frances
lai
blown a
wayfarer
FIRST TASTE OF PALESTINE
September 5
If perhaps I had forgotten in my sleep, the thick heavy heat that invaded my slumber forged the remembrance that I wasn’t in London anymore. After several fruitless attempts to get the Wi-Fi working, I made a grab for my newest toy and began to play around with the aperture and shutter speed settings on the balcony. The Nablusi skyline in the dead of day made for a perfect test field.
Cast completely in shadow by the three walls and surrounding buildings, I didn’t yet know how grateful I should have been standing on that narrow, dusty balcony. I watched the daily routine of a bakery across the street as platforms of freshly baked khubz were brought out to stacked racks to cool. I observed the curious calm that blanketed the city in the same manner as the ubiquitous layer of fine, powdery sand, but I didn’t give it much thought. It was only when we set out to feed that I became aware of the observance of Friday, or al-jum’a, as the holy day. Coinciding with this realization is that of my extensive ignorance regarding Muslim cultures.
Friday is similar to Sunday in the West, except instead of closing earlier, businesses tend to open later. Because I hadn’t eaten since London more than a day ago, I was absolutely ravenous, and the street peddlers had nothing on offer that I sought to satiate my hunger. Concluding that nothing in the city center would be open, Jess and I threw a few clumsy words in Arabic to a cab driver, which prompted him to whisk us away to shari’ Rafiddiya, a street in Nablus famous for its restaurant row and our best likelihood to get served.
Drawing on my gastronomic experiences in Turkey, I was very keen on exploring more regional Mediterranean cuisine. It was too early for shawarma, but my eyes immediately honed in on exactly what I’d been craving: houmous ma’ lahmah, or hummus with meat. Rich, creamy hummus topped with seasoned minced lamb, not to mention the spread of various pickles, vegetables, and bread. I couldn’t ask for anything more satisfying to fill my expanding internal crater.
After a long, lazy lunch where we were joined by many of our classmates, we left the restaurant with our bellies content and feeling more grounded after meeting with the others. We set out to relocate Jess to her new flat, and I was offered a place to stay on their couch. I happily accepted, as the thought of staying in the creepy crack den was not how I wanted to spend my first weekend in Palestine.
However, while rolling our suitcases across the city center, we encountered some harmless rift raft from a few young boys playing in the urban street. We walked away unscathed but a bit shaken up, and men who had witnessed the encounter approached us immediately afterwards. They apologized vehemently for the boys’ unruly behavior and reiterated time and again that we were welcome.
The unorthodox display of hospitality didn’t stand against our high spirits, leaving us unperturbed as we set about establishing ourselves in surroundings yet to become familiar.
​
​
​
​
THE DEETS
Lunch
Shisha Manoosha, shari’ Rafiddiyah. Restaurant entrance leads down a staircase to the seating area. Moderately priced.
