Before I wrote for publication, I wrote travel letters: long, chatty, and full of detail. At the suggestion of a friend, I submitted an updated version of this one to the Jerusalem Post. Much to my surprise, it appeared in the Jerusalem edition of the paper.
Dear friends,
Nearly two weeks ago, I entered a new state of being, known as “sprained-ankleness.” It was all due to a little daydreaming, a little hole in the street, and a little rushing bus-wards. And I wasn’t even running! Now that the sprained-ankle period in my life is nearly over, I can see several distinct advantages in the experience.
I experience a marked increase of sympathy for the crippled portion of the world. On the bus, I spend most of my time in the front seats – which are reserved for the elderly, the pregnant, the blind, and the lame. I chatter with the happy, rotund young blind man who sits down beside me. Because I can’t stand too long at one time, I share the bench at the Church of the Holy Sepulchure with the elderly ladies, and perch on the floor at the back of the Church of All Nations near the elderly priest in the camp chair. I feel a twinge of sympathy for every crutch-user I see, but know that I get to return my crutch at the end of the month.
More Israelis talk to me than ever before. After feeling insecure with Hebrew, and even developing a stutter in class, I am warmly validated by chattering away with a tiny elderly French-Israeli lady on the bus — for about fifteen minutes — after she asks if I’m okay. The garrulous gentleman who stands at the bus stop with us recognizes me and asks if I’ve fallen. I confidently reply that I’ve only sprained my ankle, and I’m fine! I even manage to decipher the comments of the lady at the bus stop, though I only recognize two words: she thinks I should ask the municipality to give me money, since I stepped in a hole on their street. I thank her, but decide that there’s no need to charge Jerusalem just because I don’t bother to look where I’m going!
I experience the unfailing kindness of fellow sojourners. My sister uncomplainingly runs errands for me at home and shoulders the whole responsibility of grocery shopping. My neighbors supply sympathy, ice, ankle wraps, and rides in their car. Even fellow students in Hebrew class who have never spoken to me before flex their Hebrew or English in order to find out what happened to me.
While Israelis are proverbially brusque, I get the privilege of seeing their soft side. Sometimes the busy bus driver waves me to the front seat. At other times the occupants of the front seat make a place for me and beckon me to sit down. The gentleman behind me at the door of the bus offers to help me up the step. I decline, but later wish I’d encouraged his chivalry. The lady walking toward me in front of the YMCA tells me she is worried for me, and after that I mind the uneven pavement. The moving guys on the steps of Yemin Moshe tell me to take it slowly, and I laugh. My Hebrew teacher — whose little son has recently broken his leg — praises me for making it to class on a mere sprained ankle.
One evening at the end of my first week of crutch use, I am especially fed up with it! After the fifty-seventh complaint, however, I am just about to get off the bus when I look down. There, standing outside, is a curly-haired Israeli girl who is reaching a helping hand up toward me. I grasp her hand, jump awkwardly off the step, and land safely on the ground, where I turn and thank her with a big smile and a “toda raba.” As I stump towards home with teary eyes, I have changed my mind: it is definitely worth spraining my ankle to experience Jerusalem’s heart of gold!
The full text is no longer available for free at Jerusalem Post, but you can view an abstract here.
Elisabeth Adams 