the crossing

The West Bank is filled with checkpoints. In a car with Israeli plates and a U.S. passport it's pretty hassle free. But this morning we want to leave our hotel in Ramallah and visit Jerusalem. You can only get a taxi as far as the checkpoint. From there you need to make your way through the checkpoint on foot, with the Palestinians, then catch a bus to Jerusalem on the other side. So, for the first time we get a hint of what the average Palestinian goes through. It's a dirty warren of narrow metal bar passageways and turnstyles. The wait is long; the lines unpredictable. They let a few people pass the turnstyles at a time. How you are treated and how long it takes is completely at the whim of an Israeli guard, who looks at each person with a disdain bordering on belligerence. You hope he isn't having a bad day, or perhaps you will have one as well.
Once outside we ask locals for the Jerusalem bus and a kindly gentleman insists that we go in line before him to board. He sits next to me and turns out to be from Detroit, here to check on his family property. He tells us how to get to the Mount of Olives, where we'll meet our tourguide. As he gets off at his stop, he takes my hand warmly, then reminds the driver to make sure that the Americans get off at the right place and know where to go. It seems so far that the guide books are correct: the Palestinians will go out of their way to help us.
Our tour guide, a Palestinian Christian named Osama, is another revelation of kindness and friendliness. Wherever we go he seems to be recognized by friends among the priests, fellow tour guides, and vendors. He is working on his PHD and incredibly informative. How do I describe Jerusalem with its crowded, narrow, winding streets with this mix of ancient architecture from the time of Christ and before? It feels like a trip to the center of human history. But more on that when I have more time.