Being sick during a once in a lifetime trip to Israel is quite the disappointment, but I was determined to not let my constant sneezing and sniffling ruin my time in Jerusalem. While the group trekked through the massive Machne Yehuda market on a tasting tour, I was left behind with a pack of tissues and a glass of lemonade in a bustling coffee shop at the entrance to the market. People were coming and going and running. The baristas called out names to an earless mass, growing exceedingly frustrated until they just slammed the drinks on the counter. I sat and watched over the group’s backpacks. But I watched not only luggage in that coffee shop, I watched people too, and while it was not a tasting tour, it was an adventure for my senses. There was Hebrew in that coffee shop, and there was Arabic, too. And there was English and other languages I couldn’t even identify. My sneezes pierced the noise and the whole shop asserted themselves to yell “bless you” and “guzentite” and “livriut” and all of their unique ways of responding to a sneeze. They wore such colors! Their hijabs glowed in floral wraps and their khaki shorts were stuffed with goods. Girls in crop tops and girls in burqas coexisted in that coffee shop, scampering around trying to fetch a cup of caffeine. They shoved their way through crowds mercilessly, but they smiled at each other fully. Over the tones of their chatter were the melodies of Israeli hip hop. Some teenagers bounced on their heels to the music while waiting in line. A kid in a kippah mouthed along to the Hebrew rap. The lemonade was watery but the culture was rich, and I inadvertently learned something in Machne Yehuda that doesn’t come from a tasting tour. That day I was no tourist. I was a fly on the wall who happened to sneeze a lot, and I was able to observe without hinderance the music and motion of Israeli life. Not only is their shuk a melting pot of flavors, but they are a melting pot of cultures, stewing and steaming and evolving together. In that coffee shop the biggest controversy was whose latte was on the counter, and whether to get strawberry or chocolate milkshakes. Even as I felt ill, I felt empowered and hopeful there. A tourist grandmother asked me if I thought her grandson would like an IDF hat. A teenage boy started talking to me rapidly in Hebrew before I could explain I didn’t understand him. I am somehow grateful that I missed the tasting tour, because I not only tasted, I saw and I heard and I most of all felt. I felt love and connection among the smell of pastry and coffee. I felt heartbeats syncing to hip hop and middle eastern drum-lines. So I sneezed. And I sniffled. And I smiled.