My thoughts flashed back to the men I’d seen walking through the airport. Big black hats, long dark coats. My dad and his cape were going to fit right in.
“And it’s important to remember that these people don’t believe in any eye contact or physical contact — even handshaking — between members of the opposite sex. In fact, Mackenzie, if you ever take a seat on a bus next to an Orthodox man, don’t be surprised if he gets up and moves away. You should also know that much of this city shuts down from Friday afternoon until Saturday night at sunset. Whatever you do, don’t drive through a religious neighbour-hood during that time. You might have stones or even dirty diapers thrown at you.”
“Oh gross!” I grimaced and put down my drink. “Are you serious?”
“One hundred per cent,” Sharon replied with a laugh. “It’s just a fact of life here. Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it soon enough.”
No I won’t, because I’m not going to be staying, I felt like replying.
When Dad got up to refill his coffee cup, Sharon leaned her head towards mine and lowered her voice to a whisper.
“Listen, I’m sure this whole thing hasn’t been easy for you … you know, moving to a strange country without your mother here to help. So if you don’t mind, I’d like to offer you some ‘woman-to-woman’ advice.”
I stared down at my drink and shrugged. As nice as Sharon seemed, I did not want to talk to her about Mom. Please don’t go there, I prayed silently.
“Mackenzie, I want you to promise me that you’ll be careful when you’re out alone,” Sharon continued. “You’re in the Middle East, now — a long way from North America. There are people and places in this city that can be dangerous for young girls on their own. Do you understand?”
I looked up again and nodded, relieved that she hadn’t asked about Mom. And happy that she didn’t give me that speech in front of Dad. He was way too overprotective of me already without hearing stuff like that. Too bad he couldn’t be more like Sharon. I liked how she spoke to me like an adult, without sugar-coating the facts to make this place seem more like home.
Still, there was no way I could have known just how accurate her warning would turn out to be.
Chapter 3
On our fourth day in Jerusalem, Dad took me sightseeing.
“Wake up and put on your walking shoes!” he said, opening my curtains to let in the bright morning light. “We’re going to the Old City today!”
I opened my eyes and groaned. He was standing over my bed and smiling down at me in full tourist gear: Birkenstocks, safari hat, and Bermuda shorts. Ugh! At least he wasn’t wearing his cape. Dad had been known around York University as a bit of an oddball — a reputation I know secretly pleased him. Every time I ever visited him at work, I’d find him riding an old-fashioned bicycle around campus, his black cape billowing behind him in the wind. He told me that his students had long ago nicknamed him Einstein because of his wild mop of bushy, blond hair. I sometimes called him that, too, but never to his face. Can’t you just picture him? If he wasn’t my father, I’d laugh. But most of the time I don’t find him very funny.
Still, as much as I sometimes hate to admit it, Dad and I are eerily similar in a lot of ways. We both sleep with our eyes halfway open, we’re both allergic to strawberries, and we both have the same dumb laugh that has politely been compared to a horse on drugs. We also have the same abnormally long pinkie toes, the same lopsided smiles, and the same pasty white skin — for sure my worst feature. Dad calls it “alabaster,” but it’s so grossly pale the kids at school back home nicknamed me Snow White. I could never get a nice suntan like the other girls and I couldn’t even wear shorts in the summertime without looking like a ghost.
Which was exactly how Dad was looking right now in his Bermuda shorts. Weird how genetics work, huh?
But we have our differences as well, and that’s usually what the fights are about. Maybe it’s because he’s an archaeologist, but his head always seems to be stuck in the past — the ancient past. So much so that he usually doesn’t give a rat’s ass about what’s happening right in front of his nose. It’s something that used to drive Mom crazy. And I worried it was only going to get worse here in Israel.
Still, I had to admit, as much as I didn’t want to come here, the old walled city of Jerusalem turned out to be a pretty interesting place. It was made up of four quarters, one each for the Christians, Jews, Muslims, and Armenians. Cars weren’t allowed on the Old City streets. Each quarter was a maze of narrow cobbled roads, staircases, sharp angles, dark passages, and tiny corners that demanded to be explored on foot.
Instead of taking a formal tour, Dad suggested that we just wander around on our own.
“It’s more exciting this way,” he said, his grey-blue eyes gleaming. “Who knows? Maybe we’ll even get lost!”
It didn’t take very long to see how easily that could happen. With crowds of people walking in every direction, twisting roads, and a jumble of haphazard old buildings, arches, and domes, the Old City oozed a sense of exotic chaos. Unlike Toronto, where the streets followed a well-planned grid, there was absolutely nothing orderly about this place.
We started off in the bustling Muslim quarter. With all the ancient buildings and sites, Dad was totally in his element. For the first time in my life, I got an idea of why he was so popular with his students: he really had a way of making history come alive.
“This is the Damascus Gate, which was originally built by the Romans,” he explained. “And over here is the Via Dolorosa, the path where it’s believed Jesus walked carrying his cross. And down this way is the Dome of the Rock, a mosque that dates back to the seventh century. It’s one of the most important sites in all of Islam.”
Normally, I wasn’t too interested in religious buildings, but this one took my breath away. I had seen it before in photographs of Jerusalem, resting on top of the city like a gleaming crown. But up close, it was so much more magnificent. Covered in intricate blue, gold, and white mosaics, it was topped off with a gigantic golden dome that shone brilliantly in the bright Israeli sunlight.
It was a pretty hot morning, and the heat intensified as the day went on. Every minute the sun rose higher in the sky, I could feel it burning deeper and deeper into my skin. I tried to tell myself that heat was better than cold and I was lucky to be missing the Canadian winter this year. But in this kind of heat, even the thought of snow and sleet and slush was refreshing. As we walked, I drank a lot of water and tried to think cool thoughts.
Polar bears … tobogganing … ice fishing … snowball fights … wind chill factors…
It didn’t help much.
After wandering around for a while, we suddenly found ourselves in the Arab market, or “souk,” as it was called here. We paused at the entrance and watched the hustle and bustle for a few minutes. The crowds were thick with all kinds of people: American tourists in their baseball caps and fanny packs, women covered in scarves, and men with heads draped in black-and-white checkered fabric.
I closed my eyes and took in a deep breath of the exotic market air. It was absolutely bursting with smells: spices, coffee, smoke, ripe fruit, and vegetables. I opened my eyes again and stared down the long, sloping path of the market. It was lined with hundreds of vendors balancing on rickety chairs outside their shops. Some of them were so ancient-looking their faces seemed like they’d been sculpted out of rubber. I knew it wasn’t polite, but I just couldn’t stop staring at them. They looked as old as the city itself — like they’d been sitting there on those chairs since the beginning of time. And they were selling just about every kind of merchandise imaginable: copper, gold, and silver jewellery; ceramics; fabric; clothes; shoes; pastries; produce; spices; and every souvenir under the sun.
Their