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 cries were piercing as we strolled by their stores.
"Hallo, Hallo!"
"Come take a look!"
"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
