One more week in Jerusalem

One more week in Jerusalem

“Well, all that confirms my beliefs.” said Marina as we settled back in the hostel, as Mark returned to his wife. all that chatting up and no result.

“And mine.” I said spoiling for a fight. “It’s all a great big con like Santa Claus.”

“Not if you belief in Jesus.”

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“I do but only as a communist agitator.” I could smell her anger.

“What! How dare you insult our Lord.”

I had had this argument on many occasions, often in Rugby clubs. As a player from Battersea Ironsides, we were a working class side playing in poshest Surrey. Sometimes, not often, the conversation drifted to politics. “Communism doesn’t work.” one would often hear.

“Really? What’s this Rugby club then?” I loved the look of total astonishment on their faces as the truth dawned on them. It is the same with any religion. Churches claim that everyone is equal in the eyes of God, but have a very strict hierarchy that re-enforced the monarchy system. The Romans saw the turn-the-other-cheek bit as a great form of suppression. Strange how the head of any church has wealth beyond needs.

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“So why is there such conflict among Protestants and Catholics then?”

“Because men have sin.”

“And women.” interjected Susie with her usual perfect timing. “Well I do anyway.”

“How come then that Jesus kicked over the money lenders’ tables? Not exactly meek and mild.”

“Because they were sinners.”

“Oh, that’s perfectly alright then?”

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“What I want to know is, that if the 3 wise men came from the East with Frankenstein and stuff, how come they lost track of him until he was in his 30’s?” asked Susie without expecting a reply; she did not get one.

The next morning, being short of cash, I ventured to a bank, hoping the credit card would hold out. As low as I got I always kept enough traveller’s cheques for a flight home. What a wimp!

There was a long queue as everybody wanted to talk about their washing. It was good drying weather. When I got to the front I was in the wrong line and had to join the next line.

When I got to the front of that one a woman shoved me out of the way, then another and another. Their lives were far more important than mine. I developed the tactic of spreading myself as wide as I could, but that did not work.

Eventually I lost it.

“Don’t let her push in! I was here first. It’s bad manners.” I yelled.

The whole bank fell silent and turned to look at me. I was a stranger in a strange land, but I was not going to let my morals slip, well not yet anyway.

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Yom Kippur was upon us, the Day of Atonement, and everything was closed. On this day nothing must pass a Jews lips: no drink, no food and definitely no oral sex, chance would have been a fine thing. We had to stock up on food and drink as no shops were open at all. John told me that even the heroin dealers kept Yom Kippur. I was puzzled as to how he knew but worked it out eventually.

I went jogging to maintain my fitness levels.  I still had most of my saturation level suntan and looked disgustingly healthy, but ‘disgusting’ has always been my middle name.

A small girl was walking along with her mother, saw me and went into fits of laughter. Her mother smiled, a happy memory.

In 1973 the Egyptian army decided the best time to attack Israel was when its military was fasting. Rabbis have since made an allowance for guys on active service, nice of them. They are allowed to eat and drink if they feel the need. Unfortunately, the rule does not apply to oral sex.

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Susie moved out from the King George hostel for the Sundown hostel, it was a bit cheaper. You had a choice between sleeping outside under a Bedouin tent and get eaten alive by mosquitos, or sleep inside and get eaten alive by mosquitos. Even though the noise from the Underground was deafening, the unmistakable buzzing was ubiquitous. Only the pregnant ones bite; I have never been sucked by a virgin.

Every day there was an opportunity to sample new experiences. The Old City proved a veritable magnet for me. There was the Armenian quarter which was full of mystery as everything was behind tall walls. They were the first Christian country so got a share of the spoils. The Jewish shops specialised in paintings of Fiddler on the Roof dancers all so very happy. I stopped at the Peace café on the crossroads of the Via Delarosa.

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There was a photo of Peter Ustinov on the wall and I started talking to an Arab guy. When he found out I was from England he turned somewhat unpleasant.

“You gave away my country. What right did you have? It wasn’t yours to give away.”

I could not and did not offer an explanation. How could I? I felt like the meat in the sandwich. Stick from the Jews for causing the holocaust by not giving them Palestine and stick from the Arabs for giving the Jews Palestine. You cannot win being English.   

I was in a cool rut: woke up late, had breakfast, played Chess and Backgammon, hit happy hour, listened to Dan play, went to the Underground, slept. Sometimes I did not even bother to play Chess. Well it is such a strain. All good things must come.

Money is the only 5 letter word that should be 4. I would have liked to have stayed but needs must. The work was in Tel Aviv, full of restaurants needing dishwashers.

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Sometimes you just know when the time is right. I consoled myself to going. Before I left Susie gave me a haircut and I shaved off my increasingly long beard. It took 5 razors and 2 pairs of scissors to finish the job, well nearly. A man can be judged by his hirsute appearance: extra-long beard- Orthodox, normal beard- Russian, moustache- Arab, clean shaven- Israeli. I chose the Israeli look for one reason only: the grey bits were making me look old. Such vanity!

I had fixed the puncture and was ready to go. It was downhill all the way. I was going to miss the city and its people. As I left Dan wished me luck. I arrogantly replied, “I don’t need it.” How wrong can one man be?