אֵיןEINמָקוֹםma-KOMבִּירוּשָׁלַיִםbi-ru-sha-LA-yimכְּמוֹKMOשׁוּקSHUKמַחֲנֵהma-kha-NEיְהוּדָהye-hu-DAבַּבֹּקֶרba-BO-kerשֶׁלshelיוֹםyomשִׁשִּׁי.shi-SHI.רֵיחוֹתrei-KHOTשֶׁלshelלֶחֶםLE-khemטָרִי,ta-RI,תַּפּוּזִיםta-pu-ZIMבְּשֵׁלִיםbe-she-LIMוְעִשְׂבֵיve-is-VEIתִּבּוּלti-BULיְרֻקִּיםye-ru-KIMמְמַלְּאִיםme-mal-IMאֶתetהָאֲוִיר.ha-a-VIR.רוֹכְלִיםrokh-LIMקוֹרְאִיםkor-IMבְּקוֹלוֹתbe-ko-LOTרָמִיםra-MIMאֶתetמְחִירֵיme-khi-REIהַיְרָקוֹת,ha-ye-ra-KOT,הַפֵּרוֹתha-pe-ROTוְהַזֵּיתִיםve-ha-zei-TIMהַכְּבוּשִׁים.ha-kvu-SHIM.אִשָּׁהi-SHAמִתְמַקַּחַתmit-ma-KA-khatעַלalמְחִירme-KHIRהַדָּגִיםha-da-GIMבְּסַבְלָנוּתbe-sav-la-NUTוּבְהוּמוֹר.u-ve-hu-MOR.אֲנִיa-NIעוֹצֵרo-TZERבְּדוּכָןbe-du-KHANקָטָןka-TANוְשׁוֹתֶהve-sho-TEקָפֶהka-FEשָׁחוֹרsha-KHORעִםimהֵלHELבְּכוֹסbe-KHOSקַרְטוֹן.kar-TON.אִישׁISHזָקֵןza-KENמְנַגֵּןme-na-GENשִׁירSHIRעָצוּבa-TZUVעַלalעוּדUDלְיַדle-YADהַמַּאֲפִיָּה.ha-ma-a-fi-YA.הֲמוֹנֵיha-mo-NEIתַּיָּרִים,tai-ya-RIM,סְטוּדֶנְטִיםstu-DEN-timוְנָשִׁיםve-na-SHIMמְבֻגָּרוֹתme-vu-ga-ROTנִדְחָקִיםnid-kha-KIMבֵּיןbeinהַסִּמְטָאוֹת.ha-sim-ta-OT.אֲנִיa-NIיוֹצֵאyo-TZEמֵהַשּׁוּקme-ha-SHUKעִםIMחָמֵשׁkha-MESHשַׂקִּיּוֹתsa-ki-YOTוְעִםve-IMהַרְגָּשָׁהhar-ga-SHAשֶׁבְּמֶשֶׁךְshe-be-ME-shekhשָׁעָהsha-Aאַחַתa-KHATהָיִיתִיha-YI-tiחֵלֶקKHE-lekמֵהַקֶּצֶבme-ha-KE-tzevשֶׁלּוֹ.she-LO.
There's no place in Jerusalem like Mahane Yehuda Market on a Friday morning. Smells of fresh bread, ripe oranges, and green herbs fill the air. Vendors call out the prices of the vegetables, the fruit, and the pickled olives in loud voices. A woman bargains over the price of fish with patience and humor. I stop at a small stall and drink black coffee with cardamom in a paper cup. An old man plays a sad song on an oud next to the bakery. Crowds of tourists, students, and older women squeeze through the alleyways. I leave the market with five bags and a feeling that for one hour I was part of its rhythm.