The City of Lions

  Tonight there is a Medieval festival in the Christian quarter of the Old City. Dancers attached to pulleys run up and down one of the ancient walls at a ninety degree angle. Dressed up as knights, they mime out a literal war-dance in spotlight.  They kick off the wall and spin, entangled.  Below, two men fight, striking each other's shields with swinging balls of fire. Deeper into the quarter, a crowd gathers around a fire breather. The man is dressed in peasant rags and spins a torch lit at opposite ends. His dark face is slick with moisture as he blows out flames. Everything suddenly becomes alive--a scene straight out of 1,001 Arabian Nights.  The peasant drops his torch to climb a suspended rope that extends into the night sky. He twists the cord around his body, folding, spinning, balancing. As he dances above us, rain suddenly breaks and I'm forced to wrap my scarf around my head like a Muslim. The rain pours down harder and harder and I cannot help but throw my head back and smile with all my heart: I'm here, I'm here.