Kubbeh, Cats, & Chaos
Our first days in Jerusalem, as experienced and described by an American gentile
(Let the latter part of the above sub-header serve as a disclaimer.)
Our journey to the Holy Land wasn’t anything to write home about. It started out predictably: with a delay. Thankfully, the few extra hours Brooks and I spent in Newark International Airport weren’t claw-your-eyes-out bad. What was disheartening was realizing almost all the food courts and airport bars in Terminal B closed at 10:00 P.M. Frankly, I expected more out of an airport situated so close to the city that never sleeps. Looking for a sub-par sandwich and can of beer in an airport should never feel like hunting for wild game.
Once aboard TAP Air Portugal, we were, much to our surprise, served edible food. Unfortunate for my tailbone, I was stuck trying to eat my meals and sleep in an airplane seat that felt less like a seat, more like bench with a seat-back fashioned from an ironing board. I deplaned with a numbed backside and crook in my neck; nonetheless, the fact that we took off and descend twofold without a scratch, sprinted fast enough through Lisbon International Airport to make our connecting flight, and had our bags arrive at our destination on-time marked our trip a success in my book. Plus, we made friends.
In Newark, we banded together with a young Portuguese gentleman, who was flying home for his niece’s second birthday; to count down the hours until our 3 A.M. takeoff, we discussed everything from the price of rent in Lisbon to the state of global affairs to Kanye’s fall from grace. On our second flight, Brooks became an in-flight babysitter for three young Israeli boys (ages one, three, and seven), who were returning home with high energy after vacationing in Mexico with their congenial mother and pro-surfer father. Thanks to Brooks’ Nintendo Switch and teacherly ways, we earned brownie points from the parents in the form of their contact info, just in case we wanted to stay at their beach house (aka *wink wink* potentially babysit again). And I guess you could say we made friends with Israel’s border security, too, because we didn’t get questioned at immigration/customs.
A little after midnight, Alexa, the oldest of Brooks’ sisters, and her Israeli partner, Tamir,1 picked our puffy-eyed and dehydrated asses up from Ben Gurion Airport—the day after Israel’s legislative election, as evident by the post-election litter of paper and confetti in the streets. A certain hum hung in the air, people hustling about.
After a train and cab ride, we arrived in Ora, a moshav outside of Jerusalem, at Alexa and Tamir’s quaint painting and cat paradise. Thanks to Tamir’s kubbeh and Alexa’s chicken with monster-sized capers and homemade cornbread, we started to feel full again. Having satiated my hunger with a morning dinner, I washed away the stench of a 16-hour travel day before curling up on our blow-up mattress in the art studio, hoping to catch some zzz’s and soon forget the shallow naps of yesterdays passed.
Our first days in Israel were unremarkable in all the best ways. No sense of time, no plan. We did venture into Jerusalem for a bite to eat and to peruse some bookstores, but that was pure necessity, pretty standard. Otherwise, we slept whenever our eyelids felt heavy and ate soups, like kubbeh, for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
If you’ve never had kubbeh before, it's a delicious, tangy soup. There’s red kubbeh, which is made with beets, and thus a lot sweeter than its yellow counterpart; yellow kubbeh, on the other hand, is distinctly sour, and it’s my favorite of the two. Lots of lemon juice imparts the signature tang and the Swiss chard adds an earthy hardiness. There’s also plenty of herbs (like parsley), turmeric (which gives it its color), and probably some other spices distinctly indistinguishable yet still contributing to the soup’s flavor profile. And then there are the kubbeh themselves. Think Jamaican beef patty, minus the Jamaican spices and replace the wheat encasement with corn the consistency of a dense tamale. It’s like a corn ravioli, the texture and shape of which can only be achieved—or so I’m told—by skilled Israeli cooks (hence why most people use store-bought).
I bet our health and recovery on the kubbeh and then the chicken soup we ate all day every day for the first couple days upon arrival. (Thank you, Soup Wizard, Tamir!) Equally as delicious as the kubbeh, the chicken soup was full of some of the most flavorful chicken I’ve had, copious amounts of onion, herbs (like cilantro), turmeric, and big chunks of perfectly tender and rustically chopped carrots and potatoes. Eventually, fuel by soup and more slumber, we ventured out to begin exploring.
The first real activity we partook in was not in the city of Jerusalem, but behind Alexa and Tamir’s house, down a winding road, past some military compound, and through a chain-linked fence as unassuming as one you’d find on the side of the road. What we walked into led us to a biblical, wooded, and winding path of dusty trails, studded with rocks and interjected by tall evergreen-like trees. Cyrus trees, rosemary bushes, and other vines and thistles that looked like they were plucked out of that scene in Sleeping Beauty stood in stark contrast to the rocks and beige dust. Locals walked by us to hidden manmade watering holes (or, as Tamir called them, “Israeli lakes”).
Up and up we walked and then down, down, down we had to go before having to, once again, hike up, up, up back home, up that winding road. Safe to say my legs were wincing, but I was thankful to finally bask in the warm glow of the desert sun, which had hid itself since we arrived. Turns out Jerusalem in November is the coldest part of Israel. And by cold, I mean long pants, sweater, and maybe a jacket kind of cold. Not exactly what we planned for, but it was a fun climate surprise.2
The next day, we found our way into the city to visit the shuk, the open-aired market. If memory serves me, we went on a Thursday—the day before Shabbat. The chaos of the market before Shabbat is something special. Picture any U.S. supermarket before a snowstorm and that’s the shuk every Thursday. Hands jutted out towards us with samples. Shouts, the clinking of shekels, the shoving. I sampled some iced ginger-lemon tea (which tasted a lot more like apricot juice), while the others had coffees of various preparations. Brooks and I shared a chocolate and vanilla swirl cake of some sort (reminiscent of the Trader Joe’s brookie) and Alexa introduced us to halva (a sesame and sugar confectionery originating from Persia). Upon leaving, we picked up a loaf of olive bread and some other provisions to compliment what we already had in the fridge.
Darkness started to creep in and the city lights flickered on as we moseyed on down to a shawarma place to grab a bite before hanging out at a cool graffitied bar. Israeli beers were poured and there were many hand-rolled cigarettes, for those of us who partook. And then we went home. The end. Lights out until Sunday, because here’s the other cool thing about Israel: Friday at sundown to Saturday at sundown almost everything is closed for the Jewish peoples’ day of rest.3 Therefore, Thursdays are the new Friday nights, Sundays are just another day of the work week, and Saturdays are work-at-home days for us gentiles. So, on the first Saturday in the Holy Land, Brooks and I sat for Alexa to paint us. That was our Saturday: sitting. (Ergo, in a way, Brooks and I did observe Shabbat after all.)
On Sunday, we finally made our way into the Old City to explore the Christian and Jewish quarters. We also made it to one of the entrances of the Muslim quarter before being turned around by some guards. (Unfortunately, due to some terrorism and arrests the week prior—what had initially put our trip to the Old City on hold—anyone who wasn’t Muslim couldn’t enter the Muslim quarter.) Although we didn’t see it all, what we did see was beautiful. The Old City was just as I imagined it. The cobblestone streets and narrow stalls, overhangs and tourist groups. We walked past stall upon stall of religious souvenirs and the same “I love Jerusalem” embroidered purses, printed t-shirts, magnets, bottle openers, shot glasses—you wanted it, they had it branded. And there was 3 shekels ($1) Holy Water. (Amen!)
In many ways, the capitalism that reared its head in the repetitiveness of the stalls’ trinket tourist offerings degraded the sacredness and profoundness of the Old City at times. All the tourist traps welcomed in a modernity that, frankly, distracted from and encroached upon the power of the architectural footprints. I couldn’t help but wonder and wish to experience what the Old City was like, sans tourist traps.
After bypassing the majority of the shops and taking a few wrong turns, we arrived at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. The ornateness of the Byzantine mosaic murals against the stone walls caught our gazes instantly. As we walked through, more wonders emerged. There were gilded candle and incense holders suspended from the archways and ceilings like jeweled stalactites; overwhelming textures of rock, marble, and gilded wood; painted biblical stories seemed to dance in domed ceilings; rock formations were illuminated to signify holy significance; and stone crevices framed paintings and votive alters at every turn. Candles melted sideways into water in metal bowls, burning with never-ending vitality. Couple all the textures, materials, and pictorial offerings with the overwhelming, weeping crowds and you get religious and historical sensory overload. Tourists on pilgrimage to the Holy Land waited eagerly to pray and soak in the spirit of religious significance inside the place believed to be Christ’s tomb. People crowded on hands and knees to self-bottle holy water coming from a water source at the entrance. At one altar, atop some seriously vertical stairs, Jesus Christ and the Virgin Mary were dressed in silver garments that gleamed like aluminum foil. They looked more prepared to go to an alien disco rather than live inside a church dating back to 335 C.E.
In the Jewish quarter, past security and through some tunnels, we emerged into another crowd to come face to face with the Western Wall. Handfuls of people bowed up against it, as if to move the wall itself. We each went to our respective side to get a closer look.4 On the women’s side, Alexa and I witnessed a bridal procession making their way toward the wall so the bride could complete, what I assumed, were some pre- or post-marriage prayers. In the midst of all the praying and circling tourists, the Israeli military were also setting up for a ceremony of their own. Devotion and defense (Israel in a nutshell). Tired of the crowds, we about-faced to once again traverse the labyrinthian streets and locate a recommended hummus and pita spot to break our midday fast.
There’s a chaotic nature woven into the Israeli landscape. First off, there’s no such thing as a line—not in the airport at immigration, not boarding the bus, definitely not in the shuk, only when a tourist attraction demands it and, even then, physical barriers must corral the people. Israel is a country only slightly bigger than the state we took off from, but, despite its small size, there’s truly such a profound both-and quality that lives within it.
Its chaotic while being slow.
Unfinished and transient while being long-lasting.
Quick-paced and bureaucratic while being laidback. (Hell, there were men doing construction work, directing bulldozers and other heavy machinery, in skinny jeans and sneakers!)
Conservative and progressive.
Wild and reserved.
And there are cats. Lots and lots of cats.5
All this juxtaposition is evident in everything from the people to the climate to the architecture, the most apparent snapshot of which is aboard public transportation, specifically in Jerusalem.6 Women of all ages covered in long black skirts, modest yet modern shirts, and head coverings of different materials and styles stand shoulder to shoulder with men wearing tight, distressed jeans and teenage military personnel carrying rifles half their body size, slung over their shoulders as casually as one wears a purse.7 Young school children with payos and yamakas run amok past older men carrying plastic bags full of groceries from the shuk. In one glance, the eye can catch a spectrum of Orthodox Jewish dress; Hasidic Jewish men outfitted in their distinct and bold uniform—black suit, black-brimmed hat, and long black coat—provide a special kind of contrast to the piles of dusty stuff strewn about the city. An austerity and formality of dress backgrounded by the incongruity and chaos of construction.
The majority of the buildings in Jerusalem8 are homogeneously constructed from sandstone; such a material exudes a softness due to its color, yet the repetitiveness of the material articulates a simplistic conformity. In this way, the subtle, rudimentary buildings that dominate the city reflect the essence of those (religious folks) who inhabit them. A large majority of the buildings are also in the process of being built or torn down, to the point that it’s hard to distinguish the difference between the two. Looking at a strip of buildings, one would assume it was a disorganized construction site rather than a group of livable structures, and, due to this, there’s a camouflaged nature to the cityscape, not being able to discern what is, what is to be, and what was.9
While the Holy Land is a place rich with history, I got the sense that it was like a teenager still trying to find its identity. All the while, inside this newness, people are keeping alive traditions just as old as the oldest buildings. There’s something distinct about this new and old dichotomy. While the facades of most buildings debunk a cultural reality or unique identity at first glance, it's definitely there—just hidden.10 The architecture, no matter how bland or brutalist, tells a story, along with the cadence of the language heard in the streets, in the details found down the unmarked side-streets.
Israel, at first glance to an outsider such as myself, is a conflict of realities. It feels like you’re living in multiple time periods and places at once. There’s newness converging in on oldness, oldness grasping on to modernity—and yet, somehow, one doesn’t overpower the other. They both dance together.
Initially, I expected to breathe in a palpable tension, given Israel and what surrounds it is so politically and religiously charged. But this tension isn’t humming on the surface as I quite expected. It feels much more contained and internal, almost stuffed down and accepted as a way of life, to the point that it allows normality and acceptance of shared space, of tensions improbable to be resolves, to flow like water over rocks.
As our first days forecasted, the rest of our trip didn’t follow a daily itinerary stacked with tour groups. Instead, we did it like the locals because we were being hosted by locals. This meant a fair share of time spent meandering around the city of Jerusalem (since that was our home-base), people-watching, wobbling on public transit, and elbowing our way through crowds saying “Selikhah”11 and “Toda Raba.”12
In celebrate of Tamir's birthday, though, about a week into our trip, we journeyed up north to go camping—and it was delightfully disastrous.
For photos that coincide with this piece, visit my Instagram @yo_marge.
Questions, comments, or kickback after reading ? Hit me up in the comments.
I’d like to think we had a unique stay in Israel, given the fact that we were hosted by an American (Alexa), who’d been living in Israel for five years, and an Israeli native (Tamir). Plus, we were introduced to a few locals and expats while there, all of whom offered up their own perspectives on Jerusalem, and Israel in general, based on their relationships with and experiences within the country.
As we later learned, and would experience, Israel has lots of different terrains and climate zones. There’s the arid desert to the south, the beachy part to the west, the hilly and lush part to the north, and the valley to the east. The major water sources are the Mediterranean Sea to the west (making the west coast, by Tel-Aviv, warmer and more humid); there’s the Sea of Galilee (or Lake Tiberias) to the northwest (yes, a fresh water lake, despite its misleading name); and then there is the Dead Sea to the southeast (also a freshwater source, with a salinity content 10x that of the ocean and one of the lowest exposed parts on Earth). And then there is Jerusalem: this cold and insulated “mountainous” portion, which always seems to register ten degrees colder than the rest of the country.
We learned some restaurants and other establishment can stay open, they just pay an additional tax of sorts. Public transportation barely runs, if at all (hence why we stayed housebound).
Whether it’s at the Western Wall, in temple, going to the beach, or celebrating at a wedding, Judaism (particularly Orthodox Judaism) segregates men and women in particular settings to prevent them from mingling. (I believe it has to do with what the Torah says about the fundamental differences between men and women, but as a non-Jewish individual, I can’t speak on the why specifically, so please don’t ask me. I’d have to do more research, so you might as well just cut out the middle woman and do it yourself. Calling any Jewish folks reading this: please comment with answers and hot-takes!! Side note: I will say that the gender segregation fascinated me, particularly in the modern age and given the fact gender is a spectrum.)
I was told the overpopulation of cats in Israel is the result of the British bringing cats to Palestine in the late 20th century to offset a big rodent problem. Word on the street is one-hundred male cats were supposed to be sent. Turns out, fifty males and fifty females were delivered…none of them spayed or neutered.
Israel’s network of buses, trains, and taxis is far superior to any public transit system I’ve used in the U.S. That said, you spend a lot of time on public transit. Jerusalem is a walkable city in some parts (you can even walk straight through active construction sites) and using public transit is definitely a safer bet than driving. However, from the perspective of a person who doesn’t take public transit very often, it’s a lot of travel time to get to and from your destination. Jerusalem is currently in the process of expanding the train lines and doing a lot of transportation-related construction. Safe to say it’s changing for the sake of efficiency, where transportation is concerned, and we experience it in its less than glamorous remodeling phase.
We learned that those in the military cannot leave their guns unattended, regardless of where they’re going or what they’re doing. Case in point: We saw a young man in a sweatsuit (off-duty) on a walk around the neighborhood…with his gun.
Once we ventured out of Jerusalem to Tel-Aviv, our perception of Israeli city-architecture, and how it reflects the inhabitants and populations of each city, became even more apparent. More on this in a later piece…
When I was speaking to Alexa about this, she brought up an interesting point. Because so many of the religious folks care more about life after death, rather than this life on earth, aesthetics aren’t really their main priority; therefore, there isn’t the same importance places on taking care of the earth (i.e., not littering).
If my art history memory serves me correct, a lot of the synagogues, for example—particularly those first erected—had simplistic façades, while the interiors were where any detail or artistry were found. I believe this was done either to keep the synagogues and Jewish people safe or because of tenants found in the Torah (not entirely sure on this one). Along with my previous footnote (#8), this may explain why a lot of the modern architecture, especially in Jerusalem, is like this, too, drawing from past influence and Jewish experiences. Of course, this isn’t to say all Israeli architecture is bland. We found blue trim on windows, gates, and doors; beautiful ironwork; interesting window shapes; terraces and buildings with columns constructed of materials other than sandstone. But these were mainly found in neighborhoods with Arab-influence or previously occupied by the British or Germans. It’s hard to pick apart all the influence in the architecture, being someone with basic (mostly Western) art history and architecture knowledge. (Again, if someone more knowledgeable than myself is reading this, please drop a comment!)
This is a catch all that means anything from “Excuse me” to “Sorry.”
English translation: “Thank you.”