Hiking by Kibbutz Be'eri

I seem to be hiking monthly these days. Spring is here, which means there's a few weeks of erratic, schizo weather before it turns scorchingly hot and I won't want to hike anywhere.

Jerusalem Mosaic hiking club were doing this rather easy hike, along gentle hills near Kibbutz Be'eri (a kibbutz founded in 1946), which is 3 miles from Gaza. The British built roads here pre-State-of-Israel and stored their ammunition here, as well as having a sulphur factory. The scenery was quite different from one moment to the next.

So let's get to the photos:



There were several German Shepherd dogs guarding the premises at the Kibbutz. Why? I asked the guide. His explanation was that the Kibbutz was just 3 miles from Gaza and this was to prevent infiltrators. BUT - then I hear Israel's biggest printing press is behind the barbed wire. And this is where the bills from the electric company, the phone company and other major sources of annoyances come from. No wonder they need security dogs.




Wild horses couldn't drag me away....lovely to see this in the middle of nowhere, eh?




Hiking along the sand dunes...


The old British sulphur factor


I'm happy to report that we hiked much faster than this snail on the grass.






- seems to be a ruin of an Arab village or home here


- the homes of Gaza in the distance. This rural area of Gaza seems quite pastoral, unlike the inner cities where chaos seems to reign.

Landlord Blues

I've been renting in Israel for over 11 years. There have been recent articles in Haaretz on the pros and cons of renting vs. buying. But let me tell you, renting in Israel is the absolute, absolute pit of the pits. There's nothing more horrible and unsettling and nerveracking than this. Most apartments are owned privately and these private owners occasionally rent out their property to tenants for leases - 1 year at a time. We have had landlords from hell - our first landlord - where we rented an old dump with an overgrown, unattended-to, giant garden. We deposited security money with him and nearing the end of our one-year lease, he complained of "damages to the garden". This is a ploy to try and keep your security deposit. We learned fast. Fortunately, hubby is handy at lawnmowing from those lush lawns in Toronto and we proved him wrong by planting grass seeds and watering the new grass and were fortunate to have before and after photos which showed his words to be foolish talk.

The 2nd apartment we rented was from a family from the foreign ministry who were overseas for two years. We were like "WOW! What stability. We can actually stay in one place for more than one year...YIPPEEEE!" They had 2 children and we had 5. We thought we did a decent job of cleaning their home after we moved out, but they muttered that they had to "really clean" up after we moved out and why did we shut off the electricity? I had no idea you just transfer it back to the owners, I just thought you cancel your account and close it up. So they had to contend with the messiness of opening up the electricity once more.

The 3rd apartment we rented was miraculously also for 2 years - but the layout was horrible that we had our livingroom on the 2nd floor. But his brother wanted our place so we had to move out.

The 4th apartment we rented was from a builder whose office said they'd Never Ever sell it. That was 5 years ago. We were in renter's heaven. We were free, we were stable, our family could get their shit together and we didn't have to be saddled with high mortgages, etc. But in August they called and said they wanted to sell. We were mortified and pleaded with them. We even offered them higher rent but to no avail. We had to re-rent.

Alas, there are hardly any 4 bedroom apartments in our neighborhood to rent. I shared this ordeal with you, I am sure, on some previous nightmarish post. So we decided to go for the plunge and buy. Which we did and we cannot wait to move into a place of our own - where we can be as messy, or as clean, or as noisy, as we'd like, and where we can stay until the messiah comes. It sounds too good to be true.

But meanwhile, we had to rent apartment #5 until our own place is ready. This was a lease for 4 months. This has to be the craziest of all places I've ever rented. She's not quick to fix anything and every time we turn the hot water switch on, the fuse blows. She asked for all her rent up front too and charged us a fortune because we needed a place for a few months and not a full year. She wanted all her bills paid even before the due date. She's a pain in the ass landlady.

This landlady wants to rent her apartment after we move out and she wants to sell it too. So she or an agent or a potential renter/buyer is calling me up nearly every day wanting to see the place. Sometimes they show up and sometimes they don't - and this is when my kids feel - "why did I have to clean this place up for nothing". But at least I get to have a clean house. Last night an agent called me and brought us 5 South American people traipsing through the house at dinnertime. Everything was "mucho bueno." Hubby was sitting in front of the telly saying "Shouldn't we put a limit on these people coming to our house at all hours?" He's having many a "house invasion" moment.

But I'm feeling so lethargic about the whole thing and don't mind the daily showings of the house - it's not that disruptive for me. Because I'll be moving out soon, to a permanent place - and will be pitying the renter that has to rent one year at a time.

teen interfaith

Thanks to Esra'a from Middle East Youth for sending me this link .

Anyone interested in joining or having their kids join? Unfortunately, my kids aren't interested right now in repairing the world type of thing. They want to get up late, earn money, buy clothing, go to parties, go to clubs - but to sit and actually discuss worthwhile things? Nah.... Maybe when they're older. Much older.

From Bethlehem to Jerusalem

There was an interfaith gathering this past Thursday evening at the charming Austrian Hospice on the Via Dolorosa in Jerusalem. We had planned to meet with the people of the Hope Flowers School in El Khader/Bethlehem to discuss the very pleasant (to me anyways) and expansive subject of food in our traditions. This was supposed to be an overnight thing with the retreat ending on Friday noon. But I had already booked myself for a hike in the Negev the following day so Thursday night was the only night I could join.

Sure enough, 10 minutes before I was due to leave work, my boss calls me from the US chattering away, but lucky for me, and by the good Grace of God, the phone connection went dead about 2 minutes into the phone call. I tried calling her back on her cellphone, the good soldier that I am, which was disconnected. For those that don't believe, let me tell you, there really is a God. I was thus able to leave at 4:00 to get me to Jaffa Gate by 4:30, where I met a fellow Jewish interfaith participant. We walked through the busy market on David Street, then through the Christian quarter admiring things we hadn't noticed before even though we've been there millions of times, which led the shopkeepers to believe we were tourists.

The meeting was supposed to begin at 4:00 pm and it was already 4:45 pm. We were uncomfortably late and went up to the salon at the 2nd floor to join our meeting, as it's usually held there and walked in on about 100 teens. Ooops. Wrong meeting. They were obviously European/Austrian because you could hear a pin drop in there - not so a case when you put even 10 Israeli teens together.

Finally a small contingent from Bethlehem came in after 5:00 pm. They had trouble at the checkpoints - the usual story. However 7 more people were supposed to arrive and although the office of our interfaith group got permits for them to come to Jerusalem through the Bet El army (North of Jerusalem) which is the main place to obtain permits for Palestinians to come through, these guys had to come through the Gush Etzion checkpoint which is South of Jerusalem which gets the orders from the Bet El office. The group had waited from 10:00 am - 2:00 pm patiently and no permit had come through for them from Bet El. Even though phone calls were made back and forth, they were turned away after waiting four hours for a permit that had been gotten for them. We all felt terrible about this. Here are people coming through for a dialogue with Israelis and they get turned away. We were told by the Palestinians it all depends on who is at the checkpoint that day. They may not have even checked if permits were given at all and just played around with them and made them wait for 4 hours. Turns out the ones who did make it through were one big family who all had long-term permits already and didn't have to get new ones. Their contingent was a husband/wife/mother-in-law/3 children who were the lucky ones to be allowed in. But even though they had permits, they were valid for 12 hours during the day and past 7:00 pm at night they could not wander around Jerusalem. They were put up at the hostel for free.

After going around the table introducing ourselves and listening to the checkpoint ordeal, it was time to eat at the Hospice cafeteria. The woman from Bethlehem had 3 small kids, was pregnant and her 1 year old was screaming. The kid was putting his fist in his mouth. A universal sign of teething. His mother thought he had an ear infection and I knew he was teething. In any case, the stern-faced Austrians and guests at the cafeteria were not pleased with the kid screaming and looked terribly uncomfortable. What a difference between us and them and I don't mean Jews and Arabs. When a child screams in agony, you'll have us Middle-Easterners meddling in trying to see what's wrong and what can be done to help. But the Europeans didn't really seem to want to mix in and were noticeably annoyed at screaming ruining their meal. We (the Israeli Jews and Palestinian Arabs) shrugged our shoulders, offered to hold her kid and then let him scream until he fell asleep. I had seen and felt another commonality with my Palestinian sister and a much deeper difference with the European ones.

My friend on the other hand, was flipped out and uncomfortable over a statue of Jesus facing her and asked me to switch places with her.

"Oh stop that" I teased her. "He's Jewish!!"

We grouped together afterwards and heard about stuff we already knew - Moslems and Jews don't eat pork, we can eat giraffes and deer (but who would), they can eat strange game meat too as long as it's not a predator animal like a lion or tiger. We can't eat shellfish, they can. We can't eat milk and meat together. They can. But it didn't matter if I already knew this stuff. It was good to be together and strengthen our bonds.

Beware The Broom Burglar of Nachlaot

There have been a rash of home burglaries over the past couple of months in central Jerusalem - so much so that the police have set up a special task force to investigate what has been happening and hoping to catch a thief or two or a few, if they're lucky.

Jerusalem email listings have nearly daily reports of homes that have been burglarized and shrewd enterpreneurs are popping up in the same email lists - listing their security alarm services.

I'm comfortably ensconced in a suburb of Jerusalem where maybe a burglary happens maybe once a month - not several a day. But when I visited a friend in Jerusalem this afternoon she related to me her experience the night before.

"So I was woken up by this noise at 3:00 in the morning and saw a broom hovering over my bed trying to unplug something. I totally freaked out."

"Oh my God. What did you do?"

"I slammed the window shut and yelled 'what the HELL do you think you're doing?!!' but he had already gotten the broom out."

I tried to think of witty things she could have yelled at him like "I'm not hiring for Passover cleaning until tomorrow morning, jerk!"

I told her - "Jeez, you have absolutely nothing in this place. What could he have wanted?"

I looked in her room and saw a few books and clothing. There was underwear on the top shelf.

"Maybe he was a pervert and wanted to steal your undies."

"I think he just wanted to 'clean' me out with his broom"

We laughed at the spectacle of this broom sneaking in through her window. Like those cartoons I used to see of electrical razors chasing people. Her dog was at a friend's and I thought he would have protected my friend with his barks.

"Nah, he's afraid of brooms. He would have just hidden under my bed"

Choices

At work my boss held a viewing of "The Devil Wears Prada" during a staff lunch. Hubby was certain it was gonna be my final day at work since I did make a comparison a while back to the difficult Miranda character and perhaps she was onto me. Either she read my blog or saw the movie and saw the similarities herself - who knows. But anyhow, after the film we chatted about my previous glamor job at Sire Records in New York City and the feeling one had about being caught up in the whirlwind of glamorous parties, free tickets to everything cool and being on every New York City guest list. It was a glorious few years for me too in the late 1970s, early 1980s, when NYC was at its decadent party best. Ms. boss told me she also felt she had a glamor job at the beginning - but I can't see how you can compare being glamourous in academia with the entertainment industry. No way can they be in the same league.

But in the movie, Miranda talks about "choices". You make the choices which get you to where you want to go. Fair enough. I've done that often.

Yesterday morning I was reading the papers about Sean Lennon (son of John for those not in the know) coming to Israel for a Saturday night gig at Hangar 11 in Tel Aviv. In fact, Friday morning, as I was reading the papers at 9:00 am, he was already here and set to do a book signing at the Third Ear record store in Tel Aviv at 1:00 pm. Ahh choices. Should I go? Should I not go? If someone would have been my partner-in-crime and carted me off with them, there would have been no question, but to have to get dressed and maneuver my way through Tel Aviv - not an easy feat for a Jerusalemite - is energy burning.

And you might ask - why would I care so much about seeing a young man, whose music I never heard, who is the son of a legend?

Well, there's history behind all this. Before my glamor job, I spent the summer of 1970 doing my Beatles thing. I was 14 years old and told my folks I wanted to stay home that summer and not go to sleepaway camp. I'm sure they were miserable with my choice being that they had carted me away to summer sleepaway camps since I was 8 years old. And now I was back home and that left them with, well, a teenager to deal with. So much for THEIR summer vacation.

I had been Beatle mad since 1968 and collected everything about them. In the summer of 1970 (or was it 1971?) before John and Yoko moved into the Dakota apartment building, the couple stayed at the Plaza Hotel for a few months. I found out about this through older friends of mine. The girls were about 18 - 21 years old and I had "proven" myself to them when I happened to find out where Paul McCartney was recording the album Ram at CBS recording studios. I had cut school and sauntered over there in the freezing weather to see him walk in and out of the studio and watch him be gruff with his few fans that were there (between 2-6 of them). None of us wanted to bother him with photo-taking and autographs. We felt that if we didn't act like nuisances, he might, well, talk to us, invite us into the studio, have pity on us because we were freezing, etc. None of that did happen, but since I acted like the rest of the girls hanging outside, not taking photographs, not getting autographs, not yelling "OMG IT'S HIM!!!!", I was allowed entry into their exclusive clique. And that meant more to me than getting a useless autograph.

Throughout that year and the next and the next - I would get calls that one of the Beatles (even though they had already broken up by that time) had arrived in New York, with their whereabouts and I would choose whether I'd want to hang around there or not. I remember the fans being too shy to approach any of these guys, but I wasn't. One of the girls handed me a Beatles t-shirt circa 1964 and told me to give it to John. He walked out of his hotel - and I handed him the t-shirt. I told him "I know the Beatles are dead and all that - but you can have the myth". He laughed and gave me a warm 'thank you'. Another friend of mine gave him a Dr. Seuss book which we saw him reading in his limo. We had read his books "In His Own Write" and "A Spaniard in the Works" and thought his writing was so cleverly written, and similar to Dr. Seuss books in a way, but of course more clever and wittier than Dr. Seuss. Once Yoko had her driver buy us all milkshakes and I, of course, was eternally grateful. She had been in my good books ever since.

In 1975, when Sean was born, one of my closest friends was a nurse at the ICU unit where he was and gave me hourly updates on what was happening and who she saw and how cute the baby was, etc.

So these are some of my memories of my teenage summers in NYC and there are lots more. I had some photos that people had taken through those years (not me - I didn't take the photos - remember - I was trying to act 'cool') and thought of digging them out and giving them to Sean. I didn't think anyone else in Tel Aviv would have given him such a meaningful gift as I would have. My mind started drifting. He's a handsome 31 year old and I thought of bringing with me some of my hot daughters so that he would fall in love with them and stay in Israel. But I chose to take it easy that Friday and just stay put where I was. Had I been younger and had more energy, I might have taken the other choice. But maybe Hubby will chauffer me to Tel Aviv tonight, let me hear what this young whippersnapper of a man sounds like and maybe I'll hand him that envelope of photos of his dad. Maybe. Or maybe not.

Girls

Yup. "What the hell is THAT?" I asked myself as I did the laundry and saw this thing that measured 6 inches long and 8 inches wide. It looks like a skirt. I placed it up to my waist and it didn't even cover the crotch area. My daughter sees this and tells me "You don't wear it up so high. You wear it around your hips." It still wouldn't make much of a difference, would it? I mean look at it. It's a micro micro mini and that's what these kids wear to parties? HELP!!!!

"I'm siiiick" croaked mini-skirt's owner into the phone today. "Call the docta fa me." Her voice was so croaky that the receptionist who answered her call was puzzled.

"That was a GIRL???"

Yup and my girls - all of them - have been giving me a run for the money lately. One of them, not happy with her non-sagging "A" cup, wants a boob job and is saving up towards it.

"How do you know the plastic surgeon is any good"

"Because I saw two girls who had theirs done by him and I like what I saw"

"They showed you their boobs?"

"Yes. After you get your boobs done, you show them to everybody."

Great. That's just what a mother wants. A daughter who shows her boobs to everybody.

a very special school

Thanks to my friend Esra'a, the head honcho at MidEast Youth who sent me this link about a really wonderful school in London, England with mixed Arab/Jewish pupils. It's really worth the read.

a different kind of birthday celebration

Eliyahu celebrates his birthday every year in Jerusalem. This year, this Jerusalem Peacemaker invited not only his Orthodox Jewish friends from the Jerusalem area, some coming from the settlement of Bat Ayin, but also his Palestinian friends from Ramallah were there, having received a special permit to come into Jerusalem to celebrate with him. As well, Palestinian musicians from Sawahare, outside of Jerusalem were also granted permits for this evening. There was a Jordanian couple there, who were studying at the Hebrew University - he is researching the Jewish community of the Jewish quarter in the Old City and claims he is the first Jordanian doing any research on Jews in Israel.

The special guest that evening was a Moslem visitor from Iraq, who was here because his young child needed urgent medical treatment and he received a special visa for this. He is very grateful that his kid was healed here and hopefully he will bring that thankfulness over to his country and tell his people we in Israel aren't all ogres (we are sure they hear that over there). People were curious, and asked him all sorts of questions like "did he meet any Iraqi Jews while he was here?" "Did his view of Israel change now" "What did he think of Israel beforehand".

The organization that brought his child here is called "Shevet Achim" translated as "tribe of brothers". Once the child is found to be operable, the organization obtains visas for the child and one parent.
Representatives of the organization were recently in Jordan meeting about 30 families whose children desperately needed medical attention of the kind that could only be found in Israel, with their advanced medical techniques and, well, Jewish doctors. You can't find Jewish doctors in Saudi Arabia so one's gotta go where one's gotta go!

There was woman from Bustan Leshalom an environmental justice group, based in the Negev, working mostly with Bedouin communities. The group seeks to restore an environmental balance together as well as fight injustices such as home demolitions which are rampant in the Negev as many Bedouin live in unrecognized villages and are forced to move into townships. Often their homes get razed if they don't move.

Palestinian representatives of Combatants for Peace were there. Eliyahu remarked how it is easier for Suleiman to be a head of a Palestinian peace movement as he was in an Israeli jail for 10 years and therefore, he wouldn't be considered a collaborator, as some are considered by their own if they join up with Israelis for some activity or another...



And of course there was food. You can't have Jews and Arabs together without food. Pasta salads, fruit, popcorn, cakes, baklava, pizza - it was a potluck and a potpourri of all sorts of things you can shove in your mouth. The music was great - Jewish musician Rebbe Soul provided the Jewish side of tunes and Mohammad and Mochi performed wonderful oud music.

I wondered out loud if there was a way we could not only gather together for Eliyahu's birthday - but wouldn't it be nice if we all lived in the same apartment building together. Where's Arkady Gaydamak when you need him to buy up apartment buildings and put Jews and Arabs in them together to make beautiful music together. We saw tonight it can be done.

Uncovering yourself

“That’s it. I’ve had it. I’m letting it all hang out.”

I overheard this conversation from where I was sitting in my office coming from the receptionist. Curiosity overcoming me, I came out to see what she was letting hang out. Quite newly married and an orthodox Jew, she had begun her married life covering her hair, which is a very difficult thing to do for most women, unless they are born into an orthodox lifestyle and look forward to shopping for wigs or hats and scarves, depending on how one wishes to cover one’s hair. But she had had enough and missed having her hair drape around her neck.

“Was it difficult for you?” I asked. “What about your friends where you live? Can they accept the change?”

“I only do it when I’m out of the neighborhood. I’m not comfortable uncovering my hair where I live.” But when she moves out of that neighborhood, it’s all coming off.

I completely understood where she was coming from.

Back in Toronto, I was a Hassidic woman, covering my hair with a wig, or actually quite a few wigs, because I never stopped being funky. I had a short one, a long platinum blonde one, a reddish one - medium length and an assortment of head scarves called Snoods. But after I cut out of the Hassidic lifestyle, I began to let go. The first step was uncovering my bangs. It horrified the hell out of some of our neighborhood rabbis and some even stopped speaking to me. I was on my way to hell and they didn’t want to be associated with me, I was sure.

After our move to Israel, the rest of the head covering came off after Rabin was murdered by an orthodox Jewish guy and I didn’t want to be associated with the group of people who wanted Rabin dead. It was easier if people couldn’t figure out how to label you.

But going back to Canada to visit my sister, I had to don my snoods again because her husband is the principal of an ultra-orthodox day school and if anyone in their neighborhood got wind of the fact that a sister-in-law of the rabbi was not ultra-orthodox and wasn’t a “head coverer” - oy vey - they would have problems marrying off their kids/grandchildren because it would cause a blot on the family’s “perfect” status. So I didn’t mind playing along for the sake of my family.

I know how terrifying it could be for this newly-married woman who uncovers her hair now to bump into a relative, where she least suspects it and then the secret is out. This happened to me at the beginning too. It felt funny and sometimes I’d avoid that person by running into a store, turning my head the other way or who knows what, but I really didn’t want some relatives to know that I’ve gone off the path.

But we’ve come to some compromise now. When the ultra orthodox relatives visit me in Israel, I don’t cover my hair, but I don’t wear trousers when I see them because I think that is even more mortifying for them than head coverings and I put on a dress/skirt so they are more at ease.

But I often wonder what about Moslem women who decide to uncover their hair and stop wearing the hejab. Do they also put it on in front of their more devout relatives? Do they freak out when they’re uncovered and bump into friends/relatives they don’t want to bump into? Do they run into stores to avoid them like I did?

I Quit

Well I Hubby would have said this about his smoking two years ago. Now that we're in the market for mortgage insurance, because he's a smoker it is DOUBLE the cost of mine. How's that for an incentive to quit?

We thought about it at work today.

"Well I do have life insurance on him. Should I just let him croak?"

"When they get ill from lung disease, it's a slow and painful death." said a co-worker

"Oh shit. Which mean's of course that I'LL be the one taking care of the bugger if that should happen."

Not good. Not good at all. There's some place around town that advertises a 90% success rate for stopping smoking. That's a good enough percentage for me. And they offer a money back guarantee if it doesn't work. It's expensive - about 4 months worth of ciggies. But then, after that, we'll see the money he spent on ciggies going for something more worthwhile - like clothing or restaurants or - furniture for our new place, instead of having to bring into the apartment dog-eaten chairs, and chewed up couches and a ratty-looking dining room table. Now there's an idea.

Plus in two years, his insurance mortgage can be cut in half.

Why didn't I think of this before?

gramma

I don't know if I'll call myself gramma, savta, bubby but I will be calling myself one of those come this July when my eldest daughter gives me a grandchild.

I knew about this for a while, but was sworn to secrecy, even from my children, until the 16th week hit.

When she took her pregnancy test in October, she told me she thought she was pregnant, her period was like 8 hours late or something ridiculous like that. Our family doctor had been on sabbatical for a year, and had no idea she had gotten married in the interim. When he walked in with the results, his face looked gloomy.

"I don't know if this is good news or not"

"What is going on?" asked my daughter.

"Well, you're pregnant" he said sadly.

"I'm SO HAPPY!!!"!! she shouted at him.

It was his turn to go "Huh?" and then she told him it's ok - she had gotten married in June and his mood definitely lightened up.

Then it was absolute torture for me not to tell a soul. Not even Hubby, though I managed to persuade my daughter to let me tell him 3 weeks later. I told a best friend at work, whom I know kept her mouth shut. On Thursday, I brought in to work a lumpy photograph of the fetus taken at the latest 16-week ultrasound. Its head, arms and chest were clearly visible.

"Would you like to see a photo of my grandchild?" I asked everyone and they all raised their eyebrows like "WTF?" I explained it's 16 weeks in the making and that's how everyone at work found out...

I thought of hiring labor coaches and my daughter asked me what was doing about that.

"Honey, I really think labor coaches are for women who don't have their mothers around. I'll be happy to massage your lower back, to breathe with you through your contractions and give you ice to suck on."

She thought and remembered the time I took her to the hospital nearly 15 years ago when she was 8 years old to watch me give birth to her brother. She remembered giving me ice too. Now the tables turn...

But she still worries and asked "How will you know what to do?"

"Because I've been through this five times, THAT's why." I still remember the pain, but it was wonderful pain. She doesn't understand how excrutiating pain could be so beautiful and wonderful. But she will.

A girlfriend for my son

For the past couple of months my son has been telling me he has a girlfriend. He is turning 15 next month and girls had never really been on his mind. Just computers and icq and soccer. But his teen mind is expanding and although I never met the girl formally (he never brought her home), he shows me messages they write each other, which I think is sweet.

But then he tells me she isn't that good-looking and there are prettier girls than this one.

"So why are you going out with her?"

"She ran after me. She's the one who wants to go out with me."

Oh, I see.

"What do you talk about when you go out?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

I guess talking isn't what he's into. They probably just walk alongside each other with nothing to say. I can see it. Two computer geeks have found each other.

He pointed her out to me in the supermarket last Friday.

"Right, she's not pretty?" he asked me.

I thought she was really pretty. Long dark hair, nice features but they didn't speak to each other, just a shy "hi" when they passed each other. Perhaps it was she was with her Argentinian father. Perhaps she's not ready to meet the folks of his yet either.

Later that evening, we teased him for being shy with her in the supermarket and the fact that they don't have these verbal conversations.

But I see him "chatting" away until the wee hours of the morning on ICQ. With her. She types and he types. And if they ever get married, they'll send each other typed messages and SMS's when they want to tell each other something - like pick up the kids this afternoon or buy some milk and bread when you come back from work.

But it looks like they won't be speaking much to each other soon.

Not those two computer geeks.

Palestinian-Israeli Comedy Night

I got an email two weeks ago about this small tour taking place and what enjoyable news it was for me. I had been toying with going plowing and planting with Palestinians, but sometimes that can be scary and stressful (not because of the Palestinians either), and because of the stress in my everyday life, I need something not-so-stressful. So when this item came up I immediately forwarded it to everyone I knew who was into peace activities.

The show I went to was last Thursday night at the beautiful American Colony hotel in East Jerusalem. The place was packed with many journalists there, curious as everyone else there, how this tour came about and who were these joksters anyways.

I went with my girlfriend because Hubby has been a troll of late and they don't like to laugh much. There was free wine and chips/pretzels at the entrance, and I thought if I had a couple of drinks (and probably the comedians thought so too), I'd loosen up and laugh a lot more.

Turns out I didn't need those drinks. The guys were so funny, my stomach hurt and my voice was hoarse from laughing for 2 hours straight.

There were 4 comedians - 3 Jewish, 1 Arab. Pretty much summed up the way the audience turned out as well. A smattering of Arabs and a whole bunch of Jews.

First up was Aaron Freeman, an African-American convert to Judaism, who had us in stitches about reactions to his converting - "Why? What they really want to say is "what's wrong wit' you!! You didn't have enough trouble? You want to be an extra credit target for the Ku Klux Klan?" He explained that Ethiopian Jews in Israel have no idea who Martin Luther King was, and after he explained everything to them - a bit of US history, slavery, the 1960s riots, the deep South, segregation, they were like 'Oh we see you Jews suffered too!" or something like that. Whatever. It's much funnier when you hear it live.

Then Charley Warady was explaining how it was for him to make aliyah - and when he passed a checkpoint, he thought it was a toll booth and threw a couple of coins in and drove through only to get shot at..."Gee they get so mad here when you don't have exact change.."

Ray Hanania, the sole Arab comedian, was up next. "I see you (the audience) as potential hostages!" and told us about his harrowing airport experiences because of his Arab heritage. "Are you on my flight?" is a question nervously asked of him by other passengers. And when he went to the bathroom on his flight into Israel, Alan Dershowitz met him on the way back to his seat to explain why there was someone else now sitting in his seat...

Yisrael Campbell, a ultra-orthodox-looking Jew, also a convert to Judaism, was explaining that he was the nephew of Jesus since his mother had been in a convent and it gets up great parking spaces in Jerusalem, like when he goes to the Church of Scotland he tells people - "I'm His nephew." "Oh sure, go right in". On his reasons for converting? "I was a vaguely Catholic but Catholic enough to know that I was going to hell, so I switched religions." He said that Jerusalem's clergy - Rabbis, Priests and Imams all got together to fight to Gay Pride Parade because they pleased "don't affect the peace of our city!" Huh? Where do they live? They don't get together when there are house demolitions in East Jerusalem or bus bombings in West Jerusalem - what brings them together?" He whispers - the Pride Parade.



I know, I should have written all that funny stuff up. But if YouTube works, I'll get it posted there.

After the show I introduced myself to Ray and told him I work in interfaith. He was very interested in interfaith work himself and years ago he said most groups were afraid it could get offensive, sensitive, or whatever, so he never pursued it.

Someone from CNN interviewed me afterwards, asking if I found any of this stuff offensive. I told her absolutely not - I had seen Borat and if I found THAT funny, this surely wouldn't be more offensive, and yes, I did understand Ray's jokes, I understand Moslem customs about multiple wives and burkas, etc. and that we should have more of this sort of intercultural stuff taking place here, but it breaks down barriers.

My friend and I went to the fireplace lounge to have a drink afterwards. The music was soft Arabic music and the waiters were elegant and genteel and made me feel like a princess. I was feeling so high. And I was sad on the other hand that there was so little of these types of evenings where we can just laugh all together at our government and religious customs. I went home by bus and heard two young men in the front of the bus speaking Arabic. It's quite unusual for Arabs to take "that" bus back from Jerusalem over the green line - they probably live in neighboring Azariya, which they did as they got off the bus just before the entrance of our suburban town. And no one hassled them on the bus, or gave a second glance, and I thought it should be like this all the time, shouldn't it. Just a cacaphony of Hebrew and Arabic all the time, everywhere.

Weekend update

Our housing crisis is nearly over. We finally bought an apartment, and it wasn't easy. We had driven the real estate agents bonkers, perused local real estate internet sites daily, called people up to see their homes, nearly made deals on a few of them and ended up buying from a builder. Hubby likes new. Though there were some good things about many of these apartments we saw, there were also not-so-good things. For instance:

"the toilets had been shit in by others before us"
"the house is build into the mountain"
"the bedroom has no windows"
"there's no cellphone connection here"
"it looks like we're living in the basement"
"it's too much of a walk-up"
"don't want to pay agent's fee"

etc. etc.

So we were called in to sign a contract last week. I took off work for about an hour to sign, fully knowing my "Miranda" boss from my office, would get highly upset at me leaving 1 hour beforehand (even though she was at meetings), but at this point having a place to live is more important than appeasing someone who can never be appeased.

Even the signing wasn't easy. Our lawyer trudged in and asked for a receipt when they deposit our checks.

Their sales agent was like "No way. We don't do that."

Our lawyer - "It's standard procedure."

Then they started hurling insults at each other and after 5 minutes of observing this, our lawyer got up and told us "We're not signing today."

Huh? After I put my job in jeopardy by leaving one hour earlier? But after haggling back and forth with their lawyers, we were called back to sign 2 hours later.

I signed about a thousand pages with trembling hands. This whole homeowner thing is so new and so traumatic at 50 when you've never had a home beforehand, and are used to living in other people's places. But I was so elated. No one can tell me to leave because they're selling their place, or blame me for damages to their place when there weren't any. And the kids might even be goaded into being proud of living in their own real home and begin to clean up - but that's a far shot, I know.

We took a look at our home this morning and walked up the 8 flights. The tiles I chose seemed too dark compared to what others had chosen. What to do now? The floors were still covered in sand - and the tiles hadn't been shipped yet to the site. Maybe there's still time to change. I'll be preoccupied with these types of decisions daily until we move in. My daughter walked into her room and said it smelled like shit. I suspect, but I didn't want to inspect up close, that the little dark, sand-covered 'stuff' was indeed shit, perhaps left by one construction worker who didn't want to go down 8 flights to use a port-a-potty. And it will be covered up by tile one day. Some people walk on air. We'll be walking on shit.

We went over to the other building where people already moved in and went up to the 8th floor and asked the owners if we could see how "our" apartment would look like fully furnished. This ain't New Yawk and the people welcomed us into their home and we saw it looked absolutely lovely, once the construction workers' shit is covered and tiles put on and bathrooms finished off. It really looks like a home.

And after 11 years in this country - I think we really could use a home right now. Next step - applying for a mortgage.

Moving – the curse of it all

We had to move homes on Wednesday to a temporary home for a few months, which put everyone in a horrible mood for most of the week up until Saturday – which weather-wise, was warm and beautifully sunny. The place we rented is a villa of sorts, in a neighborhood of private homes which was eerily quiet compared to the hustle and bustle of having lived on a main street for 5 years. There were lots wrong with our temporary housing but we had no choice.

1. No grocery store within easy walking distance
2. No central heating and we are freezing most nights – I had to borrow radiators which only warm up the immediate area
3. No gas for cooking – I had to call up the gas company and they said they'll come in 5 days
4. Ancient kitchen with broken knobs

I likened the place like Tara in Gone with the Wind – AFTER the civil war – when it wasn't the palace it was beforehand, but a worn-out home. Surely our place had also seen better days.

My 18-year-old Chronic Complainer, complained bitterly to the Arab movers on moving day.

"The only thing nice about this apartment is the front door." She cried.

"Great" I told her. "Because when I throw you out of the house, that's the part of the house you'll be seeing most of"

After the move, the movers complained bitterly of not getting enough "baksheesh" (tip) from me. I did give them something but not an enormous amount and don't know if their yelling and screaming was part of the culture or work ethic or what-have-you and Abdullah, my friend, who had hired them for me assured me that I had given enough. But I need to do this again in April/May so I really wanted to go more on the less-expensive side.

The next night Hubby and ex-Criminal daughter were fighting like cats and dogs, and my Son was frightened. I was busy shopping in the supermarket, getting stuff that can be baked or microwaved because I couldn't use the gas-top without gas.

"Mom, come home quickly. I think this house is cursed!!!"

"Honey, I've got a cart full of groceries. You think I want to come home quickly to a cursed house, full of anger and craziness? I'll sit with you when I get back home." I told him and shoved an extra chocolate treat for him in the cart.

On Friday morning I went to the nearest neighborhood grocery store to check it out. The stuff there cost a fortune, but the high concentration of Americans living in the area was evident by what the store stocked – Campbell's Soup, English Muffins, Cadbury's and Hershey's Hot Chocolate and Chow Mein noodles and more and more and more. I saw some familiar faces – all US ex-pats who welcomed me into the area – we like to stick together - and felt immediately more at ease in the new 'hood. One woman whom I hadn't seen in years gave me a very warm "Oh HI!!" and when she heard that we just moved and will probably have to move again in a few months, exclaimed "Moving is such a curse. It is such a curse."

Don't I know it.

And now for the weekend update

It was a harrowing weekend. We have to move on Wednesday into a temporary house for a few months and then God-knows-where-to, which has put everyone in our household in a funk. One nice thing was that we were invited to a dinner at our Messianic Jewish friends' home and I overlooked the fact that Mrs. Messianic Jew is a super-duper housekeeper. Daughter and I glanced at each other while she was cooking and something or other from the pot fell on the floor. It was immediately scooped up and thrown in the trash.

"If that happened in our house, we'd just leave it on the floor."

We giggled like female versions of Beavis and Butthead.

Her place was spotless even though she was cooking for 20 people with nary a dirty pot in sight, and the counters gleaming. I should hate her but I cannot hate anyone that feeds me and lets me take home tupperware-full of leftovers.

But the rest of the weekend should have gone in the trash together with the chicken bones.

Hubby went on and on how "this country fucks you up" and the kids were at war with one another the way teens do.

The 20 year old told on her 18 year old sister -
"MOM! She's using the dryer for only ONE SHIRT!!"

I was livid. It costs a fortune here to use the clothes drier and it is only used when it rains for 3 days straight and the indoor drying rack isn't fast enough.

18 year old took revenge by rushing down to the family computer and deleting everything in the 20-year old's file which included her resume and reference letters.

I was upstairs trying to watch Desperate Housewives and she was downstairs screaming and crying. They don't stop at 20 years of age. I yelled at the 18 year old to get out of the house immediately because an act of damage/destruction to another person's property is the most taboo you can get with me. Of course, she didn't listen and trudged up to her room only to come down later that evening in an outfit that made her look like a cheap hooker. And I really dislike my daughters looking cheap - at least look like an expensive one, dammit. But I knew she put on that outfit just to piss me off because she came down, smirked at me and admired herself in the mirror while I shook my head.

On builders, the messiah and Chinese food

"You really should be blogging this" - said a friend of mine after I updated her on our home purchase escpades.

I've been having blogger's block, I told her. I haven't blogged about anything. We've been negotiating back and forth between the lawyers of our builders and our lawyers and this has been going on for weeks with no result.

"It's like being in a bad relationship" explained my friend.

"Yep, but without the sex" I replied. But then I thought further.

"No wait a minute. There is sex! Why, the builder is fucking us!!" There. simple as that.

The only thing making me happy was the fact that our messianic Jewish friends invited us to their home for dinner. She is making "chinese" and I offered to bring along a big expensive bottle of sake. Not that sake is Chinese but in Israel it doesn't really matter and you can glump together Chinese, Japanese, Thai and Vietnamese food all together - in Jerusalem they think it's the same thing.

My kids were invited as well as they are bringing other guests with kids around the same ages as mine. It's a plot I tell you. But - never mind. I told my daughter, the Complainer, this morning about our friends.

"They think differently about certain things than you and I", I tried to approach this delicately.

"What" she murmured.

"They believe that Jesus is the messiah and son of God and all that."

"So" she answered, aware that they were trying to entice my daughters with very cute guys, "why should I go out with someone who believes in Jesus."

Great question kid - so now I see you are ready to face these people and inform them of your very own savior and messiah which is, of course, the god of parties, discos, dj's, pubs, etc. And then you youngsters can hash it out for yourselves.

Bedouin food - not

Abdullah was standing in front of my house, which surprised me while I walked up the stairs to my apartment. As usual, I expected no one there. And my boy was sleeping and didn't hear him ring. I haven't a clue how long Abdullah waited for me.

As is my style, I generally don't invite guests over during the week because of my hectic life, but as is the style of the Middle East, Abdullah doesn't wait for an invite. He's a single Bedouin man in his early thirties who joins up in various non-political peace activities and is thinking about setting up a Bedouin tent in the vicinity of Maaleh Adumim for camel rides, music, coffee, tea and dialogue.

I chatted with him while I made him Arabic coffee and prepared dinner for my family. I invited him to dine with us. We sat at the table and unfortunately for him this was not Bedouin fare. Not at all. I had served salad, hot dogs with home fries, noodles with veggies and tofu. No kebabs, mejedderah or lamb. He ate a couple of spoonfuls to be nice but the look on his face was miserable. I thought again of that hysterical scene in the Borat movie where Borat thinks the Jews are trying to poison him with their deli sandwich. I hope he wasn't thinking we were trying to poison him. Actually with serving hot dogs for dinner, perhaps we were only poisoning ourselves. But never mind.

If he only just calls a few hours before he shows up at my door, I might even make him the food he is accustomed to....

(not celebrating) Christmas in Jerusalem

Well, it certainly doesn't feel like Christmas here. It's work as usual. Nothing is closed, except for the US consulate (and other consulates of course) and the Filipino caregivers have their day off today.

Last night two Breslov Hassidim, with long earlocks, came to my door to ask if I want to buy this ridiculously gigantic book of Psalms. I have Psalms thank-you, but I opted for their charity box. They took out their notebook to jot down my address and all that. It was cold outside so I invited them in. They seemed happy to get out of the cold. The men hardly looked at me (some ultra-Orthodox men do not look directly at women) even though I was modestly dressed but were friendly none-the-less and were grateful for an opportunity to say a blessing over the glass of water I gave them and blessed me and thanked me for my hospitality.

"Funny those guys coming over Christmas eve" said Hubby.

"Huh? You even think they KNOW it's Christmas Eve?" I answered - they may not have a clue being that they probably don't read the papers and don't watch tv.

"They're probably from the Tax department snooping around"

I rolled my eyes. I blame the Holy Ganga for Hubby's paranoia.

"Yeah, looks like we'll get a reduction on our taxes then won't we" I retorted. What's on display at our house, other than torn sofas, broken dining room chairs and a color tv that displays only a blue and red picture.

I added to the fun. "Maybe they're the Three Wise Men, only one is missing, so only Two Wise Men showed up at our home."

Today at our staff lunch, the president wanted to hear from us immigrants how we saw Christmas once-upon-a-time. I told her about one of my fondest memories of my two Catholic friends who, years ago, fought with their respective families and had nowhere to go for Christmas dinner. Seeing their distress, I ended up making their festive meal, turkey with all the trimmings. Despite the lack of Christmas tree and decorations in my house, I think we had a damn good holiday meal together. And it was pretty funny for them to be hosted by their Jewish friend and it put us all back in a good mood. The next memory was of my Sicilian friend's family's dinner where we pigged out from 4:30 pm until 10:30 at night, while her grandmother gave me a verbal thrashing for not going to Church, while the rest of the family chuckled and tried to tell her that I was Jewish and that's a good reason not to go to church.