This one is a sort of filler while I gather everything I want to tell you guys about Krishna in Cali (more thoroughly than last time).
This was a letter I wrote that was originally intended for my lovely friend Hana L, but never quite made it out of my journal. It's a bit out dated, but completely relevant.
*please excuse my language...based on context*
" Yo, F*%& Chucks.
I just spent a whole, gray, rainy, super windy day in Tel Aviv, by myself, in Chucks. I would say I was lost approximately 50% of the time. I literally walked from 10 am until 1 pm when I got to my destination an hour late and was told to come back at 5. So what did I do? I went back out walking, looking for shoes to replace my merciless Converses which have inflicted gory blisters that bled into my socks and squished my toes beyond recognition. I'm lying I haven't looked at my toes yet, but they hurt like a b%$ch.
It's true that I'm sitting at a bus stop alone next to a highway. It's cold and raining still, and my clothes are wet, BUT at least I know I'm at the right bus stop. I know because my bus pulled away just in time for me to see the number on the back from across the street.
I'm not even trying to be sarcastic, knowing for sure that the bus I need is going to be here in 40 minutes or so is the most reassuring thing that's happened all day. Look! I've relaxed enough to write you a letter.
Here's what I know: I could never live in a place where grayness is a common state of the weather. I would be one of those poor souls who either goes crazy or forgets how to smile. The best way to think is that the rain is good, it's necessary, it's wonderful - but it's hard to remember when it's raining and dark and you're late and alone...
The thing is though, this whole day has never happened to me before! It's so new that I can't even say it was a bad day. I'm just Wiped. Out.
I'm gonna eat my orange, I'll finish this later."
That was in late December sometime, while still bumming around Israel.
Now I'm in Berkeley for a bit, on my brother's couch, and I'm headed to Santa Cruz to climb some trees with Liz, a buddy from Eisner. (Jew camp for those of you who don't know) Not sure yet where I'm off to after that...hopefully some wwoofing in south Cali . (what's wwoofing?! World Wide Opportunities on Organic Farms. It's an organization that once you become a member of they give you contact information for farmers all over the country you've signed up for. It's in your hands to make arrangements with the farmers, but the the deal is that you work a certain amount of hours in exchange for food and a place to sleep. The only expense is transportation. This is how I ended up at the meditation center that past few weeks. Um, check it out because it's awesome)
peace, leeza
Friday, March 27, 2009
Friday, March 6, 2009
Cali and Krishna
Hey Everyone!
This is a blog postcard. I'm using a computer at the Fair Oaks Library in Carmichael, California. I'm staying at a meditation center for two weeks, that was all I knew about it before I got there and discovered that it's community more like my own home than I would have imagined, you know, a house with a big family, random people wandering through all the time, people renting rooms, someone always in the kitchen...The surprise? This is a community that practices Bakti Yoga, their lord is Krishna and the main mode of communicating with him is chanting. Wow, there's so much more, but those are the fundamentals, the super basics. It's been fascinating.
So my new buddy Hillary, whose from Australia, set out on borrowed bikes to find the library and use the internet, pretty simple right? It was almost as bad as Israel! Everyone pointed us in different directions, the streets are looooooooong and lined with dentists offices, law firms, fabric stores, 'Carmichael Neck and Back', and halfway down Sunrise Ave (wich intersects with Sunset Blvd) the chain on Hillary's bike broke. It didn't fall off, it broke. So we made it 40 minutes later, and now we're typing fast, sharing a computer, because you can't get a library card without a parent if you're under 18...? We have to get back to the center soon for dinner and chanting! More when I can, Love From the WEST COAST!
leeza
This is a blog postcard. I'm using a computer at the Fair Oaks Library in Carmichael, California. I'm staying at a meditation center for two weeks, that was all I knew about it before I got there and discovered that it's community more like my own home than I would have imagined, you know, a house with a big family, random people wandering through all the time, people renting rooms, someone always in the kitchen...The surprise? This is a community that practices Bakti Yoga, their lord is Krishna and the main mode of communicating with him is chanting. Wow, there's so much more, but those are the fundamentals, the super basics. It's been fascinating.
So my new buddy Hillary, whose from Australia, set out on borrowed bikes to find the library and use the internet, pretty simple right? It was almost as bad as Israel! Everyone pointed us in different directions, the streets are looooooooong and lined with dentists offices, law firms, fabric stores, 'Carmichael Neck and Back', and halfway down Sunrise Ave (wich intersects with Sunset Blvd) the chain on Hillary's bike broke. It didn't fall off, it broke. So we made it 40 minutes later, and now we're typing fast, sharing a computer, because you can't get a library card without a parent if you're under 18...? We have to get back to the center soon for dinner and chanting! More when I can, Love From the WEST COAST!
leeza
Friday, February 6, 2009
Back to English
Dear Everyone,
For those of you who don't know I'm actually back in the U.S. My aunt Judith had been fighting cancer for a long time and passed away in early January after catching pneumonia, so I flew home for the funeral and to be with my family.
I'm not going back to Israel this year, but I am headed for warmer places than snow and slush covered, frost-bitten, below freezing, slippery, bundled up, runny nose, Boston. (I love this city! It's the snow that puts me off a little, you know?) My main destinations are California where my big bro Oren and his lovely lady Sarah are living, and I intend to hit up Austin, Texas to galivant with my kibbutz buddy and roommate Sydney.
If I've learned anything from this transition back to English speaking bus drivers (NEVER take something so precious for granted) and green currency, it's that things change and you have to roll with it. I don't have concrete goals for the coming months in a conventional sense, like in Israel the main objective was to learn hebrew, now I'm just looking to put myself out there and see what happens.
There are many more stories from the epic months spent on kibbutz, and I'm sure I'll convey them all eventually. It's time for some state skipping.
Wish me confidence!
Love Leeza
p.s. my last post was about Colin - when I left he was recovering beautifully. He regained full mobility, but was having trouble speaking. His daughter flew in to live and take care of him for some months, so he's in good hands. Woohoo!
For those of you who don't know I'm actually back in the U.S. My aunt Judith had been fighting cancer for a long time and passed away in early January after catching pneumonia, so I flew home for the funeral and to be with my family.
I'm not going back to Israel this year, but I am headed for warmer places than snow and slush covered, frost-bitten, below freezing, slippery, bundled up, runny nose, Boston. (I love this city! It's the snow that puts me off a little, you know?) My main destinations are California where my big bro Oren and his lovely lady Sarah are living, and I intend to hit up Austin, Texas to galivant with my kibbutz buddy and roommate Sydney.
If I've learned anything from this transition back to English speaking bus drivers (NEVER take something so precious for granted) and green currency, it's that things change and you have to roll with it. I don't have concrete goals for the coming months in a conventional sense, like in Israel the main objective was to learn hebrew, now I'm just looking to put myself out there and see what happens.
There are many more stories from the epic months spent on kibbutz, and I'm sure I'll convey them all eventually. It's time for some state skipping.
Wish me confidence!
Love Leeza
p.s. my last post was about Colin - when I left he was recovering beautifully. He regained full mobility, but was having trouble speaking. His daughter flew in to live and take care of him for some months, so he's in good hands. Woohoo!
Thursday, December 25, 2008
I am so sorry I've neglected you! Okay so let me tell you about the bowl as promised. I made it here on kibbutz in Colin's ceramics studio. The studio was one of the first things we ulpanists discovered when we arrived almost four months ago, and it exists in exactly the way all of you want to imagine it does. There are a few cushy, worn-in chairs right outside the doorway and rickety tables to match. Bowls and pots and funky little figures made by the littler students line the walls and there's a big table covered with works in progress that takes up almost all of the central space. There's clay dust everywhere. In one back corner are the all important wheels and in the other are the even more important fridge, koomkoom (electric kettle) and coffee.
Colin is the fascinating creature that reigns over this quaint little kingdom, but he makes very little effort to govern it; everyone is welcome, the door is always unlocked and if you can't find him in the studio you can go knock on his door at home, which is about three and half minutes away.
But, after finishing his kibbutz duties as the official lawn mower of this establishment, he's very reliably in the studio every afternoon either giving a lesson or shooting the shit with John, Itamar and Andrew. Colin is almost 66.6 year old, and if you ask he'll make sure to add the .6 so he can weeze and cackle about his age being the devils number. He trimmed his wispy white hairs and substantial beard for the first time since I met him last week for a bar mitzvah, and even put on a cleaner button down and trousers. He wore the same faded, blue shorts, rolled up just once at the cuff, until it was officially winter here and he switched to a longer version of the latter.
There are two things that catch and hold your attention from the first: his distinct and immediately obvious Manchester accent and his burned, toasted, sunned, brown, leathery, elastin deficient skin. His gestures are vigorous and, when he hears you, his reactions are quick, but he moves from one place to another with care and laughter turns, more often than not, into fits of coughing. I’ve discovered a new awareness of the world, many peoples worlds, defined by ‘pre- post- or mid- cigarette’.
** I started this piece about a week ago, but hesitated to post it because Colin had a stroke before I got the chance. It was a blow. He’s currently in the hospital in Netanya, he is recovering, regaining the use of his right side and speech. We’re hoping he’ll be back home soon. **
More to come, sooner rather than later.
CHAPPY CHANNUKAH!
MERRY CHRISTMAS
SHOUT OUT TO MY TWINSIES ON THEIR B-DAY!
Love your curly haired jew friend
Colin is the fascinating creature that reigns over this quaint little kingdom, but he makes very little effort to govern it; everyone is welcome, the door is always unlocked and if you can't find him in the studio you can go knock on his door at home, which is about three and half minutes away.
But, after finishing his kibbutz duties as the official lawn mower of this establishment, he's very reliably in the studio every afternoon either giving a lesson or shooting the shit with John, Itamar and Andrew. Colin is almost 66.6 year old, and if you ask he'll make sure to add the .6 so he can weeze and cackle about his age being the devils number. He trimmed his wispy white hairs and substantial beard for the first time since I met him last week for a bar mitzvah, and even put on a cleaner button down and trousers. He wore the same faded, blue shorts, rolled up just once at the cuff, until it was officially winter here and he switched to a longer version of the latter.
There are two things that catch and hold your attention from the first: his distinct and immediately obvious Manchester accent and his burned, toasted, sunned, brown, leathery, elastin deficient skin. His gestures are vigorous and, when he hears you, his reactions are quick, but he moves from one place to another with care and laughter turns, more often than not, into fits of coughing. I’ve discovered a new awareness of the world, many peoples worlds, defined by ‘pre- post- or mid- cigarette’.
** I started this piece about a week ago, but hesitated to post it because Colin had a stroke before I got the chance. It was a blow. He’s currently in the hospital in Netanya, he is recovering, regaining the use of his right side and speech. We’re hoping he’ll be back home soon. **
More to come, sooner rather than later.
CHAPPY CHANNUKAH!
MERRY CHRISTMAS
SHOUT OUT TO MY TWINSIES ON THEIR B-DAY!
Love your curly haired jew friend
Monday, October 27, 2008
Mishmar Hasharon - An Outline Of Sorts
Outlining Mishmar Hasharon
Today I feel rich. I can tell by the things that have collected on my bed throughout the day, my loot.
On the bed, the flowers and notebooks:
My program is called an 'ulpan' - hebrew immersion. So the schedule we 'ulpanists' follow is alternating days of class, and working various jobs within the kibbutz community. I spent the first two weeks working in the fish shop, then was switched to the garden, I had one day cleaning the ulpan building…and today was back in the fish shop. It’s a disgustingly fascinating business, really. Mishmar Hasharon has its own fish ponds, for which they are well known. Each day baskets of fish are lugged over to the shop and dumped in tanks right there behind the counter where the customers can see them. There are numbered crates stacked up, and when an order is taken it’s assigned a number by whoever’s working the counter, which is whoever happens to be standing closest. They use orange nets to catch the flipping fishies and fling ‘em into their respective crates to be de-scaled and de-finned. The crates pile up, and whenever one of the butchers is ready they yell “Ken! Mah Od! Number!’ (Yes! What else! Number!) The person at the counter yells a number back from one of his slips of paper and then the requested cut. (Imagine during Rosh Hashanah at least fifteen Israeli and Arab guys yelling back and forth over a small space, fish flicking water everywhere and twenty impatient Israeli geezers waiting in line, trying to tell them what to do, that was an adventure)
So Sydney and I watched as Achmad, Machmid, Nevo and Boaz slit open fish after fish, pulling the guts out, scrubbing the insides, sometimes taking out the bones sometimes not, slicing them up and bagging the rolly polly heads; Achmad looking over at us every twenty seconds or so to make sure we were still engrossed (key word ‘grossed’), shoot us a winning smile and say ‘mah nishmah Seeney? Mah nishmah Aliza?’ Where were we in this process? Well, gefilte fish is, believe it or not, extremely popular. So, when Nir would shout, ‘Etzem, gav, tachoon!’ we learned it meant in shorthand: ‘take out the bones, save the spine, and grind!’. A crate would slide across the tiles in our direction and we’d run the fish chunks through a grinding machine.
After a few weeks of working in the garden, weeding, pruning, collecting trash, riding on the back of the tractor (!), and Sukkot holidays I wasn’t exactly looking forward to being back in the shop, even though the guys are fun to hang out with and there’s plenty of bread and hummus for us to munch. I choose sun and sweat over smelly fish and guts any day.
But today my work started at 9 a.m. and ended before 10. There were five people working and we had maybe twenty customers total by the time I left at 3:30. I helped Nir sort the sleeping fish, by size, first thing in the morning, then watched as Machmid dumped some magical chemical in the tank that put them right back to sleep, as they had woken up and were not happy about being sorted. No joke, it was instantaneous. Have you ever seen a sleeping fish? Because before today it was not something I ever thought about fish doing, but they do!
I ground up one fish and then set up camp with my Hebrew notebooks and conjugated verbs!
But no one really had anything to do, so I got to practice speaking with Achmad, his brother Machmid, and ask their dad Farid about his family. Nir showed me pictures of his trip to South America after the army. Machmid and I had a game of backgammon (sheshpesh here). But the best part was sitting with Achmad, notebook in hand, Machmid over my shoulder, going over the English alphabet and then flipping the page so he could teach me some Arabic. Common language? Hebrew baby!
In true Middle Eastern fashion, Achmad disappeared at some point and came back with a flower, five minutes later Nir stopped by the table, picked up the same flower and re-presented it as his own gift, and then they argued dramatically about who had given it.
It was just the five of us all day, with some kibbutznik visitors, so we played up the unusual time and space we had.
I skipped outta there an hour early and picked some more flowers as I headed over to Colin’s studio.
Next
On the bed, the bowl: (not the kind you smoke out of, for those of you whose heads are in the clouds)
Today I feel rich. I can tell by the things that have collected on my bed throughout the day, my loot.
On the bed, the flowers and notebooks:
My program is called an 'ulpan' - hebrew immersion. So the schedule we 'ulpanists' follow is alternating days of class, and working various jobs within the kibbutz community. I spent the first two weeks working in the fish shop, then was switched to the garden, I had one day cleaning the ulpan building…and today was back in the fish shop. It’s a disgustingly fascinating business, really. Mishmar Hasharon has its own fish ponds, for which they are well known. Each day baskets of fish are lugged over to the shop and dumped in tanks right there behind the counter where the customers can see them. There are numbered crates stacked up, and when an order is taken it’s assigned a number by whoever’s working the counter, which is whoever happens to be standing closest. They use orange nets to catch the flipping fishies and fling ‘em into their respective crates to be de-scaled and de-finned. The crates pile up, and whenever one of the butchers is ready they yell “Ken! Mah Od! Number!’ (Yes! What else! Number!) The person at the counter yells a number back from one of his slips of paper and then the requested cut. (Imagine during Rosh Hashanah at least fifteen Israeli and Arab guys yelling back and forth over a small space, fish flicking water everywhere and twenty impatient Israeli geezers waiting in line, trying to tell them what to do, that was an adventure)
So Sydney and I watched as Achmad, Machmid, Nevo and Boaz slit open fish after fish, pulling the guts out, scrubbing the insides, sometimes taking out the bones sometimes not, slicing them up and bagging the rolly polly heads; Achmad looking over at us every twenty seconds or so to make sure we were still engrossed (key word ‘grossed’), shoot us a winning smile and say ‘mah nishmah Seeney? Mah nishmah Aliza?’ Where were we in this process? Well, gefilte fish is, believe it or not, extremely popular. So, when Nir would shout, ‘Etzem, gav, tachoon!’ we learned it meant in shorthand: ‘take out the bones, save the spine, and grind!’. A crate would slide across the tiles in our direction and we’d run the fish chunks through a grinding machine.
After a few weeks of working in the garden, weeding, pruning, collecting trash, riding on the back of the tractor (!), and Sukkot holidays I wasn’t exactly looking forward to being back in the shop, even though the guys are fun to hang out with and there’s plenty of bread and hummus for us to munch. I choose sun and sweat over smelly fish and guts any day.
But today my work started at 9 a.m. and ended before 10. There were five people working and we had maybe twenty customers total by the time I left at 3:30. I helped Nir sort the sleeping fish, by size, first thing in the morning, then watched as Machmid dumped some magical chemical in the tank that put them right back to sleep, as they had woken up and were not happy about being sorted. No joke, it was instantaneous. Have you ever seen a sleeping fish? Because before today it was not something I ever thought about fish doing, but they do!
I ground up one fish and then set up camp with my Hebrew notebooks and conjugated verbs!
But no one really had anything to do, so I got to practice speaking with Achmad, his brother Machmid, and ask their dad Farid about his family. Nir showed me pictures of his trip to South America after the army. Machmid and I had a game of backgammon (sheshpesh here). But the best part was sitting with Achmad, notebook in hand, Machmid over my shoulder, going over the English alphabet and then flipping the page so he could teach me some Arabic. Common language? Hebrew baby!
In true Middle Eastern fashion, Achmad disappeared at some point and came back with a flower, five minutes later Nir stopped by the table, picked up the same flower and re-presented it as his own gift, and then they argued dramatically about who had given it.
It was just the five of us all day, with some kibbutznik visitors, so we played up the unusual time and space we had.
I skipped outta there an hour early and picked some more flowers as I headed over to Colin’s studio.
Next
On the bed, the bowl: (not the kind you smoke out of, for those of you whose heads are in the clouds)
Monday, October 13, 2008
Yom Kippur
October 9, 2008
Yes, I'm typing on Yom Kippur. What can I say? The competition for computer time diminished so suddenly that I couldn't help myself. It is an important holiday though. Even in the Mishmar Hasharon Bubble the atmoshpere has felt different since the fast started after dinner at 4:00 p.m. today. After our exceptionally early dinner (lunch was at 12:30...ugh), small groups of people made their way through the kibbutz to the back gate that separates us from the moshav directly behind us, Kfar Chaim. (a moshav is a sort of closed community, I'm not sure exactly what defines it, yet)
The synagogue that most kibbutznikim (members of the kibbutz) attend is more conservative than what I'm used to: we women squished into our space separate from the men, behind the mechitzah (the curtain or barrier that marks the separation), everyone in long pants or skirts and covered shoulders. Throughout the service various older women would reach over my, and my friend Miriam's, shoulders to flip the pages of our prayer book and direct our attention to the correct spot. It was an Ashkenazi service and therefore more familiar to me than some of my Sephardi friends, but almost none of the tunes and rhythms were familiar, especially when the congregation would start a phrase in sync with the rabbi, strong and spirited, and then suddenly drop into a chorus of incomprehensible mumbling, everyone finishing the prayer at their own speed. Couldn't quite catch on to that part.
I contented myself instead by looking around at all the interesting faces and outfits, as the service progressed I realized that more and more people had gathered outide the small temple (there were about twenty women actually inside the building) and were sitting facing the open windows and doors, but clearly socializing. I was also considering how, based on this service, I could explain to one of my fellow ulpanists why, as a girl who grew up with reform jewish traditions, it feels belittling and at times demeaning to experience a service from behind a mechitzah. It definitely has something to do with the fact that at five and a half feet tall, I could see only the rabbi's head, the top of the ark doors, and a fuzzy version of the rabbi's face through the curtain as he delivered his sermon. Miriam's about Michelle's height (debatably five or five one:), and probably couldn't see anything.
Miriam and I headed back to our rooms and changed into our usual comfy-kibbutz-no-one-to-impress clothing, grabbed some shekels, and moseyed down to the gas station just in case it was open and we could pick up some chocolate to complete our planned feast: pumpkin seeds, sunflower seeds and...chocolate. But of course it wasn't open! Nothing is open on Yom Kippur. There are no cars on the roads, except the occasional patrolling police car, but other than that this is a bicycle holiday. Groups of local high shcool kids and some families were cruising around on their bikes ten minutes after the service, and tomorrow bikers will be gathering all over the country. We wandered down the center of the highway for a bit, just because we could, and then came back to ulpan to find all of the fasters wrapped up in an uncharacteristically innocent game of Monopoly. It's amazing to walk down an empty road and imagine that most of this entire country is quieter today.
The vibes around here started to shift even before the fast began. Hebrew class starts at 7:30 every other day, and usually our teacher, Orna, will mercifully decide to talk to us during that first hour before breakfast, instead of jumping right in with worksheets and questions. This past Monday she spent that time conveying the circumstances that led to the Yom Kippur War in 1973, a month after she had officially begun her army service at 18 years old. As a new soldier, she was given a list of names of soldiers who had been killed, and her job was to inform people as they called into her base whether or not their son/daughter/cousin/brother/sister etc. was alive. She told us this as a way to illustrate why this war was so traumatizing overall and has had such a significant and long lasting effect on Israel's mentality and attitude. In Israel, even with a detatched or non religious approach, it's impossible to avoid the stories and memories that emerge on days like today.
Gmar Chatimah Tovah
Az
Yes, I'm typing on Yom Kippur. What can I say? The competition for computer time diminished so suddenly that I couldn't help myself. It is an important holiday though. Even in the Mishmar Hasharon Bubble the atmoshpere has felt different since the fast started after dinner at 4:00 p.m. today. After our exceptionally early dinner (lunch was at 12:30...ugh), small groups of people made their way through the kibbutz to the back gate that separates us from the moshav directly behind us, Kfar Chaim. (a moshav is a sort of closed community, I'm not sure exactly what defines it, yet)
The synagogue that most kibbutznikim (members of the kibbutz) attend is more conservative than what I'm used to: we women squished into our space separate from the men, behind the mechitzah (the curtain or barrier that marks the separation), everyone in long pants or skirts and covered shoulders. Throughout the service various older women would reach over my, and my friend Miriam's, shoulders to flip the pages of our prayer book and direct our attention to the correct spot. It was an Ashkenazi service and therefore more familiar to me than some of my Sephardi friends, but almost none of the tunes and rhythms were familiar, especially when the congregation would start a phrase in sync with the rabbi, strong and spirited, and then suddenly drop into a chorus of incomprehensible mumbling, everyone finishing the prayer at their own speed. Couldn't quite catch on to that part.
I contented myself instead by looking around at all the interesting faces and outfits, as the service progressed I realized that more and more people had gathered outide the small temple (there were about twenty women actually inside the building) and were sitting facing the open windows and doors, but clearly socializing. I was also considering how, based on this service, I could explain to one of my fellow ulpanists why, as a girl who grew up with reform jewish traditions, it feels belittling and at times demeaning to experience a service from behind a mechitzah. It definitely has something to do with the fact that at five and a half feet tall, I could see only the rabbi's head, the top of the ark doors, and a fuzzy version of the rabbi's face through the curtain as he delivered his sermon. Miriam's about Michelle's height (debatably five or five one:), and probably couldn't see anything.
Miriam and I headed back to our rooms and changed into our usual comfy-kibbutz-no-one-to-impress clothing, grabbed some shekels, and moseyed down to the gas station just in case it was open and we could pick up some chocolate to complete our planned feast: pumpkin seeds, sunflower seeds and...chocolate. But of course it wasn't open! Nothing is open on Yom Kippur. There are no cars on the roads, except the occasional patrolling police car, but other than that this is a bicycle holiday. Groups of local high shcool kids and some families were cruising around on their bikes ten minutes after the service, and tomorrow bikers will be gathering all over the country. We wandered down the center of the highway for a bit, just because we could, and then came back to ulpan to find all of the fasters wrapped up in an uncharacteristically innocent game of Monopoly. It's amazing to walk down an empty road and imagine that most of this entire country is quieter today.
The vibes around here started to shift even before the fast began. Hebrew class starts at 7:30 every other day, and usually our teacher, Orna, will mercifully decide to talk to us during that first hour before breakfast, instead of jumping right in with worksheets and questions. This past Monday she spent that time conveying the circumstances that led to the Yom Kippur War in 1973, a month after she had officially begun her army service at 18 years old. As a new soldier, she was given a list of names of soldiers who had been killed, and her job was to inform people as they called into her base whether or not their son/daughter/cousin/brother/sister etc. was alive. She told us this as a way to illustrate why this war was so traumatizing overall and has had such a significant and long lasting effect on Israel's mentality and attitude. In Israel, even with a detatched or non religious approach, it's impossible to avoid the stories and memories that emerge on days like today.
Gmar Chatimah Tovah
Az
Saturday, October 4, 2008
Update #2
Seprtember 16
Yom Shleeshy
It does take some effort to transport myself back in time two weeks. I am currently sitting in the moadon (lounge area) of our building on kibbutz. Ugly Betty is blaring and people are walking in and out to get food from the fridge, but it's the only room we get internet.Backflash: Guy picked me up at the airport, we caught a train...and the rest is a blur! We stayed with Guy's childhood best friend Alon, and his very hospitable parents Ilana and Ze'ev. Alon just started his basic training in the army, Ze'ev is a goofy, wonderful, engineer, and Ilana is a very well known figure in the Israeli world of education, she's currently the principal of a school in Hadera, a town right nearby my very own kibbutz.
I spent that week taking naps, making nice and trying to follow all of the conversations going on around me. Guy was a great sport, he dragged me out of the house and into the city to wander around the artist's shuk (market), the main shuk, up Rothschild Street and Ben Yehuda Street as well. Keeping a running dialogue about the history or different areas and the best palces to get food - my own personal tour guide. He also kept watch while I napped on the bus. Inbound and outbound.I also learned a lot about Guy's old neighborhood. From Ilana and Ze'ev's backyard you can see the school that Guy used to attend, about 300 yards away. The little neighborhood of Gan Rashal is like a rural bubble the way it involves itself with itself, the way it gossips and maintains an edgy quaint feel. We spent one whole day helping Estie and Dror (Guy's parentals) unpack box after box into their new apartment closer to Tel Aviv's center, but the next night we were right back in the Gan Rashal spirit. Moshik and Ana got married! Of course the entire neighborhood was invited, to the same place his brother got married last summer, probably the same DJ? Same caterer? Why fix something that's not broken right?
The ceremony was done by the same ridiclous little rabbi. 5"5', big white beard, sparkly eyes, wise words, happy blessings, chip chop, he had to get home for shabbat. (Apparently he said that the ritual of a bride-to-be visting the Western Wall before the wedding is so that she can get used to talking to a wall) I wandered around, smiling politely to people who of course alreadt knew who I was, though I had never met them. Estie kept me by her side until I knew some faces, and then it was a schmooz-a-palooza. But here's the best part: Israeli's dancing? It's all eighties music that none of have heard, but they know all the words to, sort of. All the youngins and all the geezers dance together, and it's all in the shoulders. I must say though, that Ze'ev and Dror were the best twirlers and can-can partners. Outside the 'Old Neighborhood' residents naturally convened at one table and exchanged stories about where they were living now, or who's children were dating, who had died, who couldn't show up, etc. It was like watching a play, the way everyone simply fell into their roles. I left Gan Rashal feeling like I could return anytime, I have an invisible ID card, that's been stored in the collective rolodex of the neighbors. Hey, in this country if you know one person, you have a couch to sleep on in every city.
Yom Shleeshy
It does take some effort to transport myself back in time two weeks. I am currently sitting in the moadon (lounge area) of our building on kibbutz. Ugly Betty is blaring and people are walking in and out to get food from the fridge, but it's the only room we get internet.Backflash: Guy picked me up at the airport, we caught a train...and the rest is a blur! We stayed with Guy's childhood best friend Alon, and his very hospitable parents Ilana and Ze'ev. Alon just started his basic training in the army, Ze'ev is a goofy, wonderful, engineer, and Ilana is a very well known figure in the Israeli world of education, she's currently the principal of a school in Hadera, a town right nearby my very own kibbutz.
I spent that week taking naps, making nice and trying to follow all of the conversations going on around me. Guy was a great sport, he dragged me out of the house and into the city to wander around the artist's shuk (market), the main shuk, up Rothschild Street and Ben Yehuda Street as well. Keeping a running dialogue about the history or different areas and the best palces to get food - my own personal tour guide. He also kept watch while I napped on the bus. Inbound and outbound.I also learned a lot about Guy's old neighborhood. From Ilana and Ze'ev's backyard you can see the school that Guy used to attend, about 300 yards away. The little neighborhood of Gan Rashal is like a rural bubble the way it involves itself with itself, the way it gossips and maintains an edgy quaint feel. We spent one whole day helping Estie and Dror (Guy's parentals) unpack box after box into their new apartment closer to Tel Aviv's center, but the next night we were right back in the Gan Rashal spirit. Moshik and Ana got married! Of course the entire neighborhood was invited, to the same place his brother got married last summer, probably the same DJ? Same caterer? Why fix something that's not broken right?
The ceremony was done by the same ridiclous little rabbi. 5"5', big white beard, sparkly eyes, wise words, happy blessings, chip chop, he had to get home for shabbat. (Apparently he said that the ritual of a bride-to-be visting the Western Wall before the wedding is so that she can get used to talking to a wall) I wandered around, smiling politely to people who of course alreadt knew who I was, though I had never met them. Estie kept me by her side until I knew some faces, and then it was a schmooz-a-palooza. But here's the best part: Israeli's dancing? It's all eighties music that none of have heard, but they know all the words to, sort of. All the youngins and all the geezers dance together, and it's all in the shoulders. I must say though, that Ze'ev and Dror were the best twirlers and can-can partners. Outside the 'Old Neighborhood' residents naturally convened at one table and exchanged stories about where they were living now, or who's children were dating, who had died, who couldn't show up, etc. It was like watching a play, the way everyone simply fell into their roles. I left Gan Rashal feeling like I could return anytime, I have an invisible ID card, that's been stored in the collective rolodex of the neighbors. Hey, in this country if you know one person, you have a couch to sleep on in every city.
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