"My uncle used to drink a lot. We're talking way back, when a bottle of Arak set you back a mere Shekel." Ramzi's eyes tell the story with vigor. His hands add to the narrative with exaggerated swigging motions. "He sure liked his Arak. Over the years though, the stuff gradually got more and more expensive attaining, one ominous morning, the threshold of seven Shekels."

Ramzi's son, his wife, and two boys listen appreciatively. A third boy provides futuristic sound effects playing Tetris.

"My uncle was a poor man, and seven Shekels for Arak, despite a clinging fondness for the stuff, proved too big a bite from his budget. So instead, he goes down to the café to sit and play backgammon with his Muslim friends. He starts complaining to them; Arak costs seven Shekels now. That's your fault. You guys are not supposed to drink alcohol. That's for Christians only. For you, it's a sin, so don't. Supply and demand. If you stop drinking, and just stick to tea, the price will go down again and everybody's happy."

A logistical nightmare. Forget about sleeping. Murphy flaunts his Law, bares his fangs, incredulous almost. "Wait. Let me get this straight. You've invited a Belgian rock band to play, and host children's music workshops? In Ramallah? The hills of Hebron? On the dark side of the moon?"

I shrug, reluctant to humor the cynical legislator.

"Who's your dope dealer? Man, I'm changing suppliers, that's all there is to it."

Once more I shrug, cut short the inner dialogue. It's past midnight and a bunch of guys with side-burns and unusual-looking suitcases mosey past the glass waterfalls of Ben Gurion airport. Rumplestitchkin consists of Koen, Olivier, Wim, and Thomas. A manager and cameraman are along for the ride as well.