Neighbors, the Moon and Some Figs

It was later than I usually go for an evening walk. The sun was low enough that trees were more silhouette than foliage, and the air gentle after the day’s heat.

I turned the corner. An elderly man was picking green figs from a laden tree. I complimented the tree and its bounty. He told me that he grew the tree from seeds someone brought him 30 years ago from Alexandria, in his native Egypt.  The birds like to eat many of the figs. Squirrels just taste them and discard; he thinks maybe the figs are too sticky for their taste. They prefer the avocados in the backyard.

“The figs must be picked only when the skin just starts to crack,” he said and offered me a plump green fig to try. The sweet taste of summer, of Egypt, and of my Israel.

The same goes for pomegranates, he said, indicating the tree we stood near at the edge of the sidewalk, where large red beads with crowns were just starting to become pomegranates. The royalty of fruit coming of age.

More neighbors out for a walk came by with a small white dog. More figs passed around. “Take these! Take!” More talk. Laughter. Fig recipe ideas. Names exchanged. The puppy’s name was Penelope.

“Look!” said the man suddenly. He pointed. “A full moon — so beautiful!”

By then it was dark. We took our gift figs and departed with smiles. Neighbors in a small neighborhood in a big city –  who knows when we will meet again. Was  it the figs that brought us together?

Postscript: George told us he came to the US from Cairo in 1968, via France. He speaks French, Italian, Arabic, Spanish, “but not English!” he joked. He worked as a court translator for many years. He said that when the figs are too abundant he cooks them for jam.