Street Talk

I stand on Zalamn Shazar’s glasses, waiting for the light to change. After the fundamental transition from red to green, I walk down the stories of Ben Tzvi, and make a left up the toga of Agrippas. Now passing through the tents of Machana Yehudah – where, like in days past, you can sell or buy anything, from your soul to apples – I emerge at the shores of Yafo, the foamy waves of twisting busses lapping at my shoes. At the intersecting canonic Kikar Davidka, I dream my way into the prophetic Haneveim. Up the “Titanic” Strauss we go, until we hit the rule of Malchei Yisrael. Now, after riding on Yechezkial’s chariot and Shmuel Hanavi’s leadership, we tread with tribulation on the tribal Shivtai Yisrael. The hundred gates of Meah Sheorim, only accessible to those dressed modestly, bring us to the “universal” Bar Ilan. Yirmiyahu’s true vision guides us through Hertzl’s distorted one. The presidential Weizmann leads us under the bridge, and up Betzalel’s architecture. A right on Usishkin’s right wing philosophy, heading toward the Ramban’s Torah commentary; when we reach the end of Nachmonides, a left on King George’s crown. Now we word our way through Ben Yehudah’s dictionary, balancing between Hillel’s “actuality” and Shamai’s “possibility”. Now through the black and white editorials of Agron’s “Post”, and down the political Keren Ha’Yesod. Past Washington’s apple trees, Mendele Mocher Seforim’s books, Lincoln’s lack of mustache, Sholom Aleichem’s Yiddish, and Jabotinsky’s revisionism. We recite the iambs of Shmuel Hanagid’s poetry, comment on Abarbanel’s prayer commentary and Ibn Ezra’s Pentateuch commentary, while engaging the disengaged Derech Azza. Achad Ha’am seems to be split, as does Ha’Palmach. Ben Maimon’s thirteen principles seem to be deserted, and they think Alfasi is a wine. Now back around and King David seems to be beckoning us. His grandson is around here somewhere, just waiting for all the streets to come together, to unite as one.

And I can see the Old City in the distance, its magnet drawing me in. Down the stairs we go and our foreheads rest on the Wall. Road-weary and tired, I realize all this roaming through wild streets and deserted deserts was worth it: our homelessness is just the journey, and our Home, the destination, is not so far away.