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
Thursday, April 26, 2007
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.
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