שוק הכרמל

Friday afternoon: A crowd has gathered at the entrance of Shuk HaCarmel. A band is playing (a man and a woman) Hebrew classics from yesteryear, songs from the dawn of the state, songs soaked in nostalgia, songs for a soon-to-die generation. The woman sits on a stool, singing. The man stands, juggling recorders like prosthetic limbs, playing the clown, caught up in the excitement like everyone else. One weighty old womans stands there, jiggling away, transparently happy, her cigarette nearly slipping from her fingers, an afterthought. An old man dances unashamedly, knowing there is no such thing as bad dancing, unconcerned as to whether he is being watched. “Shabbat is nearly here,” the singer announces, “so we’ll sing Hallel.” Around them, the urgent crowd of Friday afternoon shoppers carries on its business, emptying stock like ragged looters.