If I make myself lighter than air, hover above the city without reading maps right to left, I come to Jerusalem. My dollars dissolve into shekels, my shekels empty themselves from my pockets of their own accord, and I who rarely pray, lean against the wall that Herod built, remains of the Second Temple. My prayer is neither wish nor praise but supplication.
Today there are no joggers in Jerusalem, no cyclists.
McDonald's is closed. The lottery kiosks are closed. In the lazy afternoon of the Jewish Quarter, a group of girls dressed in swaying blue skirts plays ball. It is late enough to hear the muezzin's cry from the mosque, which aids my asking. A handful of Chassidim stroll home, and I, who disagree with their politics, admire their Sabbath, crave this Sabbath.