Kenneth T. Williams – Playwright

A double whiskey and a moleskin notebook are a perfect way to end an evening of touring.

It was a long day of travel – walking and walking and walking. Mom was sick so she had to bail out early to rest up for tomorrow. So I was on my own for the evening. I had asked a cab driver about any good bars in Jerusalem – he recommended the American Colony Hotel. I wasn’t into that so I asked about pubs.

“Dublin,” he said. “You can walk to it from your hotel.”

“You mean, like an Irish pub?” I asked.

“Yes, exactly,” he said. “Irish.”

Which is exactly what I needed. Israel has an amazing dance and rave scene but I wasn’t up for tabs of E and flailing neon arms. I didn’t want an elegant place either. I wanted a bar where I could shine the rails, scribble into my notebook, and nurse a couple of double whiskeys. I wanted a place where I could relax and reflect on my day in Jerusalem, maybe a little conversation with an ex-pat or two. Dublin sounded like the perfect place.

I couldn’t find it. There is no consistent English-Hebrew translation of anything in Israel, especially street names. The map the hotel gives you will probably have a different spelling than the street signs which will have a different spelling than Google Maps. For example: Jaffa, Jafo and Yafo all refer to the same street. Okay, some context clues will get you out of that mess, but most street names in Israel are much longer. Adding to the confusion is that locals and, often, local maps will use only part of the name. Then try pronouncing it, so the locals can help. Like this: Haroeh. Go ahead, say it out loud. I can guarantee you, you said it wrong. I just know. This is where I’m staying in Ramat Gan and I’ve yet to say it right. I take a few stabs at it until the cab drivers just blurt out – ARROW-eh? The cross street is Sderot HaTsanhamin – good luck with that.

Okay, I’m overstating the case. If you only speak English, you’re going to find someone who speaks it and understands your mangled Hebrew pronunciation and point you in the right direction. But I was feeling a little adventurous. I didn’t want help. I wandered towards the part of the city the cab driver had pointed. I was about to give up when I found a boulevard of outdoor cafes and a giant Guiness sign. Huzzah, I found it.

It wasn’t the place. I found O’Connell’s. That’s right, Jerusalem has two Irish pubs near each other. Fuck it, close enough. I walked in, spotted a near full bottle of Bushmills Black, and grabbed a chair on the corner of the bar. It had all the hallmarks of an O’Thentic Irish pub: heavy, wooden tables; brass rails; fish and chips specials on the chalkboard menu, and; a Kosher certificate by the door.

“But Bailey’s doesn’t have any real cream in it,” exclaimed the Canadian beside me. He was arguing with the bartender because he wanted a shot of some tasty booze that he could feed to the pretty Israeli girl sitting next to him.

“Doesn’t matter, we’re kosher,” replied the bartender.

“But it’s not real cream!”

This kept up for a little while. The bartender interrupted the lecture from the other guy to take my order.

“Bushmills Black, double,” I said.

“Ice?”

“Fuck you, no ice.”

“Okay, no ice,” he laughed.

Buddy kept up his rant about how Bailey’s had no real cream thus it was safe to drink in a Kosher restaurant. He may have been right but he was no rabbi. I didn’t care. I had a double whiskey in front of me, plenty of elbow room to hunch over my notebook and scribble, and Ricky Martin’s “Living La Vida Loca” blaring in the speakers.

Welcome to a little bit of Ireland, Jerusalem style.