The unrest presently taking place in Jerusalem is making itself felt abroad. On Saturday, members of the local Palestinian community held a demonstration in front of Milano Centrale. Note the Italian flag in the mix.

My take on today’s mayoral polling in Jerusalem was just published by France 24. Gotta love my editor, who wrote a killer caption for the cartoon/photo montage of candidate Meir Porush, pictured above.

There’s a story I never finish. Every year, I write a new draft, and somehow lose it. It’s about visiting my senile grandmother in a nursing home in east Jerusalem in April 1977. Not just any nursing home, but a converted  Jordanian army barracks, replete with falling plaster and broken pipes. The works.

At least half the patients are elderly Arab men in wheelchairs. Everyone is speaking a different language, including my Palestinian Jewish grandmother, who, for the first time ever, addresses me in fluent German, while her roommate, a giant Armenian woman, insists over and over again, in French, that she is Napoleon.

Imagine being transported thirty-one years back in time, in London, at an installation by two Chinese artists, at the new Saatchi Gallery on Kings Road. The photograph above says it. all.

Three quarters of the way through his speech, the President’s mouth seized up, as though he were about to say something important that he just could not figure out how to put into words. Alas, this moment would be forever frozen in time, as the media player refused to restart, prematurely ending George W. Bush’s address to a gathering of Israeli and foreign dignitaries at the Facing Tomorrow conference, held this evening in Jerusalem.

Snapping a screenshot of this scene, I could not help but giggle at what a great photo opportunity this was, capturing the American leader stopped in his tracks, his mouth wide open. No amount of contempt could sum up the tremendous satisfaction that welled up in my chest as I imagined how speechless the President really looked. The pleasures I’ve been able to derive these past seven years are few, my revenge fantasies limited to short, ironic moments like these.

Obviously, Bush is an easy target. Provincial, religious, and inarticulate, he’s the most opportune of prey to have one’s adolescent way with. A paradigmatic Philistine, or an anti-democratic ideologue straight out of central casting, the President’s horrible record lends much credence to his critics, who blame him for every ill that has befallen the U.S. since 9/11. From a collapsing economy to the war in Iraq, Bush has left Americans feeling poorer and more insecure than any President since Woodrow Wilson.

This is why, at least for me, it’s important to not over-emphasize the singularity of this moment. As inclined as Americans might be to harangue Israel for being so automatically willing to grant Bush such a warm welcome, it’s important to remember that Israel has never been the President’s sole foreign supporter. The governments of Tony Blair and John Howard, Silvio Berlusconi and Jose Maria Aznar, were, of equal, if not to greater degrees, supportive and admiring, as is French President Nicolas Sarkozy today.

Though I’d prefer that Israel’s Prime Minister not be a member of this club, there was something positive about being forced to watch this evening’s proceedings. With his days looking increasingly numbered, Olmert will not be the last foreign leader to have such an intimate connection with the Bush era. That honor will be left to Sarkozy, who, from the looks of it, will end up outliving both besieged heads of state. No great shakes, but at least, for once, it will be a European that will be the last in line, and not another Israeli.

Sometimes, a ten minute walk from home can lead to more pleasant associations.

A surviving example of early Cana’anite capitalism. Jerusalem, 2007.

The mental health ploy had worked. She’d just gotten excused from her army service, and had come to the United States to go to art school. Standing in the kitchen of my old Richmond district apartment, K. [her pseudonym]  sampled two versions of hummus: one from Trader Joe’s, the other from a local Armenian deli. "Oy, they’re horrible," she exclaimed. "However hard they try, Americans cannot make hummus."

Thus, the perennial refrain of most Israelis living in the Bay Area. And its true. In nearly every instance, American hummus is consistently terrible. Either there’s not enough tahina (or any), or for some reason, ingredients such as mayonnaise, cream and salt are present. Even the so-called ‘organic’ versions are offensive, oftentimes sporting vegetable flavorings. Imagine an exotic wheat paste sprinkled with paprika. That’s what it tastes like.

Though my Israeli house guest is long gone from San Francisco (she now lives in NYC), we finally have a restaurant where the hummus is competitive with the best that the Middle East has to offer. As good as anything I’ve had at Yafo’s Abu Hassan, or Akko’s Hummus Said, this hole in the wall, run by several wonderful guys from Jerusalem, has made the Bay Area a better place to live.

Located in the heart of SF’s Mission district, the unsurprisingly titled Old Jerusalem, serves another dish of equal significance: Salat Turki. A standard at most Israeli fast food places, try and find it in the US, and you’ll be totally disappointed. Though its not listed on the menu, it is indeed available, and it absolutely kills. A fifteen minute walk from our house, Jennifer and I eat at OJ at least once a week.

"Never trust an Israeli’s judgement of Arab food," a Kuwaiti graduate student friend once joked to me as we inhaled Turkish coffee together in Toronto. "They’re all one-dimensional orientalists." I thought about these hilarious, stinging words as a Lebanese colleague of mine worked his way through the hummus the other night during an editorial meeting we held at the restaurant.

"Bloody hell," he blustered as he dipped a thick piece of pita into the hummus. "This stuff is so good, you’d think they started this place just for us."

CBS Records, 1967

With last week’s news of Jennifer’s grandmother’s death, it seems as though all of the sudden, there’s many places to travel. To LA on Wednesday, for Dorothy’s funeral. And then to Manhattan, next Monday, for Jennifer to begin an impromptu six to eight week stay on behalf of her firm. If we can afford it, before the end of the month, I’ll try and join her for a weekend.

All of this talk of traveling is also an important reminder that I am leaving for Israel at the end of this month, and have to start putting my own professional house in order. Flying out there together with Vance, we’ll be spending two weeks conducting interviews and making field recordings for both my book, and our new album. My parents will, of course, be hosting us.

We’ll be arriving a week before the 40th anniversary of the Six Day War, and the ensuing occupation. That will of course add its own hue to the proceedings. I’ve been giving much thought to how we might commemorate this occasion in audio format, by reviewing numerous old documentary LPs I have, commemorating such things as Israel’s capture of east Jerusalem.

Part of me thinks it would be an interesting exercise to simply “cover” one of these records, like one would an older musical recording. Another option, of course, would be to make a facsimile, only with slight differences to indicate the 40 year change in time, as refracted through our own distinct political orientations. We’ll see. Clearly, we have a lot of work to do.

Inside the Old City, October 2006.

From Let’s be Realists, Let’s Demand the Impossible!, In These Times, August 30th, 2006