Tuesday, April 24, 2018 11:27 PM

I run from the bus stop to the laundry just as the owner -- young, devoutly Jewish, and, I believe, Ethiopian -- has finished locking the door. (A downside of my apartment: no washing machine or dryer, nor any way to hook them up or dry clothes outdoors.) He sees me, smiles, turns back, and undoes the locks. Inside, he climbs over mounds of laundry in the dark, heading directly for my duffel bag. He retrieves it and brings it out. This is only the third time we've met, but he remembers me. I thank him profusely. "Joseph, right?" he asks in English. I nod. He points to himself and says "Michael." "Thank you, Michael," I say in Hebrew. He picks up his bags and heads off. I run (as quickly as I can carrying a lumpy eight-kilo bag) back to the bus stop, To my surprise, I make my connection home.