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!
Monday, March 12, 2007
Sunday, March 11, 2007
Zayinism
Hebrew letters are fascinating characters, each having a distinct personality and appearance. Take, for example, the seventh letter, Zayin (ז). An American-born Israeli told me the other day that, ahem, it resembles a certain part of male anatomy.
In contemporary Hebrew slang, a Zayin can be used to replace existing letters to create a new, juicier meaning of the original word.
The example given to me was as follows. The word for friend is ידיד pronounced "yedid".
Replacing the second and fourth letters (from right to left) with a Zayin yields יזיז
This new word, "yeziz", means "friend with benefits". I thought that was quite clever, actually, even if I'm not partial to the concept.
If anyone thinks that there are no young Zayinists in Israel, they're wrong.
In contemporary Hebrew slang, a Zayin can be used to replace existing letters to create a new, juicier meaning of the original word.
The example given to me was as follows. The word for friend is ידיד pronounced "yedid".
Replacing the second and fourth letters (from right to left) with a Zayin yields יזיז
This new word, "yeziz", means "friend with benefits". I thought that was quite clever, actually, even if I'm not partial to the concept.
If anyone thinks that there are no young Zayinists in Israel, they're wrong.
The Message of the Mechitza
A "mechitza" is a divider that separates the women from the men in Orthodox synagogues. How the separation is accomplished varies by synagogue and says something about how the congregation interacts with their female members.
Example A: Up and Away
Many older shuls (synagogues) were designed with balconies, so that women would sit overlooking the main sanctuary, containing the ark, the bimah (pulpit of sorts) and the men's seating area. While completely removed from the scene of the "action", the leading of prayers and the reading of the Torah, in this variation at least the women can see what is going on.
Example B: On (almost) the Same Plane
In some contemporary Orthodox shuls, the mechitza divides the central sanctuary, with women and men seated on either side, on the same plane. The height and material of the mechitza can range from a low permanent wooden barrier to a tall portable screen, or many variations in between. This version is a bit friendlier than Example A, although women are still not involved in reading the Torah.
Example C: Separate but Equal
I'm told that there is a synagogue in Jerusalem where the mechitza runs smack down the middle of the sanctuary AND continues through the middle of the bimah, allowing both women and men to read from the Torah without sharing the same physical space.
Example D: Out of Sight, Out of Earshot
And there is the "we don't want to see or hear you" mechitza, behind which I found myself on a recent Erev Shabbat. The mechitza itself was made of lace but the women's section was a small area behind the sanctuary, near one of the restrooms. Through the lace I could see the backs of heads but the height of the divider obstructed my view of the stained glass and colorful quilted curtain on the ark. Frustrated by my position at the rear, I sang my favorite Shabbat melodies as passionately as I could, which I really wasn't supposed to in this particular place. One of the handful of women in my section was, I think, trying to shush me. It didn't matter - I was quickly and easily drowned out, and I felt left out.
Walking back to the Ulpan from services, another American in my group commented that this synagogue had one of the most aggressive mechitzas (ok, it's really "mechitzot" in Hebrew) he's ever seen.
I certainly received the message that I was a persona non grata. I will not be returning.
Example A: Up and Away
Many older shuls (synagogues) were designed with balconies, so that women would sit overlooking the main sanctuary, containing the ark, the bimah (pulpit of sorts) and the men's seating area. While completely removed from the scene of the "action", the leading of prayers and the reading of the Torah, in this variation at least the women can see what is going on.
Example B: On (almost) the Same Plane
In some contemporary Orthodox shuls, the mechitza divides the central sanctuary, with women and men seated on either side, on the same plane. The height and material of the mechitza can range from a low permanent wooden barrier to a tall portable screen, or many variations in between. This version is a bit friendlier than Example A, although women are still not involved in reading the Torah.
Example C: Separate but Equal
I'm told that there is a synagogue in Jerusalem where the mechitza runs smack down the middle of the sanctuary AND continues through the middle of the bimah, allowing both women and men to read from the Torah without sharing the same physical space.
Example D: Out of Sight, Out of Earshot
And there is the "we don't want to see or hear you" mechitza, behind which I found myself on a recent Erev Shabbat. The mechitza itself was made of lace but the women's section was a small area behind the sanctuary, near one of the restrooms. Through the lace I could see the backs of heads but the height of the divider obstructed my view of the stained glass and colorful quilted curtain on the ark. Frustrated by my position at the rear, I sang my favorite Shabbat melodies as passionately as I could, which I really wasn't supposed to in this particular place. One of the handful of women in my section was, I think, trying to shush me. It didn't matter - I was quickly and easily drowned out, and I felt left out.
Walking back to the Ulpan from services, another American in my group commented that this synagogue had one of the most aggressive mechitzas (ok, it's really "mechitzot" in Hebrew) he's ever seen.
I certainly received the message that I was a persona non grata. I will not be returning.
Thursday, March 8, 2007
Bushwhacking
This post has nothing to do with our president, but everything to do with how my head feels after a few days of intense Hebrew instruction. It's as if this language is bushwhacking in my brain, slowly clearing the neural pathway through which it will eventually travel. This trail was created when I was a child, but I failed to maintain it and it's now overgrown with other foreign words and criss-crossed by the paths (some syntactically parallel, others not) cleared by the languages I've studied over the years. The bushwhacking process demands many mental resources, often leaving me with brain freeze or at a loss for words in English. I write this as an observation, not a complaint. I wouldn't have it any other way!
"Bet"-ting on it
Ulpan students take a placement test on the first day to help determine at which level they'll begin. I was dreading this test, as I knew that my passive knowledge of Hebrew far exceeded whatever results I could produce in a short time, and that I might end up in the wrong place because of it. There were 90 questions and I got through 50-60 of them, skipping several, and not answering all correctly. I managed to squeeze out a few basic sentences for the written portion. But it felt as if much of what I knew was locked away in a deep freezer and I knew that after a few days of thawing in the Mediterranean sun and soaking up the Hebrew around me the words would, once again, start to flow. Meanwhile, my brain was stuck, and I was unable to utter a word or to remember even basic vocabulary.
The two teachers looked at my results, looked at me, looked at each other, and told me that they thought I belonged in Class "Aleph" (level Zero) or "Aleph +" (level One). After noticing the disappointment on my face (there was no way I was going to start at Zero!), they told me I could start in Aleph +.
"What about 'Bet'?" I asked, wondering what the difference was between the Aleph + and the next level and hoping I could start there instead.
Kindly, they told me to start in the lower level and to see how it went.
I did, and it was like being in the first grade . I figured that if I were to move up a level, it had to be now.
After speaking with the director and having a private tutor for a few hours yesterday, I tried out Class "Bet" and have decided to stay. The level of Hebrew and comportment are more appropriate. There is still a large French speaking contingent but it's diluted by a Canadian, a Brit, another American, several Russian speakers and an incredibly handsome Palestinian ear, nose and throat surgeon.
The French in Class "Bet" are still French, but more subtle. The Parisian seated next to me kept asking me questions in French. By the end of the class I decided to answer her only in Hebrew, which frustrated her.
C'est dommage!
The two teachers looked at my results, looked at me, looked at each other, and told me that they thought I belonged in Class "Aleph" (level Zero) or "Aleph +" (level One). After noticing the disappointment on my face (there was no way I was going to start at Zero!), they told me I could start in Aleph +.
"What about 'Bet'?" I asked, wondering what the difference was between the Aleph + and the next level and hoping I could start there instead.
Kindly, they told me to start in the lower level and to see how it went.
I did, and it was like being in the first grade . I figured that if I were to move up a level, it had to be now.
After speaking with the director and having a private tutor for a few hours yesterday, I tried out Class "Bet" and have decided to stay. The level of Hebrew and comportment are more appropriate. There is still a large French speaking contingent but it's diluted by a Canadian, a Brit, another American, several Russian speakers and an incredibly handsome Palestinian ear, nose and throat surgeon.
The French in Class "Bet" are still French, but more subtle. The Parisian seated next to me kept asking me questions in French. By the end of the class I decided to answer her only in Hebrew, which frustrated her.
C'est dommage!
Wednesday, March 7, 2007
Les Francaises
The majority of the students in the Ulpan are new immigrants (not tourists like me), many of whom are French or come from Francophone countries. (Russian speakers are the second largest group). It was surprising and inspiring to see that most of them are over the age of 40, with children and grandchildren, and are making a courageous change in their lives. The growing anti-Semitism in France is one reason that many are here. One French citizen, who was hidden during the war and had to leave her native Belgium, told me that she wanted to move to Israel before she was "pushed out" again. Others have harbored a dream of living in Israel for most of their lives and are now able to realize it, or have come to be near their children. One young looking grandmother from Luxembourg told me she came to Israel to start her life anew after getting divorced.
The stories are many, and I hope to hear more of them.
Meanwhile, les Francaises have a certain nonchalance about their Hebrew studies, failing to show up on time, complete homework, or respect the teacher in class. Astonishingly, the teacher (more like a Commander) has even had to separate them, reminding me of the first time I was in Hebrew school.... when I was eight years old. It's not quite the classroom atmosphere that I was expecting, nor did I anticipate having to dust off my high school French in order to help my classmates understand the Hebrew lesson. I may not be speaking Hebrew very well yet, but at least I'm having a chance to practice a foreign language.
C'est la vie!
The stories are many, and I hope to hear more of them.
Meanwhile, les Francaises have a certain nonchalance about their Hebrew studies, failing to show up on time, complete homework, or respect the teacher in class. Astonishingly, the teacher (more like a Commander) has even had to separate them, reminding me of the first time I was in Hebrew school.... when I was eight years old. It's not quite the classroom atmosphere that I was expecting, nor did I anticipate having to dust off my high school French in order to help my classmates understand the Hebrew lesson. I may not be speaking Hebrew very well yet, but at least I'm having a chance to practice a foreign language.
C'est la vie!
Tuesday, March 6, 2007
Toilets and Taxis
For certain travelers, the first phrase they learn in a new language is, "A beer, please", or some variation thereof. When I travel, the first thing I want to be able to ask is, "Where is the bathroom?" I've learned that it's better to have this question down pat before actually needing to use it.
I drank several cups of tea during yesterday's welcoming session at the Ulpan, necessitating a dash to the loo before classes started. Panicking, I realized that I did NOT know the key word...luckily my neighbor, David, was able to clue me in: "Shei-rut-im"
Armed with this information, I asked my new instructor, "Eifo ha-shei-rut-im?" Realizing I had no capacity to understand any answer she might deliver verbally, she pointed me in their general direction and off I went.
Later in the day, when my jet-lagged and Mediterranean-sun exposed brain was in hibernation mode after a delicious lunch in which I overindulged in grilled chicken, couscous, grilled vegetables, marinated peppers and assorted salads, another person was telling us how to get off of campus into the city of Netanya. There are buses, she said, or taxis, or you can take a "shei-rut", a minivan that runs a regular route (like a bus) but drops you off wherever you want (like a taxi). These look like the most fun kind of transport, with loud music blaring from the inside...but which I have yet to try.
So, in that state of mental meltdown, I noted that a "shei-rut" is a shared taxi, of sorts. Some new friends and I boarded the next vehicle that showed up, which in this case was a bus, and went into town. While riding into the city I tried to recall the word for bathroom. "Shei-rut-im" ('im' is a plural form) kept coming to mind, but didn't I just learn that "shei-rut" was the word for a shared taxi? What on earth is the relationship between toilets and taxis that would allow them to share the root of this word, if not the whole word?
I was wondering if I was having a mid-life moment, completely confusing my vocabulary and forgetting what I had learned hours before. Oy!
After a quick peek in the dictionary, I learned that "shei-rut" actually means service; "shei-rut-im" services. Indeed the taxi (toilet) provide the service of ferrying people (waste) from one place to another. Perhaps this is not the explanation my instructor would give, but I was satisfied and relieved that I wasn't having a mid-life moment after all.
I could relax and have a beer, please.
I drank several cups of tea during yesterday's welcoming session at the Ulpan, necessitating a dash to the loo before classes started. Panicking, I realized that I did NOT know the key word...luckily my neighbor, David, was able to clue me in: "Shei-rut-im"
Armed with this information, I asked my new instructor, "Eifo ha-shei-rut-im?" Realizing I had no capacity to understand any answer she might deliver verbally, she pointed me in their general direction and off I went.
Later in the day, when my jet-lagged and Mediterranean-sun exposed brain was in hibernation mode after a delicious lunch in which I overindulged in grilled chicken, couscous, grilled vegetables, marinated peppers and assorted salads, another person was telling us how to get off of campus into the city of Netanya. There are buses, she said, or taxis, or you can take a "shei-rut", a minivan that runs a regular route (like a bus) but drops you off wherever you want (like a taxi). These look like the most fun kind of transport, with loud music blaring from the inside...but which I have yet to try.
So, in that state of mental meltdown, I noted that a "shei-rut" is a shared taxi, of sorts. Some new friends and I boarded the next vehicle that showed up, which in this case was a bus, and went into town. While riding into the city I tried to recall the word for bathroom. "Shei-rut-im" ('im' is a plural form) kept coming to mind, but didn't I just learn that "shei-rut" was the word for a shared taxi? What on earth is the relationship between toilets and taxis that would allow them to share the root of this word, if not the whole word?
I was wondering if I was having a mid-life moment, completely confusing my vocabulary and forgetting what I had learned hours before. Oy!
After a quick peek in the dictionary, I learned that "shei-rut" actually means service; "shei-rut-im" services. Indeed the taxi (toilet) provide the service of ferrying people (waste) from one place to another. Perhaps this is not the explanation my instructor would give, but I was satisfied and relieved that I wasn't having a mid-life moment after all.
I could relax and have a beer, please.
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