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.
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