Jerusalem, the capital of Israel and the spiritual centre of the Jewish people, is a world unto itself.

Officially unified and indivisible, Jerusalem is actually two separate cities, composed of Jewish and Palestinian Arab neighbourhoods whose residents hardly mingle, let alone socialize. Flushed with victory in the Six Day War, Israel annexed east Jerusalem – inhabited by Arab Muslims and Arab and Armenian Christians – in 1967. Israel also greatly expanded Jerusalem’s boundaries, grafting territory from the West Bank, and built entirely new neighbourhoods such as Ramot Eshkol and French Hill. In a further fait accompli, Israel fused these diverse districts with western Jerusalem, which has been in Jewish hands since statehood in 1948.

Almost 41 years have elapsed since its amalgamation, yet Jerusalem remains two  solitudes, near and yet so far from each other. Neither the Arabs nor the international community have recognized the dramatic changes on the ground, claiming that Jerusalem’s status should be resolved through negotiations rather than unilateral measures.

A city of striking contrasts cutting across ethnic, religious, geographic and cultural lines, Jerusalem expresses itself through  jolting differences.

From the terrace of the venerable King David Hotel – an oasis of calm and elegance whose guest list is the acme of celebrity – the view of the walled Old City is one to be savoured. Kings, presidents, diplomats and  movie stars have glided through its marbled halls, touched by the gravity of history.

The  first British high commissioner in Mandate Palestine, Herbert Samuel, was here, as were Jimmy Carter, the president of the United States; Moshe Dayan, Israel’s defence minister before and after the Six Day War; the Hollywood actors Kirk Douglas and Elizabeth Taylor; and King Hussein of Jordan. Their autographed names, and that of other luminaries, line the floor of a hall adjacent to the terrace.

Several blocks away, in the David Citadel Hotel, a much newer hostelry minutes by foot from the American consulate, spiffily dressed modern Orthodox Jews from the United States congregate in the lobby, watching a photographer and his assistant snap pictures of a newly minted bar mitzvah boy.

Across the road and up a flight of steps, the brand-name shops and cafés of the Mamilla promenade beckon. Once a mixed Jewish Arab commercial district, Mamilla fell into steep decline following the War of Independence, being on the edge of Israel’s armistice line with Jordan. After decades of heated debate, Mamilla was finally rehabilitated. The project, designed in part by the Israeli Canadian architect Moshe Safdie, was expected to be completed before Israel’s 60th anniversary celebrations.

When the founder of political Zionism, Theodor Herzl, visited Palestine in 1898, for the first and only time, he stayed in a modest inn. Having been renovated, it is an integral component of the Mamilla project, which is literally steps away from the Jaffa Gate. The venerable gate leads to the labyrinthine, cobblestone alleys of the Old City, a mix of various quarters.

The compact Armenian quarter melts into the larger and vastly refurbished Jewish quarter, which was virtually destroyed by the Arab Legion in the 1948 war. A warren of residential and institutional buildings, yeshivas, schools and synagogues, it has returned to life with a bounce since the Six Day War.

The Jewish quarter looks down at the Second Temple era Western Wall, where haredi Jews, mainstream Orthodox Jews and secular Jews converge as probably nowhere else. Beyond the wall is the golden dome of the Temple Mount, the hotly contested historical compound in the Muslim quarter.

The Muslim quarter is next door to the Western Wall, but it may as well be light years away, particularly on the Jewish Sabbath. As Jews pray and meditate, some stuffing personal notes into the crevices of the wall, Muslims go about their business. The merchants of the Muslim quarter dispense kitschy souvenirs, T-shirts, bangles and beads, spices, fruits and vegetables, Arabic pastry slathered in honey, and meat and fish.

The strong aroma of frying oil emanates from the stalls of falafel makers, permeating the air. Arab vendors sell bagels sprinkled with sesame seeds and dipped in zaatar.

The Israeli police presence is light.

Christian pilgrims, many of whom are  Russians, follow monks as they walk past the stations of the cross along the Via Dolorosa, the path that led Jesus to his crucifixion.

The interior of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, which has been a pilgrimage destination since the crucifixion of Jesus, is murky and redolent of burning candles and incense. Pilgrims kneel or prostrate themselves at an altar, mouthing incantations.

The fairy-tale gold onion domes of the Church of Mary Magdalene, dedicated in 1888, glitter in the bright sunshine. Its cool,  shaded garden is filled with Russian Orthodox visitors. Prior to the dissolution of the Soviet Union in 1991, few Russian pilgrims ever set foot in Israel. For the past few years,  however, Israel has been deluged by them.

Mount Scopus, an Israeli enclave in Jordanian territory before 1967, houses a satellite campus of the Hebrew University. From a bluff, the parched Judean Desert is clearly visible. The haze obscures the Dead Sea, the lowest body of water on earth.

On the other side of town, near the Damascus Gate, lies the American Colony Hotel, one of the first hotels during the Ottoman epoch to cater to European travellers and now a haunt of western journalists. Its courtyard  is bedecked with flowers and shrubs. Its patio café is a peaceful redoubt from the clamour and tumult of the Old City.

The Ottoman walls around the Old City,  softly golden in the late afternoon, are crowned by a catwalk that offers a bird’s eye perspective of both sides of Jerusalem. Most visitors remain blissfully unaware of the rampart, but for a nominal admission fee of $4, you can stroll along its serpentine length, catching sight of various attractions.  

Sultan’s Pool, an ancient reservoir, is now  a venue of outdoor concerts. The Church of Dormition, the supposed site of the Virgin Mary’s death, is where the mythical Last Supper is said to have unfolded. Montefiore’s windmill, a charming artifact, was built in the mid-19th century by Moses Montefiore – a British Jewish philanthropist – to serve the milling needs of  the residents of Yemin Moshe, a community designed to relieve overcrowding in the Old City. A replica of the coach he used while in Palestine is inside a glass case.

A replica of Philadelphia’s storied Liberty Bell is found at Liberty Bell Park, one of Jerusalem’s finest green spaces and a stone’s throw from Montefiore’s windmill. Opened in 1976 to mark the bicentennial of the United States, the park is studded with gnarled olive trees, which are exquisite down to the last details.

The German Colony, settled in the 1870s by German evangelical Christians known as Templers, is one of the most affluent neighbourhoods in Jerusalem. Ehud Olmert, Israel’s prime minister, bought a villa here.

The last Templers left Jerusalem long ago, but their simple yet beautiful homes, typified by white stone facades, red tiled roofs, green wooden shutters and nameplates, have been renovated in a frenzy of gentrification.

Several of these quaint buildings are on Emek Refaim, a hip thoroughfare filled with cozy cafés, restaurants and boutiques. The contrast between the German Colony and, say, Mea Shearim – a bastion of haredi Jews that reminds one of an eastern European shtetl – could not be wider, to say the very least.