Ein Kerem
January 5
I’d heard about these stained-glass windows that Marc Chagall created — 12 windows, each representing one of the 12 tribes of Israel — to adorn the synagogue at Hadassah Ein Kerem Hospital, a few miles outside of Jerusalem. Pursuit of said windows seemed like a worthwhile expedition for a bright January day, the sunniest in weeks, with the child at gan and the husband soaring somewhere over the Atlantic. I brought my mother-in-law of blessed memory, Dolores Curiel, along with me, this type of quirky quest for art being right up her alley.
Even with all the information about a destination one could possibly need a mere finger swipe away, I still experience a rush of the unknown when I’m transported by bus or train to a new place. Once I board, the getting-there is out of my hands; I can see where I am at any given moment but am never quite sure what’s around the next corner. So as the bus wound through Jerusalem’s southwest suburbs, up and around the monstrous (and somehow always, disturbingly on the horizon) Holyland Towers, and finally swung onto a ridge line overlooking evergreen-forested hills, I was truly and delightfully surprised to see four gleaming golden onion domes shooting up out of the foliage.
Bookmark that, I thought, as the bus rolled on and the domes withdrew into the forest. I arrived at the hospital a few minutes later, asked a security guard where the synagogue was, and was directed through some nearby sliding doors into a … mall. Apparently, the main entrance to one of the preeminent hospitals in Israel is a mall. So I meandered in, checked out a sale on shoes, and finally found signs pointing to the Chagall windows.
I paid 10 shekels (about $2.50) and a woman let me into the locked synagogue, turned on an audio tour in English, and left me alone amid the jewel-toned streams of light shooting through the 12 windows that framed the space above the sanctuary. Coincidentally, the previous week’s parsha (Torah portion/reading) was Jacob’s deathbed scene, where he blesses his sons — and there they all were, their deeds and attributes, blessings and curses, gleaming forth through Chagall’s vision.
I lingered awhile, then made my way out of the hospital — with a quick stop at the food court for coffee and bourekas — and mapped out a walking route down into the valley to the village of Ein Kerem. That route took me through parking lots, past the dorms connected with the teaching hospital, and, as it happens, to the gates of the monastery with those gorgeous gold onion domes. Visiting hours, according to a sign, were about to end, but the door was open, so I stepped in.
It was like entering another world — or at least another country. Sweet cobbled paths and stone cottages, lush greenery and flowers, a chapel here, a cluster of nuns there. No Hebrew, no English; only Russian. As I made my way downhill, stopping to admire the quaintness of it all, I soon realized that I was the only non-nun/pilgrim traipsing around. (I should note here that Ein Kerem is, according to Christian tradition, the birthplace of John the Baptist and, as such, is now home to a great many churches and monasteries. According to Wikipedia, a million Christian pilgrims visit every year).
I continued on for a bit — the place was huge! — trying to act like I belonged there, or at least knew where I was going. Eventually, I gave up the ruse and found a (sort of) English speaker, who told me the only way to get to the village was to return to the gate from which I’d entered and catch a bus. This was not what Google Maps and Moovit were telling me. No, these all-knowing apps said Ein Kerem was an easy 2-kilometer stroll down from the hospital, as opposed to a 6-kilometer trek or bus ride. So I thanked the woman, headed in the direction she’d pointed me, but quickly detoured off, phone in hand, determined to pursue this elusive walking route.
Thirty minutes later, I’d pretty much circumambulated the monastery grounds — getting a hearty uphill hike and some beautiful views of the valley with its ancient stone agricultural terraces and budding almond trees — and had concluded that the outlet to continue down to the village no longer existed. In fact, my map apps, no joke, directed me into a brick wall. I no longer had time to pursue an alternate route and still make it back to Jerusalem to pick up dear daughter from gan, and was in the process of heaving a dramatic sigh of resignation before trekking back to the hospital bus stop, when a pickup truck rattled by. It wasn’t headed in the direction of the main gate, so I followed it around a bend … to a small gate in the process of being opened … and I was free.
With a mixture of relief and pride in my persistence, I trotted off down the lane to Ein Kerem. Along my way, I passed the remnants of a road supposedly built by Hadrian to bring troops into Jerusalem to subdue the Bar Kochba rebellion; several more churches and monasteries; and the minaret of a mosque that once served the village’s Arab community before it was “depopulated” during the 1948 war of independence. Below the former mosque, I found Ein Kerem’s most renown pilgrimage site, the Spring of Mary, which Christian tradition reveres as the site of a meeting between the Virgin Mary and her cousin Elizabeth, John the Baptist’s mother, when the two were both expecting.
From the spring, the road led to the center of Ein Kerem, which, apart from its mash-up of historical and religious sites, is known for its abundance of artist’s studios and high degree of ridiculous cuteness. With just a short time left, I poked into a ceramic-tile studio, chatted with the artist, and, since my birthday was three days away, bought a little gift for myself. (See image at the top of this page.)
At a dinner party the following week, a new acquaintance mentioned he lived in Ein Kerem. When I told him I’d just been there, he asked, “Did you come for the hiking or the chocolate?” With all the gorgeous hills and forests that surround Ein Kerem, I wasn’t surprised that hiking is a draw, but the chocolate — a highly regarded artisanal confectionary and cafe, my friend said — was a surprise. I guess I’ll just have to go back.
