“Please, please — you want souvenirs?”
“Right here, best prices in Jerusalem!”
“Hey, it’s past lunchtime. Do you want to try a falafel?” Dad asked, pointing to a nearby stand. “It’s, like, the national dish here.”
I walked over to take a closer look. Just like on the first day we arrived, an overwhelming aroma of spice and frying oil wafted under my nose. A skinny, dark man with a chipped front tooth was putting brown, deep-fried balls of mashed-up chickpeas into a pita pocket and covering the whole thing with sauce and vegetables. Of course, I’d seen falafels back in Toronto … but I’d never actually eaten one before.
“C’mon,” Dad said, pulling out his wallet. “I’ll have one if you will.”
“Um, okay.”
I was getting hungry, and Dad’s sense of adventure was contagious.
“Where are you from?” asked the skinny man as he stuffed my pita full to bulging. “Let me guess: England? Australia?”
“No,” I replied timidly. Nobody had ever asked me that question before. “We’re from Canada.”
“Ahhhh!” he nodded. “My cousin lives in Canada. He says it’s very cold there.”
“Yeah, sometimes,” I laughed, wiping the sweat off my forehead with the back of my hand. I felt like saying, Dude, anywhere in the world would probably seem cold compared to this place!
“There you go — enjoy!” he grinned, handing me his stuffed creation.
With a polite “thank you,” I took a small bite and chewed it cautiously, waiting for my taste buds to make a decision. The falafel was crunchy, hot, spicy … and surprisingly tasty.
“It’s good!” I proclaimed, taking another bite. Dad beamed with pleasure, like the falafel somehow justified this whole move to the Middle East.
We finished our lunch and took our time strolling, browsing, and taking in all the incredible sights of the market. After poking around for a couple of hours, we ended up on a stone terrace overlooking the Western Wall — an ancient, open-air synagogue where tons of people had gathered to pray.
“This is the holiest site in the Jewish religion,” Dad explained as we gazed down on the crowd. “This one wall is all that remains of the ancient Temple of Jerusalem. It’s been standing for more than two thousand years.”
Standing a fair distance back, I strained my eyes and tried to see what all the fuss was about. The Wall looked old, fragile, proud.
“Maybe we can go and take a closer look,” I suggested.
But Dad shook his head and pointed down to our shorts and tank tops. “Not today. You have to be covered up to go near the Wall. Next time, we’ll bring better clothes.”
I nodded silently as my thoughts flicked back to that return ticket.
No, Dad. There’s not going to be a next time.
On the fifth day, I was on my own while Dad went to meet some colleagues at the university. It was time to start exploring the neighbourhood. With Professor Anderson’s advice still fresh in my head, I was a bit apprehensive about leaving the apartment by myself. But in the end, I was more restless than nervous. I figured it would probably be safe enough to check out the local sights.
A few doors down from our building, I stumbled upon a little corner store that was like no other corner store I’d ever seen before in my life. There was no sign outside — no storefront name — just a door and a big cigarette advertisement marking the spot. I stepped inside to look around.
“Oh, wow!” I gasped under my breath. The entire store was just a tiny little hole in the wall, jam-packed with shelves that stretched from floor to ceiling. The shelves were stuffed with things like toilet paper, bags of chips, bottles of pop and water, cleaning products, and cigarettes.
A dark-skinned boy about my age stood behind a narrow counter laden with sweet rolls and candy. Even from a distance, I noticed his eyes. They were gorgeous — big and round, and the exact colour of caféau-lait. Although he looked tall, I still couldn’t help wondering how he was able to reach up to the top row of shelves that grazed the ceiling of his store.
Noticing me noticing him, the boy nodded and smiled at me. I smiled shyly back. I wanted to say hello, but didn’t know how.
Smart move, Mack-on-Crack! Next time maybe you’ll look up some Hebrew phrases before walking out the door!
And since I hadn’t brought any money along, I couldn’t buy anything from him. Feeling stupid and not knowing what else to do, I left the store to continue exploring.
A few steps further down the street, I came across the busy intersection I’d seen from my window. Traffic was flying past at a frightening pace and a never-ending symphony of horns filled the air. I stood a safe distance back from the curb and watched the commotion of cars with horror and awe. For the first time in my teenage life, I was actually grateful that I was too young for a driver’s licence.
Suddenly, a low mumbling caught my attention. I turned and saw a young, bearded man standing next to me, bowing his head and reciting some strange-sounding words. I listened carefully, but couldn’t make out what he was saying — I could only assume it was Hebrew. I knew I shouldn’t be staring, but it was hard not to. I’d never seen anybody pray in a public place before and it left me with a funny feeling — curious and uncomfortable at the same time. It seemed so personal, like he’d decided to take off his clothes right beside me.
Crossing the street, I watched the hustle and bustle of the intersection for a while. When the heat and the dust became too much to handle, I turned to head back to the safety of the apartment. Coming in from the heat was a welcome relief. I kicked off my sweaty sandals, enjoying the feel of the chilly tiles on my hot feet.
Peeling off the rest of my clothes, I jumped straight into a cool shower to wash off the coating of dust that was clinging to my body. It seemed like everything in this country was covered in a layer of powdery archaeology.
I guess it was finally making a bit of sense why Dad wanted to come and work here so badly.
On the sixth day, I met Marla.
I decided to venture out a little bit further and bring along some money, although truthfully, I didn’t know how to count it or how much I had. I walked past the busy intersection until I came to a series of stores. There was a pizzeria, a flower shop, a movie-rental store, a café, a falafel stand, and a tiny accessory store, all getting ready to open up for business.
I stood back and watched as awnings were unrolled, stoops were swept, and patio chairs were set up. Even though it was still early in the morning, the heat was getting intense. Already, beads of sweat were beginning to dot my upper lip and trickle down my neck. Looking for something to cool me down, I wandered into the pizza joint and spied a large freezer filled with ice cream and popsicles.
Yes!
I ran over, opened up the door, and basked in the surge of cold, manufactured air that rushed out into my face. After a minute, I chose an ice cream bar that, from the photo on the package, looked like a wedge of pink watermelon.
“I’d like to buy this, please,” I said timidly, not sure whether the cashier spoke English or not. I grabbed a handful of coins from my pocket and held them out hopefully. Smiling, she gently plucked the correct amount out of my palm.
“Tank yoo,” she said in a heavily accented voice. I smiled back and turned to go. I couldn’t help feeling proud of myself for accomplishing this smallest of tasks. I know, it’s silly, right? But it was a hot day in the Middle East and I’d bought myself an ice cream! Maybe I’d be able to get along here, after all.
But everything changed a second later when I peeled open the wrapper and my triumph instantly crumbled