Jerusalem's Arab Market, Israel
Exploring this ancient Middle Eastern soukBy Melody Amsel-Arieli
A visit to Jerusalem’s walled Old City is always exciting, even for locals like us. As we pass through the Jaffa Gate, 
the entrance to the Arab Market, self-styled guides invariably accost us from all sides, offering tours of the holy sites. French and Korean tourists browse through pamphlets at the Israeli information center.
Youngsters hawk oblong, sesame rolls and oversized pitas from wooden street carts. Kiosk owners, as we neared, invite us to sample their falafel and homemade humus. All around us, Arabic chatter rises and falls.
Before us lay a series of wide, shallow stone steps, a labyrinth of narrow, winding paths crowded with open-air shops, whose wares spilled out, hodge-podge, onto the walkways. Muslim women balancing baskets on their heads, Armenian patriarchs, and brown-frocked monks jostled by. Joining the throng, we began our descent.
A kaleidoscope of sights beckoned, olive wood crucifixes and crèches, intricate Syrian wooden inlay chess sets, exotic hookahs, and traditional Bedouin embroidery. Overwhelmed by the spectacle before us, we rushed along mindlessly, borne by the crowd. Suddenly the sound of tinkling music stopped us in our tracks. Overhead was a captivating display of glass bells. Their owner, with a dramatic sweep of his arm, bid us enter his stony, arched abode. Inside were hanging more bells, in all shades of blue and green.
Glassware like this, explained the man in Arabic-flavored Hebrew, has been hand blown in nearby Hebron for generations. Sensing a successful sale, he strung several bells together, forming a bell mobile impossible to resist. He was right. We just had to have it.
Then the traditional haggling, which is fully expected throughout the Middle East, began. We easily talked his demand for fifty shekels down to thirty. But then, probably because of our English accents, the going got rough. Try as we might, the seasoned seller wouldn’t budge any lower. So we resorted to an old tried-and-true bargaining ploy. We upped and left.
Sure enough, as we were fingering his neighbor’s red-string bracelets and blue-eyed jewelry, amulets against the Evil Eye, the bell keeper changed his tune, “Twenty shekels,” he called out loudly, “you can have the bells for twenty shekels….” Cash exchanged hands, and all sides were happy. Bells in hand, we pressed on.
Overhead, graceful overhead arches blocked the sun (and prevented cell phone conversations), but the afternoon heat, fueled by the sheer number of shoppers, only intensified. The air, redolent with exotic spices, honeyed Arabic pastries, and succulent grilled meats, became thicker. Street cats slithered by searching for sustenance.
Christian pilgrims, plying the Stations of the Cross, paused as a cacophony of church bells pealed out from all dominations and all directions. A bevy of Jewish seminary students, wrapped in prayer shawls, hurried toward the Western Wall. And the plaintive voice of muezzins rose eerily above it all, calling the faithful to prayer.
Scandinavian and Dutch backpackers rubbed shoulders with uniformed children en route from school. Toddlers, perched on dusty side steps, munched on rolls. A flock of black-clad pilgrims, 
chattering loudly in Russian, barrelled by. Youngsters clattered heavy wooden carts up the steps, against the surging crowd. As we paused to let them through, we spotted bowls of gems and beads. Behind it lay a scene straight out of The Arabian Nights.
Beads were everywhere. Strands of local milk-yellow amber, red-orange carnelian, and blue Afghani lapis lazuli beads overflowed ornate chests. Hand worked Yemenite filigree and Bedouin silver-coin necklaces draped sumptuously across striped rugs gracing the floors. Overhead, hundreds of strands swung from the ceiling, like freeform, rainbowed chandeliers. Then from somewhere behind all this glitz and glitter, a deep voice boomed, “Welcome!”
Suddenly, like the proverbial genie materializing from the magic lamp, a plump storeowner, all Middle Eastern hospitality and smiles, appeared out of the gloom. “Come in, feel welcome, I will order Bedouin coffee and we will drink together!”
A clap of his hands, soon brought tiny cups of bitter black coffee, hand delivered on an ornate brass tray. As we partook, he sank back contentedly back onto his low, cushioned divan. “No need to buy a thing,” he began in perfect English, then launched into a remarkable tale about a Bedouin grandmother, his “tribe’s jeweller,” who, through extensive and farfetched family connections, procured gems for him from around the world. When we finally rose to leave—empty handed, he pressed a set of Roman glass earrings into our hands. “A gift, he said, “until we meet again.”
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