What is it I always say? Oh, yes, about this being fiction. You know the drill. Now, while we were proceeding up the east coast of Iberia to the vineyard/manor of the great biblical scholar, Rashi, in the south of France, Crusader fever had begun to grip what passed for the hearts of the local Trinitarian populace. We were camped for the night, just over the border of the Christian, Visigothic kings in the north of the peninsula , and in the domain of some Provencal noble. I do not remember his name, but do not worry. He is of no importance. There was a town nearby that styled itself a city. I was eager to visit one of the grey stone municipalities of the north and set off with one of our retainers to explore this exotic site. We were dressed in the manor of well born travelers. My creed was my own business. Upon entering this country town, I was struck by the abundance of foliage. It was quite different from what I was used to in Al Andaluz, in the south of Iberia. The edibles and wares hawked by village worthies seemed attractive, but I was bound to follow a righteous diet and could partake of none of it. Well, maybe I would have fudged things a little and eaten a bit of fish, or tasted a tankard of ale, but Johannan, our retainer would have none of it. He espied the local synagogue, which was quickly filling with fellow believers to celebrate the birthday of some sainted regional sage, so we joined the throng and went in. The service was similar to ours. The chanting was a bit different. The order a little off, but what could we expext from these pre-Frenchie Jews? Come back for the next post. I'll tell you more.