The big guy made me do it.
It was late morning on a Wednesday in July, when Jerusalem oozes with a thick heat that traps you inside of it, like a fly in amber, and I was at the Kotel, waiting for the women in my family to conclude their visit to their side of the sacred stone wall. Call me a creep, but I’ve never really warmed up to the mossy old remnant: Every time I paid it a visit, my mind never failed to enumerate the many reasons for the wall’s singular significance, but the heart was never roused from its slumber. Emotionally, standing at the foot of the wall was like gazing at the Mona Lisa—so set are we with an expectation of a transformative emotional experience that by the time we cram in with the masses and find ourselves in the presence of the real thing we can’t help but feel disappointed.
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