Adventures in the Old City
Apologies if this is a long one but 24 hours in the Old City is, as it turns out, a very long time. After much perusal of guidebooks, one of the first things I wanted to do after arriving in Jerusalem was to head down to the Old City on the first available Friday evening and follow the crowds down to the HaKotel HaMa'aravi, or the Kotel. This is the Hebrew term for the Western (or Wailing) Wall, the holiest site in Judaism and a magnet for worshippers on Fridays as the sun goes down and Shabbat begins. And so on Friday I walked down Jaffa Road, through Jaffa Gate and began heading through the Old City towards the Kotel. And then I met Ayman and my first adventure in the Old City began.
I'd found the road you walk down to get access to the Western Wall plaza and was just turning into it when a young Arab man sitting on the corner stopped me and pointed out that there was another hour or so until the sun started setting so the Wall was quiet and there wasn't much happening. He then said that there was an observation platform where I could go to get a view and took it upon himself to show me the way. It didn't occur to me to say no (directions? yes, please!) and before I knew it Ayman had introduced himself to me and insisted on giving me a free tour of the Jewish Quarter (free tour? yes, please!). Of course, he then proceeded to hit on me with all the enthusiasm and determination of a sailor on long-overdue shore leave.
I confess it was a bit of a dilemma: he was a very good tour guide, really knew his stuff and showed me lots of really quite spectacular viewpoints; but he clearly felt at ease to take such liberties as putting his arm around me, holding my hand and getting very familiar when showing me any view in the distance. "No, no, in my culture we are just being friendly, you are quite safe." "In my culture," I replied, removing my hand from his again, "we don't get this friendly this fast." In hindsight, I should have added that it was highly unlikely that in his culture he would behave this way with an Arab girl! I've made a mental note to start working on my techniques for rebuffing such advances. Wear head-to-toe clothing? Walk away at the first sign of trouble? Carry round some mace? I think I probably was quite safe, not least because I might have been dim enough to accept the tour but I'm certainly not dim enough to fall for his offer of a Turkish massage, but it's yet another lesson learned about what to do or not do in Israel. They seem to be stacking up!
Anyway, sleazy guide aside, I very much enjoyed my tour of part of the Old City. We went up onto the roofs of the houses and above the central souqs, at a point where you could see in all directions over the four quarters of the Old City. This included a spectacular view of the Dome of the Rock, which is so wonderful in the sunlight.
I don't think many tourists go up there, as the only other people there were Israeli, groups of soldiers and students singing songs and listening to stories of their heritage before heading down to the Kotel. We then wandered down to the Cardo, through some more backstreets, where we saw the famous mosaic map of Jerusalem and nearly got locked in (how would I have fended him off then?) and down the road to a place where there was a view over the valleys to the Separation Wall. As the sun began to set we went back up to the official observation point then down to the checkpoint, where I managed to shake Ayman off (not before he'd given me his phone number) as, being Arab, he couldn't get through security.
Alone at last, I made it onto the plaza which was rapidly filling up. I headed over to the women's section, where I sat for a while in prayer and contemplation, trying to work out who was a tourist and who was a believer with purpose. The men's section was rapidly filling up and I managed to get a good vantage point from which I could see the dancing and singing that makes Shabbat night so dynamic and interesting (from my perspective). One group of men dancing included a very tall man whose kippah was not well attached to his curly blond hair and so it kept flying off as the dancing grew more energetic. A large group of soldiers, singing and shouting and waving the Israeli flag, barrelled through the plaza and onto the prayer area where they tried to find a spot amongst the already rammed crowds. As the sun set I decided it was time to head back home and so I made my way out of the Old City, avoiding both Ayman, who was in the same spot and had attached himself to two other clearly Western female tourists (I was free!) and the very persistent stall holders in the shops on David Street.
My next adventure in the Old City, early the next morning, was a marked contrast to the first. One of my old vicars from St. Aldates in Oxford and a previous director of the Anglican School, John Chorlton, was visiting Jerusalem with his wonderful wife Susan and a tour group. They'd taken me out to dinner at the Jerusalem YMCA on Thursday night and invited me to join them on Saturday morning when they were going to visit St. Mark's Church in the Armenian Quarter. I hauled myself out of bed and down to the Y for an 8 a.m. start and soon our tour guide Tony (who was neither lecherous nor greasy) was leading us through the Armenian Quarter to the Syriac Convent.
The Syriacs have been worshipping in St. Mark's Church since, they believe, the days of the apostles. The church is believed to be on the site of a house that belonged to Mary, mother of John Mark (as in Mark's gospel) and that according to the gospels was used by Jesus and his disciples for the Last Supper. It was then this house in which Jesus appeared to his disciples after his resurrection; in which the Holy Spirit descended on Pentecost; and to which Peter went after the angel freed him from prison. There is so much debate in Jerusalem about holy sites; which ones are true, which came first, which ones are authentic. There is another site, the Coenaculum, which stakes a claim to being the site of the Upper Room. I have no way of knowing the truth on this one, but Rev John is fairly certain that the Syriacs are in right in their claims and I trust his opinion.
Right or wrong, the church of St. Mark inside the Convent was a beautiful, peaceful place with the stillness and profound depth of emotion that I find resides in places where people have worshipped for centuries or, in this case, millennia. Abu Shimon, the priest, read to us from the Bible written in Aramaic which is the language of the Syriac Church and which was the language of Christ, then spoke a blessing over us. He took us to the Upper Room and shared the story of Peter's escape from prison (aided by the angels) and return to the house we were standing in. I feel very privileged to have gone with the group, not least because it is not on the usual tourist trap routes and even those who do make it there do not necessarily meet the priest. Disputed though its authenticity may be, there is no denying that St. Mark's is a holy place.
We left St. Mark's and the Convent, venturing back to David Street and Christian Quarter Road where I was introduced to three local stallholders: Josef (of Josef's Emporium, selling beautiful rugs and scarves), Shaban (of Shaban's, a shop full of the most extraordinary tat) and Mustafa (whose family had owned his jewellery shop for generations). All three offered us refreshment - Turkish coffee, tea, soda - and were charming, welcoming and profuse in their offers of hospitality. It was great to be introduced to locals who I know, based on the assurances of my friends, will be welcoming and can be relied upon to give good advice if needed. At midday, with lots of work waiting for me at home, I headed out, blessed with a beautiful new scarf (thanks, Susan!) and feeling like I had seen a world in less than a day. And that was just my first set of adventures in the Old City.
I'd found the road you walk down to get access to the Western Wall plaza and was just turning into it when a young Arab man sitting on the corner stopped me and pointed out that there was another hour or so until the sun started setting so the Wall was quiet and there wasn't much happening. He then said that there was an observation platform where I could go to get a view and took it upon himself to show me the way. It didn't occur to me to say no (directions? yes, please!) and before I knew it Ayman had introduced himself to me and insisted on giving me a free tour of the Jewish Quarter (free tour? yes, please!). Of course, he then proceeded to hit on me with all the enthusiasm and determination of a sailor on long-overdue shore leave.
I confess it was a bit of a dilemma: he was a very good tour guide, really knew his stuff and showed me lots of really quite spectacular viewpoints; but he clearly felt at ease to take such liberties as putting his arm around me, holding my hand and getting very familiar when showing me any view in the distance. "No, no, in my culture we are just being friendly, you are quite safe." "In my culture," I replied, removing my hand from his again, "we don't get this friendly this fast." In hindsight, I should have added that it was highly unlikely that in his culture he would behave this way with an Arab girl! I've made a mental note to start working on my techniques for rebuffing such advances. Wear head-to-toe clothing? Walk away at the first sign of trouble? Carry round some mace? I think I probably was quite safe, not least because I might have been dim enough to accept the tour but I'm certainly not dim enough to fall for his offer of a Turkish massage, but it's yet another lesson learned about what to do or not do in Israel. They seem to be stacking up!
Anyway, sleazy guide aside, I very much enjoyed my tour of part of the Old City. We went up onto the roofs of the houses and above the central souqs, at a point where you could see in all directions over the four quarters of the Old City. This included a spectacular view of the Dome of the Rock, which is so wonderful in the sunlight.
The Dome of the Rock and the Mount of Olives in the distance
I don't think many tourists go up there, as the only other people there were Israeli, groups of soldiers and students singing songs and listening to stories of their heritage before heading down to the Kotel. We then wandered down to the Cardo, through some more backstreets, where we saw the famous mosaic map of Jerusalem and nearly got locked in (how would I have fended him off then?) and down the road to a place where there was a view over the valleys to the Separation Wall. As the sun began to set we went back up to the official observation point then down to the checkpoint, where I managed to shake Ayman off (not before he'd given me his phone number) as, being Arab, he couldn't get through security.
Alone at last, I made it onto the plaza which was rapidly filling up. I headed over to the women's section, where I sat for a while in prayer and contemplation, trying to work out who was a tourist and who was a believer with purpose. The men's section was rapidly filling up and I managed to get a good vantage point from which I could see the dancing and singing that makes Shabbat night so dynamic and interesting (from my perspective). One group of men dancing included a very tall man whose kippah was not well attached to his curly blond hair and so it kept flying off as the dancing grew more energetic. A large group of soldiers, singing and shouting and waving the Israeli flag, barrelled through the plaza and onto the prayer area where they tried to find a spot amongst the already rammed crowds. As the sun set I decided it was time to head back home and so I made my way out of the Old City, avoiding both Ayman, who was in the same spot and had attached himself to two other clearly Western female tourists (I was free!) and the very persistent stall holders in the shops on David Street.
My next adventure in the Old City, early the next morning, was a marked contrast to the first. One of my old vicars from St. Aldates in Oxford and a previous director of the Anglican School, John Chorlton, was visiting Jerusalem with his wonderful wife Susan and a tour group. They'd taken me out to dinner at the Jerusalem YMCA on Thursday night and invited me to join them on Saturday morning when they were going to visit St. Mark's Church in the Armenian Quarter. I hauled myself out of bed and down to the Y for an 8 a.m. start and soon our tour guide Tony (who was neither lecherous nor greasy) was leading us through the Armenian Quarter to the Syriac Convent.
The Syriacs have been worshipping in St. Mark's Church since, they believe, the days of the apostles. The church is believed to be on the site of a house that belonged to Mary, mother of John Mark (as in Mark's gospel) and that according to the gospels was used by Jesus and his disciples for the Last Supper. It was then this house in which Jesus appeared to his disciples after his resurrection; in which the Holy Spirit descended on Pentecost; and to which Peter went after the angel freed him from prison. There is so much debate in Jerusalem about holy sites; which ones are true, which came first, which ones are authentic. There is another site, the Coenaculum, which stakes a claim to being the site of the Upper Room. I have no way of knowing the truth on this one, but Rev John is fairly certain that the Syriacs are in right in their claims and I trust his opinion.
Right or wrong, the church of St. Mark inside the Convent was a beautiful, peaceful place with the stillness and profound depth of emotion that I find resides in places where people have worshipped for centuries or, in this case, millennia. Abu Shimon, the priest, read to us from the Bible written in Aramaic which is the language of the Syriac Church and which was the language of Christ, then spoke a blessing over us. He took us to the Upper Room and shared the story of Peter's escape from prison (aided by the angels) and return to the house we were standing in. I feel very privileged to have gone with the group, not least because it is not on the usual tourist trap routes and even those who do make it there do not necessarily meet the priest. Disputed though its authenticity may be, there is no denying that St. Mark's is a holy place.
Inside St. Mark's, in the Syriac Convent.
We left St. Mark's and the Convent, venturing back to David Street and Christian Quarter Road where I was introduced to three local stallholders: Josef (of Josef's Emporium, selling beautiful rugs and scarves), Shaban (of Shaban's, a shop full of the most extraordinary tat) and Mustafa (whose family had owned his jewellery shop for generations). All three offered us refreshment - Turkish coffee, tea, soda - and were charming, welcoming and profuse in their offers of hospitality. It was great to be introduced to locals who I know, based on the assurances of my friends, will be welcoming and can be relied upon to give good advice if needed. At midday, with lots of work waiting for me at home, I headed out, blessed with a beautiful new scarf (thanks, Susan!) and feeling like I had seen a world in less than a day. And that was just my first set of adventures in the Old City.
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