One reason I didn't want to get divorced is that I didn't want to divorce the Israeli side of me. I feel more Jewish now than anything else. I feel like I actually am "Ben-Ami" (son of my people.) Not exactly the most appropriate name for a shiksa, but I own it. I decided, thanks in part to the kind people around me who unquestioningly assumed that Israel is a part of me, to keep it a part of me. I am going to embrace it. That's why I put HaDag Nachash on the stereo in my car. That's why I brought fancy olives to a barbeque last night. The olives smell like home to me and the music is part of me. It's a little lonely to be the only one singing along, but I am embracing that as well.
I received a sweet email this week from my soon-to-be-ex-mother-in-law, Orna, and I asked a friend her advice on how I should refer to her. Every time I refer to her as an ex anything, I refer to her son by extension, and thanks to the incredibleness of Orna and Oded, my relationship with them still exists, although my relationship with their son is pretty much dead.
"Maybe call them your Israeli parents," she suggested. And so it is. If you want to read a little bit about my Israeli mom, please visit her website. You can even see pictures of her at work in her studio, a place where I always loved to drop by for coffee when I was in the neighborhood. How many daughters-in-law can say that? Or rather, now I should say, how many American girls can say that about their Israeli mothers?
I feel like it's a pipe dream to try and hang on to my Israeli mother and father. I know what time and distance can do to any relationship, let alone one with the emotional burdens of a divorce, but I am going to take what I can get for as long as I can get. These are two people who taught me about love and warmth and support and family in a way I had never known before. I am better for knowing them and having spent years learning from them and loving them.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
A Poem by Yehuda Amichai
Love Of Jerusalem
There is a street where they sell only red meat
And there is a street where they sell only clothes and perfumes. And there
is a day when I see only cripples and the blind
And those covered with leprosy, and spastics and those with twisted lips.
Here they build a house and there they destroy
Here they dig into the earth
And there they dig into the sky,
Here they sit and there they walk
Here they hate and there they love.
But he who loves Jerusalem
By the tourist book or the prayer book
is like one who loves a women
By a manual of sex positions.
Translated by Benjamin and Barbara Harshav
There is a street where they sell only red meat
And there is a street where they sell only clothes and perfumes. And there
is a day when I see only cripples and the blind
And those covered with leprosy, and spastics and those with twisted lips.
Here they build a house and there they destroy
Here they dig into the earth
And there they dig into the sky,
Here they sit and there they walk
Here they hate and there they love.
But he who loves Jerusalem
By the tourist book or the prayer book
is like one who loves a women
By a manual of sex positions.
Translated by Benjamin and Barbara Harshav
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Liquid Nitrogen
When I was a kid I remember attending "Science Can Be Fun" days where professors would "perform" physics experiments that looked like magic tricks. One that stuck with me was the liquid nitrogen trick. This is the one where the magician/scientist takes something pliable like a balloon or a rubber ball and dumps it in the liquid nitrogen and, after a few moments, scoops it out and throws it on the ground. Inevitably, the rubber does what rubber never does- shatters.
This is how I felt when I came to Utah almost three months ago. I wasn't heart broken. On the contrary, I couldn't feel my heart. My entire chest cavity felt frozen, but not frozen like ice, frozen like a rubber balloon in liquid nitrogen and about to do what bodies are never supposed to do- shatter.
I am happy to report that I no longer feel like this. I haven't even thought about this image for a little while. I just happened to come across a description of the experiment in the Salt Lake Tribune today. For anyone that hasn't seen this, now is your chance.
Science-minded Natural History Museum takes action so kids have a lifelong reaction
--- Free Family Monday program
The Utah Museum of Natural History is on the University of Utah Campus at 1390 E. Presidents Circle. Free Family Mondays takes place the first Monday of each month, and runs from 9:30 a.m. to 8 p.m. The museum and the U.'s Physics Department teamed up for the program, which is funded with money from Salt Lake County's Zoo, Arts and Parks program.
This is how I felt when I came to Utah almost three months ago. I wasn't heart broken. On the contrary, I couldn't feel my heart. My entire chest cavity felt frozen, but not frozen like ice, frozen like a rubber balloon in liquid nitrogen and about to do what bodies are never supposed to do- shatter.
I am happy to report that I no longer feel like this. I haven't even thought about this image for a little while. I just happened to come across a description of the experiment in the Salt Lake Tribune today. For anyone that hasn't seen this, now is your chance.
Science-minded Natural History Museum takes action so kids have a lifelong reaction
--- Free Family Monday program
The Utah Museum of Natural History is on the University of Utah Campus at 1390 E. Presidents Circle. Free Family Mondays takes place the first Monday of each month, and runs from 9:30 a.m. to 8 p.m. The museum and the U.'s Physics Department teamed up for the program, which is funded with money from Salt Lake County's Zoo, Arts and Parks program.
Friday, May 25, 2007
A very merry un-wedding
I came home to my mom's house today to find an airmail package on the bed. Too small to be my things from Israel, I reached for it curiously and tore it open without looking at the sender's address. Inside was a little box and inside the box was a note written on the lid: Your heart is your own, and it is MUSCULAR. There was a ring that consisted of a burnt orange oval with an abstract purple design set into silver. Just Leah's style. There was also a note in the envelope:
Hello Darling,
Here is an un-wedding gift. Un-weddings are not as nice as un-birthdays, but they still deserve acknowledgement!
I slipped the ring on and wore it out to show off to my sisters. My little sister had just picked up my older sister from the airport. We are all off to a condo in Park City to celebrate the un-wedding. Later, while researching which pilates class to take tomorrow, my little sister gasped; "Your ring! It's a heart!"
Huh? I asked. I looked down and the abstract purple lines suddenly made sense. They were a heart. A muscular, anatomically correct heart, masquerading as jewelry, and reminding me that my heart is strong enough to get through this.
And reminding me of Leah, who was one of the girls in the dark bar who helped me toast to not having children, and one of the people at the girls' night in. The one who helped me make the cake. The one who sent me home from Passover this year with an entire suitcase of clothes, because none of my own clothes fit me now. The friend who drank champagne straight from the bottle with us in our empty apartment in Boston and then came with me to the airport to hug me goodbye. The friend who, when I was overwhelmed during graduate school, would remind me that I needed to calm down, take a deep breath, eat something and take a nap in the student lounge before doing anything else- no, really. The friend who's wedding took a set producer, an expert in humanitarian disasters, the daughter of a florist, and me to pull off without a hitch. The kind of friend who will fly around the world to be with you and listen to you cry for hours and then pick you up off your pitiful ass and take you shopping for the best retro clothes you have ever seen, outside of her own closet, because dammit, that's what you NEED. The kind of friend that you stay up with eating Chinese food until 3:00 in the morning, after you have known each other a week, because there is just SO much to talk about, and you can't remember when you laughed this hard.
Best Days
Have you ever considered your 10 best days? Assigning a small number to a "top" list always makes it harder to decide which items really make the cut, but what about your top 100, so there is plenty of room on the list for those days that don't really stand out, but you know they were there and involved friends and sunshine and good food, or a great movie, or the snow day that you didn't expect that actually came when you hadn't finished your report or studied for that exam.
One of my top days was the day that Baby Renee was born. I was a doula (birth assistant) for two friends of mine. I don't think that there is a higher honor that someone could give me than to allow me to be present during one of the most intimate and life changing experiences there is. I remember getting the call in the middle of the night, grabbing my bag, rushing to a cab, flying to the hospital, thanking god the cabbie got lost to give me time to calm down before I actually arrived.
The birthing room had an entire wall of windows looking out over lush greenery and the Charles river. Night turned to dawn and Renee was born in the early morning hours. I felt inducted into a club. I was one of those people who had seen a miraculous event. I had watched the world expand by one.
Another top ten day was my wedding day, which was six years ago tomorrow. My sister flew in to Sweden from India, tan and wrapped in blue silk. Kim and Anne flew in from the States, along with part of my family. Yuval's immediate family came in from Israel. We all stayed together in a little hotel with gorgeous wood panelling and Scandinavian breakfasts. I had dreaded spending that much time in that close of a proximity to my divorced parents spending that much time that close to each other. But they passed that test with flying colors. We met a woman over breakfast from South America who had been nominated for the Nobel peace prize and was on her way to meet the committee. World peace, family peace, personal peace: we don't often get much of any of these. It was amazing how they all aligned for one day.
Another top day was my first day in Jerusalem in 2000, but we'll skip that for now.
One of my top tens was in high school. Andrew and I drove up to meet our friends in Millcreek canyon in the fall. The leaves were so orange and red that the scenes seem golden in my memory. We dipped bread sticks in creamy tomato soup. That's all I remember from that day. That, and falling asleep thinking, this was a top tenner.
Another top tenner was just before I left Boston. I had planned a Girls' Night In with 5 or 6 girlfriends. I had stocked up on Trader Joe's food and baked a dark chocolate, ginger, wasabi, whipped cream cake big enough to feed an army. But then the snow started falling, and falling, and falling. "I don't want you all to get stuck here over night," I called each woman and told them I was cancelling. Their response? "We want to get stuck!" And so, they came, with overnight bags and sleeping bags and the six or so of us stayed up discussing sex and politics and life, and checking the weather report, laughing until the wee hours. At one point we ran outside laughing and freezing, watching the snow fly down into the empty streets. Early in the morning, we all found spots in my tiny one bedroom apartment and settled down to sleep. A group of friends like these- irreplaceable.
There are more good days, obviously, as I am nowhere near ten, let alone 100, but it is also 4:30 am, and I am hoping to get a little more sleep. But already I see a pattern. My top days are almost always those days when I am surrounded by people I love and when I feel loved and when there is something shared between us- whether it is small and simple: an autumn day, a city or a snowstorm, or more complex and rare: a birth, or a marriage. And of course, the gratitude, that reminds me in the moment that not everyone has days like these, friends like these, family like this, and cements the images in my mind.
One of my top days was the day that Baby Renee was born. I was a doula (birth assistant) for two friends of mine. I don't think that there is a higher honor that someone could give me than to allow me to be present during one of the most intimate and life changing experiences there is. I remember getting the call in the middle of the night, grabbing my bag, rushing to a cab, flying to the hospital, thanking god the cabbie got lost to give me time to calm down before I actually arrived.
The birthing room had an entire wall of windows looking out over lush greenery and the Charles river. Night turned to dawn and Renee was born in the early morning hours. I felt inducted into a club. I was one of those people who had seen a miraculous event. I had watched the world expand by one.
Another top ten day was my wedding day, which was six years ago tomorrow. My sister flew in to Sweden from India, tan and wrapped in blue silk. Kim and Anne flew in from the States, along with part of my family. Yuval's immediate family came in from Israel. We all stayed together in a little hotel with gorgeous wood panelling and Scandinavian breakfasts. I had dreaded spending that much time in that close of a proximity to my divorced parents spending that much time that close to each other. But they passed that test with flying colors. We met a woman over breakfast from South America who had been nominated for the Nobel peace prize and was on her way to meet the committee. World peace, family peace, personal peace: we don't often get much of any of these. It was amazing how they all aligned for one day.
Another top day was my first day in Jerusalem in 2000, but we'll skip that for now.
One of my top tens was in high school. Andrew and I drove up to meet our friends in Millcreek canyon in the fall. The leaves were so orange and red that the scenes seem golden in my memory. We dipped bread sticks in creamy tomato soup. That's all I remember from that day. That, and falling asleep thinking, this was a top tenner.
Another top tenner was just before I left Boston. I had planned a Girls' Night In with 5 or 6 girlfriends. I had stocked up on Trader Joe's food and baked a dark chocolate, ginger, wasabi, whipped cream cake big enough to feed an army. But then the snow started falling, and falling, and falling. "I don't want you all to get stuck here over night," I called each woman and told them I was cancelling. Their response? "We want to get stuck!" And so, they came, with overnight bags and sleeping bags and the six or so of us stayed up discussing sex and politics and life, and checking the weather report, laughing until the wee hours. At one point we ran outside laughing and freezing, watching the snow fly down into the empty streets. Early in the morning, we all found spots in my tiny one bedroom apartment and settled down to sleep. A group of friends like these- irreplaceable.
There are more good days, obviously, as I am nowhere near ten, let alone 100, but it is also 4:30 am, and I am hoping to get a little more sleep. But already I see a pattern. My top days are almost always those days when I am surrounded by people I love and when I feel loved and when there is something shared between us- whether it is small and simple: an autumn day, a city or a snowstorm, or more complex and rare: a birth, or a marriage. And of course, the gratitude, that reminds me in the moment that not everyone has days like these, friends like these, family like this, and cements the images in my mind.
Missing Children
Yesterday I was a bit gloomy all day and it took me a little while to figure out why. In part, because its a little strange. I am missing my kids. That would be a perfectly normal emotional response if, say, I had kids. Or, say, I had always wanted kids.
In Boston it dawned on me, by meeting happily married, childless couples, that I didn't need to have kids. It was a revelation. I went out for cocktails with friends and admitted to them that maybe I didn't want kids. We toasted appletinis in the dark bar to the idea of never having kids.
At the same time as I was discovering that I didn't have to have kids, I was still planning for them. One of my major motivations for moving to Israel was to learn Hebrew in order to ensure that my kids would be native speakers, no matter where we lived. It was also to be close to my in-laws. I wanted to raise kids in a family where cousins knew their cousins' cousins. I also wanted my children to identify as Jewish. That was something that was hugely important for me, and part of that was learning what it meant to celebrate holidays and live as part of an extended Israeli family network. I even spent a long time pondering how to handle the circumcision ceremony for my non-Jewish Jewish children. Who, let me remind anyone who has forgotten, I don't actually have.
Of course it is great that I don't have children. I can't imagine putting little kids on a plane and sending them to fly alone to Israel and to spend the summer there without me. El Al has special to/from flights during summer with clowns on the plane for all the children of divorced parents being flown back and forth from Israel to the US. My heart broke when I read that. I couldn't imagine what that would be like for me to put a child on one of those planes. I can't imagine worrying about children being in Israel without me while I was reading news reports about war and Iranian nuclear bomb development. It also would have been even harder for me to leave the relationship. I couldn't have fought any harder than I did for me, but knowing me, I would have fought harder for children.
Given that I don't have kids, that I am not always sure I want kids, and that it is clearly better that I don't have kids, it was incredibly bizarre to find myself missing them today. No wonder it took me so long to figure out why I was feeling down. I miss my Jewish/non-Jewish, American/Israeli children who would have grown up surrounded by their cousins' cousins' cousins.
There are a few reasons that I started thinking about this. One, is a co-worker who is waiting to go into labor with her second child. Two, is meeting a single dad who makes raising a child, regardless of the circumstances, look like the easiest and best thing in the world. I have to remind myself that most people aren't like this. Most people don't find being an excellent parent comes naturally and there is no reason to think that I am one of those people to whom it does come naturally. That it is, in fact, a very good thing that I don't have children.
And then I see my nieces and nephews, or hear about childbirth, or see little kids playing and I find myself tearing up over the realization that the decision to have children or not is that much farther away from me. And because I miss my kids.
In Boston it dawned on me, by meeting happily married, childless couples, that I didn't need to have kids. It was a revelation. I went out for cocktails with friends and admitted to them that maybe I didn't want kids. We toasted appletinis in the dark bar to the idea of never having kids.
At the same time as I was discovering that I didn't have to have kids, I was still planning for them. One of my major motivations for moving to Israel was to learn Hebrew in order to ensure that my kids would be native speakers, no matter where we lived. It was also to be close to my in-laws. I wanted to raise kids in a family where cousins knew their cousins' cousins. I also wanted my children to identify as Jewish. That was something that was hugely important for me, and part of that was learning what it meant to celebrate holidays and live as part of an extended Israeli family network. I even spent a long time pondering how to handle the circumcision ceremony for my non-Jewish Jewish children. Who, let me remind anyone who has forgotten, I don't actually have.
Of course it is great that I don't have children. I can't imagine putting little kids on a plane and sending them to fly alone to Israel and to spend the summer there without me. El Al has special to/from flights during summer with clowns on the plane for all the children of divorced parents being flown back and forth from Israel to the US. My heart broke when I read that. I couldn't imagine what that would be like for me to put a child on one of those planes. I can't imagine worrying about children being in Israel without me while I was reading news reports about war and Iranian nuclear bomb development. It also would have been even harder for me to leave the relationship. I couldn't have fought any harder than I did for me, but knowing me, I would have fought harder for children.
Given that I don't have kids, that I am not always sure I want kids, and that it is clearly better that I don't have kids, it was incredibly bizarre to find myself missing them today. No wonder it took me so long to figure out why I was feeling down. I miss my Jewish/non-Jewish, American/Israeli children who would have grown up surrounded by their cousins' cousins' cousins.
There are a few reasons that I started thinking about this. One, is a co-worker who is waiting to go into labor with her second child. Two, is meeting a single dad who makes raising a child, regardless of the circumstances, look like the easiest and best thing in the world. I have to remind myself that most people aren't like this. Most people don't find being an excellent parent comes naturally and there is no reason to think that I am one of those people to whom it does come naturally. That it is, in fact, a very good thing that I don't have children.
And then I see my nieces and nephews, or hear about childbirth, or see little kids playing and I find myself tearing up over the realization that the decision to have children or not is that much farther away from me. And because I miss my kids.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Unfold Your Own Myth
Who gets up early to discover the moment light begins?
Who finds us here circling, bewildered, like atoms?
Who comes to a spring thirsty
and sees the moon reflected in it?
Who, like Jacob, blind with grief and age,
smells the shirt of his son and can see again?
Who lets a bucket down
and brings up a flowing prophet?
Or like Moses goes for fire
and finds what burns inside the sunrise?
Jesus slips into a house to escape enemies,
and opens a door to the other world.
Solomon cuts open a fish, and there's a gold ring.
Omar storms in to kill the prophet
and leaves with blessings.
Chase a deer and end up everywhere!
An oyster opens his mouth to swallow one drop.
Now there's a pearl.
A vagrant wanders empty ruins
Suddenly he's wealthy.
But don't be satisfied with stories,
how things have gone with others.
Unfold your own myth,
without complicated explanation,
so everyone will understand the passage,
We have opened you. . . .
from The Essential Rumi, © 1995, Coleman Barks, translator
Who finds us here circling, bewildered, like atoms?
Who comes to a spring thirsty
and sees the moon reflected in it?
Who, like Jacob, blind with grief and age,
smells the shirt of his son and can see again?
Who lets a bucket down
and brings up a flowing prophet?
Or like Moses goes for fire
and finds what burns inside the sunrise?
Jesus slips into a house to escape enemies,
and opens a door to the other world.
Solomon cuts open a fish, and there's a gold ring.
Omar storms in to kill the prophet
and leaves with blessings.
Chase a deer and end up everywhere!
An oyster opens his mouth to swallow one drop.
Now there's a pearl.
A vagrant wanders empty ruins
Suddenly he's wealthy.
But don't be satisfied with stories,
how things have gone with others.
Unfold your own myth,
without complicated explanation,
so everyone will understand the passage,
We have opened you. . . .
from The Essential Rumi, © 1995, Coleman Barks, translator
Friday, May 18, 2007
For the Birds
Abbie and I are into bird watching. It always sounded like the most boring thing in the world, but with binoculars, it really is something entirely different. Suddenly I am able to differentiate between beaks and colors of birds and markings of the breast, compared to markings of the crown. For a boring activity, I have never been so entertained.
Recently, Abbie and I were sitting one day in her backyard, on the garden swing, watching the birds and eating dinner, and a little sweet golden finch flew straight into her window!!!!
We were horrified. Here we are trying to feed and enjoy the birds and one of them suicide bombs himself into the side of the house! Fortunately, he just had a concussion and was back on his feet in no time. Well, it took long enough that we were convinced he was dead and we were permanently traumatized.
The next day after the Concussion of the Golden Finch, I had a hard day at work and decided to treat myself to a field guide of birds to cheer me up. I found a book of Utah birds and on the way back to the car, Abbie called me and said; "Hurry and get home to help me! A magpie hit the window and it went off like a bomb!"
When I arrived home, Abbie had cut up a pie tin and pulled a boondoggle kit out of the depths of her closet. Who has boondoggle? Who knows how to spell boondoggle? Who has boondoggle at the age of 28? Ragardless of the answers to these questions, Abbie had boondoggle and was stringing the cut up pieces of pie tin to the flourescent lines. I dove in and helped her. "I read this will work on the internet," she said. We spent an hour stringing pie tin and boondoggle and then took it out to string along the windows to warn the birds.
Abbie climbed up on the ladder, pounded a nail into the side of the house and strung a piece of green plastic across the windows. "Oh no!" she cried. It won;t stick on the nails! It's too slippery."
"Why don't we get some flat head nails," I asked. "I bet I could find some in the garage."
"No," she said. "Let's be creative. What can we use instead? Hmmmm... Gum! Let's use gum!"
"Are you serious?"
Apparently she was. I ran into the house to get a pack of gum. Abbie, up on the ladder, chewed her gum and after a minute, stuck it onto the nail, creating a nailhead to hold the florescent green and pink plastic strung across her windows.
In all seriousness, she continued chewing, continued sticking and continued saving the birds.
Recently, Abbie and I were sitting one day in her backyard, on the garden swing, watching the birds and eating dinner, and a little sweet golden finch flew straight into her window!!!!
We were horrified. Here we are trying to feed and enjoy the birds and one of them suicide bombs himself into the side of the house! Fortunately, he just had a concussion and was back on his feet in no time. Well, it took long enough that we were convinced he was dead and we were permanently traumatized.
The next day after the Concussion of the Golden Finch, I had a hard day at work and decided to treat myself to a field guide of birds to cheer me up. I found a book of Utah birds and on the way back to the car, Abbie called me and said; "Hurry and get home to help me! A magpie hit the window and it went off like a bomb!"
When I arrived home, Abbie had cut up a pie tin and pulled a boondoggle kit out of the depths of her closet. Who has boondoggle? Who knows how to spell boondoggle? Who has boondoggle at the age of 28? Ragardless of the answers to these questions, Abbie had boondoggle and was stringing the cut up pieces of pie tin to the flourescent lines. I dove in and helped her. "I read this will work on the internet," she said. We spent an hour stringing pie tin and boondoggle and then took it out to string along the windows to warn the birds.
Abbie climbed up on the ladder, pounded a nail into the side of the house and strung a piece of green plastic across the windows. "Oh no!" she cried. It won;t stick on the nails! It's too slippery."
"Why don't we get some flat head nails," I asked. "I bet I could find some in the garage."
"No," she said. "Let's be creative. What can we use instead? Hmmmm... Gum! Let's use gum!"
"Are you serious?"
Apparently she was. I ran into the house to get a pack of gum. Abbie, up on the ladder, chewed her gum and after a minute, stuck it onto the nail, creating a nailhead to hold the florescent green and pink plastic strung across her windows.
In all seriousness, she continued chewing, continued sticking and continued saving the birds.
Saturday, May 12, 2007
Abbie
Very few people in this world are lucky enough to have an Abbie in their lives.
On the day I realized that Yuval would not be coming to Utah, that the relationship was undeniably over, I came back to Abbie's house, where she is hosting me. She opened a bottle of wine, pulled up chairs in front of the fire, listened to me cry, put on country music to make me laugh, baked a chocolate cake with me and gave me a massage while it baked.
As we said goodnight and I took my comforted, tipsy self down the stairs to the little haven of a room that she has given me, the air was still scented with freshly baked cake. "Hey Lins," she called. "Was I nice enough? Did I do the right thing?"
I firmly believe NO ONE could have done anything better.
On the day I realized that Yuval would not be coming to Utah, that the relationship was undeniably over, I came back to Abbie's house, where she is hosting me. She opened a bottle of wine, pulled up chairs in front of the fire, listened to me cry, put on country music to make me laugh, baked a chocolate cake with me and gave me a massage while it baked.
As we said goodnight and I took my comforted, tipsy self down the stairs to the little haven of a room that she has given me, the air was still scented with freshly baked cake. "Hey Lins," she called. "Was I nice enough? Did I do the right thing?"
I firmly believe NO ONE could have done anything better.
Take me home, country roads
I'm back.
I'm in Utah. I never, ever thought I would be here again.
I took a trip to Driggs, Idaho two months ago, my first week back in Utah. Driggs is in the middle of nowhere, with a great view of the Tetons, the house where we stayed was in a field a few miles off of the highway.
Early one morning, I set off down the dirt road to walk through the fields. In the distance, a car approached. It was a green that hasn't been seen since the 1970's and were it in New York or Chicago, I would have known that I should quickly get out of that part of town. I was pondering what sketchy gangsters were doing in the middle of Idaho as the car continued to approach.
Suddenly, out of the ancient, reptilian back of my brain rose the thought, "Raise your hand, Raise your hand!" That is so weird, I thought. Why would I raise my hand? My arm moved faster than my logic and I raised my hand. The man at the steering wheel also raised his hand as he passed.
"Oh, they do that here," I said to myself. I faintly remember waving at strangers on country roads as a kid and I guess the memory stored itself somewhere. I continued walking and started doubting. Maybe people used to wave at strangers, but surely no one actually does that anymore. Another car approached as I continued walking. This time, I fought the urge to wave. The man at the steering wheel raised his hand and waved at me as he approached. I waved back. I was elated. I was relearning country girl ettiquette. I could make it in Utah again after all. Maybe I'd even feel at home again someday.
Another car approached. I waved my hand at the driver and passenger and neither of them waved back. I was disgusted. Geez, tourists.
I'm in Utah. I never, ever thought I would be here again.
I took a trip to Driggs, Idaho two months ago, my first week back in Utah. Driggs is in the middle of nowhere, with a great view of the Tetons, the house where we stayed was in a field a few miles off of the highway.
Early one morning, I set off down the dirt road to walk through the fields. In the distance, a car approached. It was a green that hasn't been seen since the 1970's and were it in New York or Chicago, I would have known that I should quickly get out of that part of town. I was pondering what sketchy gangsters were doing in the middle of Idaho as the car continued to approach.
Suddenly, out of the ancient, reptilian back of my brain rose the thought, "Raise your hand, Raise your hand!" That is so weird, I thought. Why would I raise my hand? My arm moved faster than my logic and I raised my hand. The man at the steering wheel also raised his hand as he passed.
"Oh, they do that here," I said to myself. I faintly remember waving at strangers on country roads as a kid and I guess the memory stored itself somewhere. I continued walking and started doubting. Maybe people used to wave at strangers, but surely no one actually does that anymore. Another car approached as I continued walking. This time, I fought the urge to wave. The man at the steering wheel raised his hand and waved at me as he approached. I waved back. I was elated. I was relearning country girl ettiquette. I could make it in Utah again after all. Maybe I'd even feel at home again someday.
Another car approached. I waved my hand at the driver and passenger and neither of them waved back. I was disgusted. Geez, tourists.
Thursday Night in Jerusalem
I wrote this a year a half ago and wanted to archive it somewhere:
Thursday Night in Jerusalem
Last night, Yuval, his friend, Liron, and I drove up to Jerusalem. As soon as we crested the hilltops and entered the city, we rolled down the windows to drink in the air, free of the humidity that has been bogging us down in Tel Aviv. We met two of Yuval’s friends at a café in the heart of the modern, Jewish part of the city. The café is part thrillingly excellent restaurant and part bookstore. We ate lasagna smothered in carrot sauce (I was skeptical, but it was fantastic) and salad with blue cheese and pears that had been sautéed in maple syrup. The walls of the café are plastered in such a way that you can see sections of the ancient stone walls poking through. The friends we met were two women, one a Finnish woman working at the Finnish embassy, the other a Russian Israeli who has been translating books from the Finnish to the Hebrew.
I have been to this restaurant only once before, the first week that I was ever in Israel. Yuval took me there to browse through the English books and sit in front of the window overlooking the new city. I drank milk and honey, reveling at the fact that I was finally in the land of milk and honey and the person across from me was the same one that I had been dreaming about for the last year.
After dinner, we poked our heads into the bar downstairs. The bar is Mike’s Place. The same Mike has a place in Tel Aviv that blew up a few years ago while Yuval’s cousin happened to be in it. These are the kinds of things that I think of that don’t seem to bother Yuval. The bar had excellent jazz and people sitting outside enjoying the breeze. So many people were enjoying themselves that there was nowhere to sit. Yuval suggested an alternative: why not buy a bottle of wine and go to the Old City. He knew a place where we could sit on the rooftops and take in the view.
I knew which spot he meant; the rooftop spot was the location of our first kiss. My first day in Israel, we went to Jerusalem and Yuval took me on a tour of the Christian sites, trying to make a good Mormon girl feel comfortable in Jerusalem. Towards sunset we climbed an iron staircase leading to a cement path created on top of the flat roofs of the market buildings in the Old City. It is the path that the religious Jews use to go from their houses in the Jewish quarter to the gates of the Old City without passing through the Arab section of the market. Old sections of walls stick above the path and we climbed up on one of these and watched the sunset over the Dome of the Rock and kissed. Happy, dumbfounded, and sure that these kisses were a temporarily lapse of reason on Yuval’s part, I had him take a picture of me, so that I would be able to prove to myself later that it had actually happened. It was so dark by the time he took the photo that I am just a silhouette, but looking closely, I can see a smile so large it hurts my cheeks just thinking about it.
This is where Yuval recommended we go. Last time I was in Jerusalem, a few weeks ago, it was to pick up our friend who had arrived in time to see the victim of a stabbing in the Old City and as a consequence, it didn’t seem like such a good idea to me. On our walk towards the Old City the road was blocked by soldiers peering into cars heading to the New City. This also seemed like a bad sign. I told Yuval I was nervous and he shrugged it off. “If you want to live in Israel, you can’t think like that. People get murdered. You can’t let it stop you from living your life.”
As we walked closer to the walls, Liron came up beside me, seeming to calculate to himself: “We are a lot of people and it isn’t too late yet. We will just sit for a little while and then come back out again.” I don’t think Yuval set him up to encourage me, rather I took it as a sign that he, despite being born here, is still thinking like me. I also know that Liron, like all of Yuval’s friends, will not go without him to the Arab sections of Jerusalem. It’s as if Yuval has some magical power to protect them or convince them to come. I think the power he has is logic. Logically, he knows and they would like to agree, that nothing is likely to happen to them. Somehow it is just easier to believe the logic when he is there with them.
We climbed up the iron stairs that led to the rooftop path and stared out at the Dome of the Rock and the green light illuminating the tower of Al Aqsa. We were high up enough that we looked at the beautifully lit golden dome from eye level. We settled in, me still grumpy for being dragged though the empty alleys of boarded up market stalls. The others, long time residents of Jerusalem, had never known this spot existed and were stunned by the view. We settled in and watched the occasional passersby- Ultra Orthodox men and young religious couples out for a stroll. After a while I did relax and admitted to being amazed, in spite of myself. The air was fresh and cold, the moon was waxing gloriously, the stars were shining bright enough to be seen in spite of the city lights, and we were surrounded on all sides by ancient, luminous limestone towers of churches and mosques.
Later one of the women received a phone call. “Oh, we are in the most amazing spot,” she said. “We are in the Old City with a view of the Wailing Wall.” I almost choked. There is no way in the world that it was physically possible for us to see the Wailing Wall which is set well below the Dome of the Rock. The woman speaking would barely pass for five feet tall, counting her three-inch heels, so I know she wasn’t seeing something that I couldn’t. Liron asked sincerely, “You can see the Wailing Wall?” And jumped up to try and get a better view. It’s called selective vision and while rampant everywhere, makes me want to tear my hair out. The woman speaking was a religious Christian, which makes it even weirder to me that she has caught the Dome-of-the-Rock-doesn’t-exist syndrome. It doesn’t exist, even when it is directly in front of us- enormous, golden, breathtakingly beautiful. After a while Liron gave up looking for a view of the Wailing Wall and sat back down.
After the wind became too chilly to be enjoyable, and Liron, the driver, began to feel tired, we said good night and headed back to the car. We passed two more road blocks set up by police and soldiers before we got to his sister’s house where he drank a cup of coffee to prepare for the hour drive back to Tel Aviv. When we stepped out of his sister’s house, the smell of fresh baked bread was overwhelming. It was as if we were standing in front of a giant oven and I could smell the sensation of ripping off a piece of warm bread. In fact, it was as if we were standing in front of a giant oven, as we were next to one of Israel’s largest bread factories with a 24-hour store on the premises. We stopped by the store packed, even at one in the morning, with challa and Ultra Orthodox Jews in anticipation of Friday and the beginning of Shabbat. We stocked up on challa and chocolate buns, so scentful that the house smelled like the Jerusalem bakery when we woke up this morning. On the way out of town we passed the fleet of trucks waiting to distribute the scent to the rest of the country.
We drove down the slopes of Jerusalem, singing Israeli pop songs to help keep Liron from getting tired. The moon set in the distance, the air grew warmer and heavy with humidity. Back in Tel Aviv, the streets, unlike the quiet, holy streets of Jerusalem, were packed with cars and distinctly unholy techno music poured from the bars where the night was only beginning.
Thursday Night in Jerusalem
Last night, Yuval, his friend, Liron, and I drove up to Jerusalem. As soon as we crested the hilltops and entered the city, we rolled down the windows to drink in the air, free of the humidity that has been bogging us down in Tel Aviv. We met two of Yuval’s friends at a café in the heart of the modern, Jewish part of the city. The café is part thrillingly excellent restaurant and part bookstore. We ate lasagna smothered in carrot sauce (I was skeptical, but it was fantastic) and salad with blue cheese and pears that had been sautéed in maple syrup. The walls of the café are plastered in such a way that you can see sections of the ancient stone walls poking through. The friends we met were two women, one a Finnish woman working at the Finnish embassy, the other a Russian Israeli who has been translating books from the Finnish to the Hebrew.
I have been to this restaurant only once before, the first week that I was ever in Israel. Yuval took me there to browse through the English books and sit in front of the window overlooking the new city. I drank milk and honey, reveling at the fact that I was finally in the land of milk and honey and the person across from me was the same one that I had been dreaming about for the last year.
After dinner, we poked our heads into the bar downstairs. The bar is Mike’s Place. The same Mike has a place in Tel Aviv that blew up a few years ago while Yuval’s cousin happened to be in it. These are the kinds of things that I think of that don’t seem to bother Yuval. The bar had excellent jazz and people sitting outside enjoying the breeze. So many people were enjoying themselves that there was nowhere to sit. Yuval suggested an alternative: why not buy a bottle of wine and go to the Old City. He knew a place where we could sit on the rooftops and take in the view.
I knew which spot he meant; the rooftop spot was the location of our first kiss. My first day in Israel, we went to Jerusalem and Yuval took me on a tour of the Christian sites, trying to make a good Mormon girl feel comfortable in Jerusalem. Towards sunset we climbed an iron staircase leading to a cement path created on top of the flat roofs of the market buildings in the Old City. It is the path that the religious Jews use to go from their houses in the Jewish quarter to the gates of the Old City without passing through the Arab section of the market. Old sections of walls stick above the path and we climbed up on one of these and watched the sunset over the Dome of the Rock and kissed. Happy, dumbfounded, and sure that these kisses were a temporarily lapse of reason on Yuval’s part, I had him take a picture of me, so that I would be able to prove to myself later that it had actually happened. It was so dark by the time he took the photo that I am just a silhouette, but looking closely, I can see a smile so large it hurts my cheeks just thinking about it.
This is where Yuval recommended we go. Last time I was in Jerusalem, a few weeks ago, it was to pick up our friend who had arrived in time to see the victim of a stabbing in the Old City and as a consequence, it didn’t seem like such a good idea to me. On our walk towards the Old City the road was blocked by soldiers peering into cars heading to the New City. This also seemed like a bad sign. I told Yuval I was nervous and he shrugged it off. “If you want to live in Israel, you can’t think like that. People get murdered. You can’t let it stop you from living your life.”
As we walked closer to the walls, Liron came up beside me, seeming to calculate to himself: “We are a lot of people and it isn’t too late yet. We will just sit for a little while and then come back out again.” I don’t think Yuval set him up to encourage me, rather I took it as a sign that he, despite being born here, is still thinking like me. I also know that Liron, like all of Yuval’s friends, will not go without him to the Arab sections of Jerusalem. It’s as if Yuval has some magical power to protect them or convince them to come. I think the power he has is logic. Logically, he knows and they would like to agree, that nothing is likely to happen to them. Somehow it is just easier to believe the logic when he is there with them.
We climbed up the iron stairs that led to the rooftop path and stared out at the Dome of the Rock and the green light illuminating the tower of Al Aqsa. We were high up enough that we looked at the beautifully lit golden dome from eye level. We settled in, me still grumpy for being dragged though the empty alleys of boarded up market stalls. The others, long time residents of Jerusalem, had never known this spot existed and were stunned by the view. We settled in and watched the occasional passersby- Ultra Orthodox men and young religious couples out for a stroll. After a while I did relax and admitted to being amazed, in spite of myself. The air was fresh and cold, the moon was waxing gloriously, the stars were shining bright enough to be seen in spite of the city lights, and we were surrounded on all sides by ancient, luminous limestone towers of churches and mosques.
Later one of the women received a phone call. “Oh, we are in the most amazing spot,” she said. “We are in the Old City with a view of the Wailing Wall.” I almost choked. There is no way in the world that it was physically possible for us to see the Wailing Wall which is set well below the Dome of the Rock. The woman speaking would barely pass for five feet tall, counting her three-inch heels, so I know she wasn’t seeing something that I couldn’t. Liron asked sincerely, “You can see the Wailing Wall?” And jumped up to try and get a better view. It’s called selective vision and while rampant everywhere, makes me want to tear my hair out. The woman speaking was a religious Christian, which makes it even weirder to me that she has caught the Dome-of-the-Rock-doesn’t-exist syndrome. It doesn’t exist, even when it is directly in front of us- enormous, golden, breathtakingly beautiful. After a while Liron gave up looking for a view of the Wailing Wall and sat back down.
After the wind became too chilly to be enjoyable, and Liron, the driver, began to feel tired, we said good night and headed back to the car. We passed two more road blocks set up by police and soldiers before we got to his sister’s house where he drank a cup of coffee to prepare for the hour drive back to Tel Aviv. When we stepped out of his sister’s house, the smell of fresh baked bread was overwhelming. It was as if we were standing in front of a giant oven and I could smell the sensation of ripping off a piece of warm bread. In fact, it was as if we were standing in front of a giant oven, as we were next to one of Israel’s largest bread factories with a 24-hour store on the premises. We stopped by the store packed, even at one in the morning, with challa and Ultra Orthodox Jews in anticipation of Friday and the beginning of Shabbat. We stocked up on challa and chocolate buns, so scentful that the house smelled like the Jerusalem bakery when we woke up this morning. On the way out of town we passed the fleet of trucks waiting to distribute the scent to the rest of the country.
We drove down the slopes of Jerusalem, singing Israeli pop songs to help keep Liron from getting tired. The moon set in the distance, the air grew warmer and heavy with humidity. Back in Tel Aviv, the streets, unlike the quiet, holy streets of Jerusalem, were packed with cars and distinctly unholy techno music poured from the bars where the night was only beginning.
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