The Summer of Love - Except it wasn't.

Yom Kippur (or Day of Atonement) is a solemn time in the Jewish calendar when many Jews are fasting and praying. We were sat outside on the patio of a Jerusalem youth hostel, playing guitars and maracas; singing Bob Dylan and Joan Baez songs. We were an odd ensemble of people: Brits, Americans, Israeli drifters and lesbians and German gypsies. It was my first night in Jerusalem and I already felt at home. Suddenly out of the night-time blackness (the only lights being from our lit cigarettes) a potato landed on our table narrowly missing our heads, and then a steady shower of this new world vegetable started to rain down among us, around us but luckily, not on us. I think one potato had avoided my head but an American came to my rescue by belting it away with his guitar. We all chuckled nervously, and then launched into “Where Have All the Flowers Gone?” by Joan Baez, a pro-peace song.

The Israelis told us that these missiles were being hurled by the local Yemeni Hassidim. We weren’t meant to be revelling and playing music on such a sombre occasion. Though disrespectful we carried on anyway.

Our music wasn’t always greeted by demonstration, at times we were warmly welcomed, celebrated or laughed at (depending on our perception at the time). One time we decided to busk on the streets of Jerusalem, as we’d all run out of money and needed to buy some tax-free industrial-strength vodka. We all dressed as hippies (this was 1987), and painted flowers on our cheeks with oil paints. I really thought it was the Summer of Love and got carried away, thinking I was Janis Joplin, thinking I could sing like Janis Joplin. We went through our medley of Bob Dylan and Joan Baez again. I held a tambourine and bashed it, not in time to the rhythm, against my thighs. People stopped, gawped and smiled. We were thrown a few shekelim, people not getting too close because we all smelled of tobacco, vodka and unwashed clothes. It was getting late, Jerusalemites were turning in for the night, and we had collected enough money to buy a cabbage when an Arab restaurant owner approached us.

“You [add the word “losers”] people have really made my evening, so I invite you to my restaurant to eat as much humus, tabbouleh and grilled lamb shish kebabs as you want!” He added “and as much Arak and Turkish coffee as you can tolerate”. We followed the restaurant owner quickly on excitable legs, arriving at the small eatery, eerily dark. As we entered the lights went on, the music started and we tucked into our late night feast, nobody having to spend a shekel.