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By Judy Lash Balint
 JERUSALEM—On Wednesday morning, having the day off work, I got up late and went for my morning power walk about an hour later than usual. Instead of the quiet streets and the empty park that I usually encounter, today's Jerusalem scenery was a little different.
I'd walked only about half a block from my apartment when drops started falling from the cloudy sky--not an unusual summer occurrence for any of you who live in the US or northern Europe, but here in the parched Middle East it's a moment to relish. People on the street hold out their arms and look up to the heavens with a smile on their faces, not quite believing that raindrops are actually falling on our heads in mid-July. We haven't seen a drop of rain since late April and don't expect to see any until after Sukkot, so the 75-second shower is a lovely morning bonus for those of us who happen to be out in it.
Still savoring the slightly odd sensation of dampness on my skin, I continue on into Old Katamon. The sewing machine in the unmarked workshop of the elderly neighborhood shoemaker is already whirring. In sharp contrast, just down the block but a century removed, two young technicians stand hunched over an open Bezek box, fiddling with the maze of optic cables that power the neighborhood's Internet and phone connections.
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Into the San Simon Park where notices posted by the Jerusalem Foundation announce the opening later this afternoon of a special dog-walking area "where finally, your dogs can run free," (that's the last time this dog-phobic person will include that park on my walking route!)
As I round the corner into the famous Katamon "sniper alley" of the 1948 War of Independence, I notice that the gate of the San Simon Monastery is open and a few Greek Orthodox women are in the courtyard with one of the monks. Tentatively I poke my head into the courtyard to see if there's any chance of sneaking a look inside--I'm summarily dismissed by a wave of the hand from the stern-looking youngish monk and continue on my way.
A few blocks away, I run into a bevvy of observant men of all ages, tallit and tefillin bags tucked under their arms as they hurry toward the next minyan at the Shtieblach, a 24-hour-a-day prayer hall. Just down the street a young bearded man with flowing payot and a green towel flung over his shoulders heads for a morning dip in the mikveh.
On Palmach Street, I stop at the ATM machine, and while I'm waiting in line, I see Aliza Olmert, wife of former Prime Minister Ehud Olmert standing on the corner in a white T-shirt and jeans, shmoozing with an English-speaking friend.
Just an ordinary Jerusalem morning...
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