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French Cinema, Jerusalem Style?

French Cinema, Jerusalem Style?

Walking along Emek Refaim the other morning I gasped when I saw that what once was a bus shelter had shattered into a million pieces, with shards of glass strewn everywhere and a big, gaping hole where the billboard once stood.

Across the street the same story: Broken glass and police tape sequestering it, not that this prevented anyone from staying away. People just jumped over the police tape and
kept walking.

A nation full of ingrates, I tell you.

"What’s going on?" I asked around.

"They’re filming a movie," said one of the young women who works at the Neeman bakery. I know this because her t-shirt said "Neeman Bakery."

"It’s a French movie," she added, significantly, since anything involving the French is always significant.

Before I could wonder why she wasn’t inside the bakery doling out those delicious cookies with the dolce de leche filling all sprinkled in coconut, I turned my attention to what no longer seemed so scarily like the scene of a bad accident or…worse.

When I looked closer I noticed there were lots of Frenchies roaming around quite Frenchily. And in the midst of all the hubbub there was even a make-up girl applying blush to a gentleman’s face.

Of course, since it was still technically a bus stop, there were all of us regular folks, "extras in the movie of life" you could say, waiting for our ride into town.

"What’s going on?" An older woman asked.

So I filled her in.

She liked this very much. So much so that she showed her appreciation by taking to task the filmmakers for choosing to make this film in the middle of rush hour when it is "already congested enough," and, more importantly, for scaring us out of our wits. "In this country when we see shattered glass we aren’t exactly thinking movie-time," was how she put it.

"It’s a French movie," I added. Significantly.

Another older lady, budded in.

"I know you!" she said, wagging her finger at me. "You’re my neighbor!"

I looked at her blankly.

To help me out she gave me my home address.
And then it came to me. She was my upstairs neighbor who fought with my other upstairs neighbor who has become my friend. One of these two ladies dumped a bucket of water on the other’s head, I am forgetting which one.

"You don’t like dogs," I offered by way of recognition.

My neighbor liked this. She laughed and threw her arms around me and gave me a hug. I took this to mean she was not going to throw a bucket of water over my head.

She told me that it wasn’t so much that she didn’t like dogs but rather that she didn’t like dogs who barked too much or who made a mess on the grass.

"I always pick up because I’m American," I said.

She nodded.

It turns out she’s French.

On the bus I overheard the first elderly lady chatting up another woman who was trying to read. "Did you see all that glass? It’s a movie!!!" she said. "And it’s French!"

The reading woman nodded. I noticed her novel was in French.

All this is by way of saying that I’ve gone on two very nice dates with a very nice someone. But I can’t say more mostly because he reads these blogs. I mean, particularly because he reads these blogs.

Why can’t he read someone else’s blogs?

Meanwhile, we are most definitely going to go out again. The only problem is there is only so much I can write about French movies on Emek Refaim. I just might have to actually take notes on Date Three….

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