A bum rap

My daughter was looking at me enviously as I downed two laxatives and drank the decent-tasting, fizzy orange Peco-lax last night.

"You'll lose weight right?  Maybe I should try that?"

"Do not try this." I said, hiding my drugs, as I ran to the toilet in-between sentences, feeling grateful that my meds weren't over-the-counter so she couldn't have easy access.  I did wish I had a scale at the moment thought because  I'm sure I dropped a couple of kilo. 

Hubby was too nervous to sleep in our room, telling me he was scared I'd poop in bed.  The bathroom is two meters away and though I woke up every hour because of the laxatives, I managed to make it in time.

My colonoscopy was slated for 10:00 am Friday morning.  By Friday, the runs had died down and I just drank the water they told me to drink, wondering how anyone could down so much fluid at one time. 

Being I'm a rookie at this recta-test, I was feeling quite nervous.  How would I feel during the test?  Would it hurt?  Will I sleep through it?  Will I recover?  Will I hallucinate? Do people die from it?  What if the doctor finds something?  What would I do?

I took everything I saw and heard that morning as terrible signs.  Three black ravens faced me on the terrace.  Was that a terrible omen?  I turned on the TV and nothing was on except for the E channel where the show featured celebrity stalkers.  Eerie.  It was raining outside, a bleak day.

I dared not take public transportation - pooping on a bus would be disastrous. At least we knew the female cab driver, a friend of hubby's.  The taxi got us to the doctor's office right on time and the radio played the Stones' Wild Horses, which Jagger wrote while Marianne Faithful, his girlfriend at the time was in a coma.  This didn't look good.

Hubby wasn't impressed with the clinic, which was in one of Jerusalem's poshest neighborhoods.

"This office is quite old, isn't it?" he questioned the receptionist.

"Yes it is..." she looked at him, wondering what was his point.  Point was that even though this doctor is one of the tops in his field, he thought nothing of renovating his ancient clinic.  They called my name.  I went into the room where the procedure will be done.  The decor was very 1950s.  I expected the doc and his assistant to light up a cigarette right there and then, the way they did in Mad Men. 

The doctor's assistant, herself a doctor, was asking me my family history and I wasn't in the mood to have small talk.  I hadn't eaten since 3:00 pm the day before and I was in desperate need of a coffee and for this to be over. 

She covered me with a large paper towel - no nice cotton sheets here.  I asked them to turn up the heat.  I was feeling cold.  Then the doctor came in singing "Don't Worry, Be Happy" and I thought of the drugs he would be giving me.  I asked him if it was better that I was up for the procedure.  He said that each person reacts differently to it.  They put the IV in and whatever went in, made me feel quite relaxed. 

"Turn on your left"

I turned to my right.

"Facing me."

I turned the other way.  And other than mild cramping, I didn't feel that uncomfortable. The assistant held my hand, while the apparatus twisted its way and blew air into my colon.  They asked me to see the procedure on a monitor, and whatever it was, looked like some kind of reptile moving around. 

"Beautiful!" the doctor said loudly.  He seemed excited at my clean colon, while swinging the camera in every direction.

"How many colons do I have?" I asked him because it just seemed so fragmented on the monitor.

"Only one big one."

Thanks. 

After the procedure the assistant put me on another bed and told me to "let the air out".  I guess she didn't mean out of my mouth.  I was left alone, and  I unabashedly let loose, and so whatever air was pumped into me, was pumped right out.

"Everything is fine." the doc told me after I walked to the reception area.

"No polyps? nothing?" I asked,
"Nothing." He smiled.  It's good to tell someone there's nothing wrong.  "See you in five years"

"Sure." 

You can't imagine how  relieved I was at the good tidings and thanked God for the rest of the day.

Praying for the Peace of Jerusalem

On Eagles' Wings had their day of prayer for Jerusalem as they do each year on the first Sunday in October.  A friend from work surprised me with an invite to this event, and I, in turn, invited Hubby to tag along since he is a big fan of DayStar TV.  He says he watches it solely for the entertainment it provides of evangelists pushing people to the ground and seeing those trembling bodies on the floor.  He also likes to hear about the end of days and the Rapture.  So I thought he might want to see several hundred evangelical Christians praying right here in Jerusalem, without having to travel all the way to Kansas City, Missouri.

Robert Stearns

I was surprised to see an Orthodox neighbor of mine in the audience, but then since this was a Zionist Christian crowd, I wasn't that surprised in the end.  Rabbi Riskin also spoke, his manner of speaking wildly with his hands, coupled with his Brooklyn accent seemed amusing to me.  Nir Barkat spoke and as he left, he shook my hand.  I guess it wasn't the right time for me to complain to him about the inferior municipal services the Arab residents of Jerusalem get, compared to Jewish residents.  I sometimes feel like the queen of missed opportunities.

The speakers mostly railed against Islamic extremism, but their speeches included Arabs together with Jews, living in peace, in this messianic vision they had of a peaceful Israel.

I actually sang along with the folks when they sang verses from the Psalms.  But I drew the line at lifting my hands up to the heavens with the rest of the crowd.  I haven't even gotten that far with my own spiritual community of Nava Tehilla in Jerusalem.

The scenario for such an event was perfect.  It was held at the Hass Promenade, overlooking the Old City of Jerusalem, as the sun set.

ageing

I celebrated a friend's 50th birthday on the rooftop of the new, posh Mamilla Hotel in Jerusalem. I walked into the lobby and everything was quiet, lights were muted, candles were lit and the air was perfumed. Not a convention center atmosphere at all. I felt like I stumbled onto or into a spa. I also felt that I don't belong - kinda like Ellie May Clampett of the Beverly Hillbillies. The place was so exquisitely beautiful, that the toilets had soft ecologic (?) paper towels and L'Occitane hand soap. MK Tzipi Livni was there too but not for my friend's celebration; she was out having dinner on the rooftop restaurant, which didn't appear to be overly expensive. The view of old and new Jerusalem is magnificent from the rooftop bar. While the sun was setting, around 15 of our friend's closest girlfriends toasted her over a nice (few) bottles of champagne. I was buzzed after just one glass.

But speaking of age, I'm growing out my hair and it's a grey blonde. In fact, I was highly insulted recently when a stupid, tactless, asshole Egged bus driver asked me if I wanted to buy the senior citizen's monthly bus pass. This is the first time anyone implied that I look like a senior citizen. Not that that's awful, but it's just not fair that when I'm blonde, people don't take me for being a grandmother and now bus drivers are trying to sell me passes for people who are at least 11 years older than I am.

Then when I got home I see that one can join the local Golden Age club in my town when you're just 55 years old. I'll be 55 in February. Maybe it won't be too shabby to be a golden ager after all. They advertised for their members quite a number of trips to spas and hotels for quite cheap. I asked a couple of my girlfriends who are over 55 if they'd join up, but they complained the club is full of Russians. "So what. If we join, we'll turn it into a half-Russian, half-English club." There is strength in numbers.

An evening with the ADL

I went to an ADL-sponsored dinner the other evening.  About 40 visitors from Connecticut were here from that organization - the majority of them clergy people.  This dinner was held at the Begin Center in a restaurant called Teresa.  I think the abundance of food shocked the Americans. There must have been an assortment of at least 10 salads, and then ravioli was passed around.  We had thought that was it for the main course, until we saw two large plates of Drumfish (unfamiliar to the Americans) and salmon come around, as well as wonderful cakes and coffee at the end.

We sat at four tables of about 10 people and  two people from our respective interfaith groups sat at each table to get to know the guests.  I sat with an Armenian woman from the Old City in Jerusalem.  I had met her once before, but we only knew each other vaguely.  She was talking about how the Christians are leaving the country, since there are no opportunities for them, and they are finding work overseas.  Also, they have been feeling tormented by the Ultra-Orthodox Jews passing by in the neighborhood, on their way to the Jewish quarter, who don't find fault with spitting on their priests, especially with those carrying large crosses.  The spitting is getting worse - done by the old and young - and the young Ultra-Orthodox Jewish kids, my new friend says, never sleep.  They study in yeshivot during the day and are up all night walking around, shouting through the gates of the Armenians' homes. The Armenian residents can't sleep.

"It used to be good with the Jews years ago" she confided.  We used to help each other and we used to turn on their heat and lights on the Sabbath for them.  These Jews are a different kind now.  It's getting worse.  When the tourists come in the summer, they walk into our shop  -  I once saw a boy who was very thirsty.  He went to take a bottle of water in the fridge and his mother said 'not from here!  We're not far from the Jewish quarter. And the son was complaining to the mother that he was so very thirsty, but she wouldn't let him buy from us.  Why?  What did we do to them?"  She looked at me, her eyes filled with hurt and pain.

I thought that perhaps one day our interfaith organization should have a vigil by their homes/churches so that if we see spitting and curses flying, we can confront the perpetrators.  But because it seems like a tough thing to organize for the moment, the woman resigned herself to inviting me over for coffee in her home - which I hope to do in a couple of weeks.

Meanwhile, we laughed over the fact that what I had thought was authentic Armenian pottery was just local pottery from Hebron.

"They say their name is Mike, but it's probably Mohammed."  she said of many of the store owners on the Christian Quarter road - and laughed.

"So you'll take me to the Armenian places? And we could go out for coffee and knafe?" I asked.

Certainly.  Her family came to live in Jerusalem after the Turkish massacre of Armenians in the early 20th century.  She knows the neighborhood really well.

There was a Pakistani-American woman there.  She had been living in the US now for 20 years and considered it her home.  But the events of 911 and suspicions over her heritage and extra precautions taken with her at airports and other places because of her Moslem name, have saddened her.  She turned to the ADL.  I talked to her later, telling her about my knowledge of the "lost 10 tribes of Israel" and that it is assumed that the Pathan tribes are descendants of these lost tribes.

"I'm an Afridi."  she told me.  "My name is Afridi!"

It was like I found a long-lost sister. 

"WOW!! You're from the tribe of Ephraim?!! "  I hugged her.  It's not everyday that you find a long lost tribal sister.

She told me "But the Rabbani tribe are the most extreme of the Taliban."  They're considered to be descendants of the tribe of Reuben.

"Jeez.  Why?  What were they thinking?" I said to her. 

My attention switched to the people conversing on the other side of my table.  Seems a young and charismatic modern-Orthodox Jewish rabbi  was learning the language of the African American woman sitting across from him.  I had no clue what they were saying.

"You just presented" she told him.  "I'm gonna tell everybody that you presented in Jerusalem"

There was so much laughter.  I had no idea what was so funny about the word "presented".  They continued on.

"You've just been served.  You've been housed.  You have to give it right back."

I have to admit.  I'm totally lost.  When I go back to the US for a visit, I do hope there is a school for learning this new, unfamiliar language.

Cafe

Being that my boss is overseas, I, too, want US hours and days, which means Sundays off.  Of course, I will have to take them as vacation days, unlike the rest of the world, but that's the best I can have for now. 

So what does one do on a limited budget in Jerusalem?

I went shopping for a bunch of winter stuff at the second-hand store, Ke'Chadash in French Hill.  On the bus  I sat next to a woman who works at the local bank.  I mentioned the word "second-hand" and she repeated the word it as if I had introduced the plague.

"No Israelis shop at second-hand stores.  They like everything new."

"Great!  Less competition for me then."  And off I went buying designer-type sweaters and skirts for $7 each.  Let those silly Israeli women spend $50 and more on stuff that's less quality.  And that includes my kids who also turn up their Canadian-born noses at second hand things.

I then had a light lunch at one of those boutique coffee shops that have been popping up all over the place.  The restaurant is called Cafe Tomer on Rechov HaLamed Heh Street in one of Jerusalem's residential neighborhoods. I often envy those people who have the time to just sit in a cafe and enjoy the peaceful ambience of leisure.  It was just delightful to finally be able to have an inexpensive but delicious cup of onion soup with Pecorino cheese on the side with a roll, plus a great cup of coffee with a chocolate brioche which was a treat made in heaven.  These things I do not take for granted.