When in Israel…
I guess an Israeli going to visit Massada is like a New Yorker visiting the Statue of Liberty, or going to the top of the Empire State Building.
But after a weekend visit to the historic fortress atop the mountain overlooking the Dead Sea, I implore my fellow Israelis who haven’t been there in years to plan a trip now.
First of all, you wouldn’t recognize the place – it’s totally renovated (I mean the visitors’ center – no the ruins). Underground parking, a professionally made introductory film, and even a spanking new youth hostel make a visit to Massada a step into 21st century tourism.
And of course, the climb on the snake path is incomparably beautiful (you didn’t think I’d take the wimpy monorail, did you?). I thought I’d be carrying my five-year-old on my shoulders, but he got up there before everyone else.
Then, there’s the main event – walking through the rooms of Jewish history, as impressive now as when you did it with your youth group on your first visit to Israel so many years ago.
It didn’t hurt that the weather was Mideast wintry perfect – high 60s, sunny, – just right for a day long jaunt up and down the mountain. So don’t worry about being perceived as a tourist – go back to Massada. Just don’t wimp out on the monorail.
Words we use (and eat)
Once upon a time before supermarkets and neatly cellophaned meat in Styrofoam trays, we humans had a close relationship with someone called a ‘butcher’. Through this important relationship we acquired an incredible vocabulary and depth of knowledge regarding the butcher’s trade and wares.
Looking back on my typical American Jewish upbringing, it never occurred to me to ask any of the grown-ups what exactly ‘tenderloin’, ’skirt steak’, ‘flanken’ or ‘brisket’ were. Likewise, I knew terms like ‘roaster’, ‘fryer’, ‘pullet’, and ‘capon’ described various sorts of chicken… but if you put a gun to my head I couldn’t possibly be more specific than that.
Since my few outings to the butcher (Benny Levine’s on Madison Avenue in Bridgeport CT), were usually spent ’skating’ through ankle-deep sawdust (didn’t all butchers have sawdust on the floor?) and staring longingly at the candy display near the big, old-fashioned cash register, I was never in a position to question where these exotic names had come from or how to identify them. I simply assumed you asked the butcher and he gave you what you wanted.
When we moved to Israel I was delighted to note that even in supermarkets consumers typically had a face-to-face relationship with a knowledgeable butcher and frequently held extended discussions about cuts of beef and make specific requests regarding the quantity and type of chicken.
The only problem is that if in the states I only had the vaguest idea of what to call the mind-numbing array of meats and poultry… here in Israel I’ve been reduced to pointing like a Neanderthal at likely selections in the meat display and hoping for the best.
I bring this up because my ignorance of local nomenclature has me a little gun shy about ordering meat products here.
A perfect case in point would be the time I went to a popular shwarma joint in central Jerusalem and saw that they had 3 different rotisseries of roasting meat (shwarma). One was lamb, one was turkey and the third seemed to be a combination of the two. The guy ahead of me in line ordered ‘Me’urav’ (mixed), so I naturally assumed that he had requested some shwarma from the third ‘mixed’ rotisserie. It sounded like a good idea so when it came my turn I ordered the same.
When I bit into my pita stuffed with ‘me’urav’ I was nonplussed because it didn’t taste like either lamb or turkey. In fact it didn’t taste like shwarma! However, not wanting to look like an idiot I finished my portion and made a mental note to ask someone what I’d eaten.
As all you laughing Israelis already know, I found out soon enough that ‘me’urav’ is a Jerusalem mixed grill delicacy consisting of all the tripe and organs from inside the chicken that any civilized person would discard while cleaning the bird.
[~shudder~]
This culinary mishap caused by not knowing what the hell I was ordering had me deeply worried because one of the things I’ve fallen in love with here is something called ‘Pargiyot’. For the longest time I didn’t want to ask anyone what it was because I was secretly afraid that these tender morsels of grilled poultry would turn out to be the ass, feet and brains of the chicken!
I eventually went to a reliable friend and asked him what ‘pargiyot’ was. He explained that some restaurants mistranslated ‘pargiyot’ as ‘Cornish Hen’, but that this fallacy was based on bad information someone had given them that Cornish Hens were simply tiny chickens. He explained (and you can correct me if I’ve been misinformed), that ‘pargiyot’ are, in fact, very young chickens… basically what used to be called ’spring chickens’ in yesteryear.
So, this begs two questions:
1. Was I given good information about the definition of pargiyot?
2. If so, is there anything comparable in the US or Europe? I mean, other than an expression for someone who is young, is there an American equivalent of a ’spring chicken’ any more?
Cross-posted on treppenwitz
Interesting Times
I once read somewhere that the expression “May you live in interesting times” is actually a subtle kind of curse. I can see why that would be. Sometimes life in Israel is just a little more interesting than I would like. I suppose the same can be said of anywhere on the planet. Anyone who is not happy with the way things are going in his/her country might feel that there’s just a little too much going on; too much crime, too much apathy, too much suffering. If there was no war, no hunger, no disease, life would be quiet and peaceful. Soothing, rather than interesting.
That’s not to say we don’t have periods of calm and normalcy. Much of the time I feel my life is pretty much like what it would be if I lived in, say, Iowa. Of course, no life is completely free from worry. Like ripples in a pond, they spiral outward, from the personal to the global. My normal concerns center around things like the everyday health and well-being of my family, and whether we’ll be able to establish an Internet network in our house. From there, my thoughts may turn to neighborhood issues such as lack of parking, and whether the sixth graders who serve as crossing guards at the intersection near the school really know what they’re doing. The behavior and priorities of our city’s mayor cause me a great deal of anxiety, as well.
Then come national issues. Politically, our country is in a tenuous situation. Our prime minister is in a coma, and the politicians are behaving like characters in a soap opera. The overwhelming success of terrorists in the recent Palestinian elections is a clear message with grave security ramifications for Israel. Our education system, while badly in need of an overhaul, may be headed in the wrong direction with the Dovrat reforms. Budget cuts have left the elderly and ill vulnerable.
Finally there are issues that affect us all. Globally, the environment, health issues, and terrorism are the chief causes for concern. At times I wonder how much longer human beings will be able to inhabit this planet.
Of course, you can easily insert your own fears and worries in place of mine. These days, even children know enough about what is going on around them to lose early on that carefree innocence many of us seem to remember having had. Life is no longer the simple experience it once was.
The question is, how do we handle the interesting times in which we live? The ever-popular “head in the sand” posture is one of my favorites, but I can only maintain that stance for so long. Some people take refuge in egoism, devoting their energies exclusively to their own comfort and welfare. Others look outward, and wonder, “What can I do to make the world a better place?” Through the Internet, I have come to discover just how many people there are who adopt the latter as their platform. I have been amazed and humbled by the sheer numbers of people who are willing to use their time, in a multitude of ways, to bring comfort and cheer to others. The cynics among us may feel that such actions, though well-intended, actually accomplish very little. I beg to differ.
It is easy enough today, through the marvels of cyberspace, to discover just what people think and feel. On-line newspaper articles, interviews and blogs enable us to get inside the minds of others. To those in need, on the receiving end of the help and good wishes of others, each small act of kindness makes an enormous difference. And those who know the story of the Starfish know that by taking action, the givers are also helping themselves.
Interesting, isn’t it?
This post also appears on my website, Postcards from Israel.
Top Ten Good Things to Come Out of the Hamas Election Victory
We’re all sort of walking around on egg shells following last week’s Hamas victory in the Palestinian Legislative Council elections.
But, there’s a humorous side to everything, like this list courtesy of our friend and resident hard liner Elli:
Top Ten Good Things
to Come Out of the Hamas Election Victory:
10. 95% of winning candidates will probably blow themselves up by end of first term.
9. Government officials now easily recognizable from their FBI Most Wanted Terrorist Mugshots.
8. Finally a government to compete with Iran for prize of Most Psychotic Government.
7. Allows AP to title pics of kids dressed in Suicide-Bomber costumes with the line “Kids dress up as favorite Government officials”.
6. Palestinian C-Span channel will probably have parental advisory for graphic violence.
5. May encourage al-Qaeda sleeper cell members to abandon terrorist plots in favor of seeking cushy government desk jobs.
4. Any political filibuster in the new Pali-gov. would now probably be deemed as “fighting the war on terror”.
3. Now calling the Palestinian government a “Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing” is just wrong.
2. Finally allows for Hammas version of the TV show “West Wing,” which promises to be just like the show “24″, just from the terrorists’ perspective.
1. Makes answering the question “Do the Palestinian people support terrorism?” a no brainer
With regards, from Egypt
Despite having lived here 20 years, I’ve always felt it difficult to behave like an Israeli when comes to working around the system.
Native Israelis don’t pay list price, know somebody in every office or store that does them favors, and generally are able to finagle just about anything they need at the price they want to pay. Whether it’s a combination of hutzpah and dread of being known as a ‘frier’ (sucker), or just an inbred genetic trait of not taking ‘no’ for an answer, Israelis refuse to take things at face value.
I joined the ranks of honorary Israeli this week, after receiving my 14-year-old daughter’s monthly cell phone bill. We got her the phone because she travels to school each day on two busses, and we just wanted her to be able to contact us at any time – for the obvious reasons. We even worked out a package whereby she could call home for free (some of the Israeli ingenuity coming into play.) And she generally doesn’t abuse the privilege of having a phone, with most bills being quite modest.
So it was with some astonishment that I opened up the bill and saw that is was a couple hundred shekels more than normal. Looking into the details, I noticed that the culprit was four phone calls to our home number from Egypt! Each call was only for a couple minutes but was 30 or 40 shekels a piece.
While I don’t track her every move, I was reasonably certain Sarit hadn’t suddenly left on a spur of the moment jaunt to Sinai with her friends. But after consulting with her, we realized that the dates of the calls did coincide with her annual class trip – this year spent camping in the Negev.
I immediately called our cell phone company Cellcom, and when I got through to a service rep, I asked her to check out the bill. I told her that Sarit had never been in Egypt and asked for an explanation.
She cheerfully responded that in some cases in the Negev, a phone carrier from Egypt takes over the phone signal, and it’s as if you’re calling Israel from another country. She kind of chuckled, as if to say, ‘those darn Egyptians… what can you do?’
I said, “Well, the last time I checked, the Negev was still part of Israel, and my daughter gets free calls home from anywhere in Israel. I’m not going to pay for these calls, and if I do, I’m switching phone companies.”
She asked me to hold for a minute, and when she came back on, announced that those calls would be deducted from my bill, and apologized for any inconvenience.
When I later recounted the conversation to Sarit, she said, “Wow, you’re becoming Israeli!”
I didn’t know whether to take that as an insult or a compliment.
Drilling for Identity
There was nothing I could do about it. I knew that. Still, no one enjoys living next door to a construction site. Especially when the two dwellings in question share a common wall and the noise is so loud you literally have to go into the stairwell to make a phone call.
When the drilling first started, I figured our neighbors were probably doing a little touch up work. Putting in a new light fixture or something. Happens all the time in this nation under perpetual renovation.
When it went on for another day, then two, I went to check out the scene.
The house was full of construction workers. Large moving trucks were packing up the existing contents of the apartment – furniture, appliances, paintings, you name it. The apartment’s residents had clearly left for quieter pastures.
I saw a man talking on a cell phone. His body language had a bravado that could only be associated with the position of kablan – Hebrew for contractor or foreman.
I mustered up my best construction worker Hebrew. “So, you’re putting in a new kitchen, or…” It was more of a statement than a question.
“Guttin’ the whole thing,” he finished my sentence.
“Upstairs and downstairs?”
He managed a slight smile. This obviously wasn’t the first time someone had asked this question.
There was one more thing I needed to know. “Um, how long do you think it will take?” I asked, waiting in dread for the reply.
“Three months.”
Ouch. Because everyone knows that whatever a contractor in Israel says, multiply by a minimum of two. Or three.
There was a time when I looked forward to construction. One of my very first Israel experiences was in 1984 when I signed up for the Livnot U’Lehibanot program in the old city of Tsfat.
Known in English as “To Build and to be Built,” the program placed a couple dozen twentysomethings in a centuries-old stone house where we spent mornings doing construction projects around town and studying our Jewish roots after lunch. It was the very first Jewish reality show…albeit with a very different payoff (in my case, I decided to stay in Israel where I later met my wife Jody – in Tsfat no less – and we subsequently chose to do a little building of our own).
The next morning, the drilling jolted me out of my reverie – and out of bed at 7:00 AM. I turned to wake Jody, but she was already up.
“Do you think there’s a law governing how early they can start?” I said bitterly.
“What?” Jody mumbled, unable to hear me over the ongoing din. Yes, it was that loud.
We called “106”, the Jerusalem municipal hotline. The response was not encouraging.
“They can start as early as 6:00 AM,” explained Shmulik, the friendly but perfunctory clerk on the other end. “And they don’t have to stop until eleven at night.”
The Hebrew word for renovation is shiputz. At this point, it sounded more like a curse. Shi-pootz…Shee…pootzzzzz….
Feeling like a condemned man, I stepped into the stairwell to think. I wasn’t alone. Two other neighbors were also looking for escape.
“We should do something,” one said, apparently in a more militant mood than me.
“Like what?” I said, not wanting to sound as defeatist as I felt. But logic was not in our favor. “They do have a right to fix up their place.” Indeed, I knew that it would not be that long before Jody and I would be doing the same thing with the apartment we had recently purchased.
“We could ask them to limit the work to certain hours,” one neighbor offered. “Get a break in the middle of the day, maybe?”
Israeli law actually defines the time between 2:00 PM and 4:00 PM as “Quiet Hours.” Kids playing ball on the street are routinely chastised by napping neighbors. How much more so then would be knocking down walls with several sledgehammers simultaneously.
“No…that would just extend the whole nightmare by another month.” I sighed.
“Maybe we should talk to a lawyer. I bet they don’t have all their permits in place…”
Which was undoubtedly true. No one in Israel starts a construction project by asking questions that might receive a negative response. There’s even an army term for it – “she’elah kitbag.”
A soldier asks his commanding officer if they should wear their heavy fully-loaded backpacks – in Hebrew their kitbags – on the upcoming 25 kilometer hike. As soon as the question is asked, the answer will undoubtedly be “of course.”
I shook my head. Kitbag or not, I knew I’d have to see the owners of that apartment in our shared courtyard or on the street for years to come. And anyway, I’m not the type who likes to make waves. There was only one thing to do: grin and bear it.
Or maybe…I could work on my own attitude. There must be some way to see some good in all this.
Jody, as so often is the case, provided the positive-thinking ammo I needed. “At least they’re here,” she said.
Say what? But she was right. Our noisy neighbors had just returned from several years in the States. Many Israelis who head out to North America never return. They get jobs in hi-tech or they open a kosher burger joint. They say they’re coming back someday, but then the kids get settled in school and, well…
But this family had gone, made some dough, and decided to come back. Whether by conscious intention or not, they were making a courageous commitment to stand with the people of Israel, to be a part of this society despite all the tensions and dangers…and apparently to do it in style. I might not like the inconvenience, but at least it was patriotic. That had to be some kind of silver lining.
But don’t turn to me now and tell me how wonderful it that I’m no longer tearing my hair out, how I’ve learned to embrace the noise.
I mean come on, I’m not that noble.
———————–
Brian Blum is a journalist and entrepreneur. His latest startup Bloggerce offers publishing services to budding bloggers. He lives in the Baka neighborhood of Jerusalem with his wife and three children. This article was cross posted at This Normal Life.
Pitzutz
I was chatting with a friend the other day about slang in Israel.
Only in Israel – a site of many terrorist attacks – could the word ‘pitzutz‘ (definition: explosion) become a word to describe something amazing. You can say the ‘party was a pitzutz’ or that you ‘exploded’ with laughter.
Moreover, if you really love something… then you ‘die for it’ (met al zeh)…
‘Squandering the time’, which sounds better in Hebrew (haval al hazman) and to which a novice Hebrew speaker would sound like an insult is actually a huge compliment.
The examples are endless…
Miserable Company
Whoever coined the phrase “misery loves company” was clearly having a Scheissdreck day and did something nasty to co-workers like hiding all the coffee or letting cockroaches loose in the building, just to clap hands and laugh with evil glee as others squirmed.
I am having a Scheissdreck day. But being of saintly nature I am taking the high road and offering servitude rather than wallow in self pity of my own making.
In other words, I’m spouting advice to people in worse shape than myself. It makes me feel better and I get to say: Aren’t I wonderful for doing that? And: Isn’t my life quite grand, after all?
Except I don’t use the word “grand” as a rule.
One of the things I do on a monthly basis is ring up people who have recently emigrated to Holy Land Central (HLC) to offer information, advice or help with the process of acclimating to good ‘ol HLC. It can be QUITE the rollercoaster ride, getting used to life here. I know. Remember? I’m having a Scheissdreck day.
Some days, picking up the phone to wade through the hundred or so people on my list feels burdensome. Do I really want to chit-chat AGAIN about the Absorption Ministry staff ostensibly hired to aid ALL immigrants and not just their brethren from back yonder in Russia?
Other days – like on Scheissdreck days – speaking with people who haven’t worked in 9 months, who have lost all their worldly possessions, which just arrived in a shipment to an apartment fire, who are being wheedled out of savings by cheating skeevers assuming they’re “rich Americans” with bulging pockets and who, accustomed to corporate, powerhouse positions now sit jobless and listless questioning the move to HLC helps put all of that Scheiss and dreck right back in its place.
We all came here for different reasons and we all land in very different ways. It genuinely helps my landing when I aid others with theirs. Schoingemacht. Mother Theresa.
Visit the Drive Thru…Always hot, always fresh
Your serve
Had a big Friday. My daughter’s junior high school hosted their second annual ‘Family Volleyball Tournament.’ Each team consists of a student and two family members of her choice.
In our case, I was the tallest in the family, so I was in without even a tryout. And rounding out the team was our 11-year-old son, a budding volleyball player himself.
Unfortunately, this was the same lineup we fielded last year, when we got severely trounced and didn’t make it past the first round of games.
Seems that unlike our habit of sticking to the nuclear family, some of the kids decided to bolster the troops by bringing in their 20-year-old, 6′ 2″ cousins straight out of a special military conditioning course. And the third players were equally tall and just as intimidating.
So much for a friendly, family game.
The night before, Sarit, Koby and I did a little practicing, trying to fine tune some fancy passing and teamwork. But on game day, just like last year, the big kids came out to play. And even though we improved with every game, we didn’t make the win column.
At least this year, Sarit talked to us afterwards, unlike last year when her sense of competitiveness got the better of her. And she’s learning. She’s already making plans for her 6′ 4″ basketball playing American cousin to fly in next year for the tournament.
Red Lines
It was only a matter of time before one of our kids demanded access to what may be the most rebellious, dangerous and terrifying activities known to parents in Israel.
In this case, the culprit in question was twelve-year-old Merav, and her act of teenage defiance? She wanted to ride the bus.
In normal circumstances, this shouldn’t cause fits of apoplexy. But these past five years have not been normal times and no one in our family – nor most of our friends – has taken public transportation since September 2000 when suicide bombers began regularly targeting buses, making getting from here to there a matter of life or death…literally.
Merav didn’t set out to deliberately challenge our value system. She simply wanted to go see the latest Harry Potter movie at the Malcha Mall. She had gotten together a group of friends, but our five-seater Toyota Corolla wasn’t large enough to schlep them all. None of the other parents were available to drive at that hour.
“All my friends are allowed to take the bus,” Merav argued. Not an entirely convincing argument as far as I was concerned. If their parents don’t mind them taking a chance at getting blown up, how is that my fault?
But the truth is, it was more than just Merav’s wanting to experience the joys of standing packed like a jar of gefilte fish at the kosher mini-market the night before Passover while a surly driver yells “nu, chevre…get to know your neighbor and move on back…beseder?”
At twelve years old, Merav was tentatively trying on a tad of pre-teen independence.
The unspoken subtext to her request was that, if granted, she and her friends would be loosed on the mall on their own with no parents hovering nearby, no chaperone at the theater, no one handing over the money to the pizza parlor cashier and suggesting that maybe she forego super-sizing that Coke and take a swig from the bottle of water she had sensibly carried with her from home instead.
Taking the bus, then, was part of the overall package, the first link in a chain of freedom. This was more about girl power than confronting terrorists.
As I mulled over how to respond, I thought about a lecture I had heard only the night before by David Horowitz, Editor-in-Chief of the Jerusalem Post, given at the Moreshet Avraham synagogue in Jerusalem. His thesis was that Israelis managed to cope with the last five plus years of violence by creating entirely imaginary but mentally manageable “red lines” of what was or was not a permissible security risk.
Some of us stopped going out to eat in restaurants and cafes entirely for awhile, and when we returned it was only to those that had armed guards posted outside. Mahane Yehuda, Jerusalem’s colorful fruit and vegetable market, became off limits after a spate of bombings there. And most of us thought twice before taking the bus, justifying tedious carpools and expensive taxis before stepping foot again on Egged, our national carrier.
Despite the fact that, statistically, one always remained in far graver danger of winding up in a traffic accident while traveling in a private car, Horowitz characterized our pastime of picking and choosing as ultimately essential. The situation of this last half decade has not just been one of inconvenience, he said, but of a true existential conflict.
Had our resolve broken; had Israelis either retreated to cower indoors afraid to confront the reality which was forced upon us…or fled entirely to what we perceived as safer shores someplace else, we wouldn’t be sitting here having a conversation about Harry Potter or pizza at the mall at all. We shouldn’t be too hard on ourselves, Horowitz concluded, if creating these fictional red lines helped save our sanity, if not the State itself.
But maybe it was time. After all, security has improved dramatically. Downtown Jerusalem, which for a time had become a depressing ghost town, is now packed with tourists and locals alike. One block of Jaffa Street alone sports a brand new Aroma Café followed by a Café Hillel next door to the first Jerusalem branch of the American chain Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf.
Our synagogue just voted to remove the volunteer armed guards that have protected the entrance to the building during Shabbat services for the past five years. My wife Jody and I are once again traveling on roads and to places we wouldn’t have deemed passable just a short time ago.
And riding the bus in Israel is not just a means to an end; it’s been a source of national pride. Before September 2000, it was common to see kids as young as six years old alone or with a group of friends on their way to and from school, clutching their cartissia (or monthly pass). Adults would look out for the kids; drivers would go out of their way to make sure no one got lost. It was part of the Israeli mystique of freedom, where walking through a public park after dark poses scant danger of a midnight mugging.
And I thought: was it now time for us to drop the public transportation taboo too?
But Merav had already decided for us. At 4:30 PM, she headed out to meet her friends at the corner from where they would walk to the bus stop. One of the girls was planning to meet them at the mall. At 5:20 PM, the girl called us at home. Where were Merav and the other girls, she wanted to know? They hadn’t arrived yet.
We told her to wait at the entrance to the movie theater while I immediately checked the Internet. No news of a bombing.
But 20 minutes later, the girl called again. Still no sign of them. We had been trying to give Merav a little independence (as long as we’d let her go in the first place) but at this point, Jody broke down and called Merav on the cell phone she’d borrowed from me.
“Where are you?” I heard Jody say to Merav. Then to me: “She’s still on the bus…stuck in traffic.” Then back to Merav: “Call us when you get there, OK?”
We didn’t hear from Merav again until she arrived home at 10:30 PM.
“How was it?” I asked innocently when Merav strolled in the door still flush from her big night out.
“Disappointing,” Merav replied.
“Really?” I said.
“Yeah…they changed too much of the movie from the book.”
“I meant how was the bus ride.”
“Oh, that…it was a little boring.”
“So you won’t be doing it again?” I asked, my hopes rising slightly.
Merav looked straight at me and with a slight downtown of her lips coupled with an almost imperceptible narrowing of her eyes, she shot me a look that could wither the muggle Prime Minister or perhaps Professor Dumbledore himself.
“Really, Abba…” was all she had to say.
I guess that’s one more red line we’ve marked off.
———————–
Brian Blum is a journalist and entrepreneur. His latest startup Bloggerce offers publishing services to budding bloggers. He lives in the Baka neighborhood of Jerusalem with his wife and three children. This article was cross posted at This Normal Life.
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