This is a cross-post from Marc Goldberg
My journey began at the Central Bus Station, that concrete monstrosity that serves as neutral ground for every single one of the many parts of the melting pot that is Israeli society. It’s the place where rich girls from North Tel Aviv tread the same ground as the lowest class of hooker who waits on the street corner, where big businessmen wander under the noses of illegal immigrants hocking their shoddy goods. There never seems to be any problems between these vastly different groups of Israelis who rarely even speak the same language and have nothing in common save for the fact that they all live on the same small slither of land on the Easternmost edge of the Mediterranean Sea.
The buses stopped several hours ago and all of the Jewish monit sherut drivers have long since gone home either to prepare their own Seder night meal or to enjoy the start of the Spring Festival with their families. I amble past the swarthy Eritreans, Russian pimps and Arab drivers until I find my own portal to that other dimension which is the eternal city of Jerusalem. I enter into the monit closely followed by three nicely dressed English girls, one of them is carrying flowers no doubt for the host of the Seder night meal to which she is on her way. In Hebrew so heavily accented with London that the driver can’t understand what she’s saying she tries to ask if he will stop at her destination. In the end she gives up attempting the native tongue. He grunts his agreement when she says the words in English.
You can read the rest here
