How beautiful are your
gates, o Jerusalem. I smile to myself as I push the door out of class, still
relishing in the day's studies, decoding mysteries of a story that's 5774 years
old. And a young, fresh people with unfettered attitude and resilience, is still
writing the next page right outside that same classroom door.
Broken glass on the sidewalks, abandoned kittens jump gingerly over the shards sticking into my well-worn flip flops. The stubborn purrs remind me what the British left behind from the mandate era, but animal rights aren't the big regional issue, I hear.
I walk down the uneven streets of Baka, losing balance, losing focus, getting lost. Family names on door frames inviting me to linger, to ring the door bells or just sit on the skinny sidewalks, praying no taxi driver without a conscience gives me my daily heart attack while I stare off into the sky, dreaming.
And then, the smell of fresh borekas wakes me up from the pit of my rumbling stomach. I follow the steaming scent trail and point to a round doughy ball, and two shekels later, it's demolished within seconds.
I pause in a bean-shaped bench to recline, watching the scenes in seder position. There is no order. A boy, twirling tzitzit strands in one hand, cautiously flirting with a shy denim skirt on the walkway. Scooters whiz by, birds sing, babies cry, teenagers gossip - no war is being waged in this place of peace, of normalcy. Across the sea, you would think you could cut the tension with the kosher butcher's knife; but, no, you'll barely feel it at all in the warm dry air.
Broken glass on the sidewalks, abandoned kittens jump gingerly over the shards sticking into my well-worn flip flops. The stubborn purrs remind me what the British left behind from the mandate era, but animal rights aren't the big regional issue, I hear.
I walk down the uneven streets of Baka, losing balance, losing focus, getting lost. Family names on door frames inviting me to linger, to ring the door bells or just sit on the skinny sidewalks, praying no taxi driver without a conscience gives me my daily heart attack while I stare off into the sky, dreaming.
And then, the smell of fresh borekas wakes me up from the pit of my rumbling stomach. I follow the steaming scent trail and point to a round doughy ball, and two shekels later, it's demolished within seconds.
I pause in a bean-shaped bench to recline, watching the scenes in seder position. There is no order. A boy, twirling tzitzit strands in one hand, cautiously flirting with a shy denim skirt on the walkway. Scooters whiz by, birds sing, babies cry, teenagers gossip - no war is being waged in this place of peace, of normalcy. Across the sea, you would think you could cut the tension with the kosher butcher's knife; but, no, you'll barely feel it at all in the warm dry air.
But, I feel the sweat gather on my shaped brow, and
imagine the girl across the walkway in the olive polyester uniform feels much
damper as she walks home for a night off of base. The cars keep going, keep
honking, maybe just to be heard, to be noticed for a moment, while the world,
my time, flies by.
I key into my building, ready for a cold shower to ease my burning pinked skin, to rinse off the ceaseless, breathless exhaustion of the day's learning, wandering, loving this land.
I key into my building, ready for a cold shower to ease my burning pinked skin, to rinse off the ceaseless, breathless exhaustion of the day's learning, wandering, loving this land.
No comments:
Post a Comment