elinor אלינור
A Day in Jerusalem
I learned decades ago
that decades before that, Jerusalemites who were arranging to meet downtown said
We’ll meet at the traffic signal, for there was only one in the city. I have
been absent from Jerusalem for yet a further decade, so when the opportunity to
sign up for a Bus 99 two-hour tour of Jerusalem surfaced, I signed. Bus 99 is a
hop-on/hop-off tourist attraction, although this one was privately
hired.
The weather this week
has been so different from the usual that I left home with opposing
accouterments: sun hat, umbrella and sweater. And the essential
element, a book. My bag was heavy, my spirits light. The bus will
be a double-decker and I almost died of the cold on top of one once, in summer,
in Copenhagen. I have not, however, requested to sit up
top.
All went well on the
bus ride to Jerusalem until the road right up to the city, where the highway was
clogged for about half an hour. I hadn’t noticed the lack of progress until the
drivers of the three giant trucks that were blocking one lane of traffic were
loudly and enthusiastically persuaded to relocate—or else.
In Jerusalem I took
the new light-rail train to my old neighbourhood for a delicious lunch with an
old friend, then rode it back downtown. It runs into only two areas and they
haven't got it right just yet. The ticket machine offers many possibilities if
you acquire the information in your chosen language; that took some convincing.
I chose the ‘ticket and no receipt’ option; the machine produced a receipt and
no ticket. At least if the cops had checked, they couldn't arrest me for not
paying.
From downtown I walked
cross-town forever until I came to the Dan Panorama Hotel, where Mrs Ditzy,
organiser of the Tour of Jerusalem, had directed me to meet the other
participants. Not so. The one person at the desk who seemed to know something
instructed me to take the bus to the King David Hotel, about half-way back
whence I came. Already exhausted, I thought Hell with that, if
I have to go back to the King David I will go directly to the bus with my
home-town name on it. No—I'll figure it out. Undaunted, and all
that.
The desk clerk offered
to ring Mrs Ditzy's office and heard We're only open until 2 on Sunday. It’s
three o’clock and they’re not open, he says. OK, I say, but I'm fairly sure it's
Monday. A woman, chugging by in Jerusalem’s requisite hat, skirt and sneakers,
hears us talking and asks if she can help. I snivel out a remarkably
obtuse sentence. Hold your anguish, says she, I'm taking
that tour too and it starts right across the street. So why are you in this
hotel? I like the toilets. Understood. She ushers me
across a hugely wide and frantically busy street to meet up with a whole passel
of skirted sneaker-wearers. Speaking English. Heaven.
The bus, scheduled to
leave at 15:45, arrives at 16:10. It's a huge red double-decker and the driver
parks it half-on-the-sidewalk in the approved Jerusalem manner. We rush to get
in and just when many of us are comfortably seated upstairs and down, a tiny old
man rushes through, frantically yelling Get off the bus, get off the bussss!!
You can't get on until you're checked off my list! GET OFF THE BUS!!! Must be Mr
Ditzy.
We descend to the
sidewalk, trying to avoid eye-level ancient tree branches. As it happens, I land
right under Mr Ditzy’s nose—or over it, as he comes up to my shoulder. He
begins: BROWN!!! Where are Mr and Mrs BROWNNNNNN? A little old couple wriggles
through the crowd and mounts the bus. SCHWARZ!! Where is SCHWARZZZ? Another
couple, etc and so on. GOLDBERG!! MR GOLDBERG!!! Mr G nimbly leaps a garden
railing to reach Mr D. I look down at his list and say Why don't you ask our
names, then find them on the list? Oh no, he says with some horror, I can't do
that. I believe him.
The next name is mine.
Quietly I say I’m right here and he says You can get on now, gesturing like he's
the Host with the Most, and I find a seat facing a charming couple who introduce
themselves immediately. Within moments we discover a startling set of common
experiences. They have relocated to Jerusalem only recently after visiting for
many years; they have brilliant children doing wonderful things and I’m
delighted to involve myself, although we are on a tour and we should be
listening instead of laughing, I suppose.
In fact, we are the
only ones laughing, the rest are trying to hear what the guide is saying. Her
microphone goes off and on, off and on; the city is whizzing by and we are
having great fun trying to put whole names to the ragged segments we are
hearing.
We are shown the four
corners of this beautiful city, glowing in the afternoon sun. I lived in
Jerusalem for almost fifteen years so I find a number of opportunities to add my
own arcane data: There are 57 steps from the street down to Mishkanot
Sha’ananim, I climbed them every day when I worked there. That synagogue is the
oldest in this area, someone once told me (irrefutable source). That restaurant
was once—never mind, it’s an ugly story.
The enjoyable two-hour
tour lasts for three hours. When it's over, I consider going out for dinner with
my new friends and to my amazement, I decide I'd rather go home. Ninety minutes
later I'm eating cheese out of my refrigerator.
Jerusalem is now
enormous and exhausting, with uncountable traffic signals. I’m so glad I don’t
live there anymore but I’d visit again in a heartbeat.
cross posted Israel Thrives