Breakfast and Dead Sea
Early morning.
Turn left into the first alley inside the Damascus Gate and you will find a little bakery.
A dried-up baker stands in a pit shoveling dough pancakes into a glowing oven. The pancakes puff up into lovely brown rolls. Little girls in stripped pinafores come and go buying bread for their families’ breakfast for a coin. A patriarch in soiled robes discusses something with a tiny black-haired girl.
Sunny and I buy breakfast in the bakery: three eggs broken into a pastry shell, salted, peppered and baked. While I am eating, a little boy, perhaps four years old, wearing a natty tweed jacket, walks up, puts his chin on my knee and gazes into my eyes with the bright fluid eyes of the very young. I wonder why I so fascinate him.
We catch a bus to the Dead Sea.
Another disappointment.
This celebrated “sea” is a small, narrow lake easily crossed by a weak swimmer.
We try swimming too but, surprise, the water is so super saturated with salt that we just bounce off. It's like trying to dive into rubber—and the salty brine really stings the eyes!
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