J and I are walking around with cricks in our necks after a weekend of discovering more of the city on foot. The dwarves don't get the 'on foot' bit and rode for most of the way on our shoulders. Rashimi had a permanent sticky finger pointed at Haredi after Muslim after Haredi man, shrieking: 'Oooh. Look, Mummy. Man got beeeeaaard!'
The weekend began with the Lozenge doodling in one of my cook books which I've fashioned from an old religious studies exercise book from school. Inside it are many details about the Abrahamic faiths, nestling next to recipes for cheese pastry and prawn curry. I haven't read them since I was 16, and it seems extraordinary to be in the bosom of the places we learned about back then. Flicking through it, stories from deep recesses in my head emerged: about Masada and Yad Vashem, the world centre for holocaust research, documentation and education. I couldn't have imagined I'd be doing the practical studies 20 years on.
J and I went to the German Colony area to watch '12 years a slave', which continued the daily cycle of history entwining itself with our present day. The district itself feels like Hampstead, and if it weren't for bunting of Israeli flags adorning gardens and windows, it could have been London in parts. The film is fantastic, though gruesome and brutal. It's impressive to see a visual artist such as Steve Macqueen turn his hand so successfully, three times in a row, to making films. Watching the slaves stand in a Southern cotton field singing about crossing the Jordan, and returning to the Holy Land, reaffirmed to us the extraordinary journeys these religions have made, and the hearts and minds they have claimed through the centuries. Capable of inspiring such deep love, and such extreme hatred. And here we have landed right in the middle of it all, where it all began and continues to be played out, no less problematically.
Having promised the Lozenge a trip on a tram, we set out on Saturday to find one. Looking down the empty platform, the penny dropped that of course there were no trams running on shabbat, and as I broke the news to the Lozenge, the peace was shattered by a purple faced wailing dwarf. 'You pwomised, Mummeeeeeeee!!!' Our tram stop runs alongside a row of Arab shops which, alhamdulillah, were open, and I paid 6 shekels for 2 kit kats. I chose the chunky ones to provide a good fit for a dwarf mouth, and the wailing came to a halt the minute they saw them. After the chocoloate fix, the Lozenge seemed content with riding his scooter up and down the empty tracks instead. The day looked up after that, and after a run around a park we found an incredibly delicious pizza made by Arab chefs trained in Italy, with a brace of pizza ovens in their restaurant. At home, we put the rabbit jelly mould to use, which I'd brought especially for in between days, which weekends tend to be before you get to know a place.
St Grace is a perfect companion for each of these moments. While I can match the dwarves' moods with my own, being pulled down with them at times - she sits there with the laughter coming from belly up - the shaking starting in her tummy before a noise emerges from her mouth - taking everything in her stride. She is an eternal voice of reason.
We often go and chat with the gardener who helps in our landlady's garden as he's the source of much information and peaceful vibes. He asked us if we preferred Jordan or here. St Grace explained that we didn't quite feel at home here yet, but she was sure we would one day.
'Nothing happens over night, does it?' he laughed, and went back to his digging and watering.
The weekend began with the Lozenge doodling in one of my cook books which I've fashioned from an old religious studies exercise book from school. Inside it are many details about the Abrahamic faiths, nestling next to recipes for cheese pastry and prawn curry. I haven't read them since I was 16, and it seems extraordinary to be in the bosom of the places we learned about back then. Flicking through it, stories from deep recesses in my head emerged: about Masada and Yad Vashem, the world centre for holocaust research, documentation and education. I couldn't have imagined I'd be doing the practical studies 20 years on.
J and I went to the German Colony area to watch '12 years a slave', which continued the daily cycle of history entwining itself with our present day. The district itself feels like Hampstead, and if it weren't for bunting of Israeli flags adorning gardens and windows, it could have been London in parts. The film is fantastic, though gruesome and brutal. It's impressive to see a visual artist such as Steve Macqueen turn his hand so successfully, three times in a row, to making films. Watching the slaves stand in a Southern cotton field singing about crossing the Jordan, and returning to the Holy Land, reaffirmed to us the extraordinary journeys these religions have made, and the hearts and minds they have claimed through the centuries. Capable of inspiring such deep love, and such extreme hatred. And here we have landed right in the middle of it all, where it all began and continues to be played out, no less problematically.
Having promised the Lozenge a trip on a tram, we set out on Saturday to find one. Looking down the empty platform, the penny dropped that of course there were no trams running on shabbat, and as I broke the news to the Lozenge, the peace was shattered by a purple faced wailing dwarf. 'You pwomised, Mummeeeeeeee!!!' Our tram stop runs alongside a row of Arab shops which, alhamdulillah, were open, and I paid 6 shekels for 2 kit kats. I chose the chunky ones to provide a good fit for a dwarf mouth, and the wailing came to a halt the minute they saw them. After the chocoloate fix, the Lozenge seemed content with riding his scooter up and down the empty tracks instead. The day looked up after that, and after a run around a park we found an incredibly delicious pizza made by Arab chefs trained in Italy, with a brace of pizza ovens in their restaurant. At home, we put the rabbit jelly mould to use, which I'd brought especially for in between days, which weekends tend to be before you get to know a place.
St Grace is a perfect companion for each of these moments. While I can match the dwarves' moods with my own, being pulled down with them at times - she sits there with the laughter coming from belly up - the shaking starting in her tummy before a noise emerges from her mouth - taking everything in her stride. She is an eternal voice of reason.
We often go and chat with the gardener who helps in our landlady's garden as he's the source of much information and peaceful vibes. He asked us if we preferred Jordan or here. St Grace explained that we didn't quite feel at home here yet, but she was sure we would one day.
'Nothing happens over night, does it?' he laughed, and went back to his digging and watering.
Ein Kerem is a nice place to visit - especially on Saturday. It's a village like neighborhood in the western outskirts of Jerusalem. There are plenty of restaurants open there on saturday.
ReplyDeleteNice hikes among pine trees and some nice churches (if you're into this sort of thing)..