July 14th is La Fête Nationale in France. While this is the date of the storming of the Bastille, the holiday is actually to commemorate the Fête de la Fédération. It is a symbol of the uprising of the modern nation and of the reconciliation of all the French inside the constitutional monarchy which preceded the First Republic during the French Revolution.
Last year I celebrated in Sanary, a commune situated east of Marseille in the department of Bouches-du-Rhone in the Provence-Alpes-Cote d’Azur region in southern France.
Street Performer
It’s a charming seaside community and fishing port. This area is famous for beautiful beaches, stunning views and boat tours to the Calanques, an area that features towering cliffs and dramatic inlets. We had taken one of those boat tours earlier in the day, but were now enjoying the festivities on the port.
The streets were lined with festival tents and booths where local craftsmen and artisans sold their wares, while performance artists entertained children and adults alike. We weaved through the crowds, checking out the special menus at the restaurants along the bay, until settling on a small pub near the place we had chosen for our fireworks viewing.
Picturesque Sanary
As the sun went down in the horizon, the parade of boats began. Sail boats, fishing boats and yachts, decorated with lights and ornaments, circled the harbor as patriotic music resounded through a centralized sound system. The crowds became thick in anticipation of the coming fireworks, but we found a semi-secluded spot on one of the docks.
The original celebration occurred on July 14th, 1790. The popular General Lafayette took his oath to the constitution, followed by King Louis XVI. After the end of this four day feast, people celebrated with wine, fireworks and running naked through the streets in order to display their great freedom.
The Fireworks of Bastille Day, 2012.
I kept my clothes on, but sat with my legs swinging free over the water and enjoyed a scoop of mango ice cream. The fireworks exploded against the picturesque landscape and festive port, and I was transported back in time to a child mesmerized by lights and sounds, free from worry, heartache and fear, free to be…and that is reason to celebrate.
The Stalactites Cave (Me’arat HaNetifim), also known as the Soreq Cave, is a carstic cave that is situated on the western slopes of the Judean Mountains, near the city of Bet Shemesh. The Stalactites Cave was created by the trickling of rain water that has dissolved the limestone, and it includes all existing stalactites formations, some of which have been dated as 300,000 years old at least. The cave’s sediments also create a variety of naturally occurring shapes. Many areas inside the Stalactites Cave are still active and the stalactites and stalagmites in it are still growing. The climb down into the Stalactites Cave goes through a 150 stairs and the views, as you can see, are magnificent.
Surprisingly, it’s not a pick-up line. It’s the theme of the new Starbucks handcrafted soda line. These are designed to be refresher beverages, fruit drinks made with real sugar (not corn syrup) and infused with carbonation. I had the opportunity to sample many of the flavors today, and although I wasn’t transported into a past childhood playground – or drawn into an adult fantasy playground for that matter – it was fascinating to taste what passed the development and marketing tests to make it into the stores.
The Bad
My first taste was not encouraging. It was Lime and I immediately thought it would be better used as a palate cleanser than a refreshing beverage. The Berry Hibiscus was only slightly better, but had the unique ability of being slightly addictive in spite of it’s questionable flavor. The Root Beer could have been a Sassafras Tea gone bad: it may be more medicinal than tasty.
The Good
The Lemonade took me back to France, where Limonade is supreme (Now this is a playground I can appreciate). But the best by far was the Orange. I expected it to be a take-off on Orangina, but it was much more. There was a burst of Mandarin Orange to make your taste buds spin.
Like so many of the Starbucks drinks, these refreshers are overpriced for what you get, so I’m not certain I’d set out to intentionally purchase one, but to cool down on a hot day these drinks are a viable option. They definitely were not the bully on the playground, leaving you disappointed and betrayed, miserable in a time of fun, and yet I’d stick with the comfortable friends. I’d rather pay a price for a satisfying flavor than a stomach elixir.
I read an article today that is part of a series on “The Art of Living.”
“Whilst stranded in a temple with a friend for ten days on account of rainy weather,” it began and then recounted how Chin Shengt”an, a 17th century Chinese playwright, counted the truly happy moments of his life. He defined these moments as those time “when the spirit is inextricably tied up with the senses.”
I was fascinated by his list. It consisted of a variety of memories that were mere minutes in his life. He would share that memory and simply ask “is this not happiness?”
The memories were moments that many people would miss, and certainly wouldn’t term “happy.” Most would disregard them as insignificant if they took the time to digest the moment at all. Chin’s approach to happiness is so different from what we have typically been taught or come to understand. Not one moment on his list involved a wish being granted, or a prayer answered, or even a goal achieved. His moments of happiness involved surprising moments when the “unexpected” met the needs of the spirit that hadn’t even been acknowledged until it was suddenly satisfied. He savored the simplicity of the moments and defined them as “happy.”
It made me think about moments in my life when the spirit and sense were one, when hidden needs and desires were unexpectedly met. I wanted to take a few minutes to make a similar list, to acknowledge and reflect.
* It was hot. The sweat no longer glistened on my skin, but now beaded into droplets that slid over my body and weighed down my clothes. I was tired, and helpless to fight off the affects of the sun. When I stopped to take a deep breath and move the hair from my neck, a breeze began to gently stir the air. I could here it moving in the grass and trees, stealthily coming toward me. The air was no longer stagnant, but a cool whisper to sooth me. Is this not happiness?
* I am laying on the back porch, connecting dots in the sky to create new constellations. Is this not happiness?
* As I walk along the beach, the tide pushes the water across my feet and I am shaken for a moment, until the sand washes beneath me and my stand becomes grounded. I know I’ll be okay. Is this not happiness?
* During a ten hour road trip, three friends share the laughter that can only come from vulnerability, transparency and acceptance. Is this not happiness?
* My nephew introduced me to his friend by saying “This is the light of my life.” Is this not happiness?
* At a party, the host pointed out that the pot on the back of the stove contained my spaghetti sauce: it didn’t have mushrooms. She remembered I am allergic and considered me. Is this not happiness?
* While canoeing down the Buffalo River, my friend stands like a gondolier and begins singing a nonsense song about Italian food. Is this not happiness?
* The wind in my hair during a sunset cruise, when the pink and oranges that illuminate the darkening sky and clears a cloudy mind. Is this not happiness?
He had her head on his shoulder, his hand gently caressing her arm as he spoke softly to her.
She’s had a stroke and is now in a wheel chair. She has a limited ability to talk and struggles to sit up straight in the chair.
He comes every day to sit with her. He tells her stories, describes her surroundings and reminisces about their years together.
I watched as he gently ran his fingers along her forearm, encouraging her to rest her head on his shoulder. “You know I’ve always loved when you lean on me,” he whispered. She was struggling to respond, but managed to mumble an apology.
His eyes filled with tears as he held her. He told her not to be sorry. “You’re my love,” he said. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be than by your side.”
I couldn’t stop the tears from rolling down my face as he began quoting their marriage vows. “For richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, in good times and in bad times…”
There’s nothing so beautiful to me as a love like this between a man and a woman. There’s nothing so profound as seeing that covenant in action, that commitment honored, that love embraced.
What comfort must it be to know you’re not alone facing the horror and pain as your body betrays you. How precious a gift to know you can walk the unknown path holding the hand of your love, to face the darkness with your life-long partner.
When facing the realities of life and aging, it’s impossible to pretend that love doesn’t matter.
A recent article in the Atlantic reported on a study that examined the callback rates to interviews for a set of fake resumes where the only major difference was the duration the candidate had been unemployed. The results weren’t surprising, and yet they do reflect a prejudice that may be setting up a snowball effect for future economic challenges, or at the very least a slower economic recovery. It seems the biggest predictor of employment success for the job seeker is the length of time since your last job. The invisible line of demarcation? Six months.
It’s not as if this concept hasn’t been around for years. Explaining and underplaying these “gaps” is taught in almost every unemployment class and by recruiters and other advisors everywhere. But in a time when economic crisis has pushed so many people beyond that six-month line is this a realistic demand for a hiring manager? Has this ideology become a prejudice that doesn’t only hurt job seekers, but the overall economic employment structure?
There are currently an estimated 4.6 million long-term unemployed in the United States, and 66% of those have been unemployed for over a year. Did you process that?
To be counted as one of the long-term unemployed, an individual needs to have been out of the workforce for 6 months or more, be immediately available to start a job, and be actively pursuing employment. Actively pursuing employment means sending out resumes, manually completing applications, interviewing or engaging in some activity that has the potential of actually gaining employment; simply searching job boards does not qualify as actively pursuing. There are 4.6 million people who meet the criteria, and according to many analysts that number is grossly underestimated. Sixty-six percent, over 3 million of the “long-term unemployed,” have more than doubled the industry accepted amount of time to still be a viable candidate for employment. Do you see the problem here?
These numbers increase monthly. As new jobs open up, those people newly unemployed get the interviews, which logically results in the long-term unemployed continuing to be, well, unemployed and increasingly less viable. Just to put numbers to this mayhem: 7.6% of the working-age population is unemployed and 40% of those have already reached the long-term unemployed status. Every month those numbers increase as the number of new jobs reported are taken by the newly unemployed and the 3% of the working age population who are currently unemployed face a well-documented prejudice that will prevent them from obtaining employment.
Many analysts have started estimating the number of people dropping out of the workplace as a result of the long-term unemployed dilemma, and it is significant. These numbers include the people who have chosen to stay-at home and adapt to becoming a one-income family, the people (usually those in their early 20s) who chose to go back to school for additional degrees, and those baby boomers who took an earlier retirement, electing to live beneath the level they originally worked to achieve, as well as those who have just given up and those who continue to look but are now requiring welfare assistance. The result of this exodus: the number of people in the workplace currently equates with the number of people in the workplace in 1980. That means the population increased, industry expanded with a burgeoning of hiring opportunities, and the number of college graduates increased exponentially and yet the workforce is smaller. It also means there is a strain being placed on the system that weighs heavily against any job growth activity or economic initiatives.
It would seem some people are starting to think of the snowball effect beginning with continued foreclosures, reduced spending, and ending with an inadequate workforce as the jobs are created, but it doesn’t seem to be changing the attitudes in the workplace. Hiring managers are stuck in the mindset they had during a good economy, not only regarding the 6-month demarcation, but also the notion that those long-term unemployed have not done their due diligence in remaining relevant to their industry. The number of people seeking new certifications, joining networking groups, attending conferences, new trends/regulation downloads, etc. has remained the same even though the workforce has reduced. How do you account for that if not for the unemployed staying firm in their goals and agendas?
There needs to be a paradigm shift, a real change in the ideologies and approaches to hiring. The government initiatives for job growth are primarily geared toward the blue collar sector. The stalemate is with the middle-management jobs and the white collar long-term unemployed who don’t have enough opportunities and aren’t considered for the few out there. Even if they choose to “go where the jobs are” they need to first get trained in the blue collar sector. They need training and certifications to work in the manufacturing and/or technical arenas that are opened. That requires months and sometimes up to two years of training. In the meantime, what do they do? There’s not much they can do at this point. They are caught in this Bermuda Triangle of a Long-term unemployment. I wonder how long they will be lost in a system that has not adapted to the current crisis before change happens.
Facilities Management is an industry that primarily goes unnoticed until something goes wrong, and then it becomes understood that this industry is the backbone of business. If it didn’t exist nothing would function as we know it.
Today I venture out to Jerusalem on my own. My thoughts are crowded, my emotions strung tight; I’ve been through a challenging couple of days. As I sit alone in the train, staring out the window at the passing landscape, I remember it’s my dad’s birthday.
It’s been twelve years since I found him unconscious, the victim of a massive stroke. I had my mother with me then, my hero, my friend. She was my glue. Now she’s gone too…and I’m on a train to the Holy Land. I wish I could tell them what’s going on, what I’m feeling; I wish I knew what they would say, what they would think. I could really use their insight.
I miss them. I miss my parents.
Tower of David
Daddy wasn’t really into church when I was young. He never stopped Mother from taking us, never argued our beliefs. He just couldn’t be a part of it. He’d lost faith along the way, a little lost beneath the hand of his father, a little more as a tortured WWII soldier in a Nazi prison camp, and even more as a police officer who experienced a little too much of the dark side of human nature. He had a hard time forgiving himself. It wasn’t until he was paralyzed by the first stroke that he started to come to terms with who he was as a man and started to search for God again.
I’m on that journey myself. I can’t forgive myself. I can’t forget. I lost my faith, and I’ve never needed it more than I do now.
I entered the old city by way of Jaffa Gate. As I stood at the busy entrance, the Tower of David to my right and the start of the Bizarre straight ahead, I knew I needed to get my bearings, to choose my path. I stopped for coffee at a Christian cafe on the corner and looked through my travel app.
Lions Gate
I wanted to walk the Via Dolorosa, the way of grief and it seemed appropriate to start my day there. It starts at the Lions Gate on the opposite side of the ancient city, so I made my way there through the narrow, crowded alleyways.
The Old City of Jerusalem was originally built in 1004 B.C.E. by Kind David, the man after God’s own heart, the boy of great faith and courage, the man of great shame and even greater honor. This city he built has been known as the center of the world. Ancient maps show three continents: Europe, Asia and Africa, situated in a circle with Jerusalem at the center. Since then Jerusalem has been cherished and glorified by Kings and conquerors. This is the land of my spiritual heritage.
The Via Dolorosa consists of 14 stations marking the path of Jesus during the last hours of his life. They are based on events that occurred along the way to Golgotha where He was crucified. I know the story well and yet as I look around me, I feel a tremor of expectation and foreboding.
It’s not as if I believe being in the land will bring me closer to God or that the location itself possesses a magical power, but I cannot deny this is having an impact beyond what I expected. Being able to see, touch, feel…to experience this journey – even with all of the changes brought by time – take it beyond a story or a vision on a screen. It removes some of the ideas and assumptions of common thought to add a true perspective, which personalizes it.
Station 1 is located on the north-west corner of the temple mount. This is the present position of the Al-Omariya school. In Roman times this was the place of the seat of Pontius Pilate, located in the Antonia fortress, and the place of the hall of judgment.
As I stand in the school yard and look into the plaza I imagine the crowds that day when Pilate asked who should be set free by popular acclaim that Passover day, as was custom.
The Church of Flagellation
“Give us Barrabas,” they cried. And he was set free.
Jesus was condemned to death that day, and even Pilate knew there was something wrong with that choice. The Bible says he turned and washed his hands of the blood of this innocent man.
I’m not innocent; I have made many mistakes. But I do know the pain of being falsely accused, of being misunderstood, of being betrayed. The tears well in my eyes as I think of how I feel in my much lesser experience, how He must felt at the gravity of what He would face. I consider the sentence placed on him that was greater than any punishment I could ever know, greater than He deserved. And yet he was born for just this purpose, this horror. This was the final leg of his destiny on earth.
Station 2 is near the compound of the Franciscan monastery. This is where Jesus was beaten and where He received the cross.
There are two churches in the compound: The Flagellation and The Condemnation. The interior of the churches house remarkable stained-glass windows and statues that illustrate the events of the conviction, flogging, the soldiers placing a crown of thorns on his head, and the cross being placed on His back.
There’s a post in the plaza between the churches that is like the one Jesus would have been strapped to as the soldiers scourged him. The tour groups have dispersed and I stand alone in the plaza. In the silence I can almost hear the echoes of the mocking voices, the crack against His skin, His painful cries. I can imagine the blood that spattered the stones and the crowd that watched.
I sit down on the cobbled ground and weep as I quote the words I’ve carried with me as promise for so many years.
“He was wounded for our transgression, He was bruised for our iniquities; the chastisement of our peace was upon Him, and by His stripes we are healed.”
Jesus Fell
I’ve always been taught that Jesus bore our sins and our sickness. He took all my shame and pain for himself so that I could know freedom and peace, so that I could walk with confidence. I need that freedom today; I need to know that forgiveness. I am beaten and lost. I need to know that love now, more than ever.
I can hear my Mother whispering a song in my ear and I find myself singing in a soft, broken voice: “Amazing grace shall always be my song of praise for it was grace the bought my liberty. I do not know just why He came to love me so. He looked beyond my faults and saw my need.” How could anyone love so much to not only give their life, but endure so much to ensure I would have a way to peace and victory?
Station 3 is located on the corner of via Dolorosa and El Wad (Hagai) street. This is the place where Jesus fell for the first time beneath the weight of the cross. The image of this has been carved at the entrance of the Polish church built here.
The narrow streets along the Via Dolorosa
Station 4 is where Jesus met his mother, Mary. She would have come from the small alleyway, pushing her way through the crowds, desperate to catch a glimpse of her son, to have one last minute with Him. She was there with John: “When Jesus therefore saw his mother, and the disciple standing by, whom he loved, he saith unto his mother, Woman, behold thy son!” (John 19:26)
He was being humiliated and shamed, cruelly mocked and struggling to carry the weight of the cross, and yet He had the presence of mind and the selfless spirit to seek assurance His mother would be cared for when He was gone. It’s a staggering thought. I can hardly stop thinking about my own pain; I can’t block out the words that haunt me or forget the bitter experiences. But then I think of the past year, when nothing mattered but my Mother and her needs. Nothing I thought or felt was as important as easing her pain, lightening her load…ensuring she would have a future.
At Station 5, Simon helped Jesus carry the cross. I look up at the road that turns sharply to the right and climbs up the hill through a series of stairs. I lean against the corner wall and take a sip of water.
I’m carrying a small backpack and I’m feeling tired beneath the heat of the sun and the pressure of walking on the cobbled stones at a staggered incline as I weave through the streets. Jesus hadn’t eaten, was weary from the previous night of betrayal, emotionally drained from the trial and the continued mocking, physically exhausted from the beating and blood loss…
Station 6: Veronica wipes the face of Jesus. An act of unexpected kindness. How we all search for them in our time of need, when we feel forgotten and forsaken. A small Greek Catholic Chapel commemorates the moment.
Lanterns in The Church of the Holy Sepulchre
Station 7: Jesus falls the second time. This is where Jesus passed through the Gate of Judgment. This is one of the busiest streets in the Old City it would seem, and it may have been during this time of Jesus. It was an intersection of the Cardo Maximus and a traverse street of the roman Aelia-Capitolina; in modern days it’s the intersection of via Dolorosa with Khan es-Zeit (the Oil Market). The way up the hill and the pressure of the city does not make for an easy walk. Of course Jesus fell. I wonder if I will.
Station 8 is based on Luke 23:27: “But Jesus turning unto them said, Daughters of Jerusalem, weep not for me, but weep for yourselves, and for your children.”
And at Station 9, Jesus fell for the third time. This is near the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, on a roof courtyard above the underground Armenian Chapel of St Helen and at the entrance to the Ethiopian church of St. Michael.
By now he would have been beyond critical blood loss. His strength would have been gone, his vision blurred and eyes blocked by the blood trickling from His brow. He must have been so ready for the pain to end.
Stations 10 – 14: Jesus stripped of His garments, nailed to the cross, dying, being taken down from the cross and taken to the tomb are all marked within the walls of the Church of the Holy Sepulcher.
Inside The Church of the Holy Scepulchre
The first Church of the Holy Sepulchre was approached by a flight of steps from the Cardo, the main street of Jerusalem. It was accessed through a narthex, a basilica and an open area (the holy garden), which had in it the rock of Golgotha. About 10 years after the crucifixion, a wall was built that enclosed the area of the execution within the city and separated the image of the skull from the city. (I would see the image of the skull in the landscape that gave Golgotha its name later. It is just outside the walls, and although protected, the view is blocked by a modern bus station.)
The church has been destroyed, rebuilt, captured, adapted, liberated and renovated by various religious and political sects many times throughout history. The church is richly decorated with structures, art, ornamentation and symbolic relics that mark various phases of medieval history, European imitations and Christian history. You can visit the Armenian chapel deep below ground level, and explore the Edicule on the main floor. There are beautiful mosaics, icons and lanterns, part of the rituals and reflections of the passion of Christ. Upstairs are Greek Orthodox and Catholic alters that mark the crucifixion. In all, six denominations celebrate their rites in and around this cavernous house of worship.
The church is significant in understanding contemporary Christianity and its complex history; it is certainly a living testimony to the tenacity of Christians to retain and honor their own piece of Jerusalem. But somehow I feel the personal connection to the Passion experience is lost in the elaborate embellishment and rituals, in the tension required for the varying religious groups to maintain their presence and reflect their heritage. I am immersed in the beauty and culture around me, yet it doesn’t hold the power to move me, to capture my heart as simply walking the steps of Jesus did.
It’s hard not to consider how this may actually reflect the impact of structured religion on society today. What began as a celebration, a proclamation of the gospel, and even a means of discipleship and growth has become a relic of history, a testament to the past, but not a true path to finding a deep, abiding relationship with God.
My via dolorosa
Jesus came to love. He walked among us, showing kindness and forgiveness, offering grace and mercy. He gave honor and respect, and was only relentless in sharing the love of God, not the dogma of religion.
As I leave the darkened hall of the church and squint into the sunlight, I know without a doubt I’d rather be remembered for love than arrogance; I’d rather fight for the experience of a loving relationship, than go to war for a symbol of it. My journey today has led me to a personal truth: though I am still in the midst of my via dolorosa, it doesn’t feel as meaningless and cruel. I’d rather walk the way of grief than sit in a hall of history or an emblem of fame.
I could talk about the 7,500 years of history this magical city heralds, but that wasn’t what captivated me most. It was the flea market, the shops and galleries, the restaurants and the harbor. It was the culture.
Jaffa Clock Tower
It began near the clock tower where we were gifted with music and theatrical improvisation from a local youth group. The crowds brought their Borekas (a breakfast pastry filled with cheese, potatoes or vegetables) and gathered around the center to enjoy the show. This is just the taste of culture I most enjoy when I travel, the impromptu performances and surprise festivals that bring me into the heart of the people. There’s something captivating and irresistible in the illusion of being a one with the people and not just a tourist on the inside, yet still on the outside looking in.
We made our way to the Flea Market where local artists, consignment & junk dealers, and craftsmen alike sold their wares beneath tents and along busy street corners. It was much like a neighborhood garage sale in the United States, and yet how incredible to get a glimpse into the vintage toys, games, fashions and arts of the region. Inquiring about an item can easily result in the telling of childhood stories and sharing of local folklore from the sellers.
Jonah & the Whale Inspired Fountain
The small alleyways and streets which make up this city are lined with interesting shops to accentuate the flea market experience. There’s an intriguing balance of history and modernism to the area: the graffiti lined walls and artists sculptures intermixed with modern architecture easily transition to a Napoleon era stone buildings and monuments.
We come across a fountain with a large whale sculpture. I immediately think of the Biblical story Jonah and the Whale, but my friend isn’t convinced Jaffa was even a real port or city in Biblical times. I disagreed.
“Jonah was ordered by God to go to Nineveh to prophesy against it because of their great wickedness,” I explained to my friend. “Jonah went to Jaffa instead and sailed from there to Tarshish. A storm came and the people on the boat became afraid. They blamed the storm on Jonah because of his disobedience and tossed him overboard so that they would survive. A whale came and swallowed him and he stayed in the stomach of the whale for three days before finally being puked up on dry land. Needless to say, he went to Nineveh.”
It turns out the sculpture was indeed inspired by the story of Jonah. It was created by the local artist Ilana Goor.
Our journey takes up passed a missing section of Jaffa’s walls, where they were breached by Napoleon’s soldiers in 1799, and up a set up stairs that take up to Mazal Dagim Street. Narrow covered streets with artwork installed on the walls make up this section of the city. Many of the streets in Old Jaffa are named for zodiac signs. As we peruse the various shops and galleries, we keep an eye out for the streets that represent our signs so we can take a cheesy tourist picture, until we come across an organic sculpture of a suspended orange tree. It was created by artist Ran Morin and was inspired by the great Israeli icon the Jaffa Orange. I slid beneath the tree since it’s important to capitalize on the moments when you’re working for cheesy photos.
We come across an archaeological site with a sculpture representing an Egyptian gate (Ramses Gate), a memorial of Pharaoh Thutmose III who conquered the city in the 15th century B.C.E. by sending baskets of gifts to the king of Jaffa with Egyptian soldiers hidden inside. “Clearly a Trojan Horse is more cinematically appealing than a Pharaoh Basket, but apparently the dramatic results are the same,” we can’t help but note as we follow the stone paved path up to the top of Tel Jaffa to a gate-like sculpture by artist Dan Kafri. It’s called the Statue of Faith and depicts several biblical scenes carved on the sculpture, including the binding of Isaac, the conquest of Jericho and Jacob’s ladder. But my attention is quickly pulled away from identifying the scenes by the breathtaking view of Tel Aviv’s Mediterranean coast.
It’s peaceful and serene as we stare out into the horizon over the water. For a moment I can feel the weight of history upon me, but it is quickly interrupted by the chants coming from the nearby mosque. It’s prayer time and the al-Bahr mosque is broadcasting it from the tower. It is Jaffa’s oldest existing mosque that was renovated in 1997.
As we descend the tell, there is a surreal feel to the experience. The chants continue to surround us as we approach St. Peter’s Church, a basilica and hospice built in the late 19th century by the Franciscan Order with funding from the Spanish royal house. One of the chapels is part of an earlier church built on the same location by the Crusader king Louis IX. The church is dedicated to where Peter had a vision while in a trance on the roof of Simon the Tanner.
Best Hummus in Old City Jaffa
Just north of the church we can see the rocks at the entrance to Jaffa Port. My friend explains Greek mythology tells the story of Perseus saving Andromeda and the city of Jaffa by slaying the sea monster Ketos Aithiopios along these rocks. I’m impressed and find myself yelling “Release the Cracken,” quoting the movie Clash of the Titans. I have to catch up to my embarrassed friend. She’s now on a quest, perusing the market along the harbor for something to drink.
I am enjoying a cinnamon infused lemonade as we meander through the busy port when we discover an art exhibit in one of the vacant warehouses. The artists are from Israel and Palestine, and the exhibit unites the countries through the talent of young artists. It is interesting to note the contrast in the overall feel and expression in the pieces from the two countries: hope vs. despair, depression vs. anger. We discuss politics and the desire for peace that isn’t always represented in propaganda in the States. It’s a look inside a generation who’ve never known peace, but dream of a time when their leaders will break the pattern and hear their cries.
Much of the graffiti in the area represents this theme. As we take photos and discuss the images on the walls and buildings, a local points us toward the best hummus stand in Jaffa. How could we resist such a suggestion?
Sunset in Old City Jaffa
Within minutes we’re standing in line on a crowded residential street corner making our way toward the small building that houses a kitchen, six tables and a takeaway window. We carry our order down the street a bit and straddle a wall overlooking the Jaffa Lighthouse. It is there I learn to scoop hummus like a native and learn a few Hebrew words. It is there I begin to feel a little more at home.
We return to the port to watch the sunset. It’s a kaleidoscope of color, accompanied by the songs of the street musicians. I feel the breeze off the Mediterranean and I’m in awe of the beauty of this country.
by G. Anne Bassett 