Arthur Penhaligon considered himself a connoisseur of concrete. A retired civil engineer, he saw the world as a grand, if often flawed, feat of construction. So when his travel agent described the Western Wall in Jerusalem as “arguably the most significant retaining wall in the world,” Arthur was in. Significance, for him, meant structural integrity.
He shuffled toward the towering edifice, feeling utterly conspicuous in the borrowed kippah that kept slipping sideways. The atmosphere was thick with reverence—a chorus of murmurs, rocking bodies, and tearful whispers. Arthur, however, was focused on the masonry. Herod the Great certainly knew how to lay a stone; the enormous, ancient blocks were a testament to timeless building standards. He carefully unwrapped a tiny, pre-written note—a passive-aggressive complaint about the airline ticket price—and, with the efficiency of a man sealing a vacuum-packed sandwich, wedged it into a crevice.
Then came the moment of physical contact. He placed a hand on the cool, textured stone. It was just mortar and limestone, centuries of history pressed into one solid, unyielding surface. Immediately, he recoiled. The stone was sticky. He stared at his hand, which was now ornamented with a crust of damp paper residue, a smear of something shiny and unidentifiable, and what his engineer's mind could only label as "unidentified biographical material"—probably snot. The sacred wall was, structurally speaking, a giant, public, medieval tissue receptacle. He quickly wiped his palm against his trousers. Despite the unexpected biohazard, the weight of the moment pressed back. Everyone here was talking to it. To truly "experience" it, Arthur realized, he had to talk, too.
He leaned in, his voice dropping to a theatrical whisper that felt immediately ridiculous. "Right, Wall," he began, trying to sound suitably profound, "Listen, I’m not saying you're not listening. I'm just saying your acoustic properties aren't exactly stellar for a one-on-one. Anyway, I’m Arthur. I’m here because of the sheer brilliance of your compressive strength, and also my wife wanted me to ask if she should sell the municipal bonds."
He paused, tilting his head slightly, as if checking the feedback from a hidden speaker system. Silence. Just the soft murmur of prayer from the man next to him, who was requesting divine intervention for his fantasy football league.
“Hello?” Arthur tried again, tapping a stone lightly. “Look, I respect the whole 'ancient sentinel' vibe, but a nod? A faint echo? A subtle shift in the gravitational constant? Anything to indicate reception?” The skepticism that was his life’s foundation began to crack, replaced by a wave of pure, hilarious self-awareness. He was a 68-year-old man in a borrowed hat, whispering highly personalized financial questions to a giant outdoor wall.
He pulled back, catching the eye of a nearby security guard who seemed politely bored. "I'm talking to a wall," he muttered to himself, stifling a laugh. "Not a metaphor. An actual, load-bearing wall."
He took one last look at the unmoving stones. They offered no market insight, no spiritual comfort, and certainly no comment on his kippah. But as he walked away, Arthur realized the wall hadn't failed to communicate; it had simply forced him to listen to himself. And the self-listening, he concluded, was far more bizarre and compelling than any answer the silent stones could have provided.