Shabbat

Friday night at sundown (over our nightly beers on the hotel balcony), we heard the sound of fireworks in the distance to celebrate the approaching Queen of the Sabbath. Loud reminders of religious ritual are the norm here. Friday during the day, the minarets had sounded the Friday sermon for the Muslim community and Jerusalem at large. The preacher's tone reminded me of the angry fundamentalists at home, but I have nothing to say regarding its content as I have no Arabic beyond basic greetings and thanks in my repertoire.


I confided to Melissa that I feel less out of place here than at home in some ways. In the States, I walk around in a collar, and you'd think people had bumped into a walking circus act when they look up at me from poking their iPhones in the coffee line. Here, you're mixing with folks who declare their religious affiliation with a glance. At home, I'm one of the few people who has a patterned religious life, including daily prayer, that can be publicly witnessed. But here -- when I pray in the morning on the porch of the hotel, I'm a small figure compared to the masses in the hotel synagogue on my floor. Folks pray on airplanes, on their knees in a crowd, shouting across to one another in the market; they shut down their businesses and trains and whole city streets to follow the commandments of God. Fridays for Muslims, Saturdays for Jews, Sundays for Christians. But Saturday is what disrupted normalcy the most for us.

That morning after a cold breakfast at the hotel (the cooks were off), we walked the ramparts of the Old City, walking our way there since the trains were resting, too.

The ramparts of Jerusalem

We marched along smooth stones, ending at the Zion Gate in the Jewish Quarter. Have I mentioned the four quarters yet? They're Jewish, Muslim, Armenian, and Christian. The ramparts tour took us around all of these places except the Muslim quarter, where the tour abruptly ends.

After being denied entry into the Muslim quarter a few times already, I wasn't sure we'd get in to the Western Wall on Shabbat even though it was the quickest way back to the place we were headed next. I approached the man at the Information Desk. "We're trying to get back to Jaffa Gate,"I said, pointing a little stupidly at the map like I hadn't been walking up and down that city for days. "This is the most direct route." He pointed us through the security gate and I stopped him -- "You mean we can get through? Even though we're not... Jewish?"

He gave me the kindest raised eyebrow I've had on this trip and waved us on, shaking his head. We entered into the space and stopped for awhile to listen to the singing.

We went on to head to the Islamic Museum of Art. Stay tuned for Melissa's post, which will have more to say than I do. We weren't sure we'd find anything to eat that day on the hike -- literally, every business was shuttered, though the sidewalks were alive with families and the parks were filled with frisbee games and laughter -- but as we wandered into a more liberal neighborhood, she spotted a small restaurant with a few patrons in the covered porch. We sat in the shade, enjoying the cool breeze and cucumber arugula sandwiches, taking our time like everyone else. The waitress loved the Beatles and we sang "Hey Jude" twice.