We drove into the Jerusalem Central Bus Station and, after a security officer boarded, then walked slowly down the aisle looking at every person carefully to ensure none of us was a terrorist who would blow ourselves up upon entering the crowded station, Noam asked Would you like to have ice cream at my brother’s shop? I nodded happily. It’s in the market, Noam said. Which market? I asked. The market, he said, looking at me quizically.

The market was Mahane Yehuda, Noam explained, the largest shuk, or Jewish outdoor market, in Jerusalem. I later learned that is also, by a long shot, the largest Jewish market in the city. I’ve spent significant time in Jerusalem previously and am likely the only person to ever do so while remaining completely oblivious to Mahane Yehuda, but Noam was about to right that wrong.

We boarded the brand new light rail train, a controversial means of transport, as part of its tracks lie in East Jerusalem, a section of the city which might be at least in part be turned over to the Palestinians if a peace agreement with Israel is ever reached. Whatever its ultimate fate, now during its first two weeks of operation the train was free of charge and filled to capacity.

This was Friday afternoon just before Shabbat, the Jewish Sabbath which occurs from sundown Friday to sundown Saturday. Since it’s Friday, Noam said as we began to whiz through, they’re selling things for as low as one shekel.

The shuk was in full swing, packed with sellers of fruits, vegetables, Judaica, nuts and seeds and a sight that stopped me in my tracks. What is this? I shouted to Noam, now far up ahead and unaware I’d stopped. Ahh, that’s Halwa, he said when he noticed I wasn’t there anymore and walked back to me. How do you say it in English? I asked. There is no English equivalent. Indeed, there can’t be. This was the most delicious looking dessert I had seen in my life.

Noam was in a hurry so we left the halvah behind and finally landed at his brother’s ice cream shop, where I ended up spending 17 Shekels for three scoops. I had thought it might be free. Oh, well. My only regret is now I was full of sugar but still couldn’t get that halvah out of my head. Noam and I said good-bye, and I continued to wander the market to soak up the atmosphere.

After 10 or 15 minutes, I still had visions of halvah dancing in my head, so I did a U-turn on foot. Ah, there it was again.

The halvah was pretty pricey so I ordered only one kind, a big fat slice of medium brown with cashews sprinkled on top. It wasn’t until later, when I was alone, that I finally opened the little cardboard box and bit into it. Ever so slightly crunchy, this delectable treat tasted like syrupy sugar. Every bite was a dream.

With the box tucked safely away, I weaved my way back to light rail train stop, now strangely barren. After a few minutes two teenage boys walked by, looked back at me, said something indecipherable in Arabic, and pointed to a sign flashing above my head, also indecipherable in Hebrew and Arabic. I got the gist quickly. In Israel all public transportation except for Arab-driven taxis ceases from a few hours before Shabbat until just before its conclusion. I had missed the last train and was now going to have to walk the several kilometers to my guesthouse in the Old City. One of the boys grabbed my suitcase handle without me even asking, and we began the journey to the Old City.

Despite the fact that I missed my ride to my guesthouse, I am so glad I sat next to Noam on that bus. Without him, Mahane Yehuda and its delectable halvah would still be unknown to me.

Mahane Yehuda Market, I’m So Glad I Found You! is a post from: Solo Travel Tales and Tips from the Middle East and Elsewhere on the Globe

It is within the Old City that I write this, on the last day of Ramadan, the month-long period during which Muslims across the world fast during daylight hours, eating only when darkness falls, to cleanse their bodies and souls. I didn’t travel to Jerusalem to experience Ramadan, but when you’re in the Old City there is no avoiding it.

The Old City is normally crowded with its local population and tourists, but I have never seen its streets clogged like I have on Ramadan. I managed to arrive on Friday afternoon just as thousands and thousands of Muslims were making their way to the Temple Mount for prayer, lengthening the walk from Damascus Gate to my guesthouse from 10 to approximately 45 minutes.

Inside Damascus Gate on Ramadan

The reason for the throng of thousands is the Al Aqsa Mosque, which Muslims consider to be the third most important holy sight in the world. This mosque stands on top of the Temple Mount, a huge complex 35 acres in size and covering one-sixth of the Old City. Also on the Mount stands the Dome of the Rock, its famous gold dome one of the signature sights of Jerusalem. Muslims typically worship not inside here, as many people think, but inside the plain exterior of the mosque. During Ramadan, though, so many people come to worship that I think they must be spilling out of the mosque and onto the remainder of the Temple Mount.

Al Aqsa Mosque

Except for a few hours a day, non-Muslims are not allowed on the Temple Mount. On Ramadan, I’ve discovered, non-Muslims are not even allowed on the streets leading to the Temple Mount. These streets are unmarked, and I have on many occasions in the past couple of days unwittingly started down several of them, only to be very politely turned back by Muslims, Israeli soldiers or Israeli police. Not only these streets but others in the Old City are decorated for Ramadan with colorful lights strung overhead.

Ramadan decorations

I’ve spent weeks of my life inside the Old City previously, with the neverending calls of its shopkeepers ringing through the crowded streets, Madam, come into my shop? Perhaps because these shopkeepers are fasting during the day now, though, I find them unusually quiet – in fact, nearly silent – as tourists flow past them. Their chorus of voices is such a mainstay of Old City life that their absence is quite disconcerting.

The Old City souq

Muslims break their fast each day at dusk, and in Jerusalem beginning an hour or so beforehand people begin preparing food on the streets of the Old City for fasting people who can now eat and for anyone else who happens by.

Breaking the Fast

Also seen on the streets of the Old City after darkness falls during Ramadan are piles of sweets to help celebrate the now festive air.

Ramadan sweets

Daytime and nighttime differ greatly in Jerusalem’s Old City during Ramadan, as the atmosphere moves gracefully from unusually quiet to bold and festive. If ever you want to experience Ramadan in the Middle East, Jerusalem’s Old City will give you a taste unlike any other.

Breaking the fast outside the Old City's Damascus Gate

A Glimpse into Ramadan in Jerusalem is a post from: Solo Travel Tales and Tips from the Middle East and Elsewhere on the Globe

‘Tis the season for tourists and although I’ve been in Israel for months, I’ll be joining their throngs once I arrive. Like me, they may be staying in staying in one of the many hostels or hotels in the walled Old City or in Jerusalem vacation rentals elsewhere. Wherever you stay inside or outside its walls, at some point most every visitor to Israel’s capital city ventures into the ancient Old City.

One of the most touristy things I’ve done while there was joining hundreds of other people on a weekly 3:00 Friday afternoon walk along the Via Dolorosa, the last path which Jesus Christ walked before being hung on the cross and tortured to death. On this walk, the tourists follow in the steps of many monks, who lead the way to the 14 stations of the cross through crowded, curvy streets. It’s not that often in my life that I see even one monk, much less dozens. Here’s just a few that I saw on my last trip to Jerusalem, waiting to begin the walk down the Via Dolorosa.

Weekend Snapshot – Monks in Jerusalem, Israel is a post from: Solo Travel Tales and Tips from the Middle East and Elsewhere on the Globe

A year and a half earlier, Joseph had crafted two small turquoise stones into earrings as we sat and talked, jewelry I knew he wanted me to buy but which he’d insisted was a gift – a gift which had given me guilt pangs, as I later realized I should have paid him. Yesterday our paths had amazingly collided for the first time since then, but the surprise of the encounter had caused all thoughts of finally paying this man for his work to fly out of my head.

Today I explain quickly why I’ve returned. I want to buy a second pair of earrings to show him my appreciation for the first. Joseph does not argue. We stand over his showcase, and he pulls earring after earring out of the glass case. Finally, he lifts out a silver pair with tiny amber stones, and I ask him how much he wants. I had promised myself I wouldn’t quibble with the price, so I hand him the amount he asks for. This doesn’t seem to surprise him either. Our meeting is uneventful, but with it the burden of feeling I must repay this man is lifted.

I’m no longer quite as lost in the souk as I used to be, when a week later I realize I’m approaching Joseph’s shop again. No fool, he verbally pulls me in as he has twice previously – a skill that must serve him very well in his line of work. We sit in the back, and a little boy appears in front of us. Joseph speaks to him in Arabic and the boy darts out the door, then reappears holding a metal platter. I take the small glass of sweetened tea sitting on it, and the boy disappears again.

Joseph and I talk for a long while. Always so genuine and so nice, I can’t help but like this man with whom I have such a good rapport. But every second he sits in his shop with me, someone passes by outside whom he could be pulling in to try to make a sale. He cannot waste time any longer. “Here we go…” I begin, as he places a green-stoned necklace around my neck, “…again,” he finishes.

No amount of talking, explaining or pleading will stop this expert salesman. “Sabina, take it. Wear it. Tomorrow I must go to Jericho. The next day, you come back. Then you tell me if you want to buy it.”

Joseph begins to close his shop, and I leave. As I walk, I am having second thoughts about taking this expensive necklace even for a couple of days. I had told Joseph that I am due to leave Israel the same night he expects me back at his shop. Immediately preceding my arrival in Jerusalem, there had been trouble on the Temple Mount, so serious that some were saying it could lead to the Third Intifada. Joseph’s shop is not far from the Temple Mount, and if violence erupts again, I think they might close off streets in the Old City. This could prevent me from getting back to Joseph and leave me holding a free necklace, similar to the free earrings I’d left Israel with over a year earlier.

The Necklace That I Walked Off With

Realizing that everything will probably be all right and I’ll be able to return as promised, I continue to walk out of the souk when a particularly aggressive jewelry shopkeeper named Omar appears before me, a man whom I’ve encountered before. I’m happy that I have the necklace to point at this time to give him a reason why I don’t want to come into his shop.

“Where did you get it?” the small, wiry man asks. I tell him it came from a man named Joseph around the corner. Omar rolls his eyes and snorts.

“His name is Mahmoud,” he tells me, each word uttered with disgusted emphasis. This shopkeeper describes exactly the man whose necklace I’m wearing, confirming that we are indeed speaking of the same person. I am surprised and disappointed that my new friend has been lying about his name. I’d known his real name couldn’t actually be Joseph because he’s Arab, but I’d figured he was just anglicizing the name Yousef to make potential customers more comfortable with him. “I guess he told you that he’s Christian too, didn’t he?” Omar asks with a scoff.

“No. Actually, he told me he’s Muslim,” I said, happy that Joseph hadn’t lied about everything.

Now I realize this Muslim named Mahmoud must be known for telling people that he is a Christian named Joseph. I understand what his reasons must be, but I wonder why he feels he must change his identity so drastically. I manage to squirm away from Omar and try to start thinking of the man I had known as Joseph now as a man named Mahmoud.

I return to Joseph’s Mahmoud’s shop two evenings later, knowing that I will not be keeping this necklace, as it is far too expensive and not at all my style. I am also wondering what he will say when I tell him that I have discovered his real name. Easily and graciously, he accepts the necklace into his hand. Just as easily he listens as I tell him of the rival shopkeeper who has revealed that his real name is Mahmoud.

“My name is Mahmoud,“ he says simply, without flinching. “Joseph is like a…nickname. Some people call me Joseph, some people call me Yousef, some people call me Mahmoud. You – you can call me what you want.” He smiles. Mahmoud’s attitude about his name fits in with the person I’ve gotten to know, a man whom you can see pulling answers to simple questions out of the air rather than out of his head. This is simply who he is.

My Second Pair of Earrings from Mahmoud a/k/a Joseph

No matter the man’s real name, this is my last night in Israel, and we decide to end my visit with knafeh. A popular and delectable Arab sweet, good knafeh is impossible to find in the U.S. and is abundant in Israel. I want more before I head back to knafeh-less territory.

I watch Mahmoud pull shut the huge brown metal double doors of his shop and padlock them into place, securing his jewelry against the possibilities of crime and mischief that night always brings. Most shops in the Old City are fitted with these modern metal doors built into ancient stone walls, one of the many collisions of past and present found in Jerusalem. Across from Damascus Gate we sit and eat the knafeh, as always far too sweet. Next, I bid Mahmoud good-bye, knowing I’ll be back and knowing that our paths will no doubt cross again in the future, probably accidentally, just like the first two times.

I arrive a day later back in the States and I learn immediately that hours after I left Jerusalem, yet another clash related to the Temple Mount did break out after all and that they did, indeed, close off many streets of the Old City, as I‘d feared they might. If Joseph and I had agreed that I would return the necklace just one day later, it probably would have been impossible. With the Old City barricaded, I would have flown out of the country carrying with me more free jewelry than I’d left Israel with the first time.
Now what a story that would have been.

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Thumbnail jewelry photo by Catherinette Rings Steampunk

Jerusalem Jeweler – The Friends That Solo Travel Can Find – Part III is a post from: Solo Travel Tales and Tips from the Middle East and Elsewhere on the Globe

Today I’m walking again through the souk, the size of a small town with its scores of streets and thousands of shops. I am wearing the turquoise-colored earrings Joseph the Jeweler made for me one and a half years ago because they match my blouse. Having just eaten a sheep’s brain for lunch, I was, while I walked, quickly munching down on a small sweet which I’d grabbed from a sweet shop, to help make the sheep’s brain a distant memory quickly. Suddenly a man appears in front of me, having stepped forward from the doorway of a shop. “Excuse me. May I ask you, where did you get your earrings?”

“Oh, actually I got them right here in Jerusalem,” I say, a little surprised at the question, as I unconsciously raise my hand to touch one of the stones.

“They’re turquoise, you know,” the man says.

“Do you think they really are turquoise?” (For I secretly had thought they must be fake.)

“Oh, yes, definitely” he replies, a genuinely genuine look on his face.

“Well, good.”

“I have a beautiful turquoise necklace that would look great with those if you want to come into my shop,” he says. I look inside the man’s doorway. I see a familiar setting. I look back at the man. I look again inside his shop. I see what appears to be the stool where I sat one and a half years earlier. I look again at the man. “What is your name?!?” I ask.

He thinks for a moment. “Joseph.”

“You made these earrings for me!!!” I cry as I step into his shop. The memory of our first meeting flashes before his eyes and writes itself all over his face. He smiles warmly and reaches out to shake my hand as we laugh and exclaim over this incredible second meeting. To make positively certain it is the real Joseph, I ask him in German if he speaks German. He responds in German that he does. This is definitely The Joseph.

In a reenactment of the first time we met, he pulls a turquoise necklace out of a case. I explain that really, truly, honestly, I am not interested in buying it because it is so expensive and because I don’t wear much jewelry anyway. So, again with a hint of the past he invites me to sit in the back with him.

Here We Are

We talk as we calm down from the excitement of our second meeting and engage, in part, in the exchange I have found is common throughout my Mid Eastern travels – “Are you married? How old are you?” After a bit, I feel he is tiring of me. I hope this is only because I’m not buying and he doesn’t want to waste any more time or earrings on me and not because he finds me boring. So we shake hands good-bye and I start to leave. He asks how long I am in Jerusalem, and I say two weeks. “Oh, so you can come back to my shop.”

“Yes,” I say. “Do you have a card?”

“No, no card.”

“Well, what street are you on?” I ask, because I was lost, as I am 1,000 percent of the time in all souks.

Joseph looks into the air and thinks. “Via Dolorosa.”

That is a major street in the souk. Even if he is really on it, his shop might be lost in the crowd. “Well, what is the name of your shop?” I ask.

Again, a moment to think. “Joseph’s Shop,” he responds.

Joseph’s Shop? I feel insulted. Why won’t he just tell me the name of his shop?

This man is indeed clever and not inclined to spend one more minute on a definite no-sale girl. So I leave the souk to take a walk on the ramparts.

As I’m walking, my memory smacks me on the head. I had promised myself almost two years ago that if ever, ever I experienced the highly unlikely event of finding Joseph the Jeweler in Jerusalem again, I would buy a pair of earrings from him to make things right after leaving him with empty pockets and a heart-breakingly sad face after our first encounter. Did I remember this solemn and often-thought-of vow when I had the very man right in the palm of my hand? Me? I was just so stunned that he unwittingly stopped me in the street to admire his own handiwork that everything else went flying out of my head.

I get off the ramparts and head straight back into that gob of a souk, walking the Via Dolorosa and every other street that I can find that resembles his, looking in each and every shop, wandering down so many streets I’m sure I’m traveling some of them four times, some of them none. Apparently I make it down his street not even once. Why couldn’t he just tell me the real name of the street he was on – even if he never wanted to see me again because he considered me a massive drain of time? I literally wander the souk for at least an hour trying to find this man.

Tomorrow – I wander again. I have studied a map and tried to reconstruct my initial route. I think he might really be on Al Khanka Street. I hope I am right, because when you start roaming a souk repeatedly, shopkeepers start recognizing you and with recognition comes familiarity and that’s not so great.

In short, I am just shy of obsessing over showing this man that I appreciate his earrings, that I really like his earrings, and that I am going to buy a pair of earrings from him. How did I let my promise to myself vanish in the air when this has bothered me for so long and popped into my head so many times? In Part One of our encounter I skipped out of his shop sporting free and apparently expensive earrings. In Part Two, I got up and trotted out all over again.

I believe when you get that rare second chance at anything on earth, you should go for it. And if you wind up blowing your precious second chance? Make a third chance happen.

Tomorrow – the third chance. I will find Joseph yet again. I will tell him I like his earrings so much I want more. I will buy a pair of earrings from him without haggling over the price. And I will make this situation right. Or else I will get so lost in the souk my frustration will lead me to eat another sheep’s brain.

No, it won’t. I will not mess up my third chance.

Thumbnail colored rocks photo by beggs

Jerusalem Jeweler Redux – The Friends That Solo Travel Can Find – Part II is a post from: Solo Travel Tales and Tips from the Middle East and Elsewhere on the Globe

Here’s the begininng of a tale of a sort of friendship that formed with one man in Jerusalem’s Old City, a getting-to-know-you that I’m sure never would have occured if I hadn’t been traveling alone. I originally posted this elsewhere as one long story, but think it’s worthy of a second life, so I’ve broken it into two shorter pieces here. More exists to the story, so I may just write Part III later. I really like this tale.

Wandering around and around and around the labyrinth that is the massive souk in the Old City section of Jerusalem on my first solo trip here just over a year and a half ago, I inevitably became severely familiar with the sales techniques of the shop owners. 

In little shops smashed up against each other on the jam-packed stone streets, their jewelry, bolts of cloth, sandals, sweets and pigs hanging upside down were each enticing in their own way, but the proprietors’ methods of getting my attention were all the same. “Madam, you come into my shop?” was the typical pitch, with an arm swinging elegantly open towards the shopkeeper’s door.  “Hello, what is your name?  Where are you from?   Hey, hey, I’m talking to you!” was another. 

All were polite, but the rat-a-tat-tat of their invitations grew so tiresome.  I learned to manage the souk by walking the streets saying “no, thank you, no, thank you” virtually non-stop in the direction from which came any sound of a man’s voice with a question mark at the end of it.

Then, my final day in Jerusalem, a man sitting in front of a jewelry shop sang out to me a fresh tune. “Excuse me, can you please do me a favor?”  Surprised, I turned to give him my attention.  “Can you show me how to write in perfect English ‘Grand Opening Sale’?”  Happy to help, I walked into this man’s jewelry shop, where he set a black pen and a glossy piece of paper on his glass showcase.  I carefully spelled out the words he wanted. 

“Oh, thank you so much,” he smiled.  “You have done something for me.  Now, I do something for you.” 

Oh, no.  Now I understood what was happening.  He had verbally pulled me into his shop and now was going to try to make money off of me.  He was slick enough to talk me into sitting down in the back with him, where he began to craft a pair of turquoise-colored stone earrings for me. 

Joseph's Earrings

“Really, I can’t buy them,” I said.  “Please don’t spend too much of your time.” 

“No, no,” he replied.  “You helped me.  Now I will make something to thank you.” 

We began to talk.  Joseph was his name, he said.  Joseph was a very nice man.  And just so clever.  He got up and opened a display case.  From it he pulled a turquoise-colored necklace and placed it around my neck. No pressure, he assured me.  He just wanted me to see how it complimented my eyes and the earrings he was crafting for me.  A true salesman, he found a commonality with me – we’ve both lived in Germany and speak some German.  He kept the conversation flowing on topics large and small until, a half an hour later, he finished the earrings and handed them to me with a smile. The earrings are a gift, he repeated.  The stunning stone necklace was not.  It was a lot of Shekels.  So many Shekels that my memory can’t count that high. 

Only if you want it, he said.  I held onto the ground I’d entered his shop on.  I was not buying.  He began to negotiate the price down.  I offered to buy the earrings instead.  “No, no, no,” he insisted.  “I told you I would make those for you.”  After several minutes of extreme haggling, we were both beginning to emotionally melt, and his smile had turned downward.  The Friday call to worship had begun blasting from the Temple Mount through the streets, and he had to go pray.  So I took off.

As I made my way down the stone steps that led out of the souk, I heard a voice calling. “Miss?  Miss?”  I turned to find Joseph walking quickly down the hill, same genuinely crestfallen face.  My sunglasses were in his hand. “You left these behind.”  This had turned out to be an almost heartbreakingly-prolonged interaction with this man. 

“Thank you,” I said, taking the sunglasses quickly so I could end this.  He turned and walked back up the small hill, and I headed to exit in the direction of Damascus Gate.

Back at my hotel later, I began packing and thought of Joseph.  I should have insisted he take something for the earrings, I now knew for certain.  I had messed up, at least in a small way, a really nice guy.  Now I had to leave Israel and didn’t have the opportunity to correct the situation.  I vowed to myself that if ever I saw Joseph again in my life, I would buy a pair of earrings from him to make it right.

Thumbnail necklace photo by Sarah and Michael

Jerusalem Jeweler – The Friends That Solo Travel Can Find – Part I is a post from: Solo Travel Tales and Tips from the Middle East and Elsewhere on the Globe