Visiting Jerusalem, I came across a Jaffa orange juice vendor with his silvery machine. It had a lot of bells and whistles. The machine may have been modern, but the glasses were rinsed in a common bucket of water. I took a chance, disrespecting the local amoebas. Ah, fresh squeezed juice! I paid for it – three days trapped in an Armenian hostel up against Herod’s gate, eating rice and drinking bottled water. The only light was a single bulb hanging from a cord and a wedge of daylight coming through the ceiling, through which I could see the feet of hundreds of tourists walking Suleiman’s wall.
in the old city
a raging fever