I remember the first time I visited Jerusalem.
We entered via the Jaffa gate, my brother and me.
He had some business related to psychology, I was just tagging-along.
Eged bus, then foot.
The spices more a phenomenon than the last time I went.
Zaatar. Which is hyssop sprinkled on just-cooked bread.
At the time I had no sense of the past or the future, I merely existed within a bubble of Greek and Ethiopian Orthodoxy, Via Dolorosa and the Western Wall. I only visited the Dome of the Rock later.
Cold, yellow stone and smooth cobbles.
Just-slaughtered chickens hanging in the early morning.
Dust and smoke and antiquity.