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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.....

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!

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.

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!).

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!

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.

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.

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!

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!

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.

Barracks of Babel

I love to travel but still find it disorienting when the physical reality of a place doesn't synch up with my imaginings of it. While I didn't spend time concocting a fantasy about Ulpan Akiva, and I tried to keep my expectations low, it was a bit of a come down to arrive here yesterday.

The Ulpan is a random collection of 1950s-era low white stucco buildings, interspersed with weary palm trees and a tired metallic sculpture of a camel. Some buildings house the classrooms, others house us, a polyglot assortment of people - from teens through 60s - who want to learn to speak Hebrew. This Ulpan has a reputation for working its students hard; its goal was, and still is, to turn immigrants into productive Israeli workers in a mere five months. They apply the same rigorous methodology to any non-Israeli up for the challenge. There are dozens of young Latin Americans here, filling the air with Spanish, Portuguese, and cigarette smoke. Add in some French and Czech and Italian and Hungarian. A mostly Russian-speaking housekeeping staff adds to the Babel-ness of this place, a miniature UN on the Mediterranean (before you invent your own fantasy image, the nearby beach is far from pristine, in desperate need of a cleanup).

Even though I've learned a few other languages, including Hungarian and Spanish, in intense immersion programs where I refused to speak any English, I'm feeling a bit nervous about taking the plunge here, cramming as much Hebrew into my brain as I can in 3.5 weeks. Part of my anxiety is that I'm not 100% sure why I've come, except that for the last few years, as I've begun to travel the Jewish spiritual path, my lack of Hebrew has become an itch that increasingly needs to be scratched. I'm aware that the Hebrew that moves my soul is not necessarily the Hebrew that I'll be learning here, at least not immediately, and I hope I can keep that in mind as I slog my way through various verb conjugations and repetitions.

And my soul will have to be patient with the utilitarian infrastructure. The dormitory rooms, as advertised, are small, barely having enough space for a window. The bathroom door just clears the toilet seat. After spending Purim weekend near Tel Aviv at the modern, spacious and well-appointed house of my relative, a successful surgeon, in a private room with all of the creature comforts, including a computer and Internet connection, I was a bit disoriented to step into my home of the next month.

So was my relative, who generously drove me here and helped me carry my bags to my room.

"Call us if you need to be evacuated," he said, taking in my surroundings, astonished that I'd be living in such close quarters....with someone else.

"I'm sure it will be fine," I said, not quite believing it myself, and wondering if I should spring for a private room.

Feeling somewhat adrift, I wandered into the dining hall for the evening meal, and brightened upon seeing glass bowls brimming with fresh tomatoes, peppers, cucumbers and colorful salads. Iris, the helpful but unsmiling dining room manager, suggested that I sit with Chava, a North American Ulpan veteran - she's been here several times for several months at a time. She gave me the lowdown on the place, a verbal survival guide, and after our meal showed me her private quarters, stocked with fruit and her own kitchen appliances, her way of handling the eating ennui that soon set in for her. She warned of weight gain and other dining dangers. Although her intent was to help and advise, I did not wish to encourage her complaints or tip my already tentative mood into the dumps, so I bid farewell.

My roommate arrived today, a young and kind looking academic from the Czech Republic who specializes in Czech Jewish history. I was relieved to sense that we seem to be sympatico, personality and otherwise. And some laps in the indoor pool, followed by a sit in the sauna (another mini UN, with eight languages spoken among us four sauna goers), helped restore my equilibrium.

Perhaps I will enjoy, if not love, my new reality after all.