Friday, May 1, 2020

The streetcorner violinist is back. He is wearing his mask under his chin, smoking a cigarette as he plays. Backing tracks sound from a speaker at his feet. I’ve seen him play a banjo, too, here and outside the mall. He’s sticking to violin today. I listen to him as I order a falafel at my favorite place. The worker cooks up a fresh batch of the falafel balls. She packs more of them into the pita than should be possible. Thinking about them, I can’t remember the English word for chickpeas. I cycle through words in Hebrew, Spanish, Arabic, and Yiddish before it comes back to me. My boss walks by, calls my name, and wishes me a good Sabbath. Most shops are open. The bookstore and cinematheque remain closed. A new shop offers Middle Eastern pastries. I think of getting something, but I’m not sure what is what. The tiny space that had sold transit cards is becoming a new cafe. The ice cream shop is open for the first time since the lockdown began. I go in and order, in Hebrew, a cup of dulce de leche and cinnamon. The worker repeats my order in English and serves it up. I sit on a bench to eat it, away from other people. When I’m done, I step into the bakery and pick out a challah. The worker tells me that it is a sweet challah, including a word that I don’t know. At dinner, I feel and taste raisins in it, but have forgotten the Hebrew word.