The Memory of Sensation

From Jerusalem to Tbilisi, recollecting imagined realities...

(Your editor, getting lost in Jerusalem’s Old City, Israel. Photo: Dear Daughter)

“The pure present is an ungraspable advance of the past devouring the future. In truth, all sensation is already memory.”

~ Henri Bergson, Matter and Memory

Joel Bowman, with today’s Note from the End of the World...

Reflecting on the year that has been, we pause to consider the lessons between the relentless rush of mere and mortal moments, what Henri Bergson called the “ungraspable advance of the past devouring the future.” 

Somewhere, usually lost in the fog of direct experience, that rapid-fire progression of transitory instants that bombards our fallible sensory portals, there lies a world of latent, even stealth communication which, though it may not appear as relevant or even extant “at the time,” so to speak, renders itself very much so after the fact. 

This is particularly true when we travel through space... as well as time. That is to say, when we journey to exotic climes and far off lands. Confronted with a deluge of novel information – the babble of a foreign tongue, the strange and mystical tones of unfamiliar music... a surprising flavor, an arresting scent, a vivid color combination...a challenging political, cultural or spiritual perspective, etc. – we often overlook the profound in allowing our weary mind to repose on the superficial. 

Only later, through the prism of dreams, conversations, deep reflection, does another picture altogether begin to emerge...

(The Dead Sea, as seen on the drive from Eilat to Jerusalem earlier this year. Source: Joel)

Holy Days

Had we realized the entire city would be closed, we might have chosen another day to arrive in Jerusalem. Our driver, a cheerful Russian Jew who had emigrated to the Holy Land back in the ‘90s, along with a million of his fellow countrymen under the Law of Return, remained sanguine. 

“You’ll find somewhere to eat, no problem,” he laughed, a coy smile on his face. “Try the Armenian Quarter. The Christians and Moslems serve on Shabbat too, but not like their Armenian brothers. The dolma, the manti...” he continued, as if mid-meal himself, “...the khorovats.”

We spent the dwindling afternoon wandering the Old Town, walking the Via Dolorosa, checking out the Roman glassware behind closed windows and visiting the Western Wall. The shops in our neighborhood were shuttered, the streets more or less deserted, but for the odd group of young Jewish men wandering to or from family gatherings. 

(Wandering the streets of Jerusalem on Shabbat. Source: Joel)

Late the following morning, we set off toward the Armenian Quarter, as instructed. A professor friend, who had spent a few years in the city before moving on to Hong Kong, had recommended one of her favorite local beaneries, set in a traditional Jerusalem house, made of that ubiquitous pale limestone. After wandering the wending alleyways in the scorching midday sun, we were happy at last to arrive at our destination...

A Georgian restaurant... in the middle of the Armenian Quarter... in Jerusalem... named Kangaroo. 

The atmosphere was cozy and convivial, with a half dozen tables spread out around an open-style dining room. But for another family nearby, and a honey-eyed couple canoodling in the corner, we had missed the lunchtime rush. Unfamiliar with practically everything on the menu, we bade the waitress, a sprightly twenty-something of Georgian heritage, to treat us like locals and to kindly serve us whatever she saw fit. 

What followed still brings a tear to the eye. Steaming rich lobio (spicy red beans with coriander, walnut, garlic, onion and Persephone’s precious pomegranate) served in a clay pot... succulent shashlik (plump, tender lamb cubes marinated in a vinegar sauce, then skewered and drizzled with tangy yogurt)... plus khinkali (Georgian steamed dumplings with shredded pork and beef)... khachapuri (traditional pastry stuffed with salty Georgian cheese and topped with egg)... and pickled mushrooms, cucumbers and spicy carrots. 

Then the wine... fodder for another installment altogether. Straw-colored Kisi with hints of pear, apricot and green tea... ink-black Saparavi, Georgia’s bold and belligerent red... followed by chacha (a strong “wine vodka” made from the grape pomace residue in the qvevri) and Georgian brandy, which our Virgilian guide joined us in toasting, tamada style. 

‘Twas a supra to make Oblonsky himself blush. And all the while, as the victuals and refreshments flowed, so too did the planning...

Imagined Realities Recollected

Owing to the imagined reality of the European Union’s visa requirements – assumed by no few to have been created on the fourth day, along with the sun itself – your rambling correspondent and his peripatetic family had a “spare month” floating on their northern summer itinerary... that is, thirty days and change to be anywhere except the EU. Full of good cheer and better company, and armed with rhapsodic testimonials courtesy of our brimming waitress, the question at hand barely needed to ask itself. 

Responding in the affirmative, dear wife went about booking tickets (from Corfu to Tbilisi, as it turned out) while yours truly set about finding a suitable abode in the capital. Locating sound quarters along Rustaveli Avenue, named in honor of the nation’s foremost poet, we did what any responsible parent would do given the serendipitous circumstances and, determined not to let the opportunity slip by, promptly made the appropriate arrangements. 

Needless to say our waitress-cum-travel-guide was thrilled to learn of the plans she helped inspire, all finalized before churchkhela candy dessert hit the table, and with a proud patriotism, politely refused our gratuity (which we left under the placemat anyway). 

Only later did we discover that Shota Rustaveli, the Georgian poet who penned the medieval epic, The Knight in Panther’s Skin, died right there in Jerusalem. His body rests still in the Monastery of the Cross, an Eastern Orthodox church near the Nayot neighborhood, a half an hour stroll from where we sat. 

We never did find out why the place was called Kangaroo.

Stay tuned for more Notes from the End of the World, next time...

Cheers,

Joel Bowman

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