When Dubya came to Ramallah

It's almost noon. Outside the house nothing stirs save the occasional street cat.

Dubya is in town. That's one quiet president, lemme tell you, like he's taken off his shoes and tiptoed past the Qalandia checkpoint to share sweet tea and whispered nothings with Abu Mazen [Mahmoud Abbas].

People haven't talked about much else lately. At the bakery, the shop, cafés, hairdressers, the kids hanging out around the Clock Manara. The word "Bush" hangs in the air like the opening of a thousand cans of coke. "Pshhh. Have you heard?"

Mind you, no one but a cloistered few expects anything substantial to come of it. Some drinks offer but the mere illusion of quenching one's thirst. Too much sugar you see. Addictive, somewhat fattening, but the dryness remains. And yet there bubbles a palpable excitement, like the thrill of a school day suspended by bad weather.