Postcard from Jerusalem: My hunt for hummus after lockdown
Monday
After many weeks of lockdown, Israel has reopened for business. I treat myself with a trip to the big supermarket to stock up on hummus. I pass a park in central Jerusalem which is rammed with families and youngsters having picnics.
I purchase a small mountain of hummus and head home, counting six police patrols who are looking to fine people who aren't wearing face masks.
I tuck in. It has the taste and texture of glue. As a relative new-comer here, I wonder where the good hummus can be found in Israel.
Tuesday
"Why is the hummus in the supermarkets so bad?" I ask a friend in Jerusalem. "No one buys that stuff," he chortles. "Make your own or get takeaway from the restaurants."
I opt for the former, then head to the newly opened hardware shop, where I inquire about a blender. "How much is this?"I ask in broken Hebrew. "130 shekels," says the shopkeeper. "130 shekels!" I think to myself, "you'll not see a penny from me." I buy the blender anyway, and an umbrella as it has just started raining for the first time in weeks.
It occurs to me that the hardware shop is a little cramped for social distancing, but if any of the customers inside had the virus then Israel's phone surveillance system would probably have picked it up.
Wednesday
Strolling through Jerusalem, I notice that you can divide the population into three broad groups based on the type of face mask they wear. There are the fashionistas, who wear stylish black masks with brand names emblazoned on them.
There are the no-fuss practical types like me, who got a straightforward disposable surgical mask. And then there are the panic-stricken folks decked out in full-face shields that look like the helmets worn by riot policemen. In fact, there is a fourth group - people who don't wear face masks at all. And their numbers are growing.
Thursday
A big story has broken about the British government's shipment of PPE gowns from Turkey - as the Telegraph sensationally revealed, they're not fit for purpose. I'm unable to travel to Turkey to track down the businessman who sold the dodgy PPE as virtually all air travel in the Middle East is suspended.
Instead, I make contact with a local Turkish reporter and we work together to find out as much as we can about Mehmet Duzen, the mysterious t-shirt-salesman-turned-PPE-baron at the heart of the scandal.
Friday
Israel shuts down on Friday afternoons for Shabbat, the Jewish sabbath. I nip to the supermarket to pick up some beer. A grumpy security guard points a gun-like thermometer at my forehead. It appears I do not have coronavirus - hurrah!
Israelis are supposed to wear latex gloves as well as face masks in public, and while shopping I discover this has an unexpected benefit - it makes it very easy to unstick plastic bags at the checkout till.
I help an old lady peel off a few bags and head home, picking up some very expensive hummus from a restaurant on the way. Israel's eateries have reopened, but only for deliveries and collections. I tear off the lid, plunge a breadstick into the creamy mixtures and take a bite. It is the finest hummus ever to pass my lips. I am in hummus heaven, at last.
Saturday
It's my day off. There is stony silence in Jerusalem, the streets utterly deserted, as always, on Shabbat. I reflect on how the Jewish state is no stranger to coronavirus lockdown as it has been practising for it once a week for the past 72 years.
Later today I'm off for a run, but a little confused by the rules on face masks. I can't find any guidance on whether you're supposed to wear them while exercising, and neither do my Israeli friends. Can I even breathe properly while running in a face mask? It is a dilemma.
Did I decide to live dangerously, risk a fine, and go without? Well, let's say I'm not foolish enough to incriminate myself in my own newspaper - the head of the Jerusalem police force is a reader, after all.
