Weirdly public

I'm feeling totally strange about putting this up in any public way -- but no one reads these things anyway, right? I guess I'll leave out names and stuff.

Jerusalem by day and Jerusalem by night are two totally different experiences. Today was beautiful--- sunny, piney, warm. Israelis are happy right now-- buses aren't blowing up, elections are coming, right-wing Christians are visiting and bringing their tourist dollars, French people are emigrating. Place is in good shape. No shouting matches, no tussling in public places. In general, my experience with the city this day was perfect. A long walk, friendly bartering at the market, a few almost charming catcalls "Max-eee-mum!" and an uneventful cab ride where the guy actually turned on his meter and circled the block so I could exit on the sidewalk side.

Last night was different. I have a flouncy little Australian roommate, we'll call her Oz. And she flounces a lot, and is quite pretty. Nursing a broken heart so turning on the charm as she saunters out the door. I'm hyper aware of female body and behavior in Jerusalem, especially passing gas stations, abandoned parks, newly constructed apartments with dark open spaces and anything that puts me back in "that" space. Let's call it the PTSD space. Well, she digs attention, so I'm sort of overly aware of my own anxiety (loosen up, nance) and annoyed by her hair-flipping when cars honk (i mean, what do you considah too much, nancy?) um gross dudes hissing out of car windows, maybe? I feel old, traumatized, uptight and experienced. She's striking me as vapid, pretty and lucky to be innocent. I'm sort of needing some wine.

Our evening plan was to go to a movie. Jerusalem is tiny, there are so few places to socialize that don't involve praying at the Kotel or hanging out with Orthos. This place, we'll call it *the* place is really the only thing going. They are currently hosting a Cronenberg and Malle retrospective and will show Bareback Mountain (!) almost the same time it plays in America. They're playing a Kurdish film called "When turtles fly" and its supposed to be amazing. I've filled Oz in about why I'm here, what I'm doing, what my film is about, and why going to *the* place may be intense. She's cute and asks if I'd rather go to the Kotel (good god, no) or get a drink (oh god, please) or if I feel up for it. Well, I hate pity -- and I've been through worse, so we go.

We descend into the valley, and head down the stairs. Through the leaves on the way down, I swear I see him. His legs are crossed, his shoes are shiny, he's smoking and wearing a dark purple shirt. Brown skin. I freeze. I can't look. "Nance, we can turn around" I'm breathing. "What do you want me to do?" I say, "ok, I can do this. Just walk on my left side, we'll do it, we'll walk in."

Well, we get downstairs to the shiny stone plaza and he's not there. I swear he was right there, but the gap where two people had been sitting is empty. I feel like an ass, but also pretty good. I straighten my spine and we stroll in. As we get a ticket, a man in a purple shirt cuts through the line and runs up the stairs and down the hall "That's him, that's totally him... I'm glad I'm not hallucinating. He's running like a fucking rat." But I'm assuming he disappeared and then ran because he saw me, not because he had something to do? Like he would recognize me with blonde hair, peeking out of the leaves or from the back waiting in line for tickets. I know it was him, and maybe he always runs around, scuttling like a rat even if I'm nowhere his thoughts and nowhere near his turf.

I have to feel safe and steady in Jerusalem. But so far, the two nights I've been here have put me in that PTSD space. This city vibrates menace at night. When I'm alone or with another woman, the city feels male, and foreign. Stabbings occur in the park, and the political tightrope and boundaries are totally present. Israelis and Palestinians are almost neighbors here. I live on the road to Bethlehem. Women don't take up space here. If I effect my New York Tough walk am I flouncing or stomping too much? I love my tight ass power jeans and wish they gave me magic ass kicking powers.

I wish I just didn't care.

We'll see what tomorrow brings. But I made the right decision to come. I never feel this way except when I'm in Jerusalem.