Unveiling Ramallah

Crossing the border was a lengthy process. We were herded like cattle into constricting cage-like passages, one by one, slowly leading us to a young official's desk. We handed our passports. He lazily reached for the documents, and carried out the extend of his duties by briefly glancing at our sweaty faces while continuing a conversation in Hebrew with a colleague, simultaneously signaling us to pass through. On the other side, the sun blasts as hard as the Arabic music from the mini vans waiting for us. Opposed to the officers working at the desks, these drivers quickly crammed as many passengers as would fit inside of each vehicle and take off racing into the traffic jam surrounding the check-point.
The colorful political-graffiti-ridden facade of the divisory wall, gave an edge to its general greyness that I had been observing since departing Jerusalem.
I was in the wrong side of tracks now, or where -according to the US Embassy and other travelers- I wasn't supposed to be. My American upbringing drew a guilty feeling in the pit of my stomach. But the sensory perceptions overrid my worries, bringing me out of a conscientious daze: poverty strikes my eyes, reminiscent of favelas and villa miserias seen before. The air seeping in from the mini van door at every stop, is perfumed with the same shanty border town danger from back home in Laredo. My friend and local guide points at a refugee camp, which is barely discernible from its surrounding architecture without its telltale sign.
Sweat drips down my forehead as I catch a glimpse of the women on this side of the wall: proud, elegant and quite covered up for the temperature. The overbearing heat had a diverse effect, I notice: instead of the temperature rise coming hand in hand with the sensual exhibition skin, women here are modestly covered up - all except me, making me uneasily aware of the unwanted attention I was drawing, although being demurely clothed for my standards.
The last stop was Menara, the main square. Tareq reminds me to use my scarf to cover my shoulders. Thinking of my unease during the bus ride, I gladly comply. Loud music pumps out of unseen sources, and the activity on the street is dizzying. We find a taxi, jump in, and I'm taken to my new home for the fortnight.
As we drove into Ramallah, I prepared to open my senses.
The city had began to unveil itself in front of my eyes: stripping itself to eventually reveal a vibrating and young budding city, that tastes like mouthwatering falafel and chewy gum ice cream, and sounds like calls for prayers and disco music. So what does it feel like? It feels like afternoons spent at the hammam, walks in the desert, and the love and kindness that a local family -no matter how much suffering and destruction they had witnessed in their lifetime-was able to transmit to a complete stranger.