Free Palestine NOW

I was getting gold chains on 47th Street yesterday. Business was slow at the findings. The owner asked, "Where are you from?"

"Boston." No one in the Diamond District had ever asked my origins. I am a goy. Gentiles don't really count except on the Shabbath, when the Hassidim need us to turn on the lights. "I'm the Shabbath Goy."

"Doesn't matter to me. I'm not Jewish. I'm an Armenian born in Israel." Armenians are scattered through the jewelry business. Not many, but for than the other goyim. "I left in 1957. I've spent my whole life on this street."

"And have you ever seen times like this?" I was 5 years-old when he arrived in the USA.

"Never."

"Not even in Palestine."

"That's the first time I've ever heard anyone on this street call it that." He smiled with a lost sadness. "Palestine. It wasn't like they said. It was beautiful. More natural. Like Utah. And the fruit. It wasn't fake like now. But what can you do?"

"Just remember I guess."

"Well, have a good day."

I thanked him for his best wishes and headed back to the Plaza Hotel. I was going to open late. It happened every day.