Lunch, with grave-itas

 Dinner on Wednesday night was a walk back to Ben Yehuda because, by law, I have to eat at Moshiko's on each trip at least once. V'chol hamarbeh, harei zeh meshubach. I marbe'd. Felafel in a pita with chumus, a little spice, Israeli salad, techina, pickles and cabbage (green, not purple, because I thought it was lettuce and it wasn't but once I asked for it, I would have been showing weakness if I changed my order). It was wonderful especially with a Carlsberg beer. Then, repeat as necessary and man, was it necessary. Back to the house and sleep. I got three hours, then sat up and read for an hour and a bit, then almost 5 more hours of sleep. Call it a win!

Up and moving around -- a walk to Agrippas to watch the trucks negotiate turns where they have no chance of turning. And yet, magically, and this is one of the talmudic miracles of Jerusalem, they make the turn. Coffee at Power CoffeeWorks, the best decaf shekels can buy. Apologies to those who think otherwise, sorry but I gotta be right. A friendly place with lots of English speakers with many accents. This was the place I went to last year because they had donuts that were nut-free. No donuts this time (some cookies in a jar but I skipped that) but 2 cups of dark roast decaf. Coffee is the ikkar but the caffeine fix was filled days ago so I decided not to have the regular.

I got a text from Steve saying he was unable to make lunch. This is sad because it is always nice seeing Steve but when God closes a door he opens a different door. Not a window. What help is a window. Why would you think "window" anyway? Ridiculous. Jeff said that he would be able to take me to Har Hamenuchot to visit my parents' grave. So that's a win in a weird sort of way.  The guys in the stores across from the coffee place are arguing (as apparently, the often do) over something, maybe parking spots or table space...who knows. The people in the coffee place say that they argue until the police come. So I get coffee and a show. What a deal!

A woman walked in and went behind the counter, fixed an apron on herself and started making a cup of coffee. As she worked, a customer came in and told her his order - Americano with oat milk. She looked at him blankly and said "sorry, I don't work here." The other guy behind the counter corroborated this. She just went there to make herself a cup. That's the kind of place it is. And the music is beyond reproach for an old man (Monkees, Aerosmith, Badfinger, the Archies and then "Our House" by CSN). I wanted to buy more coffee and listen to more music but enough is enough sometimes. But not always. This time it is. Sort of.

I walked up Agrippas. I didn't go into the beauty shop because I don't need any more beauty, eh? (that was for all the Bob and Doug fans). I took me to the candy shop (first I went into the Columbia outlet, not because I wanted a remaindered degree but because I am considering replacing my fleece with an exact duplicate, but the price was more of a fleecing than the coat so I left). I passed Marzipan and the bees smelled delicious. At the candy shop I stocked up on chocolate bars and caramels (Mamtakei Ami Chayim). Then into the belly of the beast by way of the left nostril. The goal of wandering the shuk is to get completely lost, secure in the knowledge that can't really get lost. Eventually you und up on Agrippas or Yaffo. But in the meantime, having no sense of where you are is fun. You walk what might be the same path you walked already but because of the sensory overload and similarity between stores, you can't tell. Hatch was closed (it was 11:30 AM) so I couldn't get a morning beer. I shall survive. I felt disoriented enough just trying to figure out where I was so the buzz wasn't necessary. I had so many places not to shop at to choose from. 

While I prepped myself for lunch I reconnoitered dinner. I'm neurotic like that and like other ways, but also that. I just wanted to know that I would know where to be when the time came to eat more. Chatzot is at 123 Agrippas so I figured that the dinner place would be on the other side of the street either up or down from there. So I walked in one direction and quickly saw the odd number increasing. I turned around and walked the other way. I got to the 71 range and decided to cross and go back down a little find 80, my goal. There was no 80. I looked and looked. I saw numbers approach 80, but never actually reach it -- it was Zeno's address. I kept walking, seeing no 80 and realized I was across from Chatzot at 123. That didn't make any sense so I walked back, figuring that I missed it. I did the whole exercise a few times until I just kept walking past Chatzot and found 80. It was on the even side but lower down, beyond 123. The new math, I guess. Also, the name on the storefront was not "Black Iron" or whatever the name is. I saw that name when I read the te'udah (I wasn't questioning their kashrut, but a certificate was bound to have an address on it, right? Actually, not always, but in this case, it had the name).

I often saw soldiers, male and female, in and out of uniform, walking around, shopping and eating. People say you have to get used to seeing people carrying machine guns but the truth is, I am beyond getting used to it -- now I get uncomfortable when I don't see it. It is an essential part of the cityscape.

Chatzot was very nice. I started with crispy cauliflower, then had an entrecote salad (lots of veggies, and steak tips, but the good kind). I drank a Carlsberg and all was right with theworld. Jeff and I chatted and caught up and I enjoyed that immensely. Yes, I missed Steve, and hope he feels better but I still had a great meal with great company. We left and stopped at Marzipan so Jeff could buy some bees, nuts (that was for Julie and Hillel) and cookies for Shabbat. Then well into the shuk to find strawberries that were not yet packaged (because they cover the yucky ones with good ones, so you have to find them loose) and then to a few different guys until we found oregano. The guy who stocked fresh oregano is on Pri Etz road. Tell him Dan sent you. He won't know what you are talking about because I didn't speak with him, but those little moments of confusion are fun. Then back to the parking garage (we stopped into an incredible looking butcher with steaks and such -- Jeff said it was an Argentinian place but I didn't hear the cows moo so I can't be sure. It looked really good. Down the elevator to the lowest sublevel (-6) and the car. Jeff then braved traffic and weird directions to take me to Har Hamenuchot.

I keep a tab open on my phone with the location of my parents' grave. It assumes 2 things -- one, that you can get to the cemetary entrance, and two that you can realize that the map it provides is woefully incomplete and occasionally wrong. There is constantly new construction being done at the cemetery so the more things change, the less they stay the same. This time, I walked in, convinced I knew where I was going -- we were in the right section (49) but the sub section was wrong (27 and we needed 17). The next level down was 26, so we were headed in the right direction, but there were only 4 more "downs" to be had. We took the elevator to the bottom level -- yes, elevator) and saw a bunch of people (and a cool "indoor" section carved into the mountain). I found a worker and showed him where I needed to be and he said that if I waited 2 minutes he would take me there. And he did -- very nice of him. I spent some time at the grave, cleaning it off and putting rocks on it spelling "Hey now". Why "hey now" you ask. Because I put a heart on it once and when I came back, the heart was gone and other people put hearts on theirs. I put "mom" and "dad" on it and I came back and other people copied that as well. Let's see who copies "hey now." It was not a Crowded House reference. 

Jeff told me a very funny story (before we got to the cemetary -- at a cemetery, funny stories are not allowed, just bizarre behavior). He explained that his daughter in the army successfully petitioned the army to let her wear men's pants. Why men's? Because women's (later edit, women's non-combat) army pants have no pockets. That may be the single funniest, saddest and weirdest example of engrained sexism as you will ever hear. I figured to pass it along to all youse.

Back up the elevator and I took pictures to remind me next time of the wrong way to go, as I figure that by then, they will have built something else making this path obsolete. Then Jeff drove me back to basecamp. Big thank you to Mr. Oshin and another "sorry not to see you" to Mr. Lauderdale!

Time to prepare myself for dinner! Best cruise ever!