mashhad

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From Plonk to Krug

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The small eatery in Kafr Canna is abuzz with life. Some folks are take-awayers. Others, like Hani and me, dine in. Or out, I suppose.

We sit at a table out front. Between us is a spread of delights: round pita bread, golden falafel balls, and a variety of Arabic “chip dips.” We dig in.

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Befuddled

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After losing the Jesus Trail a second time, I trudge back up the hill to the center of Mashhad. I peer across the valley, stymied. The irregular outline of Kafr Canna rises in the distance. It is almost one of those “you can’t get there from here” situations. But I know I can.