It became my daily routine, parking behind the sleek, black BMW convertible. My middle-class, powder blue Mazda 3, the word sport to make The Huzzy and I feel that we still have youth at our fingertips. Always a bit dusty and the wheels always dirty.
The BMW looked washed every day. Her license plates from Germany, a big EU sticker announcing her foreign blood. She was always there, waiting for me and my carpool when we came to class. The engine still warm.
The mystery lasted for months. Her identity unknown, a mere imaginative story with my morning coffee.
Every morning, we pass Jerusalem’s old city. Following Route 1, that wraps around the new gate and leads us to graduate school every morning. Every morning, we reach the top of the hill, just past the New Gate and we watch the golden sun blanket the limestone neighborhoods, reaching across the ancient streets. This is what we get with our morning coffees, still steaming in our portable cups.
And then there she is, taking a right towards Damascus Gate. We follow her.
“He’s having an affair, he’s going to see his mistress” offers my first passenger. ” No no, this MUST be a shortcut” another reasons. We follow the morning traffic into East Jerusalem. Lightly nervous about the direction this could possibly take. The BMW takes the road that dips deep into the valley, and follows it back up. “I’m not sure where he’s going” I nervously say. “What if we get lost and we never make it to class again” my imagination offers. I slow the car down and we collectively decide to turn around and take the path we know best.
15 minutes later, we pull up once again behind the BMW, her engine warm from winning another race.
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