Heading down a street through the Arab quarter in Haifa this morning, I'm nearly knocked off my feet by a man sprinting through the cloistered alleys. He's well over six foot, in a soldier's uniform, and so insanely lanky that he almost disappears altogether every time he runs behind a lamppost. I hardly regain my balance before a squat man in a soiled apron appears, waddling as quickly as his doddling gait will take him. He stops and wipes his sweat-drenched brow with a grease-stained sleeve. The soldier halts too, hardly phased by this high speed chase, a manic grin pulled across his face. They stand off, barely twenty meters apart...
Soldier: Falafel? (he guffaws)
The short clammy man mutters something between his labored wheezes, his vexed eyes transfixed on the soldier. Stamping the ground, he's a bull ready to charge.
Soldier: Go s*** the Pope's d***! (kindly translated courtesy of a bystander after the encounter)
Our squat protagonist can barely contain his anger, shrieking some unintelligble obscenity before lunging forward once more. The soldier cackles in delight before disappearing behind the corner, his assailant distantly, but earnestly in toddling tow.
Seriously. I have no clue.