Three Jews and A Christian: The Journey Continues

When we last saw our stress-filled, anxious travellers (and their oblivious friend), they were headed to the Via Dolorosa, which I now know means The Road of Suffering.


Entering the Muslim Quarter after leaving the Temple Mount is like jumping from the fire into the frying pan. And yes, in case you are wondering, it is different from the Jewish Quarter -- COMPLETELY DIFFERENT!

Walking through the Arab market means enduring constant pleas to spend your money or at least drop by for a cup of coffee (which probably offers another route to the slave chicks in Gaza thing that I mentioned in the previous post.) It is dark and claustrophobic. Not an ounce of sunshine or an open space to be found. And not one Muslim woman to be seen. You feel like a potential human sacrifice walking through the ancient windy streets....

... which explains how I ended up paying an opportunistic 10-year-old Muslim boy four shekels to direct us to the Via Dolorosa. I know it was ridiculous, but since he wanted 100 shekels for his two minute effort, I think I did okay.

We arrived at the VD at the sixth Station of the Cross, which amounts to an ancient stone brick on the streetside facade of a church (or at least it looked like a church) where Jesus, who was carrying his own crucifixion cross and wearing a crown of thorns, stopped to rest for a second -- and he apparently leaned on the wall RIGHT THERE. Since then, about a trillion people have touched the same spot to the point that there is a noticeable indentation in the rock facade. (And for those of you who do not know what the Stations of Cross are, then if you are interested you can google it. I managed to get all the way to 49 without knowing so you can probably have dinner before you start getting anxious that you don't know what they are either.)

With the Via Dolorosa now checked off our To Do List, we found our way to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre which is in the Armenian Quarter and is much airier than the Muslem Quarter. Still not open and welcoming like the Jewish Quarter, but a far cry better than where we had come from.

It took me about 100 attempts to say the word "Sepulchre" properly. Try it, you'll see what I mean. You can hurt your tongue doing so.

When we entered the church courtyard, we knew we were in the right place because there were at least 300 tourists ahead of us. All in little groups with matching hats, listening to explanations in various languages from their tour guides. Suffice it to say that Jesus is a big draw and can really pull in the crowds.

When we entered the church the first thing we saw was a marble slab on the ground and many people lying down to kiss it or rub their belongings on it. I didn't understand what they were doing at first until my Catholic friend pointed out to me that they were rubbing their souvenirs on Jesus' grave so that they could give their friends a touch of his essence. From her persepctive it was no different from us touching the Western Wall as we prayed there. I don't really agree but I do see how she got to her position.

Since Jesus' grave was right in the entrance I didn't feel any need to look around further, but since we were there we decided to be good tourists. Of course, having survived the Temple Mount and the Arab Quarter my Jewish friends were invigorated and feeling a little invincible. So .... in we went.

When we entered the second room we were met by a monsterous black structure that looked to me like a giant incense burner. It was surrounded by a lot of people -- a lot of people. People were lighting candles everywhere. We couldn't figure out what it was but the line up to enter was very long. We finally agreed that it must be some sort of weird altar.

Well, it is good that we are naturally chatty types. We stopped in front of the giant incense burner/altar to talk to a Greek woman who turned out to be a tour guide. After five minutes of superficial Christianity chit chat I asked her what that thing was.

Talk about a watershed moment. It turned out to be the "real" grave of Jesus!

How did she know that for sure I asked her. And of course, I got the usual answer for all tough questions of faith .... it's in the ancient writings. I'm sure she noticed my cynical smile, but she wasn't deterred.

The Greek tour guide was really pushing us to get in line so that we could enter the tomb -- even after I told her that we were Jewish (I was a lot braver after I left the Muslim Quarter). She insisted that it was for all religions, so we nodded and said good-bye ... exiting in the opposite direction. Yeah, like we were really going in there.

(For those of you wondering what the first slab was, it turned out to be a facsimilie of the slab that Jesus' body was placed on after he was removed from the cross and before he was buried. Notice that I said "fascimilie". It wasn't even the real slab so who knows why all those people were going nuts kissing it and rubbing things on it. Didn't they read the guide book? It's all there!)

I think that's enough information for readers today. I promise to wrap up the story in the next installation.

Shabbat on the Dark Side

Yesterday, mid afternoon, Chaim and I arrived in Jerusalem for a Shabbat bar mitzvah. We had the name of the hotel and the address -- which was not on a street that sounded familiar. However, we knew it was near the Damascus Gate of the Old City. (For me, that was good enough.)

Chaim is always looking for a short-cut from point A to point B. Whatever the directions provided, he firmly believes that he can do it better. Therefore, instead of doing the obvious thing which was to drive the normal route into Jerusalem, follow the signs to the Old City and then drive around the perimeter until we reached the area of the Damascus Gate, he decided to take a shortcut through the ultra-orthodox area of Mea Sharim.

This is not a place that a car can scoot through on the best of days. The streets are extremely narrow and frequently filled with ultra-orthodox pedestrians who are not that happy to see you if you don't look like them. We do not look like them.

So, when we finally made our way through the ancient, windy streets, Chaim the navigator-who-knows-best, was already in a bad mood. This mood was not helped by the fact that the little map provided on the hotel website was so vague that it was impossible to follow.

I am always prepared to just wing it. I knew we were close and I had the hotel phone number. I also have no problem hanging my head out the window and asking for directions. Chaim, on the other hand, has to chart out the exact course completely before we leave our driveway.

I am sure he thought he knew what he was doing, but this is Jerusalem -- it's an ancient city built well before the idea of city planners was born. Streets wind and weave, and change name arbitrarily.

But the best part is that the Damascus Gate is in East Jerusalem -- a place not known for its road logic or its friendly locals.

For those of you who don't know what I mean, the Damascus Gate is in what is best known to the world as the Arab-dominated part of Jerusalem. The border into East Jerusalem is invisible on one level and screamingly obvious on another level. It is not difficult to tell when you "enter" East Jerusalem -- the scenery changes pretty dramatically and very quickly.

At that moment we both realized that we were spending Shabbat in the Arab part of the city. While this apparently didn't concern our hosts, it didn't leave me with a warm and fuzzy feeling. And it definitely curbed any interest I had in hanging my head out the window in search of directions. My survival instincts had kicked into gear.

All this time the cranky navigator was getting more and more agitated. Finally, after he ignored my last set of correct instructions and got stuck in a traffic jam outside the Gate, I called the hotel for help. And then, within five minutes we had actually arrived at our destination.

You would think that that would be the end of that. But for me, it wasn't. As nice as the hotel was, I couldn't get comfortable with the idea of spending Shabbat in what I consider enemy territory. Oh skip the politics and the rhetoric -- it's not the friendliest place in Israel. Of course, it's not the least friendly place either.

I am not going to replay the entire weekend for you, but obvioulsy if I am writing this, I am still here. The Arab staff in the hotel was very nice. The Arab bus driver who took us the Western Wall was also very nice. The people on the streets when we went for a walk this afternoon were less so, but I still didn't feel that my life was in danger. I don't want to minimize the seriousness of the tensions that exist in Jerusalem and I wouldn't push the envelop to test any theories here. But I do have to dust off my old theory that most people just want to get out of bed, do an honest day's work, feed their families and enjoy their friends.

And maybe all of East Jerusalem isn't a journey to the Dark Side.