For the last two weeks, it's become almost impossible to move around Jaffa. On every street corner you bump into fake Christmas trees, their branches bedecked with tinsel chains and garish glass ornaments. Every other store has a whole stock of trees out front, the better to annoy pedestrians. This happens every year, starting around the beginning of November. I must be one of the few people who has never gotten used to it.

The presence of these Christmas trees might actually be surprising considering the type of buildings going up on Jerusalem Boulevard. At the corner of Ben-Zvi Street, for example, the finishing touches are being put on Mishkenot Daniel, an educational center that offers "Jewish cultural programs in the pluralistic spirit," to quote the sign at the construction site. This fancy building complex is next door to the old Mandel Center for Jewish culture, which suddenly looks small and pitiful in the shadow of its new neighbor. Due to the construction, the sidewalk was closed off, forcing pedestrians to walk in the street, dodging cars, in order to get to the other side. The famous Jaffa fountain across from the Mandel Center is now half-wrecked, its stone base crumbling, like a discarded set from a classical Roman play.

In contrast to this sad picture, lined up on other side of the street are Santa Claus dolls, fat and jolly, staring bug-eyed at what is happening across from them, but continuing to do their thing. The moveable ones stretch out their rigid arms toward passersby and jiggle in time to faint strains of music that seem to emanate from nowhere.

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Meanwhile, preparations for Hanukkah are feverishly going on, as if competing for attention with Christmas. Nearly all the department stores have huge metal pots of boiling oil in their doorways, filling the streets with the overpowering smell of frying dough.

When I last stopped by my neighborhood grocery, owned by two Muslims proud of the famous lanterns they sell on Ramadan, one of these giant bubbling pots was stationed at the entrance. Surrounding it were customers with cardboard boxes in hand, waiting for their Hanukkah sufganiyot (doughnuts). I hurried inside, heading for the beverages. It didn't take long to find what I wanted, but in that short time, herds of people - adults and children alike - went by me with rings of powdered sugar around their mouths. As they passed by, one by one, they looked like sad clowns who forgot to wipe their make-up off when the show was over.

As I stood on the long checkout line, I wondered if it was this bad for non-Muslims when preparations for Id al-Fitr were under way. Maybe they screwed up their faces at the sight of colored lights strung up on mosques during Ramadan the way I did at the Christmas trees lined up like soldiers outside the shops.

From the doorway I heard the voices of the sales staff announcing special discounts for the holiday and urging passersby to buy sufganiyot. The customers huddled around the pot looked anxious, their faces flushed from the heat and the crowds. One of them, a short man in a cap, fidgeted restlessly and wiped the sweat from his brow. I watched him for a long time. Never had I felt so threatened by someone else's holiday rituals as I felt now.

Meanwhile, one of the salesgirls came toward us, a young woman in a headscarf, offering the customers a hot sufganiya, on the house. All those ahead of me took one with a smile. I watched closely, hoping that one of them would turn her down and make it easier for me when my turn came. When the tray finally got to me, I took one. Lifting my eyes, I saw people looking at me as they chewed. Realizing I couldn't get away with just holding it, I took a big bite. The doughnut was too greasy and there was practically no jelly inside, but I swallowed what I had in my mouth and tried to smile.

The line moved forward, and those who were watching me stopped when they saw that I was doing what they did. The girl with the tray offered a doughnut to the woman behind me, but she declined with a polite shake of her head. "Are you sure?" asked the girl, pushing the tray closer. "They're very good, and they're free." The woman was adamant. She shook her head, smiled and put a hand on her heart to show she was sincere. The salesgirl's face fell. She gave the woman a surprised, even hurt look.

For a moment, it looked as if she wouldn't stop until the woman gave in and took one, but the next man in line impatiently stuck out a hand, took a doughnut and hastily bit in. That was enough to distract the salesgirl. She continued down the line, making sure everyone had a sufganiya in hand. She did not go back to the woman who had turned her down, even though a few doughnuts remained on the tray.

A few more minutes passed. I glanced at my watch. Suddenly an unfamiliar hand moved toward me, hesitated, and then touched my hand. I looked up. It was the woman who had said no. She had the same smile on her face, but this time her eyes were on me. "Bon appetit," she said in Arabic, and stopped smiling. I looked up at her, confused. "Thanks," I finally mumbled, covering my mouth with my hand as it occurred to me that maybe I looked like one of those clowns, sporting a mustache of powdered sugar.

I turned my eyes away. As I stood there on line, I began to wonder if "thanks" had been the right answer. I felt sure that her "bon appetit" was an accusation. It made me angry. I kept taking bites out of the sufganiya - just to show her. I chewed and I chewed the doughy mass, without enjoying it.

My purchases paid for, I turned to leave. Looking back, I saw her right behind me, as if she had rushed to settle the bill and leave while I was still in sight. Now we both stood near the pot of oil, waiting for people to move aside and let us out. Behind the pot stood two young men in white aprons. Catching sight of her, one of them grabbed a cardboard box from the shelf and asked: "Sufganiyot for the lady? Piping hot. Five for NIS 10."

She shook her head, but he slipped five doughnuts into the box and handed it to her anyway. Just at that moment, his co-worker had dropped a fresh batch into the boiling oil and the sizzling was so loud it drowned out her reply: "No, thank you. I don't like sufganiyot."