Cold Beer in Jerusalem

Tuborg, Goldstar, and the names for bottles you only learn when you’re thirsty

I don’t have much of a story for this one.

I was in Jerusalem. It was hot. The kind of dry, biblical heat that makes your knuckles feel overexposed. The sun was doing unspeakable things to my willpower. I wandered until I found a chair and sat down, because sitting down was the only real plan I had.

I ordered a beer.
Tuborg. Or maybe Goldstar. Cold, anyway.
Colder than expected.

One of those perfect, sweating pints that feel like someone handing you forgiveness in a glass. I drank it slowly, like I didn’t want to spook it.

Someone — a waiter, maybe, or a stranger — told me the words.
A “Hetzi” is a half-litre, 500ml.
A small glass is a “Shleesh”.
And a bottle? They call it a “Bakbook.”

I was sat outside, beer in hand, watching the day slow down around me. A yellow triangular sheet had been strung between rooftops overhead, casting shade over the street like a sail caught between buildings. It was thick enough to block the weight of the sun, but thin enough that the light still danced across its surface — soft ripples of gold and heat. A few worn holes let beams through, hot white spots that landed on stone and sand and skin like little suns of their own. If only I had a camera, I thought — but this wasn’t one of those days. This was a day for watching, for sitting still, for letting the light do what it wanted.

Some moments don’t want to be captured. They just want to hold you for a bit, then pass.

Somewhere nearby, someone was grilling meat — lamb maybe, spiced and crackling on open flames. The smell folded into the air like it belonged there, like it had always been part of the city. I remember seeing a man walking past with a paper plate full of shawarma, another carrying a stack of warm pita like treasure. Everything smelled like smoke, garlic, salt, and time.

At some point, I caved. There was a guy on the street with a wooden cart, hand-rolling falafel and dropping them into oil like he was born doing it. No sign. No price. Just the smell and the sizzle and the way his hands moved like they didn’t need to think anymore. I bought some — falafel, hummus, a paper napkin that barely held together in the heat. Crisp, hot, impossible not to smile through.

I sat back down with the beer and the paper plate, ate quietly, letting the city keep happening around me. That was enough. Cold, clean, slightly bitter lager. Spiced chickpeas. A yellow sheet catching the light like a soft drum. And a city that didn’t need me to do anything except sit still.

Jerusalem didn’t ask much of me that day. And I gave it nothing but time, beer, and appetite.

Beer. Words. Heat. Food.
Nothing more.
But I think about it often.

I’ve forgotten every tour guide speech I heard that week. But I remember “Bakbook.”

-Harry