One Night in Jerusalem
Last night I attended a wedding in Jerusalem. The groom, an Australian friend of mine who I met here in Israel, married an American, giving the wedding an American-Australian flavor (actually, the Australian flavor was more pronounced, especially with the groom donning an Australian Rules Football guernsey and guests kicking around a football). This is one of the great things about Israel: because you have Jews from so many different countries and backgrounds, weddings have their own unique flavor, as they incorporate different customs from different countries.
But this post is not really about this particular wedding, or weddings in Israel in general. It is about what happened to me after the wedding, and what this says about Israel and Israelis.
I leave the wedding at around 11:30pm, and make my way to my car. Now I should probably explain how my car’s security works. On my keyring, I have two separate “controls”: one contains a button for activating the alarm/locking the car and deactivating the alarm/unlocking the car; the other contains buttons for locking and unlocking the doors, independent of the alarm. In addition, there is a keypad inside the car, for inputting a code to enable ignition.
As I approach my car, I press the button for deactivating the alarm.
Nothing.
Hmmm
I press again.
Still nothing.
This is weird. This has not happened to me before.
And yet again.
What’s going on here?
Now panic starts to creep in. Here I am, in the outskirts of Jerusalem, at 11:30 at night, far from home, and I can’t even get into my bloody car. Or can I?
I have an idea. I press the button for unlocking the car, and a familar sound breaks the night’s silence. The car is unlocked. Unfortunately, a second later, a much more audible sound is heard. The alarm!!
Other departing guests stare at me, some guy in a car, with the alarm blaring, who, in their mind, may not even own it. Although I suspect my skullcap probably gives away the fact that I am no car thief.
I enter the car and sit down. The alarm stops after about 10 seconds.
Now what? Hey, wait, I have another idea.
I enter my code and start the engine. Phew! The engine starts.
So does the alarm.
D’oh!
So I am faced with a choice. I can, theoretically, drive home, but with the alarm blaring the whole time (I live about 30-45 minutes away). Of course, that would not only be annoying to me and all other drivers, but would probably result in me being stopped by the police. Or I can try to deal with this now.
I decide to drive. I am tired, and it is late. I drive down the road, to a more remote area, but then stop, realizing that this is not a good move. I need to somehow deal with this situation now.
As I am contemplating my next move, a bald-headed, tough looking guy knocks on my window. I open the door. He asks me, in Hebrew, what the problem is.
I cannot disable the alarm.
Is this your car?
Well, it’s my company car. The company leases it for me.
Give me your keys and I’ll see what I can do.
Now, in most other countries, I would never just hand my car keys to some strange, tough looking guy in the middle of nowhere. I would be too afraid. But in Israel, I feel differently. Crime is certainly lower than in most places, and I am used to Israelis bending over backwards to help someone in distress. So I hand over my keys without blinking.
The man takes my keys and starts playing with the button to deactivate the alarm. He is no more successful than I was. He then asks me to open the car bonnet. I ask him:
Do you think you can disable the alarm?
Well, I have stolen a few cars before.
Really?
Yes.
So here I am, having given over my car keys to a man with experience in stealing cars. Yet I am not overly concerned that he will pull a knife on me and steal mine.
The man tries to see what he is doing in the pitch black, but has no success. So he asks if I have a number for the car leasing company. I retrieve it from the glove box.
Can you also give me your phone?
I oblige.
Now the man not only has my car keys, but also my phone.
He dials the number and requests that a service van be sent to assist me. He patiently describes the problem, and informs the woman on the other end our exact location. He then hands back my phone and keys, and asks if I have a cigarette.
No, sorry. But if you find one, I wouldn’t mind one either.
The man laughs, wishes me luck, and disappears into the darkness.
Approximately 45 minutes later, the service van arrives. I go over to the technician, explain the problem, and he proceeds to replace the battery in the control. The old one was flat (have they heard of providing spare batteries with their rental cars?!)
As you can see, the story had a happy ending. Sure, I am extremely tired today, and somewhat peeved that I was delayed by 1 hour because of a flat battery in the car alarm control. But the point of the story is to give you an insight into a great feature of life in Israel: complete strangers are willing to bend over backwards for you, and, consequently, you are willing to place your trust in complete strangers. And while this is not unique to Israel, I believe it is certainly more prevalent here than in any other place I have ever lived or visited.
(Cross-posted on Israellycool)
For chowhounds only…
We all have our secret food places. The joint with the best burger. The best shwarma. The best falafel. Now, while we think that these places are the “best kept secret” more often than not, hundreds, if not thousands of people feel the same way. I’m steadfast that one of my local pizza joints is the best pizza in Israel (only when eating in, not when it’s delivered), but for now, I am going to keep that one to myself. Although most regard Dixie in Tel Aviv the best burger in the country, I know of a place in Jerusalem that is far better, cheaper, less trendy and you can almost always get a table.
Falafel is an easy one. It’s that small joint in the ultra-Orthodox neighborhood of Meah Shearim in Jerusalem whose address I don’t know and even if I did, I couldn’t tell you how to get there. Or maybe it’s that Yemenite place on Nevi’im street also in Jerusalem where you are always greeted with hot a falafel ball while you wait for your pita to be filled with salad, pickles, hummous, techina and zhug (chili pepper sauce.)
Hummous is a no brainer. I agree with all the experts that Ta’ami on Shammai street in Jerusalem is the best but Abu Shukri in the Old city isn’t far behind. I’ve been to several places in Tel Aviv that purport to be the best hummous in Israel but they pale in comparision. Okay, I concede some place on Yirmeyahu street was pretty damn good but the name escapes me.
Shwarma? I still haven’t found “the” place. But I do know one thing. Shwarma proprietors are universal in their hatred towards me. I love Shwarma. No, not that turkey or chicken garbage that passes as Shwarma these days but real lamb. I like it really well done and crispy. I ask for a little hummous, a tiny bit of zhug (a chili condiment) and a couple of chips. I don’t like putting in thirty different types of salads. My minimalist approach to shwarma eating is often frowned upon by shwarma stand proprietors. They usually give me the evil eye. I can read their thoughts.
“How dare you request just meat! This means I must give you more meat to make up for the space in the pita that the salad would fill! I should charge you more for this outrageous act! You shall be punished!”
The punishment is putting the hummous and the zhug at the way bottom of the pita so the last bite is super messy and unreasonably spicey. After the last bite there is obviously no more pita to douse the chili peppers blistering my mouth.
Reality TV
Nothing like a sick day to catch up on TV watching.
When I first moved to Israel in the mid-80s, there was only one channel and a dearth of American programming. We’d wait all week for that lone episode of LA Law. In fact, we had to tune into Jordan’s English-language station in order to watch B-grade made-for-TV movies, and an occasional classic like The Graduate.
Thankfully, those days are gone. I’m not even talking about all the TiVo equivalents available here that enable you to program your own station. Just the basic cable packing from the Golden Channels had me warm and fuzzy, as I was able to reconnect with reruns of some of my favorite guilty pleasures of the last few years.
Before the kids started coming home from school, I managed to view episodes of Boston Public, the Gilmore Girls and Chicago Hope (from the Christine Lahti years).
Then, being a music freak, I always tune into VH1 a few times to see what’s showing. Israel provides the European version of VH1 which is infinitely inferior to the American edition. However, the one saving grace is the abundance of old video clips they run from London’s The Beat Club – recorded mostly in the 60s and 70s.
I caught a quaint lip-synced version of Manfred Mann’s “The Mighty Quinn” and a hilarious 1979 clip of Supertramp singing that jaunty song that starts “Take a Look at my girlfriend..” (It’s perplexing how any of them had girlfriends to sing about – as they epitomized the unwashed, hippie ethic that was quickly headed to extinction thanks to the spewing bile of The Sex Pistols and The Clash.)
The afternoon and early evening saw a couple reruns of Everybody Loves Raymond and King Of Queens, and by then, the combination of the flu and too much TV had turned my brain to mush.
But I couldn’t resist flipping through the three different nightly news programs to hear about the referendum bill failing and the plans for disengagement going full steam ahead. Nothing like a reality show to bring a sick boy back to life.
When Israeli eyes are smiling
I love the Irish.
The Irish in Tel Aviv were enjoying Purim yesterday. Purim is a Jewish holiday which celebrates the foiling of a plot against the Jews by the wicked Haman.
It has been said that most Jewish holidays have the same basis. They tried to kill us all, let’s eat. The Irish are equally consistent. It’s a holiday, let’s drink.
Full story from The Irish Times.
The Israel-Ireland World Cup qualifying match (that’s soccer for you Americans) was held last night in Tel Aviv. Roughly 3000 Irishmen and women came upon Tel Aviv in one big swoop. The Irish football fans are known for their undying dedication to their team and will follow them anywhere to support them. Tel Aviv, to their credit, welcomed the Irish with open arms. Some say that they overcompensated a bit, but after spending yesterday in Tel Aviv, I quickly realized nothing could be further from the truth. It was nice to see Irish flags waving over hayarkon street . The weather was beautiful and the beach and promenade was packed with Israelis and Irishmen alike. The cultural differences were apparent though. The Israelis were enjoying coffee in the cafes that line the beach while the pubs across the treat were filled to the brim with the Irish with glasses…well..for a lack of better expression…filled to the brim. But it wasn’t a completely segregated scene. I saw many Israelis reveling and shmoozing with the Irish folk in the bars and one too many pasty Irishman soaking in the sun’s rays on the beach. I also witnessed random Israelis approaching green-clad Irishmen and striking up conversations. The vibes were great, and for a moment, I felt transported back in time several years ago when the streets were packed with tourists and there was a constant feeling of positivity in the air.
Simply put, it was just a damn great day.
The game ended in a draw last night, with Ireland scoring in the first couple of minutes and Israeli player, Abbas Suwan scoring in the last thirty seconds to tie it up.
UPDATE: Check out the blogs of Shai, Lisa and Imshin for their impressions of the day.
Purim
We had such fun today! Dizengoff Street was very crowded. There were loads of people, many in fancy dress, but not enough. I don’t see how you can go to a fancy dress carnival without even a symbolic silly hat or something. Any way, it was pretty hectic. There were stalls and things at the edges and Brazilian dancers. We managed to see some body painting going on before we fled. You know me and crowds, not good friends. And our visitors from England – we didn’t want them completely shell shocked.
We were a party of ten, our cousins, my brother, and us, and we’d come in two taxis and a scooter. But getting there turned out to be the easy part. The problem was leaving. No taxis to be found, we eventually got a bus to north Dizengoff, where we went for a hummus lunch at Hummus Assaf, our favorite.
It was a beautiful day, lovely and sunny. Not too cold, not too hot, just right, and most important – no rain. Amazingly, we’d managed to get everyone at least slightly dressed up. Even Bish had this horrible blond wig on. It went well with the stubble on his chin! He looked rather forbidding, but he still managed to get on like a house on fire with my cousin’s youngest daughter. There are three of them, and they all got rides on Bish’s scooter. Plucky parents!
The girls seemed to get on fine with my two, eventually, after the ice broke a bit. My girls started to discover what I have known all along – that their English is far better than they realize. Their problem was understanding their cousins’ London accents. Not quite the same as Hollywood sitcoms.
After lunch we went for a walk along the Yarkon River, which was hopping. Loads of people, walking, riding bikes, rowing. Hearing music from the other bank we made our way over towards the crowds we could see. They were selling Irish beer and they had bands playing Irish songs.
You see, tomorrow night there’s a big soccer game in Tel Aviv between Israel and Ireland. Tel Aviv is apparently full of Irish fans. We even spotted a few at the happening in the park. They got them up to sing ‘It’s a long way to Tiperrary’ and have a drinking contest.
So there were stalls and things there. We particularly liked the mock sumo wrestling. It’s good – two people from the crowd put on suits that make them look (and weigh) like sumo wrestlers and then they have a go at each other.
I’m so glad we took them out. We usually steer clear from crowded events and today really was fun, even Dizengoff.
No photos. I forgot the camera, as usual.
My sister had our cousins over for dinner this evening. I’m afraid we must have worn them out, because she rang to tell us that the girls were passed out on the couch. Serves her right for not inviting us!
Cross posted on Not a Fish.
The Train, Boss! The Train!
Wonderful news: after a seven-year break, Jerusalem is about to get train service again. This train is the slower of two lines we’ll be getting and will take approximately 73 minutes to reach Tel Aviv, going through Beit Shemesh and other places. (The speed is slower is because this particular line uses the old Ottoman rail route, which is so full of curves that the trains cannot travel along it safely at full speed. There were many jokes about just how slow the old service was, one of which was that a passenger could leave the train during the trip in order to pick wildflowers and then re-board the train with no problem. In 2008 there will be a faster train from Jerusalem to Tel Aviv, which will take approximately half an hour to arrive.)
Here are two sites for more information: Jerusalemrail.org and Railnewsil.com.
This new service is a far cry from what there used to be (see Imshin’s post at Israelity for more details). Israel’s trains are clean, run on time and are just plain delightful.
(I must admit to a certain amount of bias. I happen to like trains. A lot. I’m especially fond of the New York subway system, which I rode quite a bit these past two weeks when I got to travel to the United States for the first time since I moved to Israel thirteen years ago. Also, when a good friend asked me what I’d like to do for a fairly significant birthday I have coming up next month, my answer was: a trip to the Israel Train Museum in Haifa. I kid you not.)
Seeing that it’s almost Shabbat, I’ll have to post about my trip to the States another time. For now, I think I’ll start making plans to ride the Jerusalem train on Saturday night, April 9, when it goes into service for the first time. Yesh!
What? I can hear readers asking. Ride the train to Tel Aviv and back just for fun? And when the bus takes so much less time?
Well, um, yes. Did I happen to mention I like trains?
(Cross-posted on Elms in the Yard)
A fast, I mean quick post
Filed under: General, Holidays, Immigrant Moments, Life
Yes, today… the day immediately preceding Purim, is a fast day (Ta’anit Esther) and you’ll never guess who forgot to wean himself off of coffee.
Anyone care to venture a wild guess?
Unfortunately, I forgot to set my alarm to wake me up in time for my pre-dawn caffeine infusion… and the day has been out of sorts ever since.
So far, the big challenge of the day was picking up a new hitchhiker who had called last night to arrange a ride.
I had never driven this particular person before, but since I only had one soldier and a couple of academics from Ben Gurion University coming with me, I had no problem offering up the last seat. The problems began when I pulled up to the bus stop where I had arranged to meet this person.
[At this point you're probably scratching your head and asking yourself why I'm avoiding the use of gender-specific personal pronouns. The reason is that in English, I can, DAMMIT!]
The name I had written down when the hitchhiker called was one of those vague modern Israeli names that could easily belong to either a boy or girl. But from the voice on the phone it was clear that I was speaking to a young woman… so during the entire conversation I adjusted my Hebrew verb endings accordingly.
When I pulled up to the pre-arranged pick-up point she was nowhere to be seen. There were a few male soldiers and a skinny 13 or 14-year-old boy waiting at the bus stop… but no girls!
I proceeded to tell the other occupants of the car how annoying it was that this thoughtless girl was either late or had stood me up altogether… and cringed at the first twinges as the caffeine headache began to take shape just above my ears!
Being delayed was mildly annoying, but I decided to wait a few minutes in case she was running late.
While we sat waiting, this 13 or 14-year-old boy walked up and knocked on the car window. Since there was only the one extra seat, I waved him away with the ever-so-polite Israeli hand sign for ‘no’ (wagging the raised index finger from side to side while staring intently in another direction).
After a minute or two the boy again approached the car, and this time I rolled down the window and explained abruptly that the last seat was reserved for someone (of course I used the feminine form of the word ’someone’; Mi’she’hee.
After I had made this very gender-specific statement, the teen-aged boy asked me, in a high wavering voice, if I was David.
Giggles and snorts escaped from the female soldier sitting behind me, and one of the academics grinned knowingly in my direction waiting to see how I would handle my gaff.
Obvious now to all… I had mistaken this teen-aged boy for a girl on the phone, which was vexing enough. But as he got into the car I realized that he hadn’t made any attempt to correct me throughout our phone conversation, despite the fact that I had repeatedly addressed him as if he were a girl!
Between the gender blunder on the phone and then waving him off with the curt statement that “the seat is saved for [a female] someone”, my cheeks must have been bright red for most of the trip.
Now, as I sit at my desk suffering from the beginnings of severe caffeine withdrawal, I’m no longer feeling embarrassed… just a little miffed.
I’m sorry, if you have a gender-neutral name and your pre-pubescent voice has yet to change… the burden is on you to gently correct the hapless driver if he mistakenly addresses you as if you are a girl, mmmkay?
I make enough bone-headed mistakes in Hebrew when I’ve had my morning soup bowl cup of coffee… I don’t need any outside help, thank-you-very-much!
[Cross-posted on treppenwitz]
Hello, Elijah Speaking
I refer, of course, to the biblical prophet Elijah, one of the major figures in the Book of Kings. He was renowned for his fierce stand against idol worship and his dramatic ascent to heaven in a chariot of fire.
But Elijah also has a gentler side. According to Jewish tradition, he is present at every circumcision. He visits every Jewish home toward the end of the Passover seder to take a sip of wine or grape juice from the special cup each household lovingly sets aside for him. And every Saturday night Jews sing a hymn asking that he appear to announce the arrival of the Messiah, heralding a time of peace and tranquility the like of which we have never seen on earth.
In Jewish folklore, Elijah the Prophet is a kind of Jewish Superman. (Or perhaps Superman is the American Elijah?) He is the one who steps in at the last possible moment, when the situation is desperate and there seems to be no way out. No task is too great for him, no method too dangerous, if it means saving the life or livelihood of a person in trouble. According to one story, Elijah once appeared in the guise of a prostitute in order to rescue an innocent man fleeing capture. In another, he built a palace by himself overnight in order to save the livelihood of a poor man. Elijah is also learned in all the secrets of the cosmos, though only a privileged few merit to study them together with the immortal prophet.
In every generation, including this one, people have their own stories to tell about meeting Elijah. All these stories have one thing in common: when things are at their worst, Elijah the Prophet appears to save the situation, giving people the encouragement they need to go on or just doing something nice for someone who could use a favor.
Does Elijah the Prophet really spend his time roaming the earth, seeking out people who need help? I don’t know. But I believe that Elijah is potentially every one of us. To put it another way, perhaps every human being is endowed with a spark of Elijah’s essence. At some point in our lives, someone may need help just when we happen to be able to provide it. And as soon as we take up the challenge we become Elijah, if only for a brief moment. That’s what I think, anyway.
Here’s an example. About fifteen years ago a newly observant friend of mine was in a bookstore in a small Israeli town. He wanted to buy a prayer book but was a bit short of cash. Another man who did not know my friend at all happened to be in the store just then and overheard the conversation between my friend and the proprietor. He rushed over to the counter, plunked down the remaining amount and dashed out of the bookstore before my friend could thank him. My friend was convinced that this man was Elijah. I agree.
Then there’s what happened to a close friend of mine just a few weeks ago. This extraordinary woman has been caring for her seriously ill husband for more than a year and a half. Unfortunately, during this time their financial situation has become quite challenging, to put it mildly.
Early one morning, my friend’s doorbell rang. Since she was busy taking care of her husband, she couldn’t answer right away. When she opened the door a short while later, she found a plastic bag tied to the screen-door latch containing hot, fresh bread and an unmarked envelope. The envelope contained a generous donation for my friend and her husband. There was nothing else, no note of explanation. Just the bread and the envelope.
As my astonished friend stood holding the bag, her phone rang. On the other end was a woman whose voice she didn’t recognize.
“Are you home?” the woman asked.
“Yes,” my friend replied, perplexed. “Who is this?”
“We left a bag on your door,” the woman said. “Did you find it?”
“Yes, but who is this?” my friend persisted.
“That’s not important,” the woman answered.
“Please, I would really like to be able to thank you properly,” my friend said.
“No, no, it’s really not important,” the woman said. “I just wanted to make sure you received the bag.”
“But I want to thank you,” my friend said. “Please, won’t you tell me who you are?”
“Friends,” the woman answered. “We just want to help. All the best to you.”
And with that, Elijah said goodbye and hung up.
(Cross-posted on Elms in the Yard)
The Grinch who stole Purim
Kids in Israel look forward to Purim the whole year. It’s Mardi Gras, Carnival, and Halloween rolled into one, and teenagers have as much fun as first graders.
My two teenage daughters (16 and 13) had big plans this year. Both their schools were having big masquerade parties today (the last day of school before a four-day vacation). Then tonight, they were going to an all-night gathering of their youth group – where the oldest is a counselor and the youngest a member. These good clean fun events are for some reason called in Hebrew – layla lavan ‘white night’.
Perhaps it’s because with the light of day, they then head off for an organized day long jaunt from Jerusalem to the North, returning late at night, making for a 24 hour fun-filled event.
But just like the twists and turns of the Megilla which is read on Purim, the girls’ plans took an unexpected detour when, yesterday morning, they both woke up with sore throats and fevers.
A quick trip to the doctor confirmed a bacterial infection (strep throat) and a heavy duty dose of antibiotics. So now, their Purim is a stay home, dress down day.
On my way home tonight, I’ll buy them chocolate oznai haman -hamentashen – (that thank God they started to make in other flavors besides poppy a few years ago), and I’ll stop off to buy a scary mask at one of the dozens of outdoor kiosks selling Purim paraphernalia, and surprise them when I get home.
After all, just because the Grinch stole their Purim, it doesn’t mean that they shouldn’t steal it right back.
Lunatics running the asylum
The two weeks leading up to the Jewish holiday of Purim are always fun to watch.
During this festive fortnight of pre-holiday preparation, Israeli schoolkids, who on the best of days are somewhat less than deferential towards their teachers, drop the last pretense of decorum and let it all hang out!
In my kid’s school, this period is celebrated with skits and songs lampooning teachers and school administrators (just imagine how far the kids go when on normal days they call the teachers by their first names!)… strange and creative modes of dress… and of course a complete moratorium on the assigning or completing of homework.
In addition, many of the teachers have instituted special ‘rules’ to capture what little remains of their charges attention. For instance, my daughter’s teacher promised to buy a cake for the class each time her cell phone rang this week during class. Needless to say, many parents were recruited to place a well-timed call… resulting in a cake a week for the foreseeable future!
Every free moment during the children’s day seems to be spent breathlessly discussing costumes and Purim plans with their friends… and the community e-mail list has been abuzz with panicked requests for an incredible array of odd accessories needed to complete purim costumes (e.g. light saber, bunny ears, fedora hat, clown shoes, wedding gown, tiara… you get the idea).
Even the folks at work have gotten into the spirit. Today, as I briefed a military attache from a medium-sized Asian country, my secretary served Oznei Haman (Hamentashen) cookies with the coffee.
Somewhere along the line this officer had been told a little about the upcoming holiday and he asked a question about the cookies. This prompted a lively discussion about a political struggle in ancient Persia… with an Asian attache… who had come to be briefed on a piece of Israeli military technology.
Yes, on many levels the lunatics really seem to be running the asylum.
[Crossblogged on treppenwitz]
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