The man says, "I make a good living."

Israelis self- empower themselves by creating personal space through the facilitation of the use of automobile alert klaxons. Or, for those of you who did not attend university after 2001: Israelis love to honk their God-damned car horns.

Cabs will honk at you. Out for a 6 am run with iPod in hand and ears, running shoes on, sweat pouring down your back, water bottle and fanny pack in place? Cabs will still honk. They will honk even as you enter your house, as if to say “Allo! Pay me 9 shekel for driving you the last 2 meters up the sidewalk to your door. B'seder?” Are they so fastidious in making sure their horn works? You might think so, because in fact, cabs will honk at your even when they have a car full of customers going to another city.

Cabs are just the warm-up. Regular Israeli drivers are the real masters of the honk here. Has that car in front of you been at the intersection for more than 0.32 seconds?
*Honk!*
Did a mail truck stop to make a delivery? How dare they!
*Honk!*
Is an elderly nun standing on the opposite side of the road? That’s right,
*Honk!*
Are you crossing against the light?
Are you crossing with the light?
Are you not even crossing at all? Just eating schwarma?
*Honk!* *Honk!* *Honk!*
Is the van full of Police not pulling halfway into the crowded intersection, just so (as I saw this morning) you can make a right hand turn? If your license plate is 90-342-0902, than the answer is *Honk!*

Now in the US of A, honking at an officer of the peace is a way of stating “Sir or Madam, I have far to much money! Please give me a citation for a traffic violation so that I may better the civic welfare by $235 dollars.” But here in the State of Israel, the Police van just pulls into the intersection, blocks a lane of traffic, and the car behind tears into the right turn like a student at a Chabad cheyder digs into the last pot of fleischig cholent at Kiddush.

If you put an Israeli in the driver’s seat of a car, take a way the keys and have him/her sit there, they will just honk at random within 30 seconds. Better make that 10 seconds. Which raises the question: are Israeli roads so dangerous because people are so busy honking at everything that moves?

HONK! Sorry, you took too long to answer.


---------------------------------

No Orthodox Siddur has Tefilah L’nahag - a Prayer for the Driver- something needed very badly here. The Masorti siddur, thank God, does have such a tefilah, by R. Michael Graetz.

Our God and God of our ancestors, God of Abraham and Sarah,
God of Isaac and Rebecca, God of Jacob, Rachel and Leah;

May we reach our destination in peace, and return in peace to our homes. Imbue me with the will to discern that every human is created in your image, and that saving one person is like saving an entire world.

Grant me the wisdom to understand that nothing is more precious than human life,
neither time,
nor money,
neither honor nor revenge.

(The full prayer- in Hebrew and English, is here.)

שנה טובה ומתוקה

My lovely wife went to the large appliance store to get a plata, the name for the large electric hot plate (a.k.a. the bleeeeeech) that is used to warm foods on Shabbat. She was amazed to find the vast appliance store filled with workers strolling about, with drinks on the desks, cookies and cakes being shared, and a very informal atmosphere in effect. This is not what one expects from an Israeli store- except, she knew, that this is a store having a New Year’s Eve party. In Israel, Rosh Hashanah is the start of the new year for everyone- it really is a Jewish culture and calendar. Justinian and his calendar (as well Mr. Gregorian and his) are guests in this country in many ways, for in Israel January 1st is just another Monday in winter. Cliché it might be, but Judaism permeates life here; Rosh Hashanah is a holiday for secular Jews as well . . . although they don’t endure a 5 hour Musaf service, which may be why the ultra-Orthodox get so angry with them.

Agron Courtyard, CY, Jerusalem

We wish you all new year filled with joy and delight,
a year where war is diminished and peace abounds,
a year where success and prosperity replace doubt and shame,
a year of delicious fruits,
a year where diseases are cured and hunger is met with generosity,
a year of Torah, labor in the service of God and acts of loving kindness in the service of humanity.

I put it in your tefilin bag.

Singles Party Erupts – And Not In Laughter

WARNING: THIS ENTRY IS ABOUT YOUNG AMERICANS BEHAVING BADLY. IT IS NOT MEANT FOR MORE SENSITIVE READERS. TO BE SPECIFIC, IN THIS ENTRY, PEOPLE VOMIT ON VOMIT. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.


“I’m throwing a party and you are not invited,” says Mr. S, a recent college grad and one time Ramah student of mine. “Its a singles party,” he explains without much remorse. Well, that’s fair enough, but I do wonder how well the party will go. Many single members of my yeshiva will be going; some of whom are recently out of university, and a few are younger than that. Mine is not a party school, but it was about damn time for students to get a chance to indulge.

Today, I learned that the event was a rocking good time. One student did not show up for class at all, and Mr. S. looks like he has a brutal workout with Dr. Matsaki Hatsumi, the last living ninja master. I don’t bother Mr. S. when he dozes off during the Rosh Hashanah shiur (even though it is being presented be the Rosh Yeshiva himself). When he gets too close to actual snoring, however, I wake him and hand him a note. “Up all night playing Super Mario again?” No, he replies, just wait until I explain. He manages to stay conscious until the shiur ends, and then explains.

“The party was awesome,” he says, “until towards the end.” In the last part of the evening, he explained, the last few guests were sitting amidst the dim lights and drinks, when someone asks Mr. S: “hey- is she puking?” In the dark, it seems that a girl may be getting a bit ill. “No, no she’s not,” replies the host- and then it becomes obvious that she, in fact, is getting sick. Host and his friend rush her to the small extra bathroom, where they discover that someone was already there. Someone , to be specific, who made it to the toilet under their own power, which ran out too soon. This prior visitor never got the toilet lid lifted up, and managed to get sick everywhere. Our host and guest have only a moment to register this before they realize that they have a more pressing problem- the young lady they have escorted to the toilet, who now is engaged in what my peers once called “the technicolor yawn.”

How can it get any worse? Glad you asked. The prior situation is hardly resolved when suddenly a second guest, on the balcony, is also getting ill from over-indulgence. Someone is now attempting to bring this next happy camper to the same toilet where our host is handling his first customer. It goes downhill from there.

For most of us everyday life gives us enough to atone for; however some young people seem to need something special for the 10 days of repentance.
May they find forgiveness- and something to soothe their stomachs. So may we all. Amen.

Gamble, sir? With whom?

The most dangerous block in Israel

1600 Pennsylvania Avenue is the address of the White House. Everyone knows where the president lives. It’s on maps of every kind for Washington DC, and you can walk right up to the fence. It’s a charming view. Balfour Street is just as clearly marked on every Jerusalem map- as is JTS’s Shocken library, which is right in the middle of the block. But the building right across the street- the Prime Minister’s house- is not on most maps. Its the reason why there are gates and hydrualic roadblocks at both ends of the block- and that's not all.

As you would expect, on duty are the Mishmeret Gvul, the border police in their forest green uniforms; they and their m16’s slung down to the ground are rather ubiquitous in Israel. But there are the other guards- guards not wearing uniforms. They have more advanced automatic weapons than m-16s, and unlike the M.G., they walk with their weapons chest high and their fingers on the trigger guard. The house itself is shielded by a stone wall at least 5 meters high- and on top of that are other sensors and devices. There are lookout stations and cameras at several points, as well as bomb sniffing dogs and cars that have nothing on their license plate except the emblem of the Prime Minister of Israel. I can’t show you any of that, but I can show you what it looks like when the entire block is cordoned off- as it was during Mr. Blair’s visit.

If you are not used to such open displays of weaponry, you would feel certain this is the most dangerous block in Israel. In time you would realize that this block is probably safer than Capitol Hill in DC, but you may still have that feeling of danger. And yet …this is a block where every morning school children pour out of buses to walk to school; where people parking in front of thier apartment have their car checked inside and out, with the same attitude as if it was the car wash; where countless Jerusalemites walk on their way back from the supermarket; where I occasionally walk when on the way to and from Yeshiva.

This is a block where you would have to be a monster and a lunatic to try anything. Israelis know that while there may be no monsters under their children’s beds, they know there are real monsters not too far away. Not all that far away are actual monsters that have the faces of human begins; monsters with an appetite for murder, monsters that have replaced love with hate and the cultivating of hope with the adoration of death. And that is why the men in non-descript shirts and slacks have automatic weapons ready to fire.

Balfour Street is probably the safest block in Israel. How amazing is the courage of Israelis, that not every block in Israel is like Balfour street, with its gates, guards and guns. For there are many so many other blocks in the cities of Israel: blocks with schools, houses and markets, blocks with theatres, clinics and shops. So which block is most dangerous one?

Don't worry, Mr. President, Arafat just grabbed my tallis bag

Comments are now open to everyone! Please blog with us! And now, from the 11th floor, its

THE VOICE OF MRS. HELL

"Do you have something for apartment §£?" I ask the red-faced man with the big envelope under his arm. He's wearing a bright red shirt, and has just pulled up in his red Israel Mail mini-truck, bluetooth in one ear, a US Priority mail envelope in tow. "No!" he says, a reply in a tone as if I asked him if he would like throat cancer. I have been sitting at the doorway to our building for about 70 minutes, waiting for the Israeli equivalent of UPS to show up and give us the one box we decided to ship, a box with sefarim (religous texts), classic novels, and some essential DVDs.

A couple we are freinds with shipped this box to us two weeks ago, and we have been waiting, patiently, for it to arrive. First there was a slip with a package number. That was taken to the nearest post office, which naturally informed my beloved spouse that our package was actually at a different post office, which was located "near the theatre." Since there is nothing near the theatre but houses, we were skeptical.

So when a new slip arrived with a number to call, we were delighted. So, my dear wife calls, gets an english speaker on the line. She gives our name, which the mail agent repeats happily, and accepts. And they set up a time for delivery. Sadly, our intercom buzzer does not work- so we can buzz in, but can't be rung up from the doorway. So down I go to await the package messenger. This brings us back to the man in the red shirt with the red face, who has rung up an intercom number that works- so I know that its not ours.

(translated from the Hebrew)
"Hell?" I hear him ask?
"WHO IS THIS?" yells out an a voice.
"I'm from the Post [office], is this Geveret (Mrs) Hell?"
"I CAN't Hear YOU!" comes the reply from the intercom.
"HELL, " he shouts into the intercom microphone. "ADINA HELL- I have a package from abroad for you."
"I Don't know who you are." Click! She has hung up.
He rings again. "I Am from the POST!" He shouts. "Is this HELL?" I am, of course, thinking, yes, yes it is.
The lady's voice is now getting testy. "What do you want? SPEAK UP!"
"I have a package for HELL- can you hear me?"
"Yes, but I'm not going to let you in if I don't know who you are."
Click! The lady has hung up.

"Mrs. Hell?" he calls up again, "Can you hear me?"
"WHAT IS THIS ABOUT?
The mail guy now looks like he is about to explode- but he takes a breath, and like a man who has undergone serious anger managament, lowers his voice, brings his face to the microphone, and in a calm and patient voice, forces a smile and says "Geveret (meaning Mrs., or in this case, Ma'am), please. A moment. I have a package for you. Can you hear me?"
"I don't know who this is, but I am not letting someone up if I don't know who they are!"
Click.

That is enough for any man to take, the mail guy included. With a few choice words that I would love to learn (e.g. for when passed by a bus I have been waiting for), he storms away, and in a moment he is driving out of the parking lot at a speed that even Israelis would find excessive.

I wait for another hour. No other mail guys show up. Annoyed, I look for the contact number for the delivery service on the slip. It's on the front, along with the package number. As I wait for an english operator, I look over the slip in detail (this is the first time I have done so). And there, under the pacakge number is an illegible squiggle of Hebrew script that I suddenly can decipher. "Hell, Adina, " the squiggle now cleary reads (Hel is an arabic word for cardomon) . I look at the rows of mailboxes, which open to the outside. Mrs's Hell's mailbox is the one directly above ours.

Hell is other people- and the Israeli postal system.

Photo- an Israeli elevator. Here, ground floors are "0" and basements are "-1".

I don't know what the flags said, I can't read Hebrew

There is a phrase no newcomer to Israel can escape from hearing on a regular basis. It always comes unsolicited, and does not always come with help. You fill out a form at the post office, affix it to a box, and a voice from over your shoulder tells you (even though you did not ask for advice of any kind) “Zeh Lo Nachon,” which translates as “that’s not correct,” but implies “you’ve screwed something up.” Here are two stories from the “Zeh Lo Nachon” department that are hard to beat, courtesy of Fern and Jonathan, our hosts for this past Friday night dinner.

ONE- Fern goes to the Interior Ministry to renew her Visa. This is normally a trying and difficult process, but Fern is having a much better go of it this time than last. This time she knows what to put in each blank on the form- even the obscure ones. Name, date, passport, this time she can fill in each blank. She gets into the correct line, and this time it is moving. Soon there is only one person in front of her in line, who suddenly turns around and looks at her form.

“Zeh lo nachon,” says the lady in front of her.

Fern looks at the form. Everything is in order, she’s sure of it. And then she looks at the top of the form, and in tiny print in the top left corner, she sees it. “Teudat Meyt,” it reads- a death certificate. She had filled one out for herself- and it was completely in order- most likely, she would have been able to leave the country.

TWO – Jonathan takes their son D with him on the search for a used car. D is a cherubic young man who rarely wears a kippah yet usually has his tiztizt dangling out. Tzitzit, or a talit katan, is the 4 cornered garment worn by many orthodox men (and some unorthodox women) as an undershirt. Tzitzit are worn in a manner that lets the fringes on each corner hang free at the belt-line

In one of the most sleazy of the locations they went to, they waited for a salesman. Suddenly, in walks a man who would be completely at home at the annual Sturgis biker rally. Huge and scary, he is covered in leather riding gear. This is the kind of person that makes people in New York cross the street rather than get in his way. This is not the kind of person one would think is an expert in Jewish ritual or practice.

After a moment of staring at D, the biker begins to circle, pacing around him. Jonathan is of course startled and D is scared as the man circles closer and closer.

The man suddenly grabs a corner of D’s tzitzis. “Zeh lo nachon,” the biker states with some authority.

He lifts the fringes up to where D and Jonathan can see, and says “PASUL!”, a word that means that something is unfit for use in Jewish ritual. Sure enough, the tzizit were tied incorrectly, something that requires unusual expertise to spot.

So, when you are Israel, is your mailman just a mailman? The felafel guy just a felafel guy? Maybe, or maybe they will soon be telling you…

“Zeh lo nachon.”

Nobody hits on the Rebbetzyn

The Quiet Shabbat –

Friday night found hosted for shabbat dinning by students from Pardes, and the rest of Shabbat was spent with close friends. The day was warm and quiet, but a very full week lies ahead. Be sure to come back by Tuesday, as we try a new adventure- to get a package from the post office! Shavua Tov to our families and friends- we miss you.



Photo: the panoramic view view looking east.

But first, you need to have your hearing checked.

The blog for tonight was going to be about how I went to the nearby Kosher butcher, and there was good service, good quality, and an overall good experience- stunningly un-Israeli. And that was going to be all.

But fear not, good readers, for Behold! Our adventure in authentic Israeli living continued when our sink's plumbing exploded downwards right after dinner, covering our kitchen floor in icky drainwater. While our landlady has stocked the kitchen with every cleaner we could need (including a disturbing product that is a floor-wax /cockroach repellent combo [no, I am not making that up and no, I am not ripping off classic Saturday Night Live- just look at the photo]), we had to squeegee the floor, since there seems to be a Basic Law in Israel prohibiting owning or using a mop. Buckets, cleaners, fans and towels were used instead, and that is why we are all going to bed so late and the floor is slightly pine-scented.

Comments are now open to all

Please read on, folks, and comment away- we have opened the comments to all, and it will stay this way as long as the junk comments don't pile up!

Photo: a lizard taking a break, probably from his talmud class at Yeshivat Sheretz (where else could he go?)

Rabbeinu Gershom's Opera

After arriving Tuesday evening and surviving the amazing and breath-taking moves of the sherut driver, we headed to bed at the reasonable hour of 11PM to put ourselves on Israeli time. However, Wednesday morning, we woke up at 4AM from jet lag. We turned on the TV and noticed an Israeli opera sung in Hebrew.

We finally figured out the plot was about the Ashkenazic (Eastern European Jewish) ban on polygamy and a Sephardic (non-Eastern European Jewish—Spanish, Greek, Yemenite…a poor definition but one that works in general for now) male family head protesting the ban with his two wives. It was hard to tell who the villain was…the Ashknazic niece by marriage of the family head who took the case to an Ashkenazic court? Or was it the male head of the family (called Ben Attar) for having an ulterior motive of revenge on the Ashkenazic woman as his wife after she turned his proposal of marriage down years ago?

There weren’t really any catchy tunes, just a lot of dialogue, sung of course in opera style. Why would anyone want to dramatize this part of Jewish history? It is interesting, though, because Israel has such a large Sephardic population. A member of an Israeli group visiting America said that Israelis call America “Ashkenazi land.”

Well, we turned off the opera after about a half an hour, because although the sets were very creative (people being the waves of the sea all connected through their costumes), the lack of melody was grating. However, after searching online for the opera, we found out that it was based on an A.B. Yehoshua story with a very opera-like ending, which follows. After traveling from Spain, Ben Attar takes his case of polygamy to two courts, and the Ashkenazi court rules that he must dissolve one of his marriages. The second wife, whom he married later and has no children, commits suicide so that Ben Attar does not have to choose whom to divorce.

Wow. That is pretty sad, as all operas are. I sincerely hope this fate did not await all polygamous families back during the Decree of Rabbeinu Gershom, which did really happen in the 10th Century. The experts on the 11th floor say they don’t think people had to divorce wives to abide by this decree (people just couldn’t take any multiple wives in new marriages), and it also only applied to Ashkenazic Jews. That’s a relief, but I applaud A.B. Yeshoshua's focus on women's fates from a male-created decree. Who knew he was such a feminist?

Look Ron, A Talking Dog!

Well, folks, its been a very full two days. Wednesday saw a visit to Pardes and its lovely 3rd Floor Beit Midrash, which is airy and wide. Wednesday also presented the joyfull discovery of ATM's that accepted our bank cards and then spat out brightly colored shekels (which unlike dollars use every color possible on each bill, even if it makes them painful to look at).

Thursday saw a visit to the Conservative Yeshiva and its small underground Beit Midrash, which is symbolic of the Conservative Movement; anything with great potential is always kept small and where it will not be seen. The shortest walk to the CY takes us right by the PM's house and the JTS research library. There is a lot of security on that block; it could be for the JTS library, but something tells me otherwise. We also had lunch in Independence park for a very lovely birthday girl! And after some other assorted tasks . . . groceries.

Grocery shopping in Israel reveals the following;
a) A variety of Asian ingredients can be found here that never have hashgacha in the US,
b) That Israelis have truly adapted the following words into their vocabulary: big, deal, and super.
c) That even the softest TP available in Israel can still be used as a fine grit sandpaper,
d) The “Mister Zol” supermarket under Hamashbeer does not have bathrooms,
e) Israelis only do discrete Math when it comes to milk- you get 3%, 1%, or cream.


Picture: our kitchen window's view, which looks west-ish. Nifty, eh?