We call our city “the city,” yet even we occasionally acknowledge the existence of others, especially when one of them is the center of the world. You have all seen the medieval map that shows the world as a three-lobed plant, Europe, Asia, and Africa, with Jerusalem at the pistil. This is confirmed in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, where, on the floor of one of the chapels, there is a mark noting the center of the world. That beats even the globe in the lobby of the old Daily News building.
Admirers over the centuries, and all the guidebooks now, speak of Jerusalem’s beauty. But beauty is not what struck this tourist’s eye. A coach-class flâneur can think of eight or ten cities that are more lovely, including several here at home. Nor is it particularly exotic. It has its nowhere-else rituals — see below — but its daily life is surprisingly ordinary. The modern city is modern, the bazaar in the old city is the cheesiest I have ever seen. Olivewood Last Suppers, cheapo shofars, Pika-Jew T-shirts: Are they made separately, or is there one giant factory, DrekInc., that churns them all out? Some, finally, love it because they are conflict-heads, endlessly balancing the weight of this old claim versus the verdict expressed in the American gambler’s ballad: “When you lose your money, learn to lose.” I cede the task to politicians, terrorists, and think-tank panelists.
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