The Rich Duster

A wooden trolley holding trash flies past me as a small boy slides down after it on a black tyre, which is attached to the trolley by a chain. I gasp, and the Israeli winter air fills my chest. How marvellous to be in the Old City tonight.

Where do I look? Even the floor is unique, with its pale grey and terracotta square tiles grouted with grey earth. There are so many things that shine and glitter, so many colours! I walk by an abundance of little trinkets that mean nought to me, but to the vendors, they are food and shelter for whole families. Mostly Armenian and Muslim by birth, the tradesmen are well practised at luring the western white female travellers like me into their tiny shops.

I squeeze between two such dallying birds and come out into the main alleyway. Amongst the tourists, I see (for the first time since landing in Israel) the people of the land. Jewish People. They come in all shapes and sizes. Some short and round and jolly, others tall and lanky and serious - all rushing. It is Shabbat after all. 5 o'clock every Friday marks the beginning of the Jewish day of rest and I assume they all hurry to the synagogues. The women gently but firmly scuttle the children on with sharp words. The men wear Schtreimel hats on their heads. They look like cupcakes.

Catching the eye of one or two as I pass them, I realize they smile differently to us. None smile with their mouth. I nod hello, and they reply with their eyes, crinkled and cheery.

In a quieter part of the city, I see prattling men gathered around a table in the corner of the street. They huddle around a wooden board balanced on a chair beside the stone wall, observing as fellow shopkeepers shuffle and deal. I look up and notice for the first time that there is a little world above the canopy that extends over the walkway. It appears that people live above this bustling maze. Angels carved out of stone border the doors and windows, and delicate black railings skirt the balconies.

Beyond the cashmere and knick-knack shops are very tiny stone-walled cafes, with brass and pearl furniture, and ivy growing from the arched ceilings. Inside are pastries - simple, syrupy and delightful. Little Israeli cats roam the cobbled streets, begging for tit-bits from passers-by. They too are well practised at tugging on the heartstrings of outsiders like me.

"Life is like a mother. One day she hug you, other day she slap you," a man tells me, as I admire the chessboard that made me think of someone back home. "Back when I was poor, I worked in hotel as cleaner. Now I am rich, I own shop! " He smiles, returning his attention to the brass ornament he had been dusting, and positions it back on the cruddy shelf in his booth.