On arrival I'm set up in the veranda, which is cherished office real estate. Especially in winter. Pamper the newbie, I guess.

Back in the days the Bisan headquarters sits in Balu'a, a low-lying suburb of Ramallah of previously marshes, aquatic birds and, in summer, the occasional goat. Today offices spring up, both government and private. There's a pharmaceutical factory, and of course Plaza Mall, an air-conditioned, i.e. refrigerated, glass expanse that houses a Benetton boutique, a toy store, coffee shops, and the regal Bravo Supermarket. Descendants of that occasional goat still graze among the towering developments. I often toddle down there to chillax whenever, especially in summer, the veranda proves less cherished real estate and more NASA experiment to colonize Venus.  

My landlord Mitri's a geography teacher. Man, did he ever teach geography that day. It's January. Orthodox Christmas. Palestinian Christians from the West Bank are allowed each year to enter Israel. Some good old divide et impera. A permit for worshipping in the nebula of holy places that is Jerusalem. The joy. 

"Our church always organizes a trip to Nazareth," Mitri says to me, he says "then it's always pray here, pray there." He rolls his eyes. What to do? They got the old Opel Astra, however meticulously maintained, it doesn't discount the little fact of 'green plates'. The verdant registration brings a car, qua usefulness, on a par with the average wheelbarrow. A very expensive, air-conditioned wheelbarrow. What to do?

Time to get away. Escapism. We're riding up North for three days. Beach, mountains, old stones, and a blissful absence of checkpoints.

A day earlier I go to Jerusalem, get us a yellow-plate car. No use for the green-and-white. Makes me chuckle sometimes to see a green-plate Mercedes SUV in Ramallah. Where you gonna drive that thing? All the way to Beitunia and back, ey?

Anywayz, I'm at Rentals-R-Us, looking at a minivan. "Can I take it into the Territories? Like, say, Bethlehem?" I inquire.

"Why, sure," says the guy. "No problem at all."

A minute later we're going over the forms, and he turns pensive of a sudden. "Oh, by the way, the insurance only covers you to where the army goes."

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.  

"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."

So it's Christmas soon. The joy. Jingle bells.

I'm not at all sure what to make of it anymore. Then again, it's a religious holiday, not a lump of clay, so I'm pretty much off the hook on that account. Before, on grounds of scathing sarcasm, I'm lumped into the atheist euro-trash category I might add that my hostility toward all things pertaining to the supernatural, hailing from rebellious puberty, has somewhat lost its Jacobin vigor over the years. I can see the charm, and even the value of it when grandmother asks me to "Say hi to baby Jesus in Bethlehem!"

"Will do", I coo over Skype, even though entry to midnight mass there is harder to obtain than Led Zeppelin tickets. Hell, I might actually wind up at Cosmos; the West Bank's one and only, true-blue dance club; lit dance floor tiles, hard liquor, crowds-don't-show-up-until-one-ish and all.

There are, in addition, recitals to attend, and all sorts of solemn, embellished-pine occasions for imbibing glühwine. Among expats in Ramallah the chart-leading question nowadays is; "Are you around for Christmas?" and "Will you come to my/John's/Martha's/Suha's/Eric's/Muhammad's party?"

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.