The Old City

By day the Old City is packed with tourists of every stripe. As we push our way from the Temple mount toward the Jaffa gate, we mingle with a group of Filipinos carrying a cross and singing, Germans stopping to shop, and a gaggle of middle-aged coffee drinkers chatting in Yiddish.

There’s so much to see, smell, and touch. Jostled about, we position wallets and bags up front, away from eager hands that might snatch them while we ogle the goods. It’s a good natured jostling that belies the bristle of police and military at every corner, and especially the gates and check points.

The synagogue in the Jewish Quarter was re- dedicated a few days ago and quite a furor has ensued. The fact that it has been a pile of rubble since the war for independence in 1948 seems not to matter. A dome now stands higher than the mosque on the Temple mount and even though Jerusalem has been in Israeli hands for more than 40 years now, that is an affront.

A call went out to the faithful to Allah to come and protest. The turnout has been minimal, but every corner of the Old City sports young Israeli troops, armed and uniformed.

The crowding and military seem contemporary, but in truth, Jerusalem would have been just so densely populated two thousand years ago when the faithful gathered from around the world for Passover. And with pilgrims and potential unrest, Roman soldiers would have bristled at every corner. Today’s soldiers want us to take their picture though – not something Rome would have encouraged.

Undeterred by the current politics, we enjoy pushing through the old streets. This afternoon, just before sundown, we break off for some unguided wandering. We dawdle past the shops in the Armenian quarter, and turn down the main drag that divides the Jewish and Moslem quarters. In ancient times, this road would have been the Cardo, or main artery through the city.

Shops are beginning to close for the day and there’s a festive spirit in the air. Shopkeepers, pushy by day, are taking down their wares, greeting us warmly as we pass. Most of the tourists have boarded their bubble buses and gone off to find dinner at their hotel. We’re almost locals.

Turning a sharp right, we cut through the Jewish quarter, bound for the Zion Gate. There’s a commotion ahead and the narrow street appears to be blocked by a small truck. We turn around to go another way when a plump grandmother waves us on.

“Come, come,” she says. “Can go, yes.”

We follow her and her grandchildren, squeezing past the back of the truck only to find ourselves sharing a brightly lit entry to a building with a dozen or more others on their way home. An orthodox man calls to his young son beside me. The boy, side curls swinging, hefting a huge book, grabs his father’s hand and escapes over a pile of trash and out behind the truck.

There’s much chatter around us in the entry, much shouting to the two men in the back of the truck that completely blocks the street, and finally the truck moves forward. We all surge after it to the corner where there is room to pass.

A little further on we hear the sound of drums and bagpipes. Intrigued, we detour up an alley, around a corner, and come to the open door of a church basement. Inside a group of men are playing bagpipes while another pounds a huge drum. Several men beckon us to the door to listen. One leans over and bellows, “Syrian Orthodox. We are the first Christians.” We listen with enjoyment and don’t argue the point that everyone in Jerusalem thinks they are the first Christians.

A cluster of old women, dressed in black from head to toe, comes up behind us and passes into the church. The music swirls on but we turn and head down the empty street.

Night has fallen. Through open windows we glimpse families preparing diner. Others are making last minute purchases at pocket sized groceries. Families with small children in strollers crowd past us going the other direction to the new synagogue and western wall.

We reach Zion Gate and exit the city, walk the passage between the city wall and the walled Armenian convent. Lights are twinkling across the hills of newer Jerusalem as we come to the corner and hike down toward the Hinnom valley.

Day is done and it’s time for supper. Tomorrow is the Muslim holy day and the Old City may be blocked. Then comes Shabbat and much will be closed. Today was a good day to wander the old city.

Ageless, timeless, eternal.