The larger part of that journey I stayed in Jerusalem. Luck made me knock on the iron door of a walled compound just outside of the Old Town. A place, a school, a pilgrims hostel run by a catholic order. Bunk beds. Breakfast in the halls of the castle-like building that had been erected in the early days of the 20th century on grounds donated to the German emperor by the Turkish sultan. The Palestinian girls working in the administration of the place showed me some strange places inside the Old Town. They had to drag me along since every couple of steps I stood open-mouthed. Via Dolorosa. Until I saw the street sign I just hadn´t thought that this street had ever been for real. And the Life of Brian-esque comedy of watching a large group of elderly pilgrims squeezing through this narrow street, carrying a giant cross that casually swept all sorts of cheap merchandise off the hooks of the crammed Arab souvenir stalls as they passed by. Much shouting and swearing ensued. Then the pilgrims would stroll further down the street and stop at another location of Jesus´ path of suffering. Doing so in their many, they plugged all traffic in Via Dolorosa. More shouting and swearing ensued. And much smiling on my part. All was full of scents and sunlight.