Ami

I walk the allies of the crowded shuk on a Friday morning. They yell at me to buy their peppers, and their pita, and their olives. An Ethiopian woman keeps me safe. An Iraqi wants me to eat fish this Shabbat.

Over at the famous bakery, a young New Yorker yaps at the man behind the counter when she notices chocolate oozing from her box of goodies.

"Can you close it?" she demands.

The man looks at another behind the counter and asks, "Eh, ma ze closit?"

Down at the mall, we go in search of perfect fitted sheets. We pick them out, and the saleswoman encourages us to buy one more thing to be eligible for a sale special. "Asiti lecha balegan, aval ze k'dai!" she says. "I made a mess for you, but it's recommended!"

And everywhere I go, "Shabbat shalom! Shabbat shalom! Shabbat shalom!"

The minutes are passing, and the sun is ready to set. The city is quite, waiting for the alarm to sound.

These are my people, and this is my town. And I hate so much of it, but could not love other parts more.

I spend a week here, mostly meeting up with teachers and friends, sitting in coffee shops writing essays - a working vacation, I call it. Hardly a vacation at home.

There's too much to study, too much to take in. Too much to learn. So much indeed.

But these are my people, and this is my town. It's almost Shabbat, the bride is calling.

Shabbat shalom! Shabbat shalom! Shabbat shalom!

Shabbat shalom.