Meanderings

"You won't be able to get yourself over that curbstone." the drunk explains patiently to his invisible partner. He carefully shows his friend how to succeed. Around the corner the deep throb of the local, historical war drum diverts our attention. A political march crests the hill, flags, slogans, and shouts included. Folks stop to look. I shudder involuntarily, remembering the time I was caught in a march gone haywire. Quickening my pace I move on with my groceries, past the lady with the untied golden sneakers, the grandma with the basket of greens, and the two high-heeled twitterers in faux leopard skin scarves. My thoughts are distracted by mob memories, tanks, gunshots, pandemonium. I almost step on a tattered orange cat. It's focus is so intent on possible delectibles falling from the third balcony up that it doesn't see me. His concentration breaks mine. I let the past go and follow the hopeful cat's gaze. Granny is about to share her fish bones, raw. I sidestep potential head decor and move on. Shifting hands with the groceries, I'm suddenly wrapped in the delight of wood smoke enveloping chestnuts. Taking deep breaths, I revel in the arrival of fall. Yes, facebook triggered mobs, activated tanks, and police in full gear are ever present realities. But so is Real Life. Dried rosebuds and fresh fish, cumin and dates, buckets of black leaches and handfuls of misty green seedless grapes cram together in market. Vendors shout, often in little rhymes with each other across cobbled alleys. The ancient han walls cast shadows which only yesteryear held camel trains and dancing bears. Now stacked with cheap imports from China, they look weary. But this is only the outer veneer.

The people are the real deal. Refugees from every corner of the world huddle in shadows while Arab robes swish by giving off perfumes of luxury. The women in black are in rows behind the fat man. His wives, ordered by seniority, press in behind, touching everything and giving off airs. The children, like mother touch too, only they often keep what they touch. It's clear the vendors prefer the humble refugees.

Shifting my groceries as I stop for fresh goat cheese and olives, I'm thankful once again for my season on this Pilgrimage. I'll go home to our simple flat, and tomorrow cook lentils and rice with our women. I'll hear their updates and meet their friends; and we will pray together, moving another mile along the road together. How blessed I am.