Shiner
My wife Jody and I were out for our morning run. We’d headed out from our home in Baka and were on the hill heading up towards the Ramat Rachel kibbutz. Normally I’m in front but I was feeling sluggish this morning and Jody was practically sprinting.
Our running order turned out to be a blessing when I saw Jody go down about 10 meters in front of me. She’d tripped and was now sprawled on the sidewalk. As I reached her, I could tell it was nothing too serious. She was alert, there was no blood, no shrieks of pain indicating a break of any sort. There was just a nasty scrape above her right eye that began to swell as we surveyed the damage; she’d obviously gone down face first.
Now I don’t want to make a big deal about Jody’s condition –she’s really fine, other than a few aches, pains, and a small dose of hurt pride. What was remarkable, however, was the response of the Israelis who drove by.
Car after car – including the learners and vehicles driven by Israeli Arabs on their way to nearby Sur Baher – pulled over and asked if they could help. One guy even jumped out of his car before we could send him back on his way, since Jody could (and did) walk home.
We’ve all heard comparisons between countries – those in which someone could be laying on the pavement and no one stops, and others where basic humanity trumps narcissistic indifference. Israel, I am proud to say, fits into the latter category.
There’s no dramatic surprise ending here. We didn’t get a ride to the hospital just in the nick of time to stop a catastrophic brain hemorrhage. As I write this, Jody is sitting talking to a girlfriend on the phone with a pack of frozen peas on her forehead. But I am happy to be surrounded by a community that really cares.
Pin-ups
I’m a sucker for calendars, because I love the feeling of filling up the days of the month with what’s happening, from dentist appointments and school events to visits from friends, deadlines and, hopefully, vacations. So the advent of a new year is always advantageous for me, because everyone is passing out calendars these days.
There’s my fruit-and-vegetable guy, who always prints a magnetic one for the fridge:
And Kibbutz Ramat Rachel, which runs the pool and gym complex in our area, was offering their own version this year:
My mother-in-law always buys one for us each year, because she’s also a big fan of calendar-filling:
And then I noticed this item in Ha’aretz, pointing out that this year’s Carlsberg Beer calendar is using Shas spiritual leader Rabbi Ovadia Yosef as the pinup figure to be admired, rather than the usual photos of good-looking young folk quaffing a few cold ones. According to the report, the calendar, which was distributed along with the Shas newspaper Yom Leyom, was seen as disrespectful by more than a few in the ultra Orthodox community. I can see that. But I gotta get a copy…
Signage
Filed under: design, General, Immigrant Moments, Israeliness
The sign for Yael and Zemer's wedding, at Ramat Rachel
After 14 years here, I actually like the fact that there’s a difference in opinion over whether a ‘kuf’ should be a ‘k’ or a ‘q.’ But what I am wondering is whether the signage misspellings are more about culture and less about language. That is, Israelis seem to like signs, certainly more than they like giving directions. (When asked for directions, most Israelis will tell you to go straight for a while, and then ask the next person for more directions.) And so, signs of all kinds tend to proliferate. There are now electronic signs letting passengers know how long they will have to wait for their bus to arrive. In Jerusalem, there are signs at each neighborhood offering the name of said neighborhood. For instance, many Kiryat Shmuel residents may have thought they were living in Rechavia (should it be ‘ch’ or ‘h’?) You can be sitting at the intersection of Baram and Hebron Road in Talpiot, and there’s a sign pointing toward Tel Aviv, which is sort of confusing given that you’re nowhere near Tel Aviv at that junction.
And there are the temporary handwritten signs, letting you know where Itzik and Dalia’s wedding is being held, with an arrow pointing in the general direction. It’s sort of the local equivalent of the New York Times Celebrations section, letting us know who’s getting married this week and where. You won’t necessarily end up at Ramat Rachel (one particular wedding hall locale) if you were to follow said signs (I like the one pictured here; they used the Ramat Rachel part of someone else’s wedding sign as part of theirs), but it’s a fun way to start the celebration. And who knows? Maybe that sign will help you get to where you’re going.
Shvitzing together
As I drove up the road toward Ramat Rachel the other afternoon, I thought about the fact that I was looking forward to a long-awaited Swedish massage — to offset the very physical aspects of new motherhood — while people living in the south were huddling in bomb shelters and sealed rooms, dealing with a very different set of expectations for the day.
But as usual, albeit unexpectedly, I found myself in a fairly altered reality sitting in the Jacuzzi before my massage. I had stepped in, gingerly, as one does, and relishing my first dip following the long months of pregnancy. As I slid down, savoring the hot bubbling water, I realized that the men around me — the Jacuzzi always seems to be filled with men with pot bellies — were all speaking Arabic. For better or for worse, that’s fairly unusual in the surroundings of the Ramat Rachel complex, which is a popular swimming pool and gym owned by the kibbutz and frequented by local, mostly Jewish, Jerusalemites. And it felt even more unusual, given the fact that Israeli Arabs haven’t been too pleased with Israel’s Gaza offensive and now the ground offensive.
I went on with my afternoon of relaxation, and soon realized that there must be some kind of company outing, because the entire complex was filled with Arab men; in the lockers near the massage rooms, in the sauna, in the steam room, and again, in the Jacuzzi. They didn’t seem bothered by my presence in the Jacuzzi, during the three minutes that I grabbed before my massage. I couldn’t help but wonder what they were talking about, and whether they were contemplating how unusual it was to be in fairly Jewish surroundings during this particular week. Moreover, the Ramat Rachel Jacuzzi looks out onto the towns of Gilo and Bethlehem; good choices for controversial views.
But as usual, people are people, talking about the most banal of subjects and issues, which was confirmed when the man to my left turned and asked me if it paid to go into the sauna and steamroom. I laughed at myself, and told him that it was all part of the ‘shvitz’ experience, and one that shouldn’t be missed.
When we bumped into each other in the sauna later on, he thanked me for the recommendation, and told his buddies — in perfect Hebrew, better than mine — that I was the one to be thanked for their relaxing round. We smiled at each other, and maybe, I think, thought to ourselves that it should always be like this. I know I did. I hope he did as well.
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