Journey to the Holy Land / 3
Stones and antennas, a combination difficult to accept.
Maronite Archbishopric From the terrace of the Holy Land, not far from the Tower of David, you can enjoy a breathtaking view of the holy city. I got there, being literally open-mouthed for the umpteenth time observing many domes, steeples many, many minarets, many synagogues. And a lot of dishes, many air conditioners, many repeaters phones. Urban landscapes are changing due to technology. What you have to do the tombs of the Mount of Olives with white satellite dishes? What the gold of the Dome of the Rock with the stems to the god phone? None. Yet these are our current city digital technology can not withstand even the white stones of Jerusalem I have seen the sorts of things in thirty centuries of history! The important thing is not to think that the stones are only ... support to the antennas!
From the window of my room for three hours I was able to live an Armenian wedding. The audio of the party. At first I thought it was a Jewish lullaby, although the district where they are housed, near the Damascus Gate, is decidedly Arabic. Then I thought, however, that they were Muslim prayers, because someone has started a sermon. Then, instead, I had to think again, because the rattle of the tongue was neither Arab nor Jewish. It was an Armenian wedding, since not far from my residence is in effect the Armenian Catholic patriarchate, one of many in the city. What convinced me was not so much the language, but that seemed unusual, because the rhythm of the music, so characteristic and unique, neither Western nor Eastern, Armenian and nostalgic of the harsh mountains while dotted with extraordinarily sweet green.
From the window of my room for three hours I was able to live an Armenian wedding. The audio of the party. At first I thought it was a Jewish lullaby, although the district where they are housed, near the Damascus Gate, is decidedly Arabic. Then I thought, however, that they were Muslim prayers, because someone has started a sermon. Then, instead, I had to think again, because the rattle of the tongue was neither Arab nor Jewish. It was an Armenian wedding, since not far from my residence is in effect the Armenian Catholic patriarchate, one of many in the city. What convinced me was not so much the language, but that seemed unusual, because the rhythm of the music, so characteristic and unique, neither Western nor Eastern, Armenian and nostalgic of the harsh mountains while dotted with extraordinarily sweet green.
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