Sit in the back seat in the opposite corner from a very lovely woman wearing crimson lipstick (instantly noticed - am trying to wear myself). We were waiting patiently for the bus to fill. Finally the last two passengers arrived, two Orthodox Jews, one older than the other. There were only two seats left, between the woman and I on the back seat.
The younger man - embarrassed - asked the woman across from me to move. The older man refused to sit next to her - or to me - so the only alternative was for we two women to sit together with the younger man between us as some kind of human barrier between us and the older man. "It's not me, it's him. I just want to get home," said the younger man in an American accent.
Tense moments as we drove up the motorway to Jerusalem.
The light was fading.
The city high and dusty looking: many many streets and suburbs with Jews walking, in black in hats and long skirts. The younger man gets out in a suburb. A few minutes later the older man asks us something in Hebrew - directions. We say that we don't understand,
"That's Jerusalem," she said. "I was so angry. Things flare up in a second." Though she didn't show it. Very serene. BRilliant lipstick.
The driver calls for the lady who wants Al Salahadin street. REalise with surprise it is me. It seems we have stopped on a busy road. Where is Damascus Gate?
It is a short walk. Uneven stones under foot - the walls of the old city to my left. Women selling bundles of herbs at the side of the pavement. School children skipping home. The police station on the corner.
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