45. Jerusalem, 1998 - Arak and snowflakes
In which Eleanor and friends bring about world peace.
The Holy Land is in it's holiest of moods. Alcohol helps too.
Eleanor
We step outside. A white silence has settled over Jerusalem. I stick out my tongue like a kid, the crisp coldness cutting through the sluggishness of good friends and lazy conversation after wine and food. I turn around in circles, my arms out, my head tilted back, entranced, wholly unused to the way falling snow muffles sound.
“Have you ever driven in snow?” Damien asks.
“No,” I reply, delighting in the tingle of cold melting on my cheeks.
“Ok, let’s get in the car and I can teach you so that you can get home,” Damien says.
Inside the others are still cozy. It’s the Cathedral crowd of young adults, gathered as usual at Damien’s. Like the Shipley’s, Damien has enfolded me into his circle of friends, the only difference being that Damien’s group is a little—ahem, a lot—less highbrow than the Shipleys. We’ve cooked, and talked politics and peace—always the dominant theme of any conversation among us young idealists in this conflicted land. And the wine (local, terrible), arak (better), and imported gin (thank god) have flowed. The latter two courtesy of Lucy and I, the diplomats with the disposable income, bringing our largesse to the poor international students and NGO volunteers.
Our conversation had, predictably, turned to the “worst male chauvinist pig any of us has had the misfortune to encounter”, the new Dean at the Cathedral, or “the MCP” as he’s sometimes called. Who first called him that? I don’t remember, but the label has stuck. He’d been foisted on the congregation after Naim’s ousting. We are mystified at how the Church of England, in its ineffable wisdom, could send a man like that to a place like this. Although, perhaps that is exactly why and it’s a punishment posting. Certainly he seems to hate being saddled with this dual congregation of western expatriates and Christian Palestinians in occupied East Jerusalem. We all miss Naim.
While the others bring about world peace with the wisdom brought by arak and gin, Damien patiently teaches me to drive in snow.
Dear, sweet, gentle Damien, lanky and self-effacing with his dry self-deprecating humor. He would have had seniority just by having been longer in Jerusalem than the rest of us, but really he just gathers people around him, even though his British reserve has him claiming he’s not doing anything special. He is. He’s taken us all under his wing and mothered us as we navigate this strange and disorienting city. Well, really two wholly different cities, interweaving in some places, but never one city.
“Start off really slow,” he instructs. “Now brake.”
Whoa! The car instantly slides under my inexperienced hands.
“That’s the thing,” he explains. “Use the engine to brake as much as possible, and only tap the brakes lightly, otherwise you’ll slide. Try again.”
In fifteen minutes or so he declares me safe to drive home. He’ll drive some of the others back to their apartments. He’s that kind of man. I wave goodbye and set off to Beit Hanina at a snail's pace.
Back at the apartment I come up to the roof with Themba and Tlali, curious to see what they will make of this strange new experience, as new to them as it is to me. They nose the air, approaching the strange cold white stuff cautiously. Tlali walks gingerly out into the snow, then dashes back with an indignant expression on his broad face. I laugh out loud. Themba lifts his paws high, shaking them, venturing further than Tlali.
In the morning, a brilliant blue sky greets us when we go up to the roof again. The view is magnificent, all the rubble and debris and trash hidden under six inches of snow.
The unholy land is in its most holiest of moods, shrouding itself in pure linen. A bride for the king, sparkling and bejeweled.
Bonus Material
Snow in Jerusalem: rare and delightful
What a memory to celebrate and hold close!