Saturday, May 30, 2020

I’m not sure if the cafe is open. From a distance, I don’t see anyone there. It’s usually crowded on Sabbath afternoons. As I approach it, a few people come into view, seated at widely separated tables. Two parties are on the patio. One couple is indoors. None of the customers appear to have masks on their faces, so I take mine off as I sit at a small table outdoors. A server comes up to me. She ceremoniously scans my forehead with a thermometer and says several things in rapid Hebrew that I barely understand. One of them involves masks. Looking around, I see that the other customers do have masks, but have tucked them under their chins. I put mine back on and do the same. She nods and leaves me a paper menu. It’s smaller than the usual one. They don’t appear to be serving breakfast in the afternoon anymore. I stare at it for a while and figure out what I want. The server returns and asks me. I order from the menu, stumbling over a few words. “Where are you from?” she asks in English. The US. “New York?” I’ve lived there. “You have the same accent as my aunt. She lives in Riverdale, New York.” I’ve been there twice. One time I visited someone I’d met online. I remember walking down an endless rabbit warren of hallways, far up in a high-rise, to reach his apartment. I don’t remember why I was there the second time. I may have been speaking to a class about something. Close to forty years later, the memory is vague. After a few minutes, another server brings my cappuccino. She is taller than the first. She walks as if she’s on a tightrope, trying not to spill the overfilled cup. My sandwich appears a little later with an American-style salad. More people arrive as I sit, eat, and read the book that I brought with me. Several smoke, but they’re all downwind. Two women arrive without masks and appear to insist that the rules are only for other people. The server steps into the back and returns with generic surgical masks for each of them. They roll their eyes and tuck the masks under their chins. I check my phone briefly. Friends of friends are facing tear gas, pepper spray, and fires. If I were in an American city, I would be with them, though I would try to document and support what they're doing at a distance from the front lines. All I can do from here is stay in touch. My server brings me the check. I take out my credit card. “Would you like to put a tip on the card? What percentage?” I tell her. She is surprised. I had forgotten that people tip much less here. It’s OK. The service was good. Here in the quiet Middle East, it’s been a pleasant afternoon.