets laid one atop another. No description of its marble columns, stained glass windows, painted ceilings and inlaid Arabic writings will do it justice. In roped off areas on either side of the naves, men in street clothes sat on their knees praying silently.
The Dome of the Rock, completed in A.D. 691, houses the rock from which Muslims believe Mohammad rose skyward to meet Allah. Its polished gold dome, covered in a nonprecious metal these days, looms on Jerusalem’s horizon like a setting sun. The stunningly intricate mosaic work on the mosque’s exterior was in itself worth the price of the ticket (about $7 for entry into both mosques).
By the time we finished relaxing and eating at the cafe, it was after dark and time to head home. We strolled toward the bus station, caught one of the many No. 480s, and slept — dreaming of olives, oranges and almonds — all the way back to Tel Aviv.
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For information, contact the Israeli Government Tourist Office in Chicago at 312-782-4306 or the Israeli Information Center at 800-596-1199, or their Web site at www.goisrael.com
