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On our fourth day in Jerusalem, Dad took me sightseeing.

“Wake up and put on your walking shoes!” he said, opening my curtains to let in the bright morning light. “We’re going to the Old City today!”

I opened my eyes and groaned. He was standing over my bed and smiling down at me in full tourist gear: Birkenstocks, safari hat, and Bermuda shorts. Ugh! At least he wasn’t wearing his cape. Dad had been known around York University as a bit of an oddball — a reputation I know secretly pleased him. Every time I ever visited him at work, I’d find him riding an old-fashioned bicycle around campus, his black cape billowing behind him in the wind. He told me that his students had long ago nicknamed him Einstein because of his wild mop of bushy, blond hair. I sometimes called him that, too, but never to his face. Can’t you just picture him? If he wasn’t my father, I’d laugh. But most of the time I don’t find him very funny.

Still, as much as I sometimes hate to admit it, Dad and I are eerily similar in a lot of ways. We both sleep with our eyes halfway open, we’re both allergic to strawberries, and we both have the same dumb laugh that has politely been compared to a horse on drugs. We also have the same abnormally long pinkie toes, the same lopsided smiles, and the same pasty white skin — for sure my worst feature. Dad calls it “alabaster,” but it’s so grossly pale the kids at school back home nicknamed me Snow White. I could never get a nice suntan like the other girls and I couldn’t even wear shorts in the summertime without looking like a ghost.

Which was exactly how Dad was looking right now in his Bermuda shorts. Weird how genetics work, huh?

But we have our differences as well, and that’s usually what the fights are about. Maybe it’s because he’s an archaeologist, but his head always seems to be stuck in the past — the ancient past. So much so that he usually doesn’t give a rat’s ass about what’s happening right in front of his nose. It’s something that used to drive Mom crazy. And I worried it was only going to get worse here in Israel.

Still, I had to admit, as much as I didn’t want to come here, the old walled city of Jerusalem turned out to be a pretty interesting place. It was made up of four quarters, one each for the Christians, Jews, Muslims, and Armenians. Cars weren’t allowed on the Old City streets. Each quarter was a maze of narrow cobbled roads, staircases, sharp angles, dark passages, and tiny corners that demanded to be explored on foot.

Instead of taking a formal tour, Dad suggested that we just wander around on our own.

“It’s more exciting this way,” he said, his grey-blue eyes gleaming. “Who knows? Maybe we’ll even get lost!”

It didn’t take very long to see how easily that could happen. With crowds of people walking in every direction, twisting roads, and a jumble of haphazard old buildings, arches, and domes, the Old City oozed a sense of exotic chaos. Unlike Toronto, where the streets followed a well-planned grid, there was absolutely nothing orderly about this place.

We started off in the bustling Muslim quarter. With all the ancient buildings and sites, Dad was totally in his element. For the first time in my life, I got an idea of why he was so popular with his students: he really had a way of making history come alive.

“This is the Damascus Gate, which was originally built by the Romans,” he explained. “And over here is the Via Dolorosa, the path where it’s believed Jesus walked carrying his cross. And down this way is the Dome of the Rock, a mosque that dates back to the seventh century. It’s one of the most important sites in all of Islam.”

Normally, I wasn’t too interested in religious buildings, but this one took my breath away. I had seen it before in photographs of Jerusalem, resting on top of the city like a gleaming crown. But up close, it was so much more magnificent. Covered in intricate blue, gold, and white mosaics, it was topped off with a gigantic golden dome that shone brilliantly in the bright Israeli sunlight.

It was a pretty hot morning, and the heat intensified as the day went on. Every minute the sun rose higher in the sky, I could feel it burning deeper and deeper into my skin. I tried to tell myself that heat was better than cold and I was lucky to be missing the Canadian winter this year. But in this kind of heat, even the thought of snow and sleet and slush was refreshing. As we walked, I drank a lot of water and tried to think cool thoughts.

Polar bears … tobogganing … ice fishing … snowball fights … wind chill factors…

It didn’t help much.

After wandering around for a while, we suddenly found ourselves in the Arab market, or “souk,” as it was called here. We paused at the entrance and watched the hustle and bustle for a few minutes. The crowds were thick with all kinds of people: American tourists in their baseball caps and fanny packs, women covered in scarves, and men with heads draped in black-and-white checkered fabric.

I closed my eyes and took in a deep breath of the exotic market air. It was absolutely bursting with smells: spices, coffee, smoke, ripe fruit, and vegetables. I opened my eyes again and stared down the long, sloping path of the market. It was lined with hundreds of vendors balancing on rickety chairs outside their shops. Some of them were so ancient-looking their faces seemed like they’d been sculpted out of rubber. I knew it wasn’t polite, but I just couldn’t stop staring at them. They looked as old as the city itself — like they’d been sitting there on those chairs since the beginning of time. And they were selling just about every kind of merchandise imaginable: copper, gold, and silver jewellery; ceramics; fabric; clothes; shoes; pastries; produce; spices; and every souvenir under the sun.

Their cries were piercing as we strolled by their stores.

“Hallo, Hallo!”

“Come take a look!”

“Please, please — you want souvenirs?”

“Right here, best prices in Jerusalem!”

“Hey, it’s past lunchtime. Do you want to try a falafel?” Dad asked, pointing to a nearby stand. “It’s, like, the national dish here.”

I walked over to take a closer look. Just like on the first day we arrived, an overwhelming aroma of spice and frying oil wafted under my nose. A skinny, dark man with a chipped front tooth was putting brown, deep-fried balls of mashed-up chickpeas into a pita pocket and covering the whole thing with sauce and vegetables. Of course, I’d seen falafels back in Toronto … but I’d never actually eaten one before.

“C’mon,” Dad said, pulling out his wallet. “I’ll have one if you will.”

“Um, okay.”

I was getting hungry, and Dad’s sense of adventure was contagious.

“Where are you from?” asked the skinny man as he stuffed my pita full to bulging. “Let me guess: England? Australia?”

“No,” I replied timidly. Nobody had ever asked me that question before. “We’re from Canada.”

“Ahhhh!” he nodded. “My cousin lives in Canada. He says it’s very cold there.”

“Yeah, sometimes,” I laughed, wiping the sweat off my forehead with the back of my hand. I felt like saying, Dude, anywhere in the world would probably seem cold compared to this place!

“There you go — enjoy!” he grinned, handing me his stuffed creation.

With a polite “thank you,” I took a small bite and chewed it cautiously, waiting for my taste buds to make a decision. The falafel was crunchy, hot, spicy … and surprisingly tasty.

“It’s good!” I proclaimed, taking another bite. Dad beamed with pleasure, like the falafel somehow justified this whole move to the Middle East.

We finished our lunch and took our time strolling, browsing, and taking in all the incredible sights of the market. After poking around for a couple of hours, we ended up on a stone terrace overlooking the Western Wall — an ancient, open-air synagogue where tons of people had gathered to pray.

“This is the holiest site in the Jewish religion,” Dad explained as we gazed down on the crowd. “This one wall is all that remains of the ancient Temple of Jerusalem. It’s been standing for more than two thousand years.”

Standing a fair distance back, I strained my eyes and tried to see what all the fuss was about. The Wall looked old, fragile, proud.

“Maybe we can go and take a closer look,” I suggested.

But Dad shook his head and pointed down to our shorts and tank tops. “Not today. You have to be covered up to go near the Wall. Next time, we’ll bring better clothes.”

I nodded silently as my thoughts flicked back to that return ticket.

No, Dad. There’s not going to be a next time.

On the fifth day, I was on my own while Dad went to meet some colleagues at the university. It was time to start exploring the neighbourhood. With Professor Anderson’s advice still fresh in my head, I was a bit apprehensive about leaving the apartment by myself. But in the end, I was more restless than nervous. I figured it would probably be safe enough to check out the local sights.

A few doors down from our building, I stumbled upon a little corner store that was like no other corner store I’d ever seen before in my life. There was no sign outside — no storefront name — just a door and a big cigarette advertisement marking the spot. I stepped inside to look around.

“Oh, wow!” I gasped under my breath. The entire store was just a tiny little hole in the wall, jam-packed with shelves that stretched from floor to ceiling. The shelves were stuffed with things like toilet paper, bags of chips, bottles of pop and water, cleaning products, and cigarettes.

A dark-skinned boy about my age stood behind a narrow counter laden with sweet rolls and candy. Even from a distance, I noticed his eyes. They were gorgeous — big and round, and the exact colour of caféau-lait. Although he looked tall, I still couldn’t help wondering how he was able to reach up to the top row of shelves that grazed the ceiling of his store.

Noticing me noticing him, the boy nodded and smiled at me. I smiled shyly back. I wanted to say hello, but didn’t know how.

Smart move, Mack-on-Crack! Next time maybe you’ll look up some Hebrew phrases before walking out the door!

And since I hadn’t brought any money along, I couldn’t buy anything from him. Feeling stupid and not knowing what else to do, I left the store to continue exploring.

A few steps further down the street, I came across the busy intersection I’d seen from my window. Traffic was flying past at a frightening pace and a never-ending symphony of horns filled the air. I stood a safe distance back from the curb and watched the commotion of cars with horror and awe. For the first time in my teenage life, I was actually grateful that I was too young for a driver’s licence.

Suddenly, a low mumbling caught my attention. I turned and saw a young, bearded man standing next to me, bowing his head and reciting some strange-sounding words. I listened carefully, but couldn’t make out what he was saying — I could only assume it was Hebrew. I knew I shouldn’t be staring, but it was hard not to. I’d never seen anybody pray in a public place before and it left me with a funny feeling — curious and uncomfortable at the same time. It seemed so personal, like he’d decided to take off his clothes right beside me.

Crossing the street, I watched the hustle and bustle of the intersection for a while. When the heat and the dust became too much to handle, I turned to head back to the safety of the apartment. Coming in from the heat was a welcome relief. I kicked off my sweaty sandals, enjoying the feel of the chilly tiles on my hot feet.

Peeling off the rest of my clothes, I jumped straight into a cool shower to wash off the coating of dust that was clinging to my body. It seemed like everything in this country was covered in a layer of powdery archaeology.

I guess it was finally making a bit of sense why Dad wanted to come and work here so badly.

On the sixth day, I met Marla.

I decided to venture out a little bit further and bring along some money, although truthfully, I didn’t know how to count it or how much I had. I walked past the busy intersection until I came to a series of stores. There was a pizzeria, a flower shop, a movie-rental store, a café, a falafel stand, and a tiny accessory store, all getting ready to open up for business.

I stood back and watched as awnings were unrolled, stoops were swept, and patio chairs were set up. Even though it was still early in the morning, the heat was getting intense. Already, beads of sweat were beginning to dot my upper lip and trickle down my neck. Looking for something to cool me down, I wandered into the pizza joint and spied a large freezer filled with ice cream and popsicles.

Yes!

I ran over, opened up the door, and basked in the surge of cold, manufactured air that rushed out into my face. After a minute, I chose an ice cream bar that, from the photo on the package, looked like a wedge of pink watermelon.

“I’d like to buy this, please,” I said timidly, not sure whether the cashier spoke English or not. I grabbed a handful of coins from my pocket and held them out hopefully. Smiling, she gently plucked the correct amount out of my palm.

“Tank yoo,” she said in a heavily accented voice. I smiled back and turned to go. I couldn’t help feeling proud of myself for accomplishing this smallest of tasks. I know, it’s silly, right? But it was a hot day in the Middle East and I’d bought myself an ice cream! Maybe I’d be able to get along here, after all.

But everything changed a second later when I peeled open the wrapper and my triumph instantly crumbled to pieces onto the floor. Flustered, I turned back to the cashier and pointed to the rapidly melting mess of pink and green.

“I just opened it,” I tried to explain. “The ice cream was already broken — it’s not my fault.”

But apparently, her knowledge of English stopped at “thank you.” Suddenly, her smile disappeared and she started gesturing wildly with her hands.

“K-hee ohd. K-hee ohd,” she insisted loudly.

With my face turning red from embarrassment and my feet frozen to the floor, all I could do was just shake my head like an idiot to let her know I didn’t understand. But with every second that passed, she just got louder and more boisterous.

“ K-hee ohd. K-hee ohd—k-hee ohd achad!” she repeated, almost yelling now as she gestured towards the mess.

“What? What?”

I had no idea what she was saying. Was she calling me clumsy? Did she want me to clean it up? Was she kicking me out of her pizzeria? Just as I was about to run out the door, a voice from behind came to my rescue.

“Don’t worry,” the voice explained in perfect North American English. “She’s just trying to tell you to take another one.”

I spun around and came face to face with a girl exactly my own height. She had a mane of brown curls, a high regal forehead, a nose full of freckles, and yellowy-green eyes that were almost the exact colour of the raw olives growing in the tree outside my apartment.

“She sounds angry, but she’s really not,” the girl continued. “She’s just Israeli — they’re very passionate here.”

“Oh — well, thanks,” I stammered. “I, um, don’t speak any Hebrew.”

“Yeah, I kind of figured that one out. So, are you a tourist?”

“Not exactly,” I replied, reaching into the freezer for another ice cream bar, much to the obvious relief of the cashier. “I just moved to Jerusalem this week. My name’s Mackenzie. Mackenzie Hill.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m Marla Hoffman. Hey, we’ve got the same initials.”

Outside the pizzeria, we fell in step and continued our conversation. I licked my ice cream happily; I had no idea where we were going, nor did I really care. It was just nice to talk to somebody in English.

It turned out that Marla was sixteen, had moved here from Buffalo, New York five years ago, and lived in an apartment building just down the street from ours.

“I speak Hebrew and I know my way around. So if you want, I can show you the city in the afternoons when I get off work,” she offered.

I eagerly accepted. By the time my ice cream was finished, we’d forged the beginnings of a new friendship.

And what did I do on the seventh day? Simple. I took it easy and chillaxed — just like they did in the Bible — and, for the first time since we landed, thought about all the possibilities this new world had to offer.