Tuesday, May 8, 2007
Saturday, May 5, 2007
Hear, Oh Israel!
Hear, Oh Israel! In case the country is reading or listening, here are some closing impressions before I leave. But this will not be my last posting to this blog; expect to see "ex-post" postings when I return and can upload images to this blog, with commentary (of course!). Without further ado, some of my favorite (and not so favorite) things in Israel:
People watching: Hooray! Such variety of colors (hair dye that is reddish/pinkish/orange is highly popular), dress styles and ways of being. A veritable parade!
Getting information from people: Oy vey! Israel seems to have a "don't ask, don't tell" policy. If Person A doesn't ask for very specific information from Person B, it is unlikely that Person B will tell Person A anything other than what has been literally asked. As a tourist, who may not know exactly what information she might need, and therefore may not phrase the question in a way that would extract useful advice (whereas the person staffing the tourist resort area might know, from having answered such questions a million times before), this stubbornness or inability to anticipate the needs of another person is kind of annoying. Make that really annoying.
Public art: Hooray! Many traffic rotaries are adorned with colorful scupltures and public utility boxes are canvases for painters. In the Negev desert, realistic metal silhouettes of local animals can be seen along the road.
Public litter: Oy vey! You don't need to be as spotless as Switzerland but a bit cleaner would be nice. Would it kill you to make sure that your trash makes it into the barrel?
Dual flush toilets: Hooray! It is very sane and ecologically sound to offer bathroom goers the option of a gentle flush (for #1) or a rip roaring cascade (for #2). Why waste water for a wee bit of pee? America, take note.
Tight squeeze in the loo: Oy vey! I am not a large person, but in many a public restroom it has been a challenge to even enter the stall when door opens inward and grazes the toilet itself. If I'm wearing a backpack, it requires acrobatic maneuvering to not fall into or over the toilet while closing the door behind me. And you can forget about entering with luggage. When traveling alone, figuring out how and when to pee becomes an exercise in strategic planning.
Diversity of terrain: Hooray! It is nothing short of amazing that tiny Israel is home to rolling hills and lush green vineyards, dusty deserts, Mediterranean coastline, and the Dead Sea.
Diversity of transliterations: Oy vey! How many ways can we spell the name of the Red Sea resort? There's Eilat (most common), Elat, Eylat. And what about that holy city up in the Galilee? Tiberias, Tiveria, Tverya. If a person doesn't read Hebrew, it can be confusing to navigate between street signs (randomly translated or transliterated) and a map, whose spellings might differ entirely and/or omit the street in question. Not to mention that Tel Aviv transliterates its street signs differently than Jerusalem does, in some cases.
Getting a deal: Hooray! Sometimes getting a good deal or a lower price is just a question away, if one has the chutzpah to ask and the stomache to enter into negotiations.
Turning every transaction into a summit meeting: Oy vey! The downside to getting a deal is that many Israelis, at many times, think they are exceptional and should not have to pay what everyone else pays (or stand in line, or wait their turn, etc). This attitude can transform what could have been a simple exchange into a heated discussion, often leaving neither party feeling satisfied and creating stress for the people who have to listen. One person cutting in line can piss off dozens, generating more anger that gets unleashed on the next vendor/teller/etc. So, Israel, is this really worth it? You preach savlanut (patience) yet don't practice it. [full disclosure: In the spirit of "When in Rome, do as the Romans do", I've marched to the head of a postal line myself to save time, yet I have to say I didn't feel good about it afterward]
To be continued as I continue to digest my experiences....right now I'm in the swank pre-departure lounge at Ben Gurion airport (for part of this trip I am traveling in style!). The free Internet time is about to expire plus I want to get a snack....
People watching: Hooray! Such variety of colors (hair dye that is reddish/pinkish/orange is highly popular), dress styles and ways of being. A veritable parade!
Getting information from people: Oy vey! Israel seems to have a "don't ask, don't tell" policy. If Person A doesn't ask for very specific information from Person B, it is unlikely that Person B will tell Person A anything other than what has been literally asked. As a tourist, who may not know exactly what information she might need, and therefore may not phrase the question in a way that would extract useful advice (whereas the person staffing the tourist resort area might know, from having answered such questions a million times before), this stubbornness or inability to anticipate the needs of another person is kind of annoying. Make that really annoying.
Public art: Hooray! Many traffic rotaries are adorned with colorful scupltures and public utility boxes are canvases for painters. In the Negev desert, realistic metal silhouettes of local animals can be seen along the road.
Public litter: Oy vey! You don't need to be as spotless as Switzerland but a bit cleaner would be nice. Would it kill you to make sure that your trash makes it into the barrel?
Dual flush toilets: Hooray! It is very sane and ecologically sound to offer bathroom goers the option of a gentle flush (for #1) or a rip roaring cascade (for #2). Why waste water for a wee bit of pee? America, take note.
Tight squeeze in the loo: Oy vey! I am not a large person, but in many a public restroom it has been a challenge to even enter the stall when door opens inward and grazes the toilet itself. If I'm wearing a backpack, it requires acrobatic maneuvering to not fall into or over the toilet while closing the door behind me. And you can forget about entering with luggage. When traveling alone, figuring out how and when to pee becomes an exercise in strategic planning.
Diversity of terrain: Hooray! It is nothing short of amazing that tiny Israel is home to rolling hills and lush green vineyards, dusty deserts, Mediterranean coastline, and the Dead Sea.
Diversity of transliterations: Oy vey! How many ways can we spell the name of the Red Sea resort? There's Eilat (most common), Elat, Eylat. And what about that holy city up in the Galilee? Tiberias, Tiveria, Tverya. If a person doesn't read Hebrew, it can be confusing to navigate between street signs (randomly translated or transliterated) and a map, whose spellings might differ entirely and/or omit the street in question. Not to mention that Tel Aviv transliterates its street signs differently than Jerusalem does, in some cases.
Getting a deal: Hooray! Sometimes getting a good deal or a lower price is just a question away, if one has the chutzpah to ask and the stomache to enter into negotiations.
Turning every transaction into a summit meeting: Oy vey! The downside to getting a deal is that many Israelis, at many times, think they are exceptional and should not have to pay what everyone else pays (or stand in line, or wait their turn, etc). This attitude can transform what could have been a simple exchange into a heated discussion, often leaving neither party feeling satisfied and creating stress for the people who have to listen. One person cutting in line can piss off dozens, generating more anger that gets unleashed on the next vendor/teller/etc. So, Israel, is this really worth it? You preach savlanut (patience) yet don't practice it. [full disclosure: In the spirit of "When in Rome, do as the Romans do", I've marched to the head of a postal line myself to save time, yet I have to say I didn't feel good about it afterward]
To be continued as I continue to digest my experiences....right now I'm in the swank pre-departure lounge at Ben Gurion airport (for part of this trip I am traveling in style!). The free Internet time is about to expire plus I want to get a snack....
Thursday, May 3, 2007
A Camel, a Donkey and an Ass
On Tuesday I rode an Israeli camel for a few hours, on Wednesday I sat astride a Jordanian donkey for a few kilometers, and on Thursday my American ass hurts!
The guide for the camel ride showed us how to sit properly - with one leg hooked around the front of the camel seat, to make it harder to be dislodged - and how to command our "ships of the desert". My camel, Esther, kept testing me by stopping to eat shrubs. Eventually I got the hang of being the boss and she started to obey. Leading her down a hill by walking in front of her, the rope over my shoulder, she would stop whenever I stopped. Seeing our humpbacked friends sit down, a multistage process which ends up with them resting on their knees, reminded me of yoga's camel pose, which I usually sit out during the sequence. Unlike a camel, I don't have the joints for such a position.
I ended up atop a Jordanian donkey on the way out of Petra, a Nabatean city carved of reddish rock. After hearing so many people gush about this site in Jordan, which some call the eighth wonder of the world, I decided to book a tour. My companions were five Christian pilgrims, two from Germany and three from the US, who were doing a tour of holy places. The donkey ride was unexpected, but our guide arranged it for us to accommodate a woman in the group who was too fatigued to walk back to our vehicle.
Petra lived up to its reputation. The natural rock formations, in addition to the carvings, were stunning in their shapes and colors. It is believed that the sea once covered the area, and between the movement of the water and earthquakes this region was formed. Apparently much of what was thought to have been true about the creators and inhabitants of ancient Petra is now considered speculative at best, so I won't go into any details (Googlers, let me know what you find!).
Equally fascinating was a chance to take a peek at life in Jordan during the two hour car ride in each direction and to see how it compares with the south of Israel, with which it shares the same geography and climate. The contrast between Eilat and Aqaba, both port cities and resorts, was quite striking. Sorry, Aqaba, you lose. In Jordan, traditional desert life seems to persist despite the country's attempts to settle its Bedouin population in stationary communities. Many of these nomads do have basic homes but they continue to be close to the land. Lone figures cloaked in flowing robes herded large flocks of sheep, goats and camels in the hills en route to Petra.
In and around the town of Petra itself, a few luxury hotels have opened to capture the growing interest in this site. Despite these signs of modernity the people in this part of the country appear to be fairly traditional, with many women covered from head to toe, with only their eyes visible. One woman even had her eyes covered with a thin black veil; presumably she could see out but it was disconcerting to observe a faceless black shape moving in the street. And I wonder - seriously - if young children are frightened the first time they see their mother cover herself completely? It spooked me. Jerusalem's religous women seem risque by comparison.
At the site, which is enormous (we barely scratched the surface), the local Bedouins were trying to make a living selling donkey and camel rides, bottles filled with designs of colored sand, postcards and a surfeit of undifferentiated trinkets at prices that fluctuated depending on the gullibility of the potential customer and the savviness of the vendor. Apparently only the families and descendants of the people who had been living at Petra, before the government relocated them, are allowed to conduct business there. Sadly, even toddlers get in on the action, aggressively peddling Petra rocks for 1 Dinar (about $1.50), tailing tourists for yards until they relent (I did not, except one girl, who was probably 3, tried to relieve me of my backpack!). The older boys were darkly handsome - black hair, nearly black skin, and white teeth. Wearing traditional headcoverings (a kafiyah? I think) and languidly sitting atop their camels and horses, baking in the heat, they looked like Arabian warriors. I could just imagine them charging into the distance.
Returning to Israel, we passed through a sand storm that obliterated the horizon and sent particles of earth every which way, creating a beige fog. The weather in Eilat was exactly the same - hot, dry with dirt in the air - but nevertheless I was extremely relieved to be back home.
The guide for the camel ride showed us how to sit properly - with one leg hooked around the front of the camel seat, to make it harder to be dislodged - and how to command our "ships of the desert". My camel, Esther, kept testing me by stopping to eat shrubs. Eventually I got the hang of being the boss and she started to obey. Leading her down a hill by walking in front of her, the rope over my shoulder, she would stop whenever I stopped. Seeing our humpbacked friends sit down, a multistage process which ends up with them resting on their knees, reminded me of yoga's camel pose, which I usually sit out during the sequence. Unlike a camel, I don't have the joints for such a position.
I ended up atop a Jordanian donkey on the way out of Petra, a Nabatean city carved of reddish rock. After hearing so many people gush about this site in Jordan, which some call the eighth wonder of the world, I decided to book a tour. My companions were five Christian pilgrims, two from Germany and three from the US, who were doing a tour of holy places. The donkey ride was unexpected, but our guide arranged it for us to accommodate a woman in the group who was too fatigued to walk back to our vehicle.
Petra lived up to its reputation. The natural rock formations, in addition to the carvings, were stunning in their shapes and colors. It is believed that the sea once covered the area, and between the movement of the water and earthquakes this region was formed. Apparently much of what was thought to have been true about the creators and inhabitants of ancient Petra is now considered speculative at best, so I won't go into any details (Googlers, let me know what you find!).
Equally fascinating was a chance to take a peek at life in Jordan during the two hour car ride in each direction and to see how it compares with the south of Israel, with which it shares the same geography and climate. The contrast between Eilat and Aqaba, both port cities and resorts, was quite striking. Sorry, Aqaba, you lose. In Jordan, traditional desert life seems to persist despite the country's attempts to settle its Bedouin population in stationary communities. Many of these nomads do have basic homes but they continue to be close to the land. Lone figures cloaked in flowing robes herded large flocks of sheep, goats and camels in the hills en route to Petra.
In and around the town of Petra itself, a few luxury hotels have opened to capture the growing interest in this site. Despite these signs of modernity the people in this part of the country appear to be fairly traditional, with many women covered from head to toe, with only their eyes visible. One woman even had her eyes covered with a thin black veil; presumably she could see out but it was disconcerting to observe a faceless black shape moving in the street. And I wonder - seriously - if young children are frightened the first time they see their mother cover herself completely? It spooked me. Jerusalem's religous women seem risque by comparison.
At the site, which is enormous (we barely scratched the surface), the local Bedouins were trying to make a living selling donkey and camel rides, bottles filled with designs of colored sand, postcards and a surfeit of undifferentiated trinkets at prices that fluctuated depending on the gullibility of the potential customer and the savviness of the vendor. Apparently only the families and descendants of the people who had been living at Petra, before the government relocated them, are allowed to conduct business there. Sadly, even toddlers get in on the action, aggressively peddling Petra rocks for 1 Dinar (about $1.50), tailing tourists for yards until they relent (I did not, except one girl, who was probably 3, tried to relieve me of my backpack!). The older boys were darkly handsome - black hair, nearly black skin, and white teeth. Wearing traditional headcoverings (a kafiyah? I think) and languidly sitting atop their camels and horses, baking in the heat, they looked like Arabian warriors. I could just imagine them charging into the distance.
Returning to Israel, we passed through a sand storm that obliterated the horizon and sent particles of earth every which way, creating a beige fog. The weather in Eilat was exactly the same - hot, dry with dirt in the air - but nevertheless I was extremely relieved to be back home.
Tuesday, May 1, 2007
B'seder? B'seder.
B'seder is one of the most frequently used words in colloquial Hebrew. It more or less translates as "OK", but it is used in so many contexts and in so many tones of voice that I have a hunch it's a simple word with several layers of meaning. And many Anglos in Israel will complete their sentences, spoken in English, with a b'seder, as if that single Hebrew word can summarize or encapsulate all of the words that preceded it.
The basic use is to affirm that everything is all right. For example, "Shall we meet for coffee at 4pm?" a friend asks. "B'seder," is the response. One also can say, "B'seder" to the frequently asked, "How are you?" And wandering around various shops and stores with, perhaps with a serious expression on my faced, people have asked me, "Is everything b'seder?", as in, "Are you OK?". "B'seder," I reply.
But there are more interesting uses. One of my teachers at Pardes (Institute of Jewish Studies), commenting in English on an Israeli cabinet member's views on prisoner exchanges, concluded that the man was b'seder, meaning competent and intelligent.
A woman outside the Jerusalem Central Bus Station, upon seeing a group of young policemen enter the building, angrily reprimanded them, "You are not b'seder!", suggesting that they are inept or, worse, unethical. They said nothing.
After the bus driver to Eilat lost his temper with boarding passengers, yelling at basically everyone, I fastened my seatbelt and commented to my neighbor, "If he's in such a bad mood he might take it out on the road." She said, "No, no, he's b'seder. I rode with him a month ago and when the bus broke down he dealt with it well," suggesting that underneath his ferocious exterior he was, after all, a mensch, someone who can be trusted to behave appropriately in a difficult moment.
And I've heard many cell phone conversations in which the intense repetition of b'seder suggests that, maybe, things really aren't all that OK but the person just wants to get on with it. The drawn out, somewhat resigned pronunciation, buh..sayder, indicates that the speaker has capitulated.
Then there's b'seder gamoor, which is, "Everything is completely fine (period, full stop)." It's a definitive way to wrap up a line of questioning or a conversation.
B'seder?
The basic use is to affirm that everything is all right. For example, "Shall we meet for coffee at 4pm?" a friend asks. "B'seder," is the response. One also can say, "B'seder" to the frequently asked, "How are you?" And wandering around various shops and stores with, perhaps with a serious expression on my faced, people have asked me, "Is everything b'seder?", as in, "Are you OK?". "B'seder," I reply.
But there are more interesting uses. One of my teachers at Pardes (Institute of Jewish Studies), commenting in English on an Israeli cabinet member's views on prisoner exchanges, concluded that the man was b'seder, meaning competent and intelligent.
A woman outside the Jerusalem Central Bus Station, upon seeing a group of young policemen enter the building, angrily reprimanded them, "You are not b'seder!", suggesting that they are inept or, worse, unethical. They said nothing.
After the bus driver to Eilat lost his temper with boarding passengers, yelling at basically everyone, I fastened my seatbelt and commented to my neighbor, "If he's in such a bad mood he might take it out on the road." She said, "No, no, he's b'seder. I rode with him a month ago and when the bus broke down he dealt with it well," suggesting that underneath his ferocious exterior he was, after all, a mensch, someone who can be trusted to behave appropriately in a difficult moment.
And I've heard many cell phone conversations in which the intense repetition of b'seder suggests that, maybe, things really aren't all that OK but the person just wants to get on with it. The drawn out, somewhat resigned pronunciation, buh..sayder, indicates that the speaker has capitulated.
Then there's b'seder gamoor, which is, "Everything is completely fine (period, full stop)." It's a definitive way to wrap up a line of questioning or a conversation.
B'seder?
Thursday, April 26, 2007
Trusting the Universe...at the Arab Souk
Dear Loyal Readers -
Check back another time - not sure when! - for a lighter posting about beads and life. These musings are not in real time - my CPU (e.g. my brain) needs a few days to reflect upon and digest my adventures. Plus I want to get in some beach time! ;-)
Ilona
Check back another time - not sure when! - for a lighter posting about beads and life. These musings are not in real time - my CPU (e.g. my brain) needs a few days to reflect upon and digest my adventures. Plus I want to get in some beach time! ;-)
Ilona
A Soul Mate, of Sorts
No, I haven't met the love of my life, at least not that I'm aware of.
But at a gathering at a synagogue, on the eve of Yom HaShoah (Holocaust Remembrance Day), I met Agnieszka, a compact 30-something Polish woman with whom I instantly connected. The meeting was organized for second and third generations to share thoughts, memories and feelings about this hideous history that still seems to loom over so many lives, mine included.
In words as blunt as her haircut, Agnieszka declared that she believes that she has been unable to move her life forward because of unresolved and unexpressed emotions stemming from the loss of family during the Holocaust. To compound her anguish, no one in her family of origin (who still live in Poland) wants to discuss it, and she felt as if she were carrying the memory of the murdered all by herself. And I was stunned to hear her utter the exact words that I once penned in my journal: that, on some level, she refuses to be consoled.
Emboldened by her comments, I decided to say what, for me, had until know been unsayable: that I felt as if I were a receptacle of death, carrying around the loss of my father's family as a way of preserving the memory of people no one spoke of. Agnieszka nodded.
It was an enormous relief for me to utter these words and to have them deeply acknowledged. And it was a real blessing to meet a woman, close to my age, with whom I could talk about the Holocaust...and about beading. Not coincidentally, we both design jewelry as a form of meditation. I left that meeting unburdened and filled with happiness at the prospect of a friendship.
While eating dinner at her apartment a few days later, Agnieszka told me that although she has lived in Jerusalem three years, she has not been able to bring herself to visit Yad Vashem, the Holocaust Museum and Memorial. I, too, had been putting off a trip there and, uncharacteristically, I asked her if she wanted to join me. She agreed.
I am excruciatingly aware that carrying around grief, like a large sack of now stinking and worm-infested potatoes, is an unconstructive and perverse way of honoring those whose lives were lost. Except that my attempts to "just drop it" haven't been successful. The bag just sits there, and no one else picks it up, and I feel obligated to carry it a little bit further. I hoped that our joint pilgrimage to Yad Vashem would allow me to deposit at least part of my burden there, leaving it in the care of dedicated staff who have been charged with the meticulous, enormous and sacred task of Never Forgetting.
The sack did get lighter that day, when Agnieszka and I visited the museum and Hall of Names (decades later, only half the names have been recorded), and again this morning when I returned to Yad Vashem to see the Valley of the Communities, a memorial to all of the destroyed Jewish communities, whose design powerfully evokes the staggering loss. Perhaps I need to create my own art to externalize my inner load, allowing others to share it.
But at a gathering at a synagogue, on the eve of Yom HaShoah (Holocaust Remembrance Day), I met Agnieszka, a compact 30-something Polish woman with whom I instantly connected. The meeting was organized for second and third generations to share thoughts, memories and feelings about this hideous history that still seems to loom over so many lives, mine included.
In words as blunt as her haircut, Agnieszka declared that she believes that she has been unable to move her life forward because of unresolved and unexpressed emotions stemming from the loss of family during the Holocaust. To compound her anguish, no one in her family of origin (who still live in Poland) wants to discuss it, and she felt as if she were carrying the memory of the murdered all by herself. And I was stunned to hear her utter the exact words that I once penned in my journal: that, on some level, she refuses to be consoled.
Emboldened by her comments, I decided to say what, for me, had until know been unsayable: that I felt as if I were a receptacle of death, carrying around the loss of my father's family as a way of preserving the memory of people no one spoke of. Agnieszka nodded.
It was an enormous relief for me to utter these words and to have them deeply acknowledged. And it was a real blessing to meet a woman, close to my age, with whom I could talk about the Holocaust...and about beading. Not coincidentally, we both design jewelry as a form of meditation. I left that meeting unburdened and filled with happiness at the prospect of a friendship.
While eating dinner at her apartment a few days later, Agnieszka told me that although she has lived in Jerusalem three years, she has not been able to bring herself to visit Yad Vashem, the Holocaust Museum and Memorial. I, too, had been putting off a trip there and, uncharacteristically, I asked her if she wanted to join me. She agreed.
I am excruciatingly aware that carrying around grief, like a large sack of now stinking and worm-infested potatoes, is an unconstructive and perverse way of honoring those whose lives were lost. Except that my attempts to "just drop it" haven't been successful. The bag just sits there, and no one else picks it up, and I feel obligated to carry it a little bit further. I hoped that our joint pilgrimage to Yad Vashem would allow me to deposit at least part of my burden there, leaving it in the care of dedicated staff who have been charged with the meticulous, enormous and sacred task of Never Forgetting.
The sack did get lighter that day, when Agnieszka and I visited the museum and Hall of Names (decades later, only half the names have been recorded), and again this morning when I returned to Yad Vashem to see the Valley of the Communities, a memorial to all of the destroyed Jewish communities, whose design powerfully evokes the staggering loss. Perhaps I need to create my own art to externalize my inner load, allowing others to share it.
Monday, April 23, 2007
Crocs & Caligula
They say that for every two Israelis there are three opinions (or political parties, or religious beliefs), but from what I've observed there seems to be widespread agreement on footwear. Crocs, or knockoffs of these strapped plastic clogs, appear to be the colorful common denominator in this contentious if not sharply divided society. Nearly everyone - adults + children, men + women, Orthodox + atheist, Jew + Arab, scholars + salesmen, immigrants + oldtimers - wears these shoes practically all the time. Crocs are so ubiquitous that some entrepreneurs have created "Croc-cessories", colorful clips that can be inserted in the holes that aerate these clogs.
Wanting to acquire some cool footwear, yet still unable to fall in love with the Canadian Crocs, I've had my eye on Caligula, an Israeli brand with an off-putting (possibly market limiting?) name. Caligula's designs are funky, uncomplicated and colorful. After spotting them in a boutique up north back in March, I've been meaning to try some on for awhile. My first attempts failed - the smaller shops didn't carry my (large) size. Determined to find out if the shoes were as comfortable as they appeared, I overcame my aversion to shopping malls to seek out Caligula's largest store in Jerusalem. Maybe, just maybe, I'd find a pair. Spotting two styles I liked, I asked for them in my size and in a few colors. Astonishingly, they carried both in my size and in a choice of hues. I settled on two, adventurously choosing shoes that were neither black nor (for those familiar with my shoe collection) red!
Should I ever fall for Crocs, I can always find them at home.
Wanting to acquire some cool footwear, yet still unable to fall in love with the Canadian Crocs, I've had my eye on Caligula, an Israeli brand with an off-putting (possibly market limiting?) name. Caligula's designs are funky, uncomplicated and colorful. After spotting them in a boutique up north back in March, I've been meaning to try some on for awhile. My first attempts failed - the smaller shops didn't carry my (large) size. Determined to find out if the shoes were as comfortable as they appeared, I overcame my aversion to shopping malls to seek out Caligula's largest store in Jerusalem. Maybe, just maybe, I'd find a pair. Spotting two styles I liked, I asked for them in my size and in a few colors. Astonishingly, they carried both in my size and in a choice of hues. I settled on two, adventurously choosing shoes that were neither black nor (for those familiar with my shoe collection) red!
Should I ever fall for Crocs, I can always find them at home.
Occupying Territory
Israel is a challenging place to be for those who appreciate or like to defend their "personal space", a concept that does not quite exist here. People jostle, bump and squeeze "in line", often without acknowledging or apologizing. In their minds, nothing untoward has happened, so there is no need to say anything.
At an elegant meal following my second cousin's Bar Mitzvah, the tanned, blonde, lacey-shoed fashionista to my right, whose ski-sloped nose looked suspiciously like others I've seen, reached over and plucked my dessert fork without batting a thickly mascaraed eyelash, let alone asking me if I was planning to eat dessert (of course I was!). I was astonished yet knew that what she did was not unacceptable here, and that the appropriate thing to do would NOT be to ask her to give it back but to pilfer a fork from somewhere else. Not wishing to do either, with some difficulty I ate my cake with a spoon, which she had not appropriated.
At a Jerusalem clothing boutique with only three dressing rooms, all being used, a young Israeli woman wanted to quickly try on one skirt. She asked a customer, an American, if she could just borrow her dressing room for a few minutes.
"There is a line," I insisted, as I was #2. No one seemed to care. I believe the American relented, exiting the changing room to show her husband how a new outfit looked. The Israeli seized the moment and occupied the cubicle.
But then the American returned to the dressing room, with the Israeli still in it, and the next thing I heard was, in an exasperated voice, "I didn't mean that we'd use the changing room together. That's not how we do things in the U.S."
No, it's not. But, Israel is not the U.S. (Many Americans, lulled by the prevalence of English speakers in Jerusalem, tend to forget).
The Israeli woman left the changing room, shaking her head at the rebuke (ridiculous to her!) while the husband shook his head at the Israeli's chutzpah.
At an unanticipatedly popular session of a conference on Jewish writers, all the available seats were taken, both on chairs and on the floor. Yet latecomers continued to enter the room and occupy space that, at least to my American eye, did not appear to exist. I had arrived on time and found a spot on the floor, against a wall, where I could sit cross-legged. With just 30 minutes left of the 90 minute session, a large man arrived and decided to plunk himself down next to me, if not slightly on top of me. It didn't bother him, or he didn't seem to notice, that his right leg was pressing firmly into my left thigh. I could not decide if I should try to push him out of my territory, asserting my the borders of my personal space at possible injury to myself (he was much bigger than me!), or withdraw my leg so that we'd no longer be touching, in the process shrinking my hard won spot.
Israel's dilemma writ small?
At an elegant meal following my second cousin's Bar Mitzvah, the tanned, blonde, lacey-shoed fashionista to my right, whose ski-sloped nose looked suspiciously like others I've seen, reached over and plucked my dessert fork without batting a thickly mascaraed eyelash, let alone asking me if I was planning to eat dessert (of course I was!). I was astonished yet knew that what she did was not unacceptable here, and that the appropriate thing to do would NOT be to ask her to give it back but to pilfer a fork from somewhere else. Not wishing to do either, with some difficulty I ate my cake with a spoon, which she had not appropriated.
At a Jerusalem clothing boutique with only three dressing rooms, all being used, a young Israeli woman wanted to quickly try on one skirt. She asked a customer, an American, if she could just borrow her dressing room for a few minutes.
"There is a line," I insisted, as I was #2. No one seemed to care. I believe the American relented, exiting the changing room to show her husband how a new outfit looked. The Israeli seized the moment and occupied the cubicle.
But then the American returned to the dressing room, with the Israeli still in it, and the next thing I heard was, in an exasperated voice, "I didn't mean that we'd use the changing room together. That's not how we do things in the U.S."
No, it's not. But, Israel is not the U.S. (Many Americans, lulled by the prevalence of English speakers in Jerusalem, tend to forget).
The Israeli woman left the changing room, shaking her head at the rebuke (ridiculous to her!) while the husband shook his head at the Israeli's chutzpah.
At an unanticipatedly popular session of a conference on Jewish writers, all the available seats were taken, both on chairs and on the floor. Yet latecomers continued to enter the room and occupy space that, at least to my American eye, did not appear to exist. I had arrived on time and found a spot on the floor, against a wall, where I could sit cross-legged. With just 30 minutes left of the 90 minute session, a large man arrived and decided to plunk himself down next to me, if not slightly on top of me. It didn't bother him, or he didn't seem to notice, that his right leg was pressing firmly into my left thigh. I could not decide if I should try to push him out of my territory, asserting my the borders of my personal space at possible injury to myself (he was much bigger than me!), or withdraw my leg so that we'd no longer be touching, in the process shrinking my hard won spot.
Israel's dilemma writ small?
Thursday, April 19, 2007
Faith and Divine Guidance
I must have faith, at least in my map of Jerusalem. Even though it's failed me several times I still continue to rely on it, believing that it will ultimately redeem itself and guide me to where I need to go. Or maybe I'm just extremely stubborn, refusing to give up on the map and ask people for directions.
Unfurled, the map could cover a medium-sized table, so I usually have it folded to the relevant section. I hold it in one hand, much as one might carry an open paperback, occasionally glancing down at it to make sure I'm on track.
There are many other people walking around Jerusalem in a similar, but not exactly the same, posture. Unlike me, they are not tourists. They are religious Jews, traveling on foot while reading their prayerbooks. Unlike me, they walk confidently and rarely seem to glance up. They must be receiving divine guidance as they never seem to bump into anyone or anything.
Unfurled, the map could cover a medium-sized table, so I usually have it folded to the relevant section. I hold it in one hand, much as one might carry an open paperback, occasionally glancing down at it to make sure I'm on track.
There are many other people walking around Jerusalem in a similar, but not exactly the same, posture. Unlike me, they are not tourists. They are religious Jews, traveling on foot while reading their prayerbooks. Unlike me, they walk confidently and rarely seem to glance up. They must be receiving divine guidance as they never seem to bump into anyone or anything.
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Like a (Gefilte) Fish Out of Water
Last weekend I somewhat reluctantly attended the Bar Mitzvah of my second cousin. Reluctantly, because I don't really have a relationship with him or his parents, and the last time I saw them (my first weekend in Israel), I got the distinct impression that I was not completely welcome. Not to mention that I, more of a spiritual Jew, feel just a tad out of place in their affluent and conventional Orthodox world.
Still, a Bar Mitzvah is a major Jewish life simcha (happy event), these are practically my only relatives on my father's side, and I happen to be in Israel. Alas, as I so often do in life, I decided to go not because I thought I'd have fun but because I didn't want to later regret NOT going.
The family had arranged for me and other out of town relatives to sleep at different homes in the neighborhood, a common practice in Israel that allows Sabbath observers to be near the action. I was hosted next door by a lovely Australian woman and received a key to her house.
The Bar Mitzvah boy's dad, who is my father's cousin and the person I know best (albeit barely), also wanted me to have keys to their residence so I could come and go at will, allowing me to feel more at home. That evening, after dinner has ended, he asks his wife (an Israeli Martha Stewart?) to get me a key.
"Why does she need a key?" she barks, defensively, within earshot. "I'll be up early in the morning to let her in."
I am wishing I had not come.
He asks one of his daughters to get me a set of house keys. She deposits in my hand a giant jangly concoction, complete with baseball hat ornament, in which the house keys are buried. Not the most convenient or discreet thing to be shlepping around on the Sabbath, but keys nonetheless. However, he wants me to have a different set of keys, the one with the key to his car.
Aah. The possibility of escape! I am silently grateful, even if I have no explicit intention of driving anywhere. He hands me the new set of keys.
But. But. His daughter (I can't remember which of the two) takes some kind of offense and emphatically grabs the car keys out of my hand, replacing that set with the original one.
I am stunned and devastated by the hostility. It's not as if she would even be using the car keys herself - it is Shabbat after all. By this point, I am not feeling inclined to "make nice" and forgo the car keys, so I stay silent and wait to see how the drama will play out.
The father ultimately prevails and I take the house and car keys next door for the night, feeling not just like a fish out of water, but like a fish that has been eviscerated before being stuffed and eaten.
Days later, safely back in Jerusalem, I have some time to reflect on this painful episode. Is it possible that the father (a prominent surgeon) is so unavailable to his family, especially the female members, that they deeply resented the tiny bit of attention he paid to me? Could that explain the eruption of anger I witnessed?
I wonder.
Still, a Bar Mitzvah is a major Jewish life simcha (happy event), these are practically my only relatives on my father's side, and I happen to be in Israel. Alas, as I so often do in life, I decided to go not because I thought I'd have fun but because I didn't want to later regret NOT going.
The family had arranged for me and other out of town relatives to sleep at different homes in the neighborhood, a common practice in Israel that allows Sabbath observers to be near the action. I was hosted next door by a lovely Australian woman and received a key to her house.
The Bar Mitzvah boy's dad, who is my father's cousin and the person I know best (albeit barely), also wanted me to have keys to their residence so I could come and go at will, allowing me to feel more at home. That evening, after dinner has ended, he asks his wife (an Israeli Martha Stewart?) to get me a key.
"Why does she need a key?" she barks, defensively, within earshot. "I'll be up early in the morning to let her in."
I am wishing I had not come.
He asks one of his daughters to get me a set of house keys. She deposits in my hand a giant jangly concoction, complete with baseball hat ornament, in which the house keys are buried. Not the most convenient or discreet thing to be shlepping around on the Sabbath, but keys nonetheless. However, he wants me to have a different set of keys, the one with the key to his car.
Aah. The possibility of escape! I am silently grateful, even if I have no explicit intention of driving anywhere. He hands me the new set of keys.
But. But. His daughter (I can't remember which of the two) takes some kind of offense and emphatically grabs the car keys out of my hand, replacing that set with the original one.
I am stunned and devastated by the hostility. It's not as if she would even be using the car keys herself - it is Shabbat after all. By this point, I am not feeling inclined to "make nice" and forgo the car keys, so I stay silent and wait to see how the drama will play out.
The father ultimately prevails and I take the house and car keys next door for the night, feeling not just like a fish out of water, but like a fish that has been eviscerated before being stuffed and eaten.
Days later, safely back in Jerusalem, I have some time to reflect on this painful episode. Is it possible that the father (a prominent surgeon) is so unavailable to his family, especially the female members, that they deeply resented the tiny bit of attention he paid to me? Could that explain the eruption of anger I witnessed?
I wonder.
Monday, April 16, 2007
Friday the 13th Meltdown
So, we all have bad days. Somehow, when traveling, a bad day often feels like a really terrible day, even if it just a run of the mill bad day. It wasn't until I was in the middle of a pretty bad day that I realized it was Friday the 13th.
I had packed an overnight bag and was on my way to Tel Aviv for a relative's Bar Mitzvah. The plan was to give him a gift (of cash) so I went to an ATM in downtown Jerusalem before boarding the sheirut (shared taxi). The ATM said that my financial institution wasn't available. No cash. I tried one more time at a different machine. No cash. Arriving in Tel Aviv an hour or so later, I tried again. Still no cash.
Concerned, as I knew that I had not exceeded my daily withdrawal limit, I called the number on the back of my ATM card. It turned out that my bank accepts collect calls, so I hung up and tried to call the operator. Except I had no clue how to call the international operator in Israel. I thought maybe my fancy rental cell phone would have instructions or a number? Clicking through the menu, I found nothing. Remembering I had a guide book, I checked for guidance. Voila.
Dialing again, this time connected by the operator, I enter the long and irrelevant menu of automated options. No, I didn't want to check my balance, transfer funds, verify the latest transaction or order a pizza. I wanted to speak to a human being. Finally, a human being is on the line. After verifying that I am who I say I am, by providing all sorts of numbers, codes and my birthdate, and after telling him what the problem is, he says he'll forward me to another department. Except he wasn't really paying attention and he sends me back to...the main menu.
I take a deep breath.
Yes, you probably know what comes next. The second customer service person I finally get a hold of does the exact same thing...sending me to the main menu.
On the third try, I beg the next person to please not to leave me dangling. After verifying that I am who I am YET AGAIN, this time even being asked to provide my driver's license number (luckily I have it with me!), I am actually connected to the correct department. Baruch ha'shem. I am told that the computer is showing a pending transaction, that I did withdraw money that morning in Jerusalem, which is why all my subsequent attempts to take out cash were denied. Except that I never received any money, which is why I'm calling. So, I am in limbo, waiting to find out if the system will actually take the cash out of my account or if the error will be discovered. If the former, I need to initiate a claim.
Exhausted (this took about an hour), I head to the beach in Tel Aviv to chill out, enjoying an iced coffee while watching the parasurfers. On the way to catch a cab to my relative's house, I stop at the city market to buy some flowers for them. I asked the vendor if he could combine bunches of different colors, making a nice arrangement.
"I'm a flower seller, not a floral designer," he growls. "How many do you want?"
I hesitate.
"HOW MANY?"
The man really is yelling at me.
Pressed for time, and with many shops already closed for Shabbat, I grab two bouquets and hand him a bill.
"Shabbat Shalom," I say, forcing myself to smile at him and not get sucked into his angry mood.
He scowls back.
Weary, I hail a cab, get in and tell him the address. He at least admits he is new and doesn't know how to get there. I grab my bags and exit the cab.
The next cabbie seems to know where it is, but asks me to give him some general guidance. I had purchased a Hebrew map of Tel Aviv and Ramat Gan (where my relative lives) and after carefully looking at the index had found the street and circled it. I told the driver what the neighboring street was and he seemed to know how to get there.
We proceed to this location and I don't recognize it. There is no doubt we are in the wrong place. I call my relatives for guidance. It turned out that the address I had (spelled in English) could correspond to two different Hebrew spellings, of two different streets in different parts of the city. Reading the street index, I had chosen the wrong one, not realizing there was another. Later I learned that my map, although ostensibly covering Ramat Gan, ends before my family's neighborhood.
Meanwhile, the cab driver is getting directions from the wife. We do a mid-course correction and head across town. He still can't find the street and asks me to call her again. Somewhat mortified, I dial another time. After he gets off the phone a second time, the driver tells me that she had failed to give him complete directions the first time. Sadly, this is probably the case (I've had my own issues communicating with her).
Finally, finally, after a very expensive cab ride, I arrive to the house, about an hour later than planned. I ring the bell and, for a long time, no one answers. I ring again. Someone does let me in eventually and tells me to come upstairs, where everyone is holed up in their respective rooms. I say my hellos and ask the oldest daughter if I might be able to iron my Shabbat clothes.
She sets it up and I get to work. After successfully dewrinkling my one and only skirt I proceed to iron my blouses. One of them, a stretchy black crossover V-neck which I bought for this trip, melts under the iron. Talk about a wardrobe malfunction. Moreover, the bottom of the iron now has burnt black nylon on it.
I feel like the guest from hell.
I had packed an overnight bag and was on my way to Tel Aviv for a relative's Bar Mitzvah. The plan was to give him a gift (of cash) so I went to an ATM in downtown Jerusalem before boarding the sheirut (shared taxi). The ATM said that my financial institution wasn't available. No cash. I tried one more time at a different machine. No cash. Arriving in Tel Aviv an hour or so later, I tried again. Still no cash.
Concerned, as I knew that I had not exceeded my daily withdrawal limit, I called the number on the back of my ATM card. It turned out that my bank accepts collect calls, so I hung up and tried to call the operator. Except I had no clue how to call the international operator in Israel. I thought maybe my fancy rental cell phone would have instructions or a number? Clicking through the menu, I found nothing. Remembering I had a guide book, I checked for guidance. Voila.
Dialing again, this time connected by the operator, I enter the long and irrelevant menu of automated options. No, I didn't want to check my balance, transfer funds, verify the latest transaction or order a pizza. I wanted to speak to a human being. Finally, a human being is on the line. After verifying that I am who I say I am, by providing all sorts of numbers, codes and my birthdate, and after telling him what the problem is, he says he'll forward me to another department. Except he wasn't really paying attention and he sends me back to...the main menu.
I take a deep breath.
Yes, you probably know what comes next. The second customer service person I finally get a hold of does the exact same thing...sending me to the main menu.
On the third try, I beg the next person to please not to leave me dangling. After verifying that I am who I am YET AGAIN, this time even being asked to provide my driver's license number (luckily I have it with me!), I am actually connected to the correct department. Baruch ha'shem. I am told that the computer is showing a pending transaction, that I did withdraw money that morning in Jerusalem, which is why all my subsequent attempts to take out cash were denied. Except that I never received any money, which is why I'm calling. So, I am in limbo, waiting to find out if the system will actually take the cash out of my account or if the error will be discovered. If the former, I need to initiate a claim.
Exhausted (this took about an hour), I head to the beach in Tel Aviv to chill out, enjoying an iced coffee while watching the parasurfers. On the way to catch a cab to my relative's house, I stop at the city market to buy some flowers for them. I asked the vendor if he could combine bunches of different colors, making a nice arrangement.
"I'm a flower seller, not a floral designer," he growls. "How many do you want?"
I hesitate.
"HOW MANY?"
The man really is yelling at me.
Pressed for time, and with many shops already closed for Shabbat, I grab two bouquets and hand him a bill.
"Shabbat Shalom," I say, forcing myself to smile at him and not get sucked into his angry mood.
He scowls back.
Weary, I hail a cab, get in and tell him the address. He at least admits he is new and doesn't know how to get there. I grab my bags and exit the cab.
The next cabbie seems to know where it is, but asks me to give him some general guidance. I had purchased a Hebrew map of Tel Aviv and Ramat Gan (where my relative lives) and after carefully looking at the index had found the street and circled it. I told the driver what the neighboring street was and he seemed to know how to get there.
We proceed to this location and I don't recognize it. There is no doubt we are in the wrong place. I call my relatives for guidance. It turned out that the address I had (spelled in English) could correspond to two different Hebrew spellings, of two different streets in different parts of the city. Reading the street index, I had chosen the wrong one, not realizing there was another. Later I learned that my map, although ostensibly covering Ramat Gan, ends before my family's neighborhood.
Meanwhile, the cab driver is getting directions from the wife. We do a mid-course correction and head across town. He still can't find the street and asks me to call her again. Somewhat mortified, I dial another time. After he gets off the phone a second time, the driver tells me that she had failed to give him complete directions the first time. Sadly, this is probably the case (I've had my own issues communicating with her).
Finally, finally, after a very expensive cab ride, I arrive to the house, about an hour later than planned. I ring the bell and, for a long time, no one answers. I ring again. Someone does let me in eventually and tells me to come upstairs, where everyone is holed up in their respective rooms. I say my hellos and ask the oldest daughter if I might be able to iron my Shabbat clothes.
She sets it up and I get to work. After successfully dewrinkling my one and only skirt I proceed to iron my blouses. One of them, a stretchy black crossover V-neck which I bought for this trip, melts under the iron. Talk about a wardrobe malfunction. Moreover, the bottom of the iron now has burnt black nylon on it.
I feel like the guest from hell.
Mud on My Face..and Arms...and Legs...
Last week, the cool temperatures and occasionally strong winds of Jerusalem were beginning to get to me. The remedy? A visit to the Dead Sea.
Not wishing to navigate through the maze of Jerusalem's Central Bus Station, I decided to go on a group tour. Theorizing that the posh hotels would only work with excellent operators, I signed up for a Masada/Dead Sea trip at one of the swankest hotels in Jerusalem. The next morning, I arrived at the appointed time, only to wait...and wait...and wait for the minivan to show up, about 45 minutes later. I climbed aboard and noticed that one of the seats was completely broken. The tour guide - a burly white haired ex-history teacher named Shraga - started the tour with humor and good cheer but his attitude deteriorated and by mid-day his style began to resemble that of a barking general ("Lady, hurry up!"; "You, come here!"). I overheard another passenger tell her friend, in Spanish, that he was the worst Israeli guide she's met so far.
So much for my theory.
En route, the driver (an older fellow named Eli) kept pulling over, as if he was not confident that the rattling vehicle would make it. Somehow, though, he was able to accelerate to insane speeds as he negotiated some very twisty curves as we descended from Jerusalem to below sea level. The fellow sitting next to me, an American named Robert who had spent a year in Iraq doing humanitarian relief, commented that it would be rather ironic, not to mention stupid, if, after all he'd experienced, he died as a result of a crazy Israeli driver. I agreed - what a pointless way to go!
We hinted to Shraga that the driver could slow down.
"No, no," reassured Shraga, "it's OK. The speed is fine."
Maybe the speed was within the legal limit but the vehicle itself didn't sound like it could handle it.
Perhaps the driver wanted to stress us out so that we'd have an even greater appreciation of the therapeutic benefits of the Dead Sea and the Ein Gedi Spa. The tour guide didn't leave us all that much time to sample the spa, so we (Robert, myself and an Argentinean woman) hopped from treatment to treatment. First stop, the Dead Sea itself. We floated in the warm water and basked in the sun, emerging after a few minutes with crystals of salt and minerals clinging to our bodies. Then we jumped onto a shuttle which dropped us off at the mud station, with two huge wooden vats filled with the stuff. Still salted, we coated ourselves with thick but smooth black mud (think "mud mousse"), apparently marvelous for the skin AND hair, and photographed each other while the mud dried. We carefully rinsed and scrubbed under a warm outdoor sulphur shower, removing the dirt but adding a stink! Then it was time for a 15 minute float in the hot indoor sulphur pool, followed by a regular shower. Still a bit annoyed by having to wait in the morning, I decided not to rush.
Returning to the minivan (I was the last to board), my now baby smooth skin glowed and I felt deeply relaxed. Even Shraga seemed liked a nice guy, and I found it in my heart to give this angry and frustrated man a small tip. A few days later, after several shampoos, my hair still smelled of "eau de sulphur". Perhaps by the time the odor completely disappears it will be time to return.
Not wishing to navigate through the maze of Jerusalem's Central Bus Station, I decided to go on a group tour. Theorizing that the posh hotels would only work with excellent operators, I signed up for a Masada/Dead Sea trip at one of the swankest hotels in Jerusalem. The next morning, I arrived at the appointed time, only to wait...and wait...and wait for the minivan to show up, about 45 minutes later. I climbed aboard and noticed that one of the seats was completely broken. The tour guide - a burly white haired ex-history teacher named Shraga - started the tour with humor and good cheer but his attitude deteriorated and by mid-day his style began to resemble that of a barking general ("Lady, hurry up!"; "You, come here!"). I overheard another passenger tell her friend, in Spanish, that he was the worst Israeli guide she's met so far.
So much for my theory.
En route, the driver (an older fellow named Eli) kept pulling over, as if he was not confident that the rattling vehicle would make it. Somehow, though, he was able to accelerate to insane speeds as he negotiated some very twisty curves as we descended from Jerusalem to below sea level. The fellow sitting next to me, an American named Robert who had spent a year in Iraq doing humanitarian relief, commented that it would be rather ironic, not to mention stupid, if, after all he'd experienced, he died as a result of a crazy Israeli driver. I agreed - what a pointless way to go!
We hinted to Shraga that the driver could slow down.
"No, no," reassured Shraga, "it's OK. The speed is fine."
Maybe the speed was within the legal limit but the vehicle itself didn't sound like it could handle it.
Perhaps the driver wanted to stress us out so that we'd have an even greater appreciation of the therapeutic benefits of the Dead Sea and the Ein Gedi Spa. The tour guide didn't leave us all that much time to sample the spa, so we (Robert, myself and an Argentinean woman) hopped from treatment to treatment. First stop, the Dead Sea itself. We floated in the warm water and basked in the sun, emerging after a few minutes with crystals of salt and minerals clinging to our bodies. Then we jumped onto a shuttle which dropped us off at the mud station, with two huge wooden vats filled with the stuff. Still salted, we coated ourselves with thick but smooth black mud (think "mud mousse"), apparently marvelous for the skin AND hair, and photographed each other while the mud dried. We carefully rinsed and scrubbed under a warm outdoor sulphur shower, removing the dirt but adding a stink! Then it was time for a 15 minute float in the hot indoor sulphur pool, followed by a regular shower. Still a bit annoyed by having to wait in the morning, I decided not to rush.
Returning to the minivan (I was the last to board), my now baby smooth skin glowed and I felt deeply relaxed. Even Shraga seemed liked a nice guy, and I found it in my heart to give this angry and frustrated man a small tip. A few days later, after several shampoos, my hair still smelled of "eau de sulphur". Perhaps by the time the odor completely disappears it will be time to return.
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Faster than the Speed of My Shutter
I am fascinated by the appearance of certain Chasidic men, the ones with full beards, peyes (the long and curled sideburns) and streimels (wide fur hats). Some also wear knickers, white socks and, on holidays, striped or black silk coats with sashes that resemble heavily tailored smoking jackets. In other words, they are dressed like Polish nobility from the 19th century.
Their look is compelling, yet it is a major No-No to be obvious about photographing them*. So, on the last day of Passover I was trying to be very sly as I tried to photograph some of these people as they walked to the Kotel (photography at the Western Wall, on holy days, is strictly forbidden). I found a place to sit near the steps leading to the Wall and positioned my camera, ready to snap as soon as someone interesting came along.
The problem, for me, was that these men, despite wearing bulky clothing and enormous hats, are FAST, faster than my camera! These are nimble guys, accustomed to leaping onto moving Israeli buses in a single bound, with either a prayerbook or children in hand. They also seem to have a sensor that lets them know when someone is taking an interest in them, and at that moment they accelerate. My digital camera, for all its miraculous features, has a distinct shutter lag. Although it's just a fraction of a second, it feels like an eternity compared to the speed of my SLR (at home!), and so I've often missed my subjects.
Frustrated, I left the Jewish Quarter to check out the Arab Market and then head home. As I exited the Olid City I noticed that many Chasidic Jews were heading home. I followed them, to a point, and found a spot where I could observe the community's comings and goings rather unobtrusively. With my camera zoomed, I started shooting again. After awhile I started to feel more sneaky than satisfied and decided to leave these swift moving people alone.
*I went on a guided tour of their neighborhood, Meah She'arim, and although the group was respectfully dressed, with cameras packed away, many of the youth there cursed at us and told us to leave. Apparently the extremists among them have been known to pelt visitors with nasty things!
Their look is compelling, yet it is a major No-No to be obvious about photographing them*. So, on the last day of Passover I was trying to be very sly as I tried to photograph some of these people as they walked to the Kotel (photography at the Western Wall, on holy days, is strictly forbidden). I found a place to sit near the steps leading to the Wall and positioned my camera, ready to snap as soon as someone interesting came along.
The problem, for me, was that these men, despite wearing bulky clothing and enormous hats, are FAST, faster than my camera! These are nimble guys, accustomed to leaping onto moving Israeli buses in a single bound, with either a prayerbook or children in hand. They also seem to have a sensor that lets them know when someone is taking an interest in them, and at that moment they accelerate. My digital camera, for all its miraculous features, has a distinct shutter lag. Although it's just a fraction of a second, it feels like an eternity compared to the speed of my SLR (at home!), and so I've often missed my subjects.
Frustrated, I left the Jewish Quarter to check out the Arab Market and then head home. As I exited the Olid City I noticed that many Chasidic Jews were heading home. I followed them, to a point, and found a spot where I could observe the community's comings and goings rather unobtrusively. With my camera zoomed, I started shooting again. After awhile I started to feel more sneaky than satisfied and decided to leave these swift moving people alone.
*I went on a guided tour of their neighborhood, Meah She'arim, and although the group was respectfully dressed, with cameras packed away, many of the youth there cursed at us and told us to leave. Apparently the extremists among them have been known to pelt visitors with nasty things!
Via Strollerosa
On Good Friday, devout Christians (and tourists*, and the paparazzi), create a procession or pilgrimage through the Via Dolorosa, following the path that Christ walked on the way to his crucifixion and ending at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. But you probably knew that.
What you might not have realized is that on Jewish festivals and holy days, pious Jews have to contend with the Via Strollerosa in order to reach the Kotel (the Western Wall). One can't just meander up to the Kotel and begin to pray. There are security gates, with soldiers and guards and metal detectors. But even before that, there are steps, many steps, especially if one is approaching the Kotel from the Jewish Quarter of the Old City. And remember, these people have already walked a substantial distance from their homes to reach the Old City and will return on foot.
On the last day of Passover, religious Jews of all sartorial persuasions (some in stripes, most in solids; a group of black hatted young men wore wide, bright pink neckties, not a typical sight!) were hurrying to the Kotel. Entire families came, many with a stroller seating one or two young children. If the family was of average size (say, four kids), a parent and the older siblings (who might be just four or five) would lift the stroller up and hand carry it all the way down the many, many steps, much as courtiers would have transported a king or queen. There were also unaccompanied moms or dads, perhaps catching up with the rest of their families. Some of them bumpity-bumped and banged the stroller all the way down the stairs, giving their babies a joint jangling ride.
I didn't stick around long enough to watch them make the return schlep up all the steps of Via Strollerosa.
*I was amongst the hordes who, inadvertently, became part of the Good Friday pilgrimage. To be posted at a future date.
What you might not have realized is that on Jewish festivals and holy days, pious Jews have to contend with the Via Strollerosa in order to reach the Kotel (the Western Wall). One can't just meander up to the Kotel and begin to pray. There are security gates, with soldiers and guards and metal detectors. But even before that, there are steps, many steps, especially if one is approaching the Kotel from the Jewish Quarter of the Old City. And remember, these people have already walked a substantial distance from their homes to reach the Old City and will return on foot.
On the last day of Passover, religious Jews of all sartorial persuasions (some in stripes, most in solids; a group of black hatted young men wore wide, bright pink neckties, not a typical sight!) were hurrying to the Kotel. Entire families came, many with a stroller seating one or two young children. If the family was of average size (say, four kids), a parent and the older siblings (who might be just four or five) would lift the stroller up and hand carry it all the way down the many, many steps, much as courtiers would have transported a king or queen. There were also unaccompanied moms or dads, perhaps catching up with the rest of their families. Some of them bumpity-bumped and banged the stroller all the way down the stairs, giving their babies a joint jangling ride.
I didn't stick around long enough to watch them make the return schlep up all the steps of Via Strollerosa.
*I was amongst the hordes who, inadvertently, became part of the Good Friday pilgrimage. To be posted at a future date.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
Ex-Post Passover Posting
Passover is over, at least in Israel. The diaspora still has another day of observance. And, I have to say, I'm a bit sorry to see it go. Being in Jerusalem during Passover felt a bit like being a kid in a candy store. With entire bakeries and cafes producing Kosher for Passover goodies, I wanted to sample everything, and I could have used some more time. Actually, a lot more time.
There was Kosher for Passover pizza (better in theory than in practice). And French crepes (not too shabby!). And cakes (not bad!). And special chocolates for the holiday (some quite good!). And sandwiches, even! (I had a smoked salmon one).
At home, I typically lose weight during this holiday, as my diet simplifies to fruits, vegetables, yogurt, cheese, eggs and a small amount of matza. I treat the holiday as a spring cleansing for my insides and as a way to practice self-discipline (necessary when the non-Jewish world around you is still eating Dunkin' Donuts and going to cafes). Here, the holiday took on a much more festive feeling. Not only did I fail to exercise restraint, I engaged in a wee bit of gluttony, putting on the Passover pounds. It didn't help that I enjoyed three large festive dinners during the week, on top of all the holiday novelties I tried.
As we say at the end of each Seder, "Next Year in Jerusalem!" Indeed, I might have to come back in 2008 to continue my Passover culinary explorations.
There was Kosher for Passover pizza (better in theory than in practice). And French crepes (not too shabby!). And cakes (not bad!). And special chocolates for the holiday (some quite good!). And sandwiches, even! (I had a smoked salmon one).
At home, I typically lose weight during this holiday, as my diet simplifies to fruits, vegetables, yogurt, cheese, eggs and a small amount of matza. I treat the holiday as a spring cleansing for my insides and as a way to practice self-discipline (necessary when the non-Jewish world around you is still eating Dunkin' Donuts and going to cafes). Here, the holiday took on a much more festive feeling. Not only did I fail to exercise restraint, I engaged in a wee bit of gluttony, putting on the Passover pounds. It didn't help that I enjoyed three large festive dinners during the week, on top of all the holiday novelties I tried.
As we say at the end of each Seder, "Next Year in Jerusalem!" Indeed, I might have to come back in 2008 to continue my Passover culinary explorations.
It's a Small World, a Tiny Jewish World
During the week of Passover, in Jerusalem, I ran into:
1) At a comedy show: A classmate of mine from graduate school, a Spanish woman who, at the time, was in the process of converting to Judaism. She has since undergone an Orthodox conversion and is now living here, but hasn't made Aliyah (not yet).
2) At a synagogue down the street: A woman from Newton, Sherry, with whom I sang in the Alto section of Koleinu, the Jewish Community Chorus of Boston. I had not seen her since I left the chorus a few years ago.
3) At a Shabbat dinner (I met the Australian hosts at the same comedy show): A young lady named Sarah who has made Aliyah but, just a few years before that, lived on Burnside Avenue, in Somerville! And the same side of the street as me, even.
1) At a comedy show: A classmate of mine from graduate school, a Spanish woman who, at the time, was in the process of converting to Judaism. She has since undergone an Orthodox conversion and is now living here, but hasn't made Aliyah (not yet).
2) At a synagogue down the street: A woman from Newton, Sherry, with whom I sang in the Alto section of Koleinu, the Jewish Community Chorus of Boston. I had not seen her since I left the chorus a few years ago.
3) At a Shabbat dinner (I met the Australian hosts at the same comedy show): A young lady named Sarah who has made Aliyah but, just a few years before that, lived on Burnside Avenue, in Somerville! And the same side of the street as me, even.
Thursday, April 5, 2007
My Apartment: Avoiding the Passover Premium
It wasn't until I'd been in Israel for a week that it dawned on me that prices for hotels and lodging during Passover, as if propelled by fast acting yeast, go way, way up, and that's if you can find something. Many visitors to Israel at this time book their trips months in advance.
Oops.
With three weeks before Passover, and nothing lined up, I was determined to avoid the Passover Premium. I knew I wanted to be in Jerusalem for the holiday, yet at the time I was in Netanya, so I had to make my plans remotely. First I looked for a simple bed & breakfast. No luck. Then I thought I'd rent an apartment for a week. There was a bounty of Pesach rentals on Craigslist, most luxury units with multiple bedrooms, complete with kosher kitchens and costing a few thousand dollars. Ouch. Googling yield similar results.
Yikes.
In a moment of clarity I realized that I might have more success if I were to rent for a whole month. Perhaps there would be greater supply, and a monthly rent might be less inflated, plus I'd have a home base within Israel. My extensive Internet searching and querying yielded three possibilities: a) a tiny but charming studio in the Old City; b) a bigger but less charming studio in an American section of the modern city and; c) a studio - the tiniest of all - a bit farther away than b), also in an American part of town.
I ultimately based my decision on who I wanted to be renting from. a) A fluttery French woman who claimed she had no bank account and wanted me to give her friend cash to reserve the apartment; b) an aggressive management company or; c) a Canadian couple with two kids. I chose c) and was pleased to discover that the apartment was nicer than it had appeared in photographs. For those who know the city, it is in Katomon, not far from the German Colony. It is just big enough to comfortably be in, but not so big that I don't want to leave. It has plenty of light and two working heaters, one which blasts hot air in the bathroom, a luxury after the dank rooms of the Ulpan.
While this apartment would rent for less at other times of the year, the owners are not assessing an exorbitant Passover Premium. However, the unit has a kosher kitchenette which I don't need but have agreed to honor while I'm there. I'm trying to view it as an experiment, rather than an inconvenience (no salami and cheese sandwiches, alas!). For a month, I can certainly pay the non-monetary price of kashrut in exchange for a comfortable and affordable place to live.
Oops.
With three weeks before Passover, and nothing lined up, I was determined to avoid the Passover Premium. I knew I wanted to be in Jerusalem for the holiday, yet at the time I was in Netanya, so I had to make my plans remotely. First I looked for a simple bed & breakfast. No luck. Then I thought I'd rent an apartment for a week. There was a bounty of Pesach rentals on Craigslist, most luxury units with multiple bedrooms, complete with kosher kitchens and costing a few thousand dollars. Ouch. Googling yield similar results.
Yikes.
In a moment of clarity I realized that I might have more success if I were to rent for a whole month. Perhaps there would be greater supply, and a monthly rent might be less inflated, plus I'd have a home base within Israel. My extensive Internet searching and querying yielded three possibilities: a) a tiny but charming studio in the Old City; b) a bigger but less charming studio in an American section of the modern city and; c) a studio - the tiniest of all - a bit farther away than b), also in an American part of town.
I ultimately based my decision on who I wanted to be renting from. a) A fluttery French woman who claimed she had no bank account and wanted me to give her friend cash to reserve the apartment; b) an aggressive management company or; c) a Canadian couple with two kids. I chose c) and was pleased to discover that the apartment was nicer than it had appeared in photographs. For those who know the city, it is in Katomon, not far from the German Colony. It is just big enough to comfortably be in, but not so big that I don't want to leave. It has plenty of light and two working heaters, one which blasts hot air in the bathroom, a luxury after the dank rooms of the Ulpan.
While this apartment would rent for less at other times of the year, the owners are not assessing an exorbitant Passover Premium. However, the unit has a kosher kitchenette which I don't need but have agreed to honor while I'm there. I'm trying to view it as an experiment, rather than an inconvenience (no salami and cheese sandwiches, alas!). For a month, I can certainly pay the non-monetary price of kashrut in exchange for a comfortable and affordable place to live.
Going Around in Circles, II
Jerusalem's streets are curvy and swervy, sweeping up, down and around hills, with buses serving most of the city, most of the time. By and large I've been walking around, taking the occasional bus from my neighborhood into the center of town, and using cabs late at night. But there are many sites that are too far to walk and would require an expensive cab ride.
For sure, I thought, there is a map with Jerusalem's bus routes on it, which would make getting around a bit easier. I asked my landlords where I might find such a map. They had no idea, other than to try the central bus station.
For sure, I thought, a bookstore in the city's center would sell such a map or know where to find one. I asked such a bookstore and they, too, suggested the central bus station.
So, off I went to the central bus station, except - without a map of Jerusalem bus routes - it wasn't clear to me which buses actually went there. After asking a few people, I found the right bus. After a very long wait, the bus arrived.
After getting pushed and shoved in the security "line" (remember: Israel doesn't have lines!) at the entrance to the central bus station, I found the information kiosk. An unlinear "line" had formed in front of it and I staked out my spot, positioning my body so that no one could cut in front of me. A woman showed up, occupying the space between me and the person in front of me. "There is a line," I informed her, in a matter of fact tone. "Yes, I know," she said, lingering where she was, looking as if she might pounce. After a few minutes, she moved to the periphery of the crowd.
Finally, it was my turn. In the very best Hebrew I could muster, I asked if there was a bus map of Jerusalem. The indifferent clerk, who looked like he was 14, said, "No", offering no further suggestion or assistance (perhaps he could have asked where I was trying to go).
Thinking that maybe he didn't know what he was talking about, I picked up the Egged (the bus company) information phone in the terminal and asked again about a map. "No," said the voice at the other end of the receiver.
Still not quite believing that there was no Jerusalem bus map (isn't this a world city?), I went to yet another information booth on a different floor. Again, "No."
Dispirited and in disbelief, there was nothing left to do but eat. Kosher for Passover food was plentiful and I tried some potatoes baked with mushrooms and cream, comfort food for this traveler.
For sure, I thought, there is a map with Jerusalem's bus routes on it, which would make getting around a bit easier. I asked my landlords where I might find such a map. They had no idea, other than to try the central bus station.
For sure, I thought, a bookstore in the city's center would sell such a map or know where to find one. I asked such a bookstore and they, too, suggested the central bus station.
So, off I went to the central bus station, except - without a map of Jerusalem bus routes - it wasn't clear to me which buses actually went there. After asking a few people, I found the right bus. After a very long wait, the bus arrived.
After getting pushed and shoved in the security "line" (remember: Israel doesn't have lines!) at the entrance to the central bus station, I found the information kiosk. An unlinear "line" had formed in front of it and I staked out my spot, positioning my body so that no one could cut in front of me. A woman showed up, occupying the space between me and the person in front of me. "There is a line," I informed her, in a matter of fact tone. "Yes, I know," she said, lingering where she was, looking as if she might pounce. After a few minutes, she moved to the periphery of the crowd.
Finally, it was my turn. In the very best Hebrew I could muster, I asked if there was a bus map of Jerusalem. The indifferent clerk, who looked like he was 14, said, "No", offering no further suggestion or assistance (perhaps he could have asked where I was trying to go).
Thinking that maybe he didn't know what he was talking about, I picked up the Egged (the bus company) information phone in the terminal and asked again about a map. "No," said the voice at the other end of the receiver.
Still not quite believing that there was no Jerusalem bus map (isn't this a world city?), I went to yet another information booth on a different floor. Again, "No."
Dispirited and in disbelief, there was nothing left to do but eat. Kosher for Passover food was plentiful and I tried some potatoes baked with mushrooms and cream, comfort food for this traveler.
Holy Sh*t!
This posting is inspired by a conversation I had with two friends of mine from home who called yesterday (if you are reading this, and have my number, and would like to call, feel free!). When they realized I was already in Jerusalem, the Holy City, and in the middle of Holy Week, one of them exclaimed, "Holy Sh*t!"
If one needs to do the number two in this Holy City during Holy Week, I believe the place to do it would be in the lavatories either in or near the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, the place where Christ is believed to have been crucified, buried and where he rose from the dead. This Church is, according to my guidebook, "uncomfortably" shared by many Christian denominations - Greek Orthodox, Latin, Armenian, and Coptic - who can be thought of as the world's holiest and most disfunctional condo association. They are responsible for the upkeep and maintenance of this sacred property and, apparently, each aspect of care of the Church has required protracted discussion. Rumor has it that they cannot come to agreement on what to do about the public toilet facilities, and that they are neglected. I might just have to see for myself.
If one needs to do the number two in this Holy City during Holy Week, I believe the place to do it would be in the lavatories either in or near the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, the place where Christ is believed to have been crucified, buried and where he rose from the dead. This Church is, according to my guidebook, "uncomfortably" shared by many Christian denominations - Greek Orthodox, Latin, Armenian, and Coptic - who can be thought of as the world's holiest and most disfunctional condo association. They are responsible for the upkeep and maintenance of this sacred property and, apparently, each aspect of care of the Church has required protracted discussion. Rumor has it that they cannot come to agreement on what to do about the public toilet facilities, and that they are neglected. I might just have to see for myself.
Wednesday, April 4, 2007
Goldilocks and the Three Seders
My family of origin is spread out and we have different religious proclivities, so it's not as if I have a "Seder central" to rely on for Pesach each year. When Passover rolls around, I'm often faced with figuring out how to spend what is one of my favorite holidays, and this decision provokes some anxiety. Being in Israel, and wanting to have a particularly memorable experience, my anxiety level was a bit higher than usual.
Would I find, or be invited to, a Seder that was "Just Right?" With about three weeks before Pesach, I started to do what I know best: go online. I Googled, Craigslisted, joined VirtualTourist.com and e-mailed many of the progressive shuls in Jerusalem to see if they had a community event. After uttering the line, "Next Year in Jerusalem" at the end of every single Seder I'd ever attended, I simply had to be in Jerusalem.
Therefore, I had to decline an invitation to a Seder in Netanya. Other Seders I learned of or were invited to were Too Orthodox, Too Far Away (within Jerusalem - without buses or taxis running that night, how would I get back to my apartment?), Too Big or Too Expensive.
In the end, my Seder panic turned out to be completely unjustified. Once I arrived in Jerusalem, pretty much everyone I met asked me I had a place to go for the Seder, and if I had said no, they would have found me a spot. It is a mitzvah to attend a Seder and to invite strangers to come.
Where did I end up?
Probably in the best real estate in the Old City's Jewish Quarter, in an upscale apartment where, from my seat at the Seder table, I had a stunning view of the Kotel (The Western Wall). A friend from the Ulpan had arranged these front row seats, after acquainting herself with the hosts (a couple originally from Chicago) during a Shabbat visit a few weeks before.
The Seder itself was whimsical "Contempodox" and quite small (just seven). The table was decorated was tiny stuffed animals, beasts, and balls of hail, representing some of the ten plagues. I was particularly amused by the jumping frog. When I asked about the plague "Darkness," the family produced sleepmasks. It was contemporary in that the hostess had chosen to not become a slave to Passover, freeing herself from the onerous burden of holiday cooking and cleaning by ordering food and serving it on attractive paper plates. She did make a soup and her son, an intense man who works on a goat farm, provided excellent Merlot he and his friends had produced. Otherwise, it was Orthodox - we read the entire Haggadah, had lively discussions about what it means to be Jewish, and stayed up until 2:30 a.m. singing songs.
My friend and I crashed at Heritage House, a single sex dormitory in the Jewish Quarter. Sleeping there is free in exchange for a willingness to be introduced to Jewish observance. Unlike Goldilocks, I can't say that the bed I chose was "Just Right" but the experience was memorable.
Would I find, or be invited to, a Seder that was "Just Right?" With about three weeks before Pesach, I started to do what I know best: go online. I Googled, Craigslisted, joined VirtualTourist.com and e-mailed many of the progressive shuls in Jerusalem to see if they had a community event. After uttering the line, "Next Year in Jerusalem" at the end of every single Seder I'd ever attended, I simply had to be in Jerusalem.
Therefore, I had to decline an invitation to a Seder in Netanya. Other Seders I learned of or were invited to were Too Orthodox, Too Far Away (within Jerusalem - without buses or taxis running that night, how would I get back to my apartment?), Too Big or Too Expensive.
In the end, my Seder panic turned out to be completely unjustified. Once I arrived in Jerusalem, pretty much everyone I met asked me I had a place to go for the Seder, and if I had said no, they would have found me a spot. It is a mitzvah to attend a Seder and to invite strangers to come.
Where did I end up?
Probably in the best real estate in the Old City's Jewish Quarter, in an upscale apartment where, from my seat at the Seder table, I had a stunning view of the Kotel (The Western Wall). A friend from the Ulpan had arranged these front row seats, after acquainting herself with the hosts (a couple originally from Chicago) during a Shabbat visit a few weeks before.
The Seder itself was whimsical "Contempodox" and quite small (just seven). The table was decorated was tiny stuffed animals, beasts, and balls of hail, representing some of the ten plagues. I was particularly amused by the jumping frog. When I asked about the plague "Darkness," the family produced sleepmasks. It was contemporary in that the hostess had chosen to not become a slave to Passover, freeing herself from the onerous burden of holiday cooking and cleaning by ordering food and serving it on attractive paper plates. She did make a soup and her son, an intense man who works on a goat farm, provided excellent Merlot he and his friends had produced. Otherwise, it was Orthodox - we read the entire Haggadah, had lively discussions about what it means to be Jewish, and stayed up until 2:30 a.m. singing songs.
My friend and I crashed at Heritage House, a single sex dormitory in the Jewish Quarter. Sleeping there is free in exchange for a willingness to be introduced to Jewish observance. Unlike Goldilocks, I can't say that the bed I chose was "Just Right" but the experience was memorable.
Preparing for Pesach in Public, II
I slept late on Monday and awoke to see a thick column of smoke coming from the yard next door. A few men stood around, tossing things into the smoking pile.
My first thought was, "How is it possible that people burn trash outdoors, creating a stink and polluting the air, in such a nice neighborhood? And isn't it against the law?" Well...in a few seconds it dawned on me that not only was it not against the law, it is part of The Law. These families were burning their hametz before Passover. As I watched, others showed up and added their leftover breads to be incinerated before the holiday started. This fire, apparently, was a private one, but the city also organizes larger hametz burning events, partly to control the process, so there aren't fires in every yard and block (apparently people used to burn bread, plastic sleeve and all, creating a real health hazard). I'm told that the smoke generated from Lag B'Omer bonfires creates a thick grey paste over Jerusalem and can be spotted from satellites.
Seeing Jewish rituals in action has made me acutely aware of how I've distanced myself from it at home, resisting it on a fairly deep level. At my younger nephew's circumcision, I found the procedure somewhat barbaric and extremely tribal. But I must yearn for ritual and expression of and to the sacred, because it is precisely these kinds of community ceremonies that I'm drawn to see when I travel to other countries.
These ancient rituals have power, which is why people keep performing them; NOT doing them also sends a strong message. I wonder if, or when, I'll be able to leap over the fence of my ambivalence and be able to wholeheartedly join my tribe, rather than remaining a curious yet aloof observer.
My first thought was, "How is it possible that people burn trash outdoors, creating a stink and polluting the air, in such a nice neighborhood? And isn't it against the law?" Well...in a few seconds it dawned on me that not only was it not against the law, it is part of The Law. These families were burning their hametz before Passover. As I watched, others showed up and added their leftover breads to be incinerated before the holiday started. This fire, apparently, was a private one, but the city also organizes larger hametz burning events, partly to control the process, so there aren't fires in every yard and block (apparently people used to burn bread, plastic sleeve and all, creating a real health hazard). I'm told that the smoke generated from Lag B'Omer bonfires creates a thick grey paste over Jerusalem and can be spotted from satellites.
Seeing Jewish rituals in action has made me acutely aware of how I've distanced myself from it at home, resisting it on a fairly deep level. At my younger nephew's circumcision, I found the procedure somewhat barbaric and extremely tribal. But I must yearn for ritual and expression of and to the sacred, because it is precisely these kinds of community ceremonies that I'm drawn to see when I travel to other countries.
These ancient rituals have power, which is why people keep performing them; NOT doing them also sends a strong message. I wonder if, or when, I'll be able to leap over the fence of my ambivalence and be able to wholeheartedly join my tribe, rather than remaining a curious yet aloof observer.
Sunday, April 1, 2007
Preparing for Pesach in Public
I realized I had landed in a very different world when, while walking along the street in Jerusalem, I came across a few young men, wearing jeans, t-shirts and bushy beards, with an enormous pot of steaming water, propane tanks and a blow torch, ready to kasher (make kosher) pots for Passover.
A crowd had gathered, not to watch the kashering process (from what I could observe, torch first, then submerge in boiling water), but because they were in "line" (ha! Israelis don't know how to form or stay in lines; everyone tries to push to the front...) with their pots, pans, oven racks and burner covers, paying these young guys to purify their kitchenware for use during the holiday.
I was stunned, in a good way, to see what I've always known as a private ritual turned into a service performed in public, with little fanfare, just getting the job done. It's a scene simply unimaginable where I live. It had never occurred to be that Passover could be a boon to entrepreneurs (other than purveyors of kosher foods), but here are economies scale that simply don't exist anywhere else. Housecleaners, I suspect, are in demand this time of year, helping people remove every trace of chametz from their homes. The economist in me wonders if anyone has determined how much Passover contributes to Israel's GDP.
A crowd had gathered, not to watch the kashering process (from what I could observe, torch first, then submerge in boiling water), but because they were in "line" (ha! Israelis don't know how to form or stay in lines; everyone tries to push to the front...) with their pots, pans, oven racks and burner covers, paying these young guys to purify their kitchenware for use during the holiday.
I was stunned, in a good way, to see what I've always known as a private ritual turned into a service performed in public, with little fanfare, just getting the job done. It's a scene simply unimaginable where I live. It had never occurred to be that Passover could be a boon to entrepreneurs (other than purveyors of kosher foods), but here are economies scale that simply don't exist anywhere else. Housecleaners, I suspect, are in demand this time of year, helping people remove every trace of chametz from their homes. The economist in me wonders if anyone has determined how much Passover contributes to Israel's GDP.
Going Around in Circles
Israel is dotted with rotaries. These are small traffic circles (about half the diameter of the ones in Boston) around which four to six streets radiate in different directions. They are great for forcing cars to slow down but can be confusing to the uninitiated.
Walking to synagogue on Friday night I arrived at a rotary that bore little resemblance to how it was depicted on my map. Stopping to get oriented, a tall crisply dressed man with a kippa atop his graying hair asked me if I needed help. I asked him how to get to a particular street and he pointed the way. Thanking him, I walked on.
Returning after services, I came to the rotary and was determined not to get lost. It was now dark and I was wearing heels so I didn't want to waste time going around in circles. Just as I was about to give up on my (apparently failing) sense of direction and take out my map, the very same man appeared. I caught his eye and he asked me if I had found my street.
"Yes, I did," I said, starting to laugh, "but now I'm looking for another one! Where is Ha Lamed Hei Street?"
"Which number are you looking for?" he asked.
"34," I told him (that is where I live).
Again, he pointed me in the right direction. We wished each other Shabbat Shalom.
Walking to synagogue on Friday night I arrived at a rotary that bore little resemblance to how it was depicted on my map. Stopping to get oriented, a tall crisply dressed man with a kippa atop his graying hair asked me if I needed help. I asked him how to get to a particular street and he pointed the way. Thanking him, I walked on.
Returning after services, I came to the rotary and was determined not to get lost. It was now dark and I was wearing heels so I didn't want to waste time going around in circles. Just as I was about to give up on my (apparently failing) sense of direction and take out my map, the very same man appeared. I caught his eye and he asked me if I had found my street.
"Yes, I did," I said, starting to laugh, "but now I'm looking for another one! Where is Ha Lamed Hei Street?"
"Which number are you looking for?" he asked.
"34," I told him (that is where I live).
Again, he pointed me in the right direction. We wished each other Shabbat Shalom.
Deconstructing the Dress Code
What makes Judaism vital and interesting, if not occasionally bewildering, is the myriad ways Jewish law (Halacha, or The Way) has been, is being, and will be interpreted and practiced. Practitioners are constantly finding workarounds, loopholes and ways to maneuver to make Jewish law work in today's world.
Take, for example, the dress code. Religious women of most persuasions dress modestly, if not covering themselves entirely. In Jerusalem, "modestly" comes in several flavors.
There is neck-to-toe modesty, with flowing skirts that sweep the ground and baggy tops that conceal the underlying curvature. Less extreme versions include neck-to-ankle, neck-to-midcalf, and neck-to-just-below-the-knee. Not to mention neck-to-wrist, neck-to-forearm, and neck-to-just-below-the-elbow modesty.
Add to these permutations the complexity of color and it becomes more challenging to decode the dress. Many of the married women in the neighborhood I'm staying in favor darker colors (black, brown, burgundy) that don't attract attention (I'm acutely aware that my wardrobe, heavily tilted toward chartreuse, is a bit of an outlyer). Then there are other women, covered from head (with none of their hair showing) to toe, but in swishy, brightly patterned skirts and blouses, looking like Hollywood's interpretation of Gypsies, minus strands of beaded jewelry. Their clothing attracts notice even if it completely covers them.
The other day, while walking into the center of Jerusalem, I came up behind a young traditional couple pushing a stroller. The woman's hair was covered. Her denim skirt reached the ground but also stretched tightly across her buttocks, revealing their contour and undulations for all to see.
Talk about there being wriggle room in Jewish law!
Take, for example, the dress code. Religious women of most persuasions dress modestly, if not covering themselves entirely. In Jerusalem, "modestly" comes in several flavors.
There is neck-to-toe modesty, with flowing skirts that sweep the ground and baggy tops that conceal the underlying curvature. Less extreme versions include neck-to-ankle, neck-to-midcalf, and neck-to-just-below-the-knee. Not to mention neck-to-wrist, neck-to-forearm, and neck-to-just-below-the-elbow modesty.
Add to these permutations the complexity of color and it becomes more challenging to decode the dress. Many of the married women in the neighborhood I'm staying in favor darker colors (black, brown, burgundy) that don't attract attention (I'm acutely aware that my wardrobe, heavily tilted toward chartreuse, is a bit of an outlyer). Then there are other women, covered from head (with none of their hair showing) to toe, but in swishy, brightly patterned skirts and blouses, looking like Hollywood's interpretation of Gypsies, minus strands of beaded jewelry. Their clothing attracts notice even if it completely covers them.
The other day, while walking into the center of Jerusalem, I came up behind a young traditional couple pushing a stroller. The woman's hair was covered. Her denim skirt reached the ground but also stretched tightly across her buttocks, revealing their contour and undulations for all to see.
Talk about there being wriggle room in Jewish law!
Let's Make a Deal
I knew that vendors, especially Arabs, in the Old City shouk (market) like to bargain but I just learned that this propensity to make a deal extends to shopkeepers with elegant storefronts and quality merchandise. As someone with a small retail space of her own, I can sympathize with the merchants' push towards a purchase. As a browser or buyer, I mostly find it irritating and exhausting that so many vendors are explicitly focused on consummating a sale.
So it was when, attracted by some unusual ceramic pieces in a window, I walked into an art and Judaica shop in downtown Jerusalem (the area formed by the intersection of King George, Ben Yehuda and Jaffo Streets...which I'll call Tourist Trap Triangle). The proprietor made savvy use of price tags, affixing them to some but not all items, a tactic that allowed him to employ dynamic pricing.
We started our little deal making dance, in Hebrew.
"Can I help you with anything?" he asked.
"I'm just looking," I said, glad to have learned that phrase in the Ulpan. After a few minutes of admiring some mezuzot by the artist whose was in the window, and not finding a price, I asked, "What's the name of this artist?"
"Karmit Gat," he said.
"Where is she from?" I asked, expecting to hear the name of a region or town, or some extra information about her. I was both trying to figure out if I might find her work elsewhere and get a feel for his enthusiasm for it.
"Israel," he answered, most unhelpfully.
Realizing I was getting nowhere, I finally asked, "How much are the mezuzot?"
"How many do you want to buy?" he countered.
"That depends on how much they cost," I said with an exasperated sigh.
"How much are you willing to pay?" he retorted.
I was tired and thought about leaving, feeling at a disadvantage and not wanting to be ripped off. But I was still taken by this artist's work - she made her ceramic pieces to look as if they were quilts, another favorite medium of mine - and I wasn't confident I'd have an easy time finding it elsewhere.
"Really, how much are they?" I put the ball back in his court.
"180 Shekels ($45) each, but if you buy two I'll do it for 300."
Stalling for time, I asked for the price of the candlesticks by this artist.
"600 Shekels but I give you a good price if you buy them and the mezuzot."
"Well, I need to think about it. I'll be here for a month so I'll come back another time," I said, ready to walk, starting to lose steam.
"Look, business has been slow, and it's almost Shabbat so I'll give you a good price. 250 Shekels for both mezuzot."
Hmm.
"How about 110 Shekels for just one?" I lowballed.
"No, but I can do it for 120."
And so we made a deal. I left, mezuza in hand, feeling more tired than triumphant.
So it was when, attracted by some unusual ceramic pieces in a window, I walked into an art and Judaica shop in downtown Jerusalem (the area formed by the intersection of King George, Ben Yehuda and Jaffo Streets...which I'll call Tourist Trap Triangle). The proprietor made savvy use of price tags, affixing them to some but not all items, a tactic that allowed him to employ dynamic pricing.
We started our little deal making dance, in Hebrew.
"Can I help you with anything?" he asked.
"I'm just looking," I said, glad to have learned that phrase in the Ulpan. After a few minutes of admiring some mezuzot by the artist whose was in the window, and not finding a price, I asked, "What's the name of this artist?"
"Karmit Gat," he said.
"Where is she from?" I asked, expecting to hear the name of a region or town, or some extra information about her. I was both trying to figure out if I might find her work elsewhere and get a feel for his enthusiasm for it.
"Israel," he answered, most unhelpfully.
Realizing I was getting nowhere, I finally asked, "How much are the mezuzot?"
"How many do you want to buy?" he countered.
"That depends on how much they cost," I said with an exasperated sigh.
"How much are you willing to pay?" he retorted.
I was tired and thought about leaving, feeling at a disadvantage and not wanting to be ripped off. But I was still taken by this artist's work - she made her ceramic pieces to look as if they were quilts, another favorite medium of mine - and I wasn't confident I'd have an easy time finding it elsewhere.
"Really, how much are they?" I put the ball back in his court.
"180 Shekels ($45) each, but if you buy two I'll do it for 300."
Stalling for time, I asked for the price of the candlesticks by this artist.
"600 Shekels but I give you a good price if you buy them and the mezuzot."
"Well, I need to think about it. I'll be here for a month so I'll come back another time," I said, ready to walk, starting to lose steam.
"Look, business has been slow, and it's almost Shabbat so I'll give you a good price. 250 Shekels for both mezuzot."
Hmm.
"How about 110 Shekels for just one?" I lowballed.
"No, but I can do it for 120."
And so we made a deal. I left, mezuza in hand, feeling more tired than triumphant.
Enhancing the Stone
Jerusalem merchants don't lack for chutzpah.
A bald seller of beaded jewelry complimented me on my necklace, and when I told him I made it he asked where the beads were from.
"The Czech Republic," I said. He nodded in appreciation.
"Come here, I'll show you some beads I have for sale," he invited.
I'm a bit beaded out and didn't come here with the goal of buying even more, but I figured I'd take a look. Maybe I'd see something new?
"What are these?" I asked, pointing to strand of thick rectangular beads, my favorite shape, grayish green in color.
"That's Eilat stone," he explained.
"How much for the strand?" I asked.
"400 Shekels", he said, looking me straight in the eye. I stared back.
"Really," I exhaled, aware that at the price he quoted (about $100), his chutzpah certainly overfloweth, much like a toilet might. I figured I might as well have some fun with this guy. I picked up the strand and began to inspect it. The stones were badly drilled (the holes were not centered) making them unfit for use. Some beads were chipped, revealing a white interior, a sure sign that they were some poor quartz or granite enhanced with dye, paint or a coating to look like something more exotic and expensive. For kicks, I pointed out the poor drilling.
"I'll give you other beads to replace those," he offered.
"Why is the inside white?" I persisted.
"Well, some are dyed, and that's the color of the inside of the stone," he said, without a trace of shame. "How many you want? I give you good price."
I told him I'd come back another time.
"But I give you best price now, before Shabbat."
I wished him a Shabbat Shalom and walked on.
A bald seller of beaded jewelry complimented me on my necklace, and when I told him I made it he asked where the beads were from.
"The Czech Republic," I said. He nodded in appreciation.
"Come here, I'll show you some beads I have for sale," he invited.
I'm a bit beaded out and didn't come here with the goal of buying even more, but I figured I'd take a look. Maybe I'd see something new?
"What are these?" I asked, pointing to strand of thick rectangular beads, my favorite shape, grayish green in color.
"That's Eilat stone," he explained.
"How much for the strand?" I asked.
"400 Shekels", he said, looking me straight in the eye. I stared back.
"Really," I exhaled, aware that at the price he quoted (about $100), his chutzpah certainly overfloweth, much like a toilet might. I figured I might as well have some fun with this guy. I picked up the strand and began to inspect it. The stones were badly drilled (the holes were not centered) making them unfit for use. Some beads were chipped, revealing a white interior, a sure sign that they were some poor quartz or granite enhanced with dye, paint or a coating to look like something more exotic and expensive. For kicks, I pointed out the poor drilling.
"I'll give you other beads to replace those," he offered.
"Why is the inside white?" I persisted.
"Well, some are dyed, and that's the color of the inside of the stone," he said, without a trace of shame. "How many you want? I give you good price."
I told him I'd come back another time.
"But I give you best price now, before Shabbat."
I wished him a Shabbat Shalom and walked on.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Spoonfeeding vs. Cramming
This morning we had our test at the Ulpan, to mark the end of the session. It was a fair review of what we had covered in class, and while not particularly difficult it made me realize that I've absorbed and/or recovered a lot of Hebrew since arriving here, whether I enjoyed it or not. Had I taken this test on the first day I probably would not have been able to answer a single question correctly, let alone understand them. Nonetheless, I'm leaving without a feeling of accomplishment or a sense that I've been challenged, and with a slight feeling of having been misled.
My previous experiences with foreign language learning were akin to "cramming," where I took in a lot of information in a short amount of time, my adrenaline level was high, and progress was palpable. It did help in these instances that classes were small and the students were of more homogeneous backgrounds. I can vividly recall one of my Hungarian teachers, Katalin Szili, a woman proud of her language who expected enormous dedication from her students. She conducted her classes as she might an academic seminar - all business with no tolerance for slackers.
I had chosen Ulpan Akiva for its reputation as the "best" Ulpan in the country, for all the resources it ostensibly offered, and for - I imagined - a highly motivated student body. Perhaps it was bad luck, or the fact that I started out in an inappropriately low class and it took some time to correct, but I found that the teachers here favored the "spoon feeding" approach to language learning: painstakingly introducing new vocabulary or grammar, then using the words in a text, then repeating the text, then having everyone (12-16 people) read an example....and then assigning formulaic homework that didn't facilitate the integration of new information. This possibly might be the best way to teach Hebrew to adult learners from a smorgasbord of countries and backgrounds, but the somnambulist pacing didn't suit me and the lackadaisacal attitude of an astonishing number of students was, ultimately, a downer.
Also discouraging was the infrequency of conversation classes, which at times were canceled because either other students or the teacher did not show up. The language lab, advertised on the Ulpan's website, and which seemed to justify part of the high tuition, was open a paltry four hours a week and was often closed during stated hours because the staff person had an exam. Just as the buildings here have been coated with umpteen layers of paint, I could whitewash my experiences and splash some soft words onto the screen, but my disappointment was intense. After awhile I stopped trying to get the Ulpan administration to live up to its promises, an endeavor which required more mental and emotional energy than the study of Hebrew itself and, instead, invested my time into planning trips.
I'll be spending the next few weeks in Jerusalem, trying to cram in as much fun and Hebrew as possible.
My previous experiences with foreign language learning were akin to "cramming," where I took in a lot of information in a short amount of time, my adrenaline level was high, and progress was palpable. It did help in these instances that classes were small and the students were of more homogeneous backgrounds. I can vividly recall one of my Hungarian teachers, Katalin Szili, a woman proud of her language who expected enormous dedication from her students. She conducted her classes as she might an academic seminar - all business with no tolerance for slackers.
I had chosen Ulpan Akiva for its reputation as the "best" Ulpan in the country, for all the resources it ostensibly offered, and for - I imagined - a highly motivated student body. Perhaps it was bad luck, or the fact that I started out in an inappropriately low class and it took some time to correct, but I found that the teachers here favored the "spoon feeding" approach to language learning: painstakingly introducing new vocabulary or grammar, then using the words in a text, then repeating the text, then having everyone (12-16 people) read an example....and then assigning formulaic homework that didn't facilitate the integration of new information. This possibly might be the best way to teach Hebrew to adult learners from a smorgasbord of countries and backgrounds, but the somnambulist pacing didn't suit me and the lackadaisacal attitude of an astonishing number of students was, ultimately, a downer.
Also discouraging was the infrequency of conversation classes, which at times were canceled because either other students or the teacher did not show up. The language lab, advertised on the Ulpan's website, and which seemed to justify part of the high tuition, was open a paltry four hours a week and was often closed during stated hours because the staff person had an exam. Just as the buildings here have been coated with umpteen layers of paint, I could whitewash my experiences and splash some soft words onto the screen, but my disappointment was intense. After awhile I stopped trying to get the Ulpan administration to live up to its promises, an endeavor which required more mental and emotional energy than the study of Hebrew itself and, instead, invested my time into planning trips.
I'll be spending the next few weeks in Jerusalem, trying to cram in as much fun and Hebrew as possible.
Sunday, March 25, 2007
Chasidic Hitchhikers and other Tzfat Sightings
It's early on a Friday afternoon in Tzfat and most shops are already closed so that their owners and employees can prepare for the Sabbath. Like a flock of eclectic birds coming home to roost, men of all shapes and colors, with tzitzit, beards and peyot flapping in the wind, are heading to their Shabbat destinations. Some schlep suitcases, others bear backpacks, a few travel on bicycles, and still others are trying to flag down motorists for a ride.
I don't pick anyone up.
The drivers in Tzfat must all be hurrying home for Shabbat because they are completely meshuga on the road, so far the worst I've experienced in my dozen hours of driving in Israel. They speed down hills, swerve around hairpin turns, and honk without hesitation if they are behind a slower car. They also exhibit a somewhat contradictory tendency, stopping in the middle of narrow streets to chat with friends and conduct business, heedless of the traffic gathering behind them. At one point, I am stuck behind a woman who is trying to negotiate a purchase without leaving her car, and because I am trying to follow another car whose driver is waiting for me, I feel compelled to honk. It works. She pulls onto the sidewalk and I plow ahead, cursing under my breath. It is not the most spiritual thing for me to do in this mystical city.
Perhaps next time I'll come by bus, leaving the driving to someone else.
I don't pick anyone up.
The drivers in Tzfat must all be hurrying home for Shabbat because they are completely meshuga on the road, so far the worst I've experienced in my dozen hours of driving in Israel. They speed down hills, swerve around hairpin turns, and honk without hesitation if they are behind a slower car. They also exhibit a somewhat contradictory tendency, stopping in the middle of narrow streets to chat with friends and conduct business, heedless of the traffic gathering behind them. At one point, I am stuck behind a woman who is trying to negotiate a purchase without leaving her car, and because I am trying to follow another car whose driver is waiting for me, I feel compelled to honk. It works. She pulls onto the sidewalk and I plow ahead, cursing under my breath. It is not the most spiritual thing for me to do in this mystical city.
Perhaps next time I'll come by bus, leaving the driving to someone else.
Well Fed in Safed
Had there not still been a gray cottony fog over Tzfat, I would have had an amazing view of the city from my perch at Gan Eden, the restaurant where I had lunch. Without the distraction, I was able to focus fully on the food.
I ordered the Galilee Calzones, which were actually lightly fried dumplings filled with local cheese and arranged atop a mountain of greens, carrots, zucchini, walnuts and raisins. Even though the salad was dressed, the dish came with two low pitchers filled with additional dressings ... yet another of the town's mysteries? The house lemonade, in a tall glass garnished with mint leaves, was straightforward. And after deliberating over dessert (cheesecake or chocolate?), I was very satisfied with the large wedge of warm chocolate cake I ordered.
I ordered the Galilee Calzones, which were actually lightly fried dumplings filled with local cheese and arranged atop a mountain of greens, carrots, zucchini, walnuts and raisins. Even though the salad was dressed, the dish came with two low pitchers filled with additional dressings ... yet another of the town's mysteries? The house lemonade, in a tall glass garnished with mint leaves, was straightforward. And after deliberating over dessert (cheesecake or chocolate?), I was very satisfied with the large wedge of warm chocolate cake I ordered.
Kibbitzing about Kibbutzim
The guest house I stayed in Rosh Pina, downhill from Tzfat, is owned by a couple who grew up together on a kibbutz and have been there ever since. Zmira and Meir, with weather worn faces, athletic builds and strong opinions, are just slightly older than the state of Israel herself. They might be the last of a generation whose lives were shaped by kibbutzim.
Meir met me at the entrance to the town and I followed him by car to their place, noticing that most of the streets were unmarked. The house had a view to the hills, orange trees in the yard and, alas, a large and loud family staying in the suite next to my room (which I had booked by phone without seeing a photo after striking out at several other guest houses).
Zmira and Meir's hospitality and personality made up for the room's lack of charm. In addition to giving me stacks of maps and brochures, they offered to take me on an orientation tour of Rosh Pina. It was already dark, but I wanted to leave early the next day for Tzfat, so I decided to go with them that night, hoping that in the morning I'd remember how to get around.
As I tried to lock the door to my room, Zmira intervened by removing the key and slamming the door shut. "Everything in Israel requires strength," she declared, insisting that the force made locking it easier (I subsequently discovered that the door locked just as well when gently closed).
I hopped into the backseat of their utility vehicle and off we went. They showed me the grocery store (we didn't stop) and the old city (we stopped and walked around) and a new shopping center (we didn't stop), and Meir let me know where to eat and, more importantly, where NOT to eat.
Meeting them reminded me that a few weeks before some us from the Ulpan went on a tour of Kibbutz Shefayim, one of the wealthier ones. Founded by Polish Jews, the kibbutz invested in collective funds in a hotel, conference center and other revenue producing real estate, allowing it to afford its more-or-less socialist principles. In recent years they've relaxed their rules, allowing members to keep all of the money received from inheritances, rental income, the sale of private property and cash gifts. Earned income, on the other hand, goes straight to the kibbutz and each member receives a stipend.
Our guide, one of the Ulpan teachers, is thrilled with kibbutz life and, it seemed, was trying to sell us on the concept. Having grown up with capitalism and having briefly worked in a socialist country, I didn't warm to the idea of having my income capped by the kibbutz formula, which imposes a ceiling on how much any member, even a high earner, can receive above the normal stipend.
But, I have to say, I was very taken by some of the perks of kibbutz life. Like their laundry system. Each member is assigned a number and given labels (printed with the number) to affix to their clothing, much as we might do before going to summer camp. The laundry building has a sorting wall, with chutes clearly marked by clothing type, e.g. "Dark pants", "White underwear". Members deposit their soiled items in the appropriate chutes and can pick up the clean and folded clothes the next day. The kibbutz also has resident repair folks, so help with plumbing, electrical or Internet problems is just a phone call away and you don't necessarily have to be home when they come. And they have a car sharing system - sort of like Zipcar but with greater flexibility.
Although kibbutz life is waning in Israel, this particular place has a waiting list. And while I wouldn't want to live there, I think I can understand why.
Meir met me at the entrance to the town and I followed him by car to their place, noticing that most of the streets were unmarked. The house had a view to the hills, orange trees in the yard and, alas, a large and loud family staying in the suite next to my room (which I had booked by phone without seeing a photo after striking out at several other guest houses).
Zmira and Meir's hospitality and personality made up for the room's lack of charm. In addition to giving me stacks of maps and brochures, they offered to take me on an orientation tour of Rosh Pina. It was already dark, but I wanted to leave early the next day for Tzfat, so I decided to go with them that night, hoping that in the morning I'd remember how to get around.
As I tried to lock the door to my room, Zmira intervened by removing the key and slamming the door shut. "Everything in Israel requires strength," she declared, insisting that the force made locking it easier (I subsequently discovered that the door locked just as well when gently closed).
I hopped into the backseat of their utility vehicle and off we went. They showed me the grocery store (we didn't stop) and the old city (we stopped and walked around) and a new shopping center (we didn't stop), and Meir let me know where to eat and, more importantly, where NOT to eat.
Meeting them reminded me that a few weeks before some us from the Ulpan went on a tour of Kibbutz Shefayim, one of the wealthier ones. Founded by Polish Jews, the kibbutz invested in collective funds in a hotel, conference center and other revenue producing real estate, allowing it to afford its more-or-less socialist principles. In recent years they've relaxed their rules, allowing members to keep all of the money received from inheritances, rental income, the sale of private property and cash gifts. Earned income, on the other hand, goes straight to the kibbutz and each member receives a stipend.
Our guide, one of the Ulpan teachers, is thrilled with kibbutz life and, it seemed, was trying to sell us on the concept. Having grown up with capitalism and having briefly worked in a socialist country, I didn't warm to the idea of having my income capped by the kibbutz formula, which imposes a ceiling on how much any member, even a high earner, can receive above the normal stipend.
But, I have to say, I was very taken by some of the perks of kibbutz life. Like their laundry system. Each member is assigned a number and given labels (printed with the number) to affix to their clothing, much as we might do before going to summer camp. The laundry building has a sorting wall, with chutes clearly marked by clothing type, e.g. "Dark pants", "White underwear". Members deposit their soiled items in the appropriate chutes and can pick up the clean and folded clothes the next day. The kibbutz also has resident repair folks, so help with plumbing, electrical or Internet problems is just a phone call away and you don't necessarily have to be home when they come. And they have a car sharing system - sort of like Zipcar but with greater flexibility.
Although kibbutz life is waning in Israel, this particular place has a waiting list. And while I wouldn't want to live there, I think I can understand why.
Seeking Something in Tzfat
Tzfat (Safed) is the seat of Jewish mysticism, a city that attracts seekers and also has a large population of highly observant Jews. I was drawn to Tzfat and I went there sensing that I should, but without expectation of what I might find there. I arrived without the usual Tzfat checklist (synagogues, cemeteries), and I had no specific plans other than to make a brief pilgrimage to the Memorial Museum of Hungarian Speaking Jewry, which I only learned about from my guidebook. My late father, born and raised in what is now Hungary/Ukraine, was the only member of his immediate family to survive the Holocaust.
The day I arrived the city was cloaked in a thick grey mist, completely obliterating any scenic views I might have enjoyed, and strong winds whipped up dust. After parking my car (it took two attempts), I tried to find the museum. The inadequate map in my guidebook had me going in circles and, after asking three people, I finally located it (they all said the same thing except that I had to hear it three times before I understood).
The weather was ideal for what turned out to be a very long visit. I rang the museum's bell just minutes ahead of a large group and, wanting some privacy for the tears I expected would come, quickly made the rounds, scanning the exhibits of religious objects, photographs and documents. As the child of a survivor, at times I'm aware of an unfathomable amount of grief and an implacable sense of loss, and while I often fantasize about having one massive sobbing session and getting it all out of my system, that is not quite how it has worked so far. On the rare occasions that I do go to such museums or visit memorial sites, my goal is not to acquire information or learn yet another detail, either horrific or heroic, about that period in history, but to trigger, release and express grief.
So there I was, wandering wet-eyed around this small museum, not quite ready to leave but not really having a particular reason to stay. The tour group was watching a film, so I still had some space to myself. To pass the time I flipped through a series of photo albums, with yellowing hand-numbered pages, in which images (drawings, photographs, postcards) of synagogues in Hungary had been arranged. These albums didn't offer much in the way of novelty - several of these synagogues I had already seen, entered and/or photographed when I lived in Hungary. Perhaps I simply wanted to make sure that the museum had, in fact, included photos of the shul in Kisvarda, where my father spent part of his childhood.
Yes, it was in the book.
I would have left then except that one of the caretakers, a man in his late 40s or early 50s, approached me and asked where I was from and the languages I speak. When I told him I speak Hungarian, he ushered me into the office of, as it turned out, his mother, Hava Lustig, a Budapest native who is one of the museum's founders. She must have assumed I was there to get documents, because within minutes of telling her where my father was from she produced a crumbling book, The Saturday Almanac, published in 1927/8, showing a list of Sabbath observant Jewish merchants and industrialists, listed by town and occupation, in Hungary. I don't know who exactly compiled this information, but since the Jewish date is shown in Hebrew I imagine that, perhaps, the Jews created their own version of the "Yellow Pages" to help members of the community.
It was only later that night, when reviewing the photocopy of the Kisvarda pages, that I noticed that my great uncle, whom I met when I was a child, was listed under what loosely translates as "General Merchants". I believe another relative, on my father's mother's side, was also listed, but I need to confirm. It was strangely reassuring to see their names in print, to know that some aspect of their lives is on record.
Mrs. Lustig also produced xeroxes of spreadsheets, from the Yad Vashem database, listing the names and, when known, dates of birth and death of Jews deported from Munkacs (now Munkacevo), where my father also lived. These lists were, unhelpfully, sorted by first name, and some letters of the alphabet (such as "Z", my father's first initial) were missing. Mrs. Lustig and I split the batch and starting scanning for all the names I could remember. She gave me slivers of post-it notes to mark the pages I wanted have copied. These pages have the names of, I believe, distant relatives, but not of my father's immediate family. Is this what I was seeking? I don't know, but I felt as if I had found "something", that maybe these black letters on white copy paper might bring a small measure of closure.
Meanwhile, her assistant produced a stapled stack of papers listing the items in the museum from Munkacs. Mrs. Lustig handed it to me and said, using the tone of a kindly drill sergeant, "Targil!" (Hebrew for an exercise). The catalogue, in table form, has dozens of pages with Hebrew descriptions in impossibly small letters. There are many photographs, and should I want to request to see any of them at another time, I'll need to figure out what they are first.
I was starting to get into the research and asked her if it would be possible for me to get a copy of the title page of The Saturday Almanac (she had already copied the relevant internal pages - a total of two). She snapped that I'd have to pay for the copies. Of course, I said (I was also planning to make a larger donation, but I think she had written me off). I wasn't quite sure why her mood had soured - Had I overstayed my welcome? Had I, in the hash of Hebrew and Hungarian that I was speaking, failed to properly lubricate my simple request with one of the many Hungarian equivalents of "Pretty please, with sugar on top?". When I lived in Budapest, the use of (to my American ears) excessively polite if not unctuous speech was required to inspire people to do the job that they were getting paid to do in the first place, especially if the task involved retrieving information. Perhaps decades of living in Israel had not altered her basic orientation.
Her English-speaking son, Ron, who grew up in Israel and attended Columbia University, treated me as a potential asset to the Museum rather than as a time-wasting liability. He introduced me to their film archive and suggested I watch Chasing Shadows, a documentary about life in the Carpathians before World War II, and afterward handed me some literature, his card and a form for making tax deductible donations via a New York organization. By this time the museum was closing for the day. He drove me to my car and then I followed him as he patiently led the way, through Tzfat's narrow, winding and mysteriously laid out streets, to a wonderful restaurant which I would not have found on my own.
After the intensity of the morning there was nothing to do but eat, eat a lot and eat well.
I did all three.
The day I arrived the city was cloaked in a thick grey mist, completely obliterating any scenic views I might have enjoyed, and strong winds whipped up dust. After parking my car (it took two attempts), I tried to find the museum. The inadequate map in my guidebook had me going in circles and, after asking three people, I finally located it (they all said the same thing except that I had to hear it three times before I understood).
The weather was ideal for what turned out to be a very long visit. I rang the museum's bell just minutes ahead of a large group and, wanting some privacy for the tears I expected would come, quickly made the rounds, scanning the exhibits of religious objects, photographs and documents. As the child of a survivor, at times I'm aware of an unfathomable amount of grief and an implacable sense of loss, and while I often fantasize about having one massive sobbing session and getting it all out of my system, that is not quite how it has worked so far. On the rare occasions that I do go to such museums or visit memorial sites, my goal is not to acquire information or learn yet another detail, either horrific or heroic, about that period in history, but to trigger, release and express grief.
So there I was, wandering wet-eyed around this small museum, not quite ready to leave but not really having a particular reason to stay. The tour group was watching a film, so I still had some space to myself. To pass the time I flipped through a series of photo albums, with yellowing hand-numbered pages, in which images (drawings, photographs, postcards) of synagogues in Hungary had been arranged. These albums didn't offer much in the way of novelty - several of these synagogues I had already seen, entered and/or photographed when I lived in Hungary. Perhaps I simply wanted to make sure that the museum had, in fact, included photos of the shul in Kisvarda, where my father spent part of his childhood.
Yes, it was in the book.
I would have left then except that one of the caretakers, a man in his late 40s or early 50s, approached me and asked where I was from and the languages I speak. When I told him I speak Hungarian, he ushered me into the office of, as it turned out, his mother, Hava Lustig, a Budapest native who is one of the museum's founders. She must have assumed I was there to get documents, because within minutes of telling her where my father was from she produced a crumbling book, The Saturday Almanac, published in 1927/8, showing a list of Sabbath observant Jewish merchants and industrialists, listed by town and occupation, in Hungary. I don't know who exactly compiled this information, but since the Jewish date is shown in Hebrew I imagine that, perhaps, the Jews created their own version of the "Yellow Pages" to help members of the community.
It was only later that night, when reviewing the photocopy of the Kisvarda pages, that I noticed that my great uncle, whom I met when I was a child, was listed under what loosely translates as "General Merchants". I believe another relative, on my father's mother's side, was also listed, but I need to confirm. It was strangely reassuring to see their names in print, to know that some aspect of their lives is on record.
Mrs. Lustig also produced xeroxes of spreadsheets, from the Yad Vashem database, listing the names and, when known, dates of birth and death of Jews deported from Munkacs (now Munkacevo), where my father also lived. These lists were, unhelpfully, sorted by first name, and some letters of the alphabet (such as "Z", my father's first initial) were missing. Mrs. Lustig and I split the batch and starting scanning for all the names I could remember. She gave me slivers of post-it notes to mark the pages I wanted have copied. These pages have the names of, I believe, distant relatives, but not of my father's immediate family. Is this what I was seeking? I don't know, but I felt as if I had found "something", that maybe these black letters on white copy paper might bring a small measure of closure.
Meanwhile, her assistant produced a stapled stack of papers listing the items in the museum from Munkacs. Mrs. Lustig handed it to me and said, using the tone of a kindly drill sergeant, "Targil!" (Hebrew for an exercise). The catalogue, in table form, has dozens of pages with Hebrew descriptions in impossibly small letters. There are many photographs, and should I want to request to see any of them at another time, I'll need to figure out what they are first.
I was starting to get into the research and asked her if it would be possible for me to get a copy of the title page of The Saturday Almanac (she had already copied the relevant internal pages - a total of two). She snapped that I'd have to pay for the copies. Of course, I said (I was also planning to make a larger donation, but I think she had written me off). I wasn't quite sure why her mood had soured - Had I overstayed my welcome? Had I, in the hash of Hebrew and Hungarian that I was speaking, failed to properly lubricate my simple request with one of the many Hungarian equivalents of "Pretty please, with sugar on top?". When I lived in Budapest, the use of (to my American ears) excessively polite if not unctuous speech was required to inspire people to do the job that they were getting paid to do in the first place, especially if the task involved retrieving information. Perhaps decades of living in Israel had not altered her basic orientation.
Her English-speaking son, Ron, who grew up in Israel and attended Columbia University, treated me as a potential asset to the Museum rather than as a time-wasting liability. He introduced me to their film archive and suggested I watch Chasing Shadows, a documentary about life in the Carpathians before World War II, and afterward handed me some literature, his card and a form for making tax deductible donations via a New York organization. By this time the museum was closing for the day. He drove me to my car and then I followed him as he patiently led the way, through Tzfat's narrow, winding and mysteriously laid out streets, to a wonderful restaurant which I would not have found on my own.
After the intensity of the morning there was nothing to do but eat, eat a lot and eat well.
I did all three.
Getting Steamed
There is no single thing at the Ulpan that is overwhelmingly irritating, but there are enough "little things" which, if they occur in close succession, can strain my inner circuitry. I'm an introvert which means that my batteries, unlike those of extroverts, who seem to run on Energizers, require daily - if not more frequent - recharging. And over the years I've become accustomed to creating my own schedule, relative quiet, and social interactions that involve just a few people at a time. I do like people, just not in large quantities simultaneously.
The Ulpan has been hard on the nerves of yours truly, who is not just an introvert but a sensitive one at that. Meals are noisy and not terribly relaxed affairs, at pre-established times that have little to do with my natural rhythms or pacing. A few tables have been reserved for Ulpan students (when we try to sit elsewhere they herd us back!), and over time the forced companionship, three times a day, can start to suffocate, if not bore. There are some singularly challenging individuals who deliver soliloquies and/or dispense unsolicited advice in authoritarian tones, insisting on speaking English even though they are ostensibly here for Hebrew immersion. After some trial and mostly error, at these times I've learned to keep quiet, which means I keep eating, which has not been so great for keeping my waistline in check.
Meanwhile, providing background vocals, are the few hundred Latin American youth who, at best, are a spirited group and, at worst, rude and disruptive, forgetting that they share the space with others. The banging of trays and clanging of plates and utensils creates a continuous percussive din, accentuated by increasingly frequent shouting and yelling.
Breakfast and lunch bookend the classes, which are punctuated by a nerve rattling and raspy electronic bell that announces when a class or a break begins or ends. By the time classes are over for the day, the bell has sounded eight excruciating times. By mid-afternoon, it's time to get steamed.
The saving grace of the Ulpan is that it shares its campus with a health club. As an "internal" student (inmate?), I have access (Baruch Ha'shem!) to the clean but modest facilities. During my first visit I used the pool, not realizing that the club also had a sauna and steam room. After my second swim I stepped into the steam room, and the intense heat and heavy wet air took my breath away. But I stayed long enough for it to work its magic on me, melting much of the accumulated tension from my body and mind. After getting steamed I can face this small corner of the world again, at least for the next 24 hours.
The Ulpan has been hard on the nerves of yours truly, who is not just an introvert but a sensitive one at that. Meals are noisy and not terribly relaxed affairs, at pre-established times that have little to do with my natural rhythms or pacing. A few tables have been reserved for Ulpan students (when we try to sit elsewhere they herd us back!), and over time the forced companionship, three times a day, can start to suffocate, if not bore. There are some singularly challenging individuals who deliver soliloquies and/or dispense unsolicited advice in authoritarian tones, insisting on speaking English even though they are ostensibly here for Hebrew immersion. After some trial and mostly error, at these times I've learned to keep quiet, which means I keep eating, which has not been so great for keeping my waistline in check.
Meanwhile, providing background vocals, are the few hundred Latin American youth who, at best, are a spirited group and, at worst, rude and disruptive, forgetting that they share the space with others. The banging of trays and clanging of plates and utensils creates a continuous percussive din, accentuated by increasingly frequent shouting and yelling.
Breakfast and lunch bookend the classes, which are punctuated by a nerve rattling and raspy electronic bell that announces when a class or a break begins or ends. By the time classes are over for the day, the bell has sounded eight excruciating times. By mid-afternoon, it's time to get steamed.
The saving grace of the Ulpan is that it shares its campus with a health club. As an "internal" student (inmate?), I have access (Baruch Ha'shem!) to the clean but modest facilities. During my first visit I used the pool, not realizing that the club also had a sauna and steam room. After my second swim I stepped into the steam room, and the intense heat and heavy wet air took my breath away. But I stayed long enough for it to work its magic on me, melting much of the accumulated tension from my body and mind. After getting steamed I can face this small corner of the world again, at least for the next 24 hours.
Monday, March 19, 2007
B&B and Beyond
Had I known that, in Haifa, I'd be joining the owners of my B&B for Shabbat dinner, I would not have eaten the massive slice of cheesecake AND the Druze Pita earlier that day. Nearly stuffed to the gills, I continued my drive through two Druze towns, Daliyat el Carmel and Isfiya, whose stucco houses are built into the hills, eventually ascending Mount Carmel. Even though the clouds were thick I enjoyed some panoramic views of Haifa and its impressive port before dipping a bit into the city.
I arrived to my B&B on late Friday afternoon and met Edit, one of the owners, who showed me my high-ceilinged room. It was simple and clean, with a colorful coverlet on the bed and, most important of all, with a working heater! [so far, the heaters I've encountered here are large rectangular boxes, positioned near the ceiling, that plug into the wall and double as air conditioners in warmer months]. Edit turned it on, the roomed warmed up, and I sacked out. Virginia Woolf mostly got it right when she said a woman needs A Room of One's Own. Make that a heated Room of One's Own.
The Shabbat guests included three generations, with three of Edit's four children, a daughter-in-law, a grandchild, and two other guests besides myself. The fact that Edit and her husband are vegetarians did not make the Shabbat meal any less elaborate than the others I've experienced in Israel, and I was faced with the seemingly impossible task of eating a multicourse meal and expanding my stomache beyond any previously known capacity.
Somehow, I managed.
We started with an artichoke apiece, followed by a cauliflower and tomato soup, then enormous stuffed mushrooms, a vegetarian cholent (one of those East European dishes that defies a succinct description), fresh salad, a sweet potato dish, homemade wholewheat challah and, for dessert, a chocolate mousse artfully decorated with chocolate sauce and a wafer. The wine (a kosher Merlot - wish I could remember the name!) was excellent and at the very end of the meal I was treated to a taste of Tres Generaciones tequila, which had been brought back from the US for the foodie in the family, one of Edit's two sons.
The digestive requirements of the meal were so great that nearly all the blood left my brain, making it impossible for me to even attempt Hebrew. The entire family speaks excellent English (Edit was born in NJ) and, as it turned out, have spent some time in Boston. The foodie (a former Toscanini's employee), raved about an appetizer I should try at one of the Portuguese restaurants in Cambridge. I'm keeping it a secret until I get home. Meanwhile, I will try to save some room for it!
P.S. If you are wondering about the "Breakfast" part of the B&B, because of Shabbat there was none, which was beyond fine with me. I would not have been able to eat another bite.
I arrived to my B&B on late Friday afternoon and met Edit, one of the owners, who showed me my high-ceilinged room. It was simple and clean, with a colorful coverlet on the bed and, most important of all, with a working heater! [so far, the heaters I've encountered here are large rectangular boxes, positioned near the ceiling, that plug into the wall and double as air conditioners in warmer months]. Edit turned it on, the roomed warmed up, and I sacked out. Virginia Woolf mostly got it right when she said a woman needs A Room of One's Own. Make that a heated Room of One's Own.
The Shabbat guests included three generations, with three of Edit's four children, a daughter-in-law, a grandchild, and two other guests besides myself. The fact that Edit and her husband are vegetarians did not make the Shabbat meal any less elaborate than the others I've experienced in Israel, and I was faced with the seemingly impossible task of eating a multicourse meal and expanding my stomache beyond any previously known capacity.
Somehow, I managed.
We started with an artichoke apiece, followed by a cauliflower and tomato soup, then enormous stuffed mushrooms, a vegetarian cholent (one of those East European dishes that defies a succinct description), fresh salad, a sweet potato dish, homemade wholewheat challah and, for dessert, a chocolate mousse artfully decorated with chocolate sauce and a wafer. The wine (a kosher Merlot - wish I could remember the name!) was excellent and at the very end of the meal I was treated to a taste of Tres Generaciones tequila, which had been brought back from the US for the foodie in the family, one of Edit's two sons.
The digestive requirements of the meal were so great that nearly all the blood left my brain, making it impossible for me to even attempt Hebrew. The entire family speaks excellent English (Edit was born in NJ) and, as it turned out, have spent some time in Boston. The foodie (a former Toscanini's employee), raved about an appetizer I should try at one of the Portuguese restaurants in Cambridge. I'm keeping it a secret until I get home. Meanwhile, I will try to save some room for it!
P.S. If you are wondering about the "Breakfast" part of the B&B, because of Shabbat there was none, which was beyond fine with me. I would not have been able to eat another bite.
Sunday, March 18, 2007
Auto Adventure
There are perhaps a dozen of us living at the Ulpan and by the time classes end on Thursday afternoon, many of us are itching for a change of scenery, of food, and for a break from the routine, the cold rooms, the kvetchy weather and from each other. Many people take off for the weekend, and those who don't have other ways of managing: one woman has her hair done every week. After spending many hard-won hours waiting for, and using, the Internet last week plotting my escape, I hit the road on Friday morning.
Israelis have a reputation as lousy and dangerous drivers, but as a Boston driver who had a year-long apprenticeship in the passenger seat of numerous Mexico City taxicabs, I felt equal to the challenge. I hopped into my rented Hyundai Getz and off I went, heading north on the coastal road, Highway 2. Accompanied by the lively sounds of Israeli pop music, I was Queen of the Road, zipping around the Holy Land in my cute car, feeling like a million bucks.
My first stop was Zichron Ya'akov (Remembrance of Jacob), a relatively affluent community in Israel's wine country, nestled in the hills with a view of the sea. My parking karma was in working order and, without much ado, I found a convenient spot. After browsing in several arty clothing boutiques I realized I was hungry and started to investigate restaurants. I guess part of me was still dying for dessert, as I found myself tempted by the Motek (Sweet) Cafe, with its hot pink decor and a luscious pastry case. Forget a real lunch, I was going for the cheese cake, a substantial wedge accompanied by raspberry sauce and a lemon wedge. To wash it down I ordered a dark hot chocolate, which arrived as a cup of steamed milk poured over chocolate chips. I was skeptical of this concoction, but after the chocolate dissolved so did my doubts. Mmm! The indulgence, plus tip, set me back 50 shekels (about $12), a somewhat outrageous sum.
Forget Ya'akov....I think I'll remember this town as Zichron Cheesecake.
Satisfied, and with the rain beginning anew, I started up the car and headed further into the hills, towards some Druze villages. The road wound its way upward through olive groves and before long I spotted a roadside stand, marked by an Israeli flag. By the time I realized I wanted to check it out I couldn't safely stop, so I drove further and made a U-turn. It turned out to be one of the first of many similar stands along the road where the Druze sell their olives, special yogurt cheese and pickled vegetables, and make their famous Druze Pita, a delicious flat round bread filled with cheese, rolled into a wrap, and baked over hot coals.
To be continued.....
Israelis have a reputation as lousy and dangerous drivers, but as a Boston driver who had a year-long apprenticeship in the passenger seat of numerous Mexico City taxicabs, I felt equal to the challenge. I hopped into my rented Hyundai Getz and off I went, heading north on the coastal road, Highway 2. Accompanied by the lively sounds of Israeli pop music, I was Queen of the Road, zipping around the Holy Land in my cute car, feeling like a million bucks.
My first stop was Zichron Ya'akov (Remembrance of Jacob), a relatively affluent community in Israel's wine country, nestled in the hills with a view of the sea. My parking karma was in working order and, without much ado, I found a convenient spot. After browsing in several arty clothing boutiques I realized I was hungry and started to investigate restaurants. I guess part of me was still dying for dessert, as I found myself tempted by the Motek (Sweet) Cafe, with its hot pink decor and a luscious pastry case. Forget a real lunch, I was going for the cheese cake, a substantial wedge accompanied by raspberry sauce and a lemon wedge. To wash it down I ordered a dark hot chocolate, which arrived as a cup of steamed milk poured over chocolate chips. I was skeptical of this concoction, but after the chocolate dissolved so did my doubts. Mmm! The indulgence, plus tip, set me back 50 shekels (about $12), a somewhat outrageous sum.
Forget Ya'akov....I think I'll remember this town as Zichron Cheesecake.
Satisfied, and with the rain beginning anew, I started up the car and headed further into the hills, towards some Druze villages. The road wound its way upward through olive groves and before long I spotted a roadside stand, marked by an Israeli flag. By the time I realized I wanted to check it out I couldn't safely stop, so I drove further and made a U-turn. It turned out to be one of the first of many similar stands along the road where the Druze sell their olives, special yogurt cheese and pickled vegetables, and make their famous Druze Pita, a delicious flat round bread filled with cheese, rolled into a wrap, and baked over hot coals.
To be continued.....
Upping the Bet
At my (former) teacher's suggestion, I've moved up another level, known as "Bet +" (pronounced "Ploos"). I had enjoyed the people and the teacher in level "Bet" but the minimal homework had been a snap and the class moved too slowly for me. It was underwhelming and I came specifically to Ulpan Akiva to be overwhelmed, or at least extremely challenged.
The first lesson in "Bet +" was a real shocker. People straggled in late, many struggled to pronounce basic words in Hebrew, and a sizeable chunk of them had not done the homework. Not to generalize, but there are more men (and they Russian men) in this class than in the others, and perhaps that has contributed to the less than dynamite dynamic. The class was conducted at the same plodding pace as "Bet", albeit with more difficult content. I had been hoping that the new class would be more synaptically stimulating but perhaps that is just another variation of "the grass is greener...." thoughts that seem to colonize my mind.
My new teacher is excellent, but as she pleaded with the students today, there is only so much she can do to help us progress if students are not putting in the time. Let's hope that they will. It's hard for me to believe that these new immigrants lack a pressing incentive!
The first lesson in "Bet +" was a real shocker. People straggled in late, many struggled to pronounce basic words in Hebrew, and a sizeable chunk of them had not done the homework. Not to generalize, but there are more men (and they Russian men) in this class than in the others, and perhaps that has contributed to the less than dynamite dynamic. The class was conducted at the same plodding pace as "Bet", albeit with more difficult content. I had been hoping that the new class would be more synaptically stimulating but perhaps that is just another variation of "the grass is greener...." thoughts that seem to colonize my mind.
My new teacher is excellent, but as she pleaded with the students today, there is only so much she can do to help us progress if students are not putting in the time. Let's hope that they will. It's hard for me to believe that these new immigrants lack a pressing incentive!
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Bushwhacking and Buddha
The bushwhacking of my neural pathways continues, clearing the debris that impedeshe recall and use of the Hebrew I used to know as a teenager. So far some large branches have been pushed aside and a faint trail is now visible. While out walking today, someone in a car even stopped to ask me for directions and I was able to communicate that "I don't know" and "I don't live here." However, I keep stumbling on pebbles of words, of but one syllable and two letters, which sound the same in a few languages but mean very different things.
In Hebrew "mi" means "who" and "ma" means what. Easy enough, except that in Hungarian "mi" means "what" and "ma" means "today", and for some reason when I want to ask in Hebrew (say, at the pastry shop), "What's that (Ma zeh?)", I often end up saying, "Who's that (Mi zeh)?".
Ma-ma-mi-a!
And for some reason when I want to say "I" in Hebrew ("ani"), I produce the Hungarian word "en" (pronounced "ayn"), which in Hebrew means, "there is not".
So, there is not I.
I think it took Buddha a long time to come to this conclusion.
In Hebrew "mi" means "who" and "ma" means what. Easy enough, except that in Hungarian "mi" means "what" and "ma" means "today", and for some reason when I want to ask in Hebrew (say, at the pastry shop), "What's that (Ma zeh?)", I often end up saying, "Who's that (Mi zeh)?".
Ma-ma-mi-a!
And for some reason when I want to say "I" in Hebrew ("ani"), I produce the Hungarian word "en" (pronounced "ayn"), which in Hebrew means, "there is not".
So, there is not I.
I think it took Buddha a long time to come to this conclusion.
Dying for Dessert
The food at the Ulpan is plentiful, colorful, mostly healthful and occasionally beautiful. It is served buffet style, with an area for hot food and a large round table on which cold foods are arranged.
Last night there was new addition to the table, whole roasted red peppers snuggled on a square platter bordered by precisely placed semicircular slices of lemon. I was thrilled by the shapes and colors and by the fact that someone in the kitchen had taken such care with the food. Another visual and edible treat is the frequently served salad heaped with ribbons of purple and white cabbage, yellow peppers and carrots.
The Ulpan mostly does not attempt dessert and probably should not even try. For some reason, it hasn't occurred to them to just serve fresh fruit every day. Today's pareve concoction at least had aesthetic appeal - individual cocktail cups filled with a dark chocolate substance, somewhere between a custard and a jello, topped with pastel dots of sugar - but it lacked depth. The poor thing, made of water and cocoa powder, would simply never have the richness of a true pudding. Other dessert flops that have made appeared so far include a foil wrapped cone of faux chocolate covering an air-whipped ersatz cream center, and Hoodsie-style tofutti of a dubious shade of taupe.
Baruch hashem, as it's said here ("Blessed is the Name"), there is a sleek cafe within a 20-minute walk that serves small cheese pastries dusted with confectioners' sugar. They are more refined and delicate than American cheese danish, and their shape and construction remind me of Hungarian turos taska ("cheese pouches"), with pastry folded over the four sides of a sweet cheese center. At two shekels (50 cents) apiece, they are an affordable indulgence. Wait - make that an affordable necessity. For the non-kosher amongst us, who can enjoy these after a meat meal, they are a mechaya (lifesaver!).
Last night there was new addition to the table, whole roasted red peppers snuggled on a square platter bordered by precisely placed semicircular slices of lemon. I was thrilled by the shapes and colors and by the fact that someone in the kitchen had taken such care with the food. Another visual and edible treat is the frequently served salad heaped with ribbons of purple and white cabbage, yellow peppers and carrots.
The Ulpan mostly does not attempt dessert and probably should not even try. For some reason, it hasn't occurred to them to just serve fresh fruit every day. Today's pareve concoction at least had aesthetic appeal - individual cocktail cups filled with a dark chocolate substance, somewhere between a custard and a jello, topped with pastel dots of sugar - but it lacked depth. The poor thing, made of water and cocoa powder, would simply never have the richness of a true pudding. Other dessert flops that have made appeared so far include a foil wrapped cone of faux chocolate covering an air-whipped ersatz cream center, and Hoodsie-style tofutti of a dubious shade of taupe.
Baruch hashem, as it's said here ("Blessed is the Name"), there is a sleek cafe within a 20-minute walk that serves small cheese pastries dusted with confectioners' sugar. They are more refined and delicate than American cheese danish, and their shape and construction remind me of Hungarian turos taska ("cheese pouches"), with pastry folded over the four sides of a sweet cheese center. At two shekels (50 cents) apiece, they are an affordable indulgence. Wait - make that an affordable necessity. For the non-kosher amongst us, who can enjoy these after a meat meal, they are a mechaya (lifesaver!).
Monday, March 12, 2007
The Salads of Caesaria
Forget Caesar salads. They pale in comparison to the smorgasbord of salad appetizers that were presented to me and a friend at a sun soaked and bustling seaside restaurant in Caesaria. The waiter, tanned and silverhaired, brought over a tray brimming with small white plates. With a fluorish and a wide smile, he placed them on the table, one after another after another after another, until the entire surface was covered with colorful and delectable dishes.
Where to begin? With roasted and sliced red peppers shimmering in olive oil, taramosalata topped with chopped red onion, tomatoes and cucumbers, roasted and pureed eggplant, hummus, tahini or the smoked salmon? All were accompanied by crunchy toasted bread topped with olive oil and basil.
To wash it all down we drank a few carafes of lemonade with mint leaves.
The salads more than satisfied, but I still managed to eat an entire grilled fish afterwards.
Aah!
Where to begin? With roasted and sliced red peppers shimmering in olive oil, taramosalata topped with chopped red onion, tomatoes and cucumbers, roasted and pureed eggplant, hummus, tahini or the smoked salmon? All were accompanied by crunchy toasted bread topped with olive oil and basil.
To wash it all down we drank a few carafes of lemonade with mint leaves.
The salads more than satisfied, but I still managed to eat an entire grilled fish afterwards.
Aah!
Sunday, March 11, 2007
Zayinism
Hebrew letters are fascinating characters, each having a distinct personality and appearance. Take, for example, the seventh letter, Zayin (ז). An American-born Israeli told me the other day that, ahem, it resembles a certain part of male anatomy.
In contemporary Hebrew slang, a Zayin can be used to replace existing letters to create a new, juicier meaning of the original word.
The example given to me was as follows. The word for friend is ידיד pronounced "yedid".
Replacing the second and fourth letters (from right to left) with a Zayin yields יזיז
This new word, "yeziz", means "friend with benefits". I thought that was quite clever, actually, even if I'm not partial to the concept.
If anyone thinks that there are no young Zayinists in Israel, they're wrong.
In contemporary Hebrew slang, a Zayin can be used to replace existing letters to create a new, juicier meaning of the original word.
The example given to me was as follows. The word for friend is ידיד pronounced "yedid".
Replacing the second and fourth letters (from right to left) with a Zayin yields יזיז
This new word, "yeziz", means "friend with benefits". I thought that was quite clever, actually, even if I'm not partial to the concept.
If anyone thinks that there are no young Zayinists in Israel, they're wrong.
The Message of the Mechitza
A "mechitza" is a divider that separates the women from the men in Orthodox synagogues. How the separation is accomplished varies by synagogue and says something about how the congregation interacts with their female members.
Example A: Up and Away
Many older shuls (synagogues) were designed with balconies, so that women would sit overlooking the main sanctuary, containing the ark, the bimah (pulpit of sorts) and the men's seating area. While completely removed from the scene of the "action", the leading of prayers and the reading of the Torah, in this variation at least the women can see what is going on.
Example B: On (almost) the Same Plane
In some contemporary Orthodox shuls, the mechitza divides the central sanctuary, with women and men seated on either side, on the same plane. The height and material of the mechitza can range from a low permanent wooden barrier to a tall portable screen, or many variations in between. This version is a bit friendlier than Example A, although women are still not involved in reading the Torah.
Example C: Separate but Equal
I'm told that there is a synagogue in Jerusalem where the mechitza runs smack down the middle of the sanctuary AND continues through the middle of the bimah, allowing both women and men to read from the Torah without sharing the same physical space.
Example D: Out of Sight, Out of Earshot
And there is the "we don't want to see or hear you" mechitza, behind which I found myself on a recent Erev Shabbat. The mechitza itself was made of lace but the women's section was a small area behind the sanctuary, near one of the restrooms. Through the lace I could see the backs of heads but the height of the divider obstructed my view of the stained glass and colorful quilted curtain on the ark. Frustrated by my position at the rear, I sang my favorite Shabbat melodies as passionately as I could, which I really wasn't supposed to in this particular place. One of the handful of women in my section was, I think, trying to shush me. It didn't matter - I was quickly and easily drowned out, and I felt left out.
Walking back to the Ulpan from services, another American in my group commented that this synagogue had one of the most aggressive mechitzas (ok, it's really "mechitzot" in Hebrew) he's ever seen.
I certainly received the message that I was a persona non grata. I will not be returning.
Example A: Up and Away
Many older shuls (synagogues) were designed with balconies, so that women would sit overlooking the main sanctuary, containing the ark, the bimah (pulpit of sorts) and the men's seating area. While completely removed from the scene of the "action", the leading of prayers and the reading of the Torah, in this variation at least the women can see what is going on.
Example B: On (almost) the Same Plane
In some contemporary Orthodox shuls, the mechitza divides the central sanctuary, with women and men seated on either side, on the same plane. The height and material of the mechitza can range from a low permanent wooden barrier to a tall portable screen, or many variations in between. This version is a bit friendlier than Example A, although women are still not involved in reading the Torah.
Example C: Separate but Equal
I'm told that there is a synagogue in Jerusalem where the mechitza runs smack down the middle of the sanctuary AND continues through the middle of the bimah, allowing both women and men to read from the Torah without sharing the same physical space.
Example D: Out of Sight, Out of Earshot
And there is the "we don't want to see or hear you" mechitza, behind which I found myself on a recent Erev Shabbat. The mechitza itself was made of lace but the women's section was a small area behind the sanctuary, near one of the restrooms. Through the lace I could see the backs of heads but the height of the divider obstructed my view of the stained glass and colorful quilted curtain on the ark. Frustrated by my position at the rear, I sang my favorite Shabbat melodies as passionately as I could, which I really wasn't supposed to in this particular place. One of the handful of women in my section was, I think, trying to shush me. It didn't matter - I was quickly and easily drowned out, and I felt left out.
Walking back to the Ulpan from services, another American in my group commented that this synagogue had one of the most aggressive mechitzas (ok, it's really "mechitzot" in Hebrew) he's ever seen.
I certainly received the message that I was a persona non grata. I will not be returning.
Thursday, March 8, 2007
Bushwhacking
This post has nothing to do with our president, but everything to do with how my head feels after a few days of intense Hebrew instruction. It's as if this language is bushwhacking in my brain, slowly clearing the neural pathway through which it will eventually travel. This trail was created when I was a child, but I failed to maintain it and it's now overgrown with other foreign words and criss-crossed by the paths (some syntactically parallel, others not) cleared by the languages I've studied over the years. The bushwhacking process demands many mental resources, often leaving me with brain freeze or at a loss for words in English. I write this as an observation, not a complaint. I wouldn't have it any other way!
"Bet"-ting on it
Ulpan students take a placement test on the first day to help determine at which level they'll begin. I was dreading this test, as I knew that my passive knowledge of Hebrew far exceeded whatever results I could produce in a short time, and that I might end up in the wrong place because of it. There were 90 questions and I got through 50-60 of them, skipping several, and not answering all correctly. I managed to squeeze out a few basic sentences for the written portion. But it felt as if much of what I knew was locked away in a deep freezer and I knew that after a few days of thawing in the Mediterranean sun and soaking up the Hebrew around me the words would, once again, start to flow. Meanwhile, my brain was stuck, and I was unable to utter a word or to remember even basic vocabulary.
The two teachers looked at my results, looked at me, looked at each other, and told me that they thought I belonged in Class "Aleph" (level Zero) or "Aleph +" (level One). After noticing the disappointment on my face (there was no way I was going to start at Zero!), they told me I could start in Aleph +.
"What about 'Bet'?" I asked, wondering what the difference was between the Aleph + and the next level and hoping I could start there instead.
Kindly, they told me to start in the lower level and to see how it went.
I did, and it was like being in the first grade . I figured that if I were to move up a level, it had to be now.
After speaking with the director and having a private tutor for a few hours yesterday, I tried out Class "Bet" and have decided to stay. The level of Hebrew and comportment are more appropriate. There is still a large French speaking contingent but it's diluted by a Canadian, a Brit, another American, several Russian speakers and an incredibly handsome Palestinian ear, nose and throat surgeon.
The French in Class "Bet" are still French, but more subtle. The Parisian seated next to me kept asking me questions in French. By the end of the class I decided to answer her only in Hebrew, which frustrated her.
C'est dommage!
The two teachers looked at my results, looked at me, looked at each other, and told me that they thought I belonged in Class "Aleph" (level Zero) or "Aleph +" (level One). After noticing the disappointment on my face (there was no way I was going to start at Zero!), they told me I could start in Aleph +.
"What about 'Bet'?" I asked, wondering what the difference was between the Aleph + and the next level and hoping I could start there instead.
Kindly, they told me to start in the lower level and to see how it went.
I did, and it was like being in the first grade . I figured that if I were to move up a level, it had to be now.
After speaking with the director and having a private tutor for a few hours yesterday, I tried out Class "Bet" and have decided to stay. The level of Hebrew and comportment are more appropriate. There is still a large French speaking contingent but it's diluted by a Canadian, a Brit, another American, several Russian speakers and an incredibly handsome Palestinian ear, nose and throat surgeon.
The French in Class "Bet" are still French, but more subtle. The Parisian seated next to me kept asking me questions in French. By the end of the class I decided to answer her only in Hebrew, which frustrated her.
C'est dommage!
Wednesday, March 7, 2007
Les Francaises
The majority of the students in the Ulpan are new immigrants (not tourists like me), many of whom are French or come from Francophone countries. (Russian speakers are the second largest group). It was surprising and inspiring to see that most of them are over the age of 40, with children and grandchildren, and are making a courageous change in their lives. The growing anti-Semitism in France is one reason that many are here. One French citizen, who was hidden during the war and had to leave her native Belgium, told me that she wanted to move to Israel before she was "pushed out" again. Others have harbored a dream of living in Israel for most of their lives and are now able to realize it, or have come to be near their children. One young looking grandmother from Luxembourg told me she came to Israel to start her life anew after getting divorced.
The stories are many, and I hope to hear more of them.
Meanwhile, les Francaises have a certain nonchalance about their Hebrew studies, failing to show up on time, complete homework, or respect the teacher in class. Astonishingly, the teacher (more like a Commander) has even had to separate them, reminding me of the first time I was in Hebrew school.... when I was eight years old. It's not quite the classroom atmosphere that I was expecting, nor did I anticipate having to dust off my high school French in order to help my classmates understand the Hebrew lesson. I may not be speaking Hebrew very well yet, but at least I'm having a chance to practice a foreign language.
C'est la vie!
The stories are many, and I hope to hear more of them.
Meanwhile, les Francaises have a certain nonchalance about their Hebrew studies, failing to show up on time, complete homework, or respect the teacher in class. Astonishingly, the teacher (more like a Commander) has even had to separate them, reminding me of the first time I was in Hebrew school.... when I was eight years old. It's not quite the classroom atmosphere that I was expecting, nor did I anticipate having to dust off my high school French in order to help my classmates understand the Hebrew lesson. I may not be speaking Hebrew very well yet, but at least I'm having a chance to practice a foreign language.
C'est la vie!
Tuesday, March 6, 2007
Toilets and Taxis
For certain travelers, the first phrase they learn in a new language is, "A beer, please", or some variation thereof. When I travel, the first thing I want to be able to ask is, "Where is the bathroom?" I've learned that it's better to have this question down pat before actually needing to use it.
I drank several cups of tea during yesterday's welcoming session at the Ulpan, necessitating a dash to the loo before classes started. Panicking, I realized that I did NOT know the key word...luckily my neighbor, David, was able to clue me in: "Shei-rut-im"
Armed with this information, I asked my new instructor, "Eifo ha-shei-rut-im?" Realizing I had no capacity to understand any answer she might deliver verbally, she pointed me in their general direction and off I went.
Later in the day, when my jet-lagged and Mediterranean-sun exposed brain was in hibernation mode after a delicious lunch in which I overindulged in grilled chicken, couscous, grilled vegetables, marinated peppers and assorted salads, another person was telling us how to get off of campus into the city of Netanya. There are buses, she said, or taxis, or you can take a "shei-rut", a minivan that runs a regular route (like a bus) but drops you off wherever you want (like a taxi). These look like the most fun kind of transport, with loud music blaring from the inside...but which I have yet to try.
So, in that state of mental meltdown, I noted that a "shei-rut" is a shared taxi, of sorts. Some new friends and I boarded the next vehicle that showed up, which in this case was a bus, and went into town. While riding into the city I tried to recall the word for bathroom. "Shei-rut-im" ('im' is a plural form) kept coming to mind, but didn't I just learn that "shei-rut" was the word for a shared taxi? What on earth is the relationship between toilets and taxis that would allow them to share the root of this word, if not the whole word?
I was wondering if I was having a mid-life moment, completely confusing my vocabulary and forgetting what I had learned hours before. Oy!
After a quick peek in the dictionary, I learned that "shei-rut" actually means service; "shei-rut-im" services. Indeed the taxi (toilet) provide the service of ferrying people (waste) from one place to another. Perhaps this is not the explanation my instructor would give, but I was satisfied and relieved that I wasn't having a mid-life moment after all.
I could relax and have a beer, please.
I drank several cups of tea during yesterday's welcoming session at the Ulpan, necessitating a dash to the loo before classes started. Panicking, I realized that I did NOT know the key word...luckily my neighbor, David, was able to clue me in: "Shei-rut-im"
Armed with this information, I asked my new instructor, "Eifo ha-shei-rut-im?" Realizing I had no capacity to understand any answer she might deliver verbally, she pointed me in their general direction and off I went.
Later in the day, when my jet-lagged and Mediterranean-sun exposed brain was in hibernation mode after a delicious lunch in which I overindulged in grilled chicken, couscous, grilled vegetables, marinated peppers and assorted salads, another person was telling us how to get off of campus into the city of Netanya. There are buses, she said, or taxis, or you can take a "shei-rut", a minivan that runs a regular route (like a bus) but drops you off wherever you want (like a taxi). These look like the most fun kind of transport, with loud music blaring from the inside...but which I have yet to try.
So, in that state of mental meltdown, I noted that a "shei-rut" is a shared taxi, of sorts. Some new friends and I boarded the next vehicle that showed up, which in this case was a bus, and went into town. While riding into the city I tried to recall the word for bathroom. "Shei-rut-im" ('im' is a plural form) kept coming to mind, but didn't I just learn that "shei-rut" was the word for a shared taxi? What on earth is the relationship between toilets and taxis that would allow them to share the root of this word, if not the whole word?
I was wondering if I was having a mid-life moment, completely confusing my vocabulary and forgetting what I had learned hours before. Oy!
After a quick peek in the dictionary, I learned that "shei-rut" actually means service; "shei-rut-im" services. Indeed the taxi (toilet) provide the service of ferrying people (waste) from one place to another. Perhaps this is not the explanation my instructor would give, but I was satisfied and relieved that I wasn't having a mid-life moment after all.
I could relax and have a beer, please.
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