I imagine you are wondering (yet another indication that I have a very vivid imagination) why I haven't posted anything in more than two weeks. There's a very simple reason for that: my phone - which is the device I use to do all of my writing - took a fall two weeks ago, and the screen broke. Although it was still functional, it nevertheless was no longer the optimum input device for composing blog posts, to say the least, since I couldn't see what I was writing. I could easily type my credit card number by accident and never know the difference until my bill begins sporting outrageous charges originating somewhere in the Caribbean. Perhaps that's the same reason why some presidential candidates sound as silly as they do - their speechwriters compose their speeches on computers without screens, and thus they never realize how little sense the speeches make until... no, wait, they never actually find out, since no one (including the speechwriters) is foolish enough to actually listen to presidential candidate speeches. So I guess you'll just have to take my word for it.
Anyway, to make a long story short, I bought a new screen through eBay, had someone bring it to Israel, and then performed open-motherboard surgery on my phone. The "new" screen is actually not as good as the old one - the color is a bit washed out, and there are some marks on the screen. But after having no screen at all for two weeks, I've learned to count my blessings.
Now that I'm up and running again, my two-week absence means I have a lot of catching up to do. There were quite a few noteworthy events that I missed the opportunity to write about, such as when my yeshiva went to Teveria for Shabbos. Also, I didn't get to write anything at all about Chanukah, which unfortunately is over already. I don't know if I'll have the time and patience to catch up on everything (especially since I don't get paid for this kind of thing), but I'll do what I can. We'll start with the Shabbos my yeshiva went to Teveria. To make up for the lack of posts recently, this post will be double the length of my previous posts (I'll let you decide if that's a good thing or a bad thing).
Our trip began on Thursday night, at 2:00 AM JST. (JST stands for Jewish Standard Time, which means you leave a minimum of one half-hour late). The first of four buses pulled up outside the yeshiva building in Yerushalayim, and we began loading up. We would be the only bus leaving at that unearthly hour; the other three buses would be leaving the next morning. The reason for the timing is relatively simple: since we had Friday off anyway, the itinerary included (for those who were interested) a choice of extracurricular activities for Friday morning - either driving an ATV, or touring the North in a jeep. But to get to these activities in time, we needed to leave in the middle of the night, so that we would already be there by morning. The guys who weren't participating in either activity - as well as the avreichim coming with their families - left Yerushalayim the next morning, at an arguably more sane hour.
We traveled on the Israeli version of a coach bus. It is very similar to an American coach bus, except that there is no bathroom on board. But there was another great feature that I wish American coach buses would adopt: a back door. I cannot overemphasize what a great idea a back door is, even better than an on-board bathroom. I've been on quite a few American coach bus Chol Hamoed trips (for instance, the one I wrote about in New Hampshire Report), and believe me: it is SO much more pleasant when you don't have upwards of 50 people tripping over each other and trying to pass each other in an aisle the width of a Fruit-by-the-Foot™, all using the same one door as both the entrance and exit. Maybe someday we can arrange some kind of "intelligence exchange" between Israel and America, like when they trade nuclear secrets or missile technologies or cholent recipes or whatever: American busses will get a back door, and Israeli busses will get a bathroom. We'll even throw in a complimentary case of toilet paper.
Anyway, we arrived in Teveria at around 4:30 AM, at the kever of Rabbi Meir Baal Haness. We had come to daven Shachris before moving on, but it was still to early to daven. Most guys elected to sleep on the bus until we were ready to daven; the rest of us decided to get off the bus and stretch our legs, and check out the mini 24-hour "flea market" outside the kever. There were two vendors there, each with several stands selling soda, ice cream and music CDs, as well as a plethora of Middle-Eastern souvenirs: keychains, wood carvings, tambukas, paintings, scarves, silver goblets, scented candles - I wasn't kidding when I said it was a flea market. I bought a keychain tehillim, a small hand-carved wooden whistle, and a silver birchas habayis plaque.
As the sun came up, we prepared to daven Shachris. The kever itself was still locked, so we davened in the courtyard outside. Later on, when the kever was opened, we went inside to say some tehillim at the grave of the holy Tanna.
For breakfast, we had bagels and cream cheese. You could tell that it was planned by a bunch of guys, and not a woman: there were no plates, napkins, or even knives involved. We basically tore off chunks from our bagels and dunked them into the cream cheese as if it were chumus. Definitely better than nothing, though.
After breakfast, we loaded up the bus and headed for the Kinor hotel. We unloaded our luggage into a storage room, and then whoever was going ATVing got back onto the bus (the guys who were going touring in a jeep stayed there - they would be leaving later on). We then proceeded north toward Moshav Dishon.
When we got there, we were shown that there were three kinds of vehicles available: a standard ATV, a jeep-like vehicle called a Ranger, and another jeep-like vehicle called a Prowler. An ATV is kind of like a motorcycle: both riders sit one behind the other on a "saddle", and both the gas and brakes are operated by hand controls. The Ranger and the Prowler are built more along the lines of a traditional vehicle: the two riders sit side by side in normal seats, and driving is done through an ordinary steering wheel, with gas and brake pedals. The Prowler was officially the more dangerous of the two, since it had a "sport" engine, which means that if you press the gas pedal hard enough, it will start tearing up turf like a backhoe (without actually moving very far). Also, being more top-heavy, it was more likely to flip over if not driven properly.
I chose to drive a Prowler, since it was officially the most dangerous of the vehicles. I figured that I spent my whole childhood participating in all sorts of foolish and dangerous activities (such as spelling bees), so why stop now? Although apparently almost no one else agreed with my line of reasoning, since in the end, my "co-pilot" and I were were the only ones who took a Prowler.
I have to admit that driving an off-road vehicle is quite an experience, especially when your companions are a bunch of real "fun-loving guys", which is defined as "guys who would like nothing better than to rip through the terrain at upwards of 100 miles per hour, leaving trails of flaming mud in their wake". We did have guides riding with us, though, spaced one every three or four vehicles or so, and they kept things more or less normal. We drove for around an hour through all kinds of terrain - woods, fields, paved roads, huge puddles of mud, etc. - before stopping near some kind of stream. Some guys decided it would be a good idea to jump into the stream by swinging from a rope tied to a tree on the bank, but soon regretted their decision when the cold water froze their blood in their veins, turning them into human ice cube trays. But they made it out alive, and soon we were ready to move again. We switched drivers, and started heading back toward our starting point. We took a very different route on the way back - a really bumpy trail that truly put the off-road vehicles' capabilities to the test. Pity I wasn't driving anymore - it sure looked like fun...
We got back to our starting location, parked our various vehicles, thanked the people in charge, and got back on the bus. Upon arriving at the hotel, we found that kugel was being served, and our rooms had already been assigned. Each room contained two regular beds, one folding cot, and one small "sofa" that sort of folded out into something resembling a bed, for a total of four people per room. As luck would have it (or, as we say, it was bashert), I unfortunately got the fold-out sofa thingy, which as it turned out was clearly manufactured in S'dom - I cannot remember ever laying upon such an uncomfortable sleeping surface. Sighing, I figured every room has such a "bed", and Hashem had some good reason why I was destined to be the korban in this particular room. I consoled myself with the knowledge that I would probably sleep well anyway, having not slept a wink Thursday night. (I later turned out to be absolutely right.)
I settled in as best as I could under the circumstances, and went for a self-guided tour of the grounds. The Kinor hotel is located on the shore of the Kineret, but it was rather cloudy on Friday, and thus I didn't really bother going down to the water. The rest of the grounds were quite nice, though. Lots of palm trees, lush green lawns, a basketball court, and even a playground for the little kids. I took some pictures, and then went to get ready for Shabbos.
Our yeshiva davened together in our own shul on the lower level of the Kinor's main building; we then went up to the upper level for the seudah. We all sat together at one end of the huge main dining room. We were a bit worried about the food, since the kugel served on Friday afternoon was kind of lousy (I personally did not taste it, but I was told by those that did that compressed cardboard would no doubt have tasted better), but Baruch Hashem we were quite surprised - the food was actually very good.
The seudos were arguably the best part of the weekend, even better than ATVing. Although we numbered roughly 200 people including the avreichim and their families, there was nevertheless an amazing feeling of camaraderie in the air, as if we were truly one big family. Many of the avreichim's children suddenly gained a whole bunch of new "uncles": it was not at all uncommon to see bochurim holding various babies and playing with various youngsters as if they actually were their own nieces and nephews.
There was also lots of spirited singing, as well as several speeches by various rebbeim, and even some of the bochurim. Those of you who know me well (especially my family members, and my friends from my former yeshiva in Flatbush) will be shocked to learn that I was NOT one of the bochurim that spoke. So far I'm still "lying low", I guess, and have not yet spoken in public since I got to Israel.
Thus the Shabbos passed peacefully and enjoyably. The benchers that were distributed had the words "Shabbos Achdus" written on the front, and I could not agree more: the incredible atmosphere of true brotherly love that permeated the weekend will hopefully stay with us for a long time. Hopefully until Moshiach comes. If not, I guess we'll have to have another such a Shabbos.
I certainly wouldn't mind...
Friday, December 14, 2007
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Some Comments on Common Comment Security
If you've ever tried leaving a comment on my blog, you've undoubtedly come across an interesting feature: you are asked to read a series of weird-shaped random letters, such as "irbmnteug", and manually retype them in the provided box before your comment can be posted. In fact, some people have been prevented from leaving comments at all due to this feature (presumably because these people cannot read, so goodness knows what they're doing on my blog in the first place). I've been asked why this feature is necessary, and so I've decided to post an explanation.
First off, I should note right off the bat that I think it is a very useful vocabulary building feature. Without it, many people would never learn such wonderful words like "vrlnmkd", "cyrklmpt" and "zrcxopft", which will undoubtedly be very useful to know if, say, you should ever visit Czechoslovakia, where those are actual words in the local language. Without the benefit of my blog's comment security feature, you would be totally unfamiliar with such words, and you would have to resort to doing what most tourists (and many of the residents) do, which is to make them up. ("Waiter! I'll have the ckljrto soup with a side dish of prkzltch!")
But there's another reason for this "feature" - the real reason why good ole' Uncle Google implemented the feature in the first place. But to explain it, I may have to get a little technical. Therefore, please note the following warning:
WARNING: THE U.S. SURGEON GENERAL HAS DETERMINED, WHILE TAKING A SHORT BREAK FROM MESSING AROUND WITH THE WORDING OF CIGARETTE AND LIQUOR LABEL WARNINGS, THAT THE U.S. SURGEON GENERAL IS NOT LIKELY TO GET A RAISE UNLESS THE U.S. SURGEON GENERAL BRANCHES OUT AND STARTS DOING WARNINGS FOR OTHER PRODUCTS AS WELL. THEREFORE, THE U.S. SURGEON GENERAL HAS DECIDED TO EXAMINE THE FOLLOWING EXPLANATION, AND HAS DETERMINED THAT IT MAY CONTAIN SOME COMPLICATED TECHNOLOGICAL TERMS, AND SHOULD NOT BE READ BY UNTRAINED PERSONNEL WHILE OPERATING HEAVY MACHINERY UNLESS THEY ARE WEARING A FULL-BODY BIOHAZARD SUIT. THANK YOU.
Still with me? Good. Sorry, I just had to shake off those losers who get scared of big, scary, technical terms like "garden hose". Now, let's get down to business. The reason for the security measure is to prevent "comment spam". You may recognize the term "spam", which generally refers to the wonderful email messages you often get from kind-hearted strangers who are genuinely concerned with your well-being, and who generously offer to refinance your home for just %0.7, or give you the opportunity to earn $650,000 a year by working from home for only 17 minutes a week. (See, who said strangers aren't kind people?) However, in recent years, these people have decided that they're not doing enough for the good of humanity, and they need to branch out and expand their kind humanitarian work to other venues as well.
So some brilliant "philanthropist" hit upon the idea of using blog comments as a new medium for propagating their "services". Posting a blog comment is a form of communication that anyone can engage in without any qualifications whatsoever - even being human is not required. A computer program - called a "script" - can be written, which can post dozens, if not hundreds, of comments to someone's blog, all of them promoting "useful" services such as online casinos where your odds of winning are about as good as those of a duck in an industrial trash compactor, or other such services which the world would be a truly grim place without. Hence the term "comment spam" - it's like ordinary email spam, except it targets the comments sections of blogs instead of electronic mailboxes.
However, there's one teensy weensy flaw in the spammers' line of reasoning: the general population is simply not quite interested in hearing about these "services" on a constant basis, even less than they are in dealing with telemarketers. Specifically, the average member of the general population would not be opposed to legalizing the shooting of spammers with incendiary rocket-propelled grenades for sport. However, some pesky little outfit calling itself the "Government" does not allow people to engage in such fulfilling pursuits, and thus people have to engage in a more pacifistic approach: Self-defense - attempting to block spam from reaching them in the first place.
So that's where the "retype these weird letters" business comes into the picture: it's an anti-spam security measure. See, for a human being or similar creature (such as a tort lawyer) who is posting a legitimate comment, it's not such a big deal to copy the letters over. However, an automated script attempting to mass-post tons of spam will be prevented in doing so, since most scripts have not graduated the first grade, and thus cannot read.
Since some of my readers have indicated that they feel such security measures are a major pain in the neck, I'm thinking of disabling it. But if I do, keep the following in mind: if you see any advertisements or the like down there in the comments section, DO NOT follow the links they provide - I do not endorse them, and never will. Anybody I endorse - such as Paskesz Candy, which makes the greatest kosher candy in the world - will be mentioned up here, in MY part of the blog. Do NOT follow any links that spammers may post downstairs, in the public part of the blog. (Did I mention that I wholeheartedly endorse Paskesz Candy?)
I hope to disable the feature as soon as I gain access to an ordinary computer. Believe it or not, every single one of my posts since "Touchdown!" has been composed entirely on my phone, using its little three-and-a-half inch slide-out keyboard, and posted through Cellcom's GPRS network. But there is only so much a little phone can do: I cannot change most blog settings from my phone, and thus need to do so from a full-size computer. But once I do, I hope more people will be encouraged to comment on my writing - I really appreciate the feedback very much.
But if and when spam starts appearing on my blog, I will have to re-enable the security feature. I'm sorry, but it's the only easy - yet effective - method of preventing spam. Well, at least until the script writers learn to speak Czechoslovakian.
EDIT: The word verification feature has been disabled. Have fun!
First off, I should note right off the bat that I think it is a very useful vocabulary building feature. Without it, many people would never learn such wonderful words like "vrlnmkd", "cyrklmpt" and "zrcxopft", which will undoubtedly be very useful to know if, say, you should ever visit Czechoslovakia, where those are actual words in the local language. Without the benefit of my blog's comment security feature, you would be totally unfamiliar with such words, and you would have to resort to doing what most tourists (and many of the residents) do, which is to make them up. ("Waiter! I'll have the ckljrto soup with a side dish of prkzltch!")
But there's another reason for this "feature" - the real reason why good ole' Uncle Google implemented the feature in the first place. But to explain it, I may have to get a little technical. Therefore, please note the following warning:
WARNING: THE U.S. SURGEON GENERAL HAS DETERMINED, WHILE TAKING A SHORT BREAK FROM MESSING AROUND WITH THE WORDING OF CIGARETTE AND LIQUOR LABEL WARNINGS, THAT THE U.S. SURGEON GENERAL IS NOT LIKELY TO GET A RAISE UNLESS THE U.S. SURGEON GENERAL BRANCHES OUT AND STARTS DOING WARNINGS FOR OTHER PRODUCTS AS WELL. THEREFORE, THE U.S. SURGEON GENERAL HAS DECIDED TO EXAMINE THE FOLLOWING EXPLANATION, AND HAS DETERMINED THAT IT MAY CONTAIN SOME COMPLICATED TECHNOLOGICAL TERMS, AND SHOULD NOT BE READ BY UNTRAINED PERSONNEL WHILE OPERATING HEAVY MACHINERY UNLESS THEY ARE WEARING A FULL-BODY BIOHAZARD SUIT. THANK YOU.
Still with me? Good. Sorry, I just had to shake off those losers who get scared of big, scary, technical terms like "garden hose". Now, let's get down to business. The reason for the security measure is to prevent "comment spam". You may recognize the term "spam", which generally refers to the wonderful email messages you often get from kind-hearted strangers who are genuinely concerned with your well-being, and who generously offer to refinance your home for just %0.7, or give you the opportunity to earn $650,000 a year by working from home for only 17 minutes a week. (See, who said strangers aren't kind people?) However, in recent years, these people have decided that they're not doing enough for the good of humanity, and they need to branch out and expand their kind humanitarian work to other venues as well.
So some brilliant "philanthropist" hit upon the idea of using blog comments as a new medium for propagating their "services". Posting a blog comment is a form of communication that anyone can engage in without any qualifications whatsoever - even being human is not required. A computer program - called a "script" - can be written, which can post dozens, if not hundreds, of comments to someone's blog, all of them promoting "useful" services such as online casinos where your odds of winning are about as good as those of a duck in an industrial trash compactor, or other such services which the world would be a truly grim place without. Hence the term "comment spam" - it's like ordinary email spam, except it targets the comments sections of blogs instead of electronic mailboxes.
However, there's one teensy weensy flaw in the spammers' line of reasoning: the general population is simply not quite interested in hearing about these "services" on a constant basis, even less than they are in dealing with telemarketers. Specifically, the average member of the general population would not be opposed to legalizing the shooting of spammers with incendiary rocket-propelled grenades for sport. However, some pesky little outfit calling itself the "Government" does not allow people to engage in such fulfilling pursuits, and thus people have to engage in a more pacifistic approach: Self-defense - attempting to block spam from reaching them in the first place.
So that's where the "retype these weird letters" business comes into the picture: it's an anti-spam security measure. See, for a human being or similar creature (such as a tort lawyer) who is posting a legitimate comment, it's not such a big deal to copy the letters over. However, an automated script attempting to mass-post tons of spam will be prevented in doing so, since most scripts have not graduated the first grade, and thus cannot read.
Since some of my readers have indicated that they feel such security measures are a major pain in the neck, I'm thinking of disabling it. But if I do, keep the following in mind: if you see any advertisements or the like down there in the comments section, DO NOT follow the links they provide - I do not endorse them, and never will. Anybody I endorse - such as Paskesz Candy, which makes the greatest kosher candy in the world - will be mentioned up here, in MY part of the blog. Do NOT follow any links that spammers may post downstairs, in the public part of the blog. (Did I mention that I wholeheartedly endorse Paskesz Candy?)
I hope to disable the feature as soon as I gain access to an ordinary computer. Believe it or not, every single one of my posts since "Touchdown!" has been composed entirely on my phone, using its little three-and-a-half inch slide-out keyboard, and posted through Cellcom's GPRS network. But there is only so much a little phone can do: I cannot change most blog settings from my phone, and thus need to do so from a full-size computer. But once I do, I hope more people will be encouraged to comment on my writing - I really appreciate the feedback very much.
But if and when spam starts appearing on my blog, I will have to re-enable the security feature. I'm sorry, but it's the only easy - yet effective - method of preventing spam. Well, at least until the script writers learn to speak Czechoslovakian.
EDIT: The word verification feature has been disabled. Have fun!
Monday, November 26, 2007
The Holiest Place at the Holiest Time
This past Shabbos, I merited to participate in another unique Israeli experience: Friday night at the Kosel.
I had heard plenty about what it would be like from various friends and family members, both from a spiritual standpoint, as well as the more mundane aspect of seeing so many different people from so many different walks of life all in one place. But nothing could have prepared me for the awesome experience it turned out to be.
I heard from a friend of mine that unfortunately, there are bochurim who have been learning in Israel for ages, and yet they have never gone to the Kosel - not just Friday night, but even during the week as well. "Yeah, I'll make sure to go before I go back to America," they say. These poor souls have no idea what they're missing. Going to the Kosel is always a special experience for me - even if not for the spiritual aspect of it, then at least for the "sightseeing" aspect. Some day, these poor souls are gonna to the Kosel, and then they're gonna kick themselves - hard - for all the missed opportunities they could have had to go, but instead gave it up for total narishkeiten.
But enough about them - let's get back to my story. I started out Friday afternoon, pretty close to Shabbos, looking for a cab to the Kosel. Not knowing which of the main streets in the neighborhood would be the best place to flag down a cab at that time, I asked a more experienced friend: "Where's the best place to get a cab now?"
"New York City," was his reply. It turned out he wasn't kidding. If you wait too close to Shabbos, you'll find very few cabs - possibly only Arabs, which is not exactly the most reassuring form of transportation. Armed with 30 Shekels, I headed toward Shmuel Hanavi. With Hashem's help, I found a Jewish (albeit non-frum) cab driver who was willing to take me for 25 shekels, but only as far as Sha'ar Yaffo. It was better than nothing, so I took the offer, figuring I would deposit the remaining 5 shekels in the pushka at the Kosel before shkia.
The driver dropped me off just up the hill from Sha'ar Yaffo, barely waiting for me to exit the cab before racing off again. Not wanting to walk through potentially hostile territory alone (not to mention that I did not know the way at all), I asked two Israeli bochurim who were heading there anyway if I could walk with them. I needn't have worried, though, since we ended up being part of a group of roughly 50 people, all walking to the Kosel.
My "guides" elected to take the shorter route, cutting directly through the Arab shuk. I would have been quite apprehensive of doing so alone, but I guess there is something to be said for the power in numbers - the Arabs were not about to start up with a group of 50 people. I was kind of glad we went through the shuk: I have to admit, it was a fascinating trek. The shuk is basically an alley just a few feet wide - so narrow, in fact, that the awnings over the shops on either side were often overlapping each other, creating the illusion that we were walking through a tunnel. Dozens of shops line the alley on either side, selling all kinds of merchandise: hot food, clothing, hand-carved wooden chess sets, silver-plated shofars, fresh and dried fruits, nuts, baseball caps, scarves - you name it, all in a bright cornucopia of colors, shapes, sizes, and smells. I only wish I would have come at some time other than mere minutes before the onset of Shabbos, when I would have been able to slow down and look around a bit.
After proceeding through the shuk for a while, turning the occasional corner, we finally reached the Kosel security checkpoint. I thanked my "guides" as we patiently waited in line among the throngs of people waiting to pass through the metal detector. I finally got through security, and headed out of the security booth to the top of the staircase leading down to the Kosel plaza.
Have you ever felt like you wanted to laugh and cry at the same time? That's a bit of what I felt like at the sight that greeted my eyes: there was my beloved Kosel, but somehow, it was not the same as I had seen it before. There was something different about it, something special. The arrival of the holiest day of the week to the holiest place in the world, filled with people of the holiest nation was perhaps the formula that comprised the special feeling that seemed to permeate the very air.
I proceeded down the stairs, put my remaining 5 shekels in the pushka, and headed across the plaza to the Kosel, joining the crowds of people at the Wall. There were literally thousands of people there, from all walks of life - chasidish and litvish, ashkenazim and sefardim, frum and non-frum. There were young teenagers with ponytails or Mohawks and backpacks the size of telephone booths, older tourists wearing cardboard yarmulkes with expensive cameras around their necks - an assortment of humanity that a cross-culture integrator could only dream of.
As I got closer to the Wall, the composition of the crowd shifted more toward the serious kind: aside from the occasional ponytailed spirituality-seeker clinging to the Wall, the people were mostly religious people going about the sacred ritual of welcoming the Shabbos. That's not to say the crowd became stereotyped at this point: on the contrary, there were many different minyanim, davening according to different nuscha'os, from chasidish to mizrachi. Perhaps the largest was the Vizhnitz minyan, occupying the leftmost twenty percent or so of the Kosel. Although I actually davened in the minyan next to them, I nevertheless immensely enjoyed overhearing their davening. Actually, it would have been kind of hard not too - especially their rendition of Lecha Dodi, sung by everyone in the minyan together with a sweetness that could probably not be matched by any earthly sound.
After I finished davening, I joined up with my host and his sons, and we headed back toward Arzei Habira, taking the route through Sha'ar Shechem. If anything this route was even more dangerous, but like I said before, there's something to be said for the power in numbers, and we were far from alone.
After the seudah, as I walked back to my dira, my mind inevitably began to wander. I thought of everything I had seen that night, of how Jews from all walks of life - from the most devout chasid to the simplest non-frum tourist - had all joined together for one single purpose: to visit the House of Hashem. Even those who only came to the Kosel merely as a tourist destination surely felt something, the feeling of the pintele yid longing to return to its source. That's what a saw: a melting pot, a potpourri of elementally pure souls, all yearning to somehow, in some way, do the right thing. All yearning to come home.
May we be zoche to see the fulfillment of that yearning speedily in our days.
I had heard plenty about what it would be like from various friends and family members, both from a spiritual standpoint, as well as the more mundane aspect of seeing so many different people from so many different walks of life all in one place. But nothing could have prepared me for the awesome experience it turned out to be.
I heard from a friend of mine that unfortunately, there are bochurim who have been learning in Israel for ages, and yet they have never gone to the Kosel - not just Friday night, but even during the week as well. "Yeah, I'll make sure to go before I go back to America," they say. These poor souls have no idea what they're missing. Going to the Kosel is always a special experience for me - even if not for the spiritual aspect of it, then at least for the "sightseeing" aspect. Some day, these poor souls are gonna to the Kosel, and then they're gonna kick themselves - hard - for all the missed opportunities they could have had to go, but instead gave it up for total narishkeiten.
But enough about them - let's get back to my story. I started out Friday afternoon, pretty close to Shabbos, looking for a cab to the Kosel. Not knowing which of the main streets in the neighborhood would be the best place to flag down a cab at that time, I asked a more experienced friend: "Where's the best place to get a cab now?"
"New York City," was his reply. It turned out he wasn't kidding. If you wait too close to Shabbos, you'll find very few cabs - possibly only Arabs, which is not exactly the most reassuring form of transportation. Armed with 30 Shekels, I headed toward Shmuel Hanavi. With Hashem's help, I found a Jewish (albeit non-frum) cab driver who was willing to take me for 25 shekels, but only as far as Sha'ar Yaffo. It was better than nothing, so I took the offer, figuring I would deposit the remaining 5 shekels in the pushka at the Kosel before shkia.
The driver dropped me off just up the hill from Sha'ar Yaffo, barely waiting for me to exit the cab before racing off again. Not wanting to walk through potentially hostile territory alone (not to mention that I did not know the way at all), I asked two Israeli bochurim who were heading there anyway if I could walk with them. I needn't have worried, though, since we ended up being part of a group of roughly 50 people, all walking to the Kosel.
My "guides" elected to take the shorter route, cutting directly through the Arab shuk. I would have been quite apprehensive of doing so alone, but I guess there is something to be said for the power in numbers - the Arabs were not about to start up with a group of 50 people. I was kind of glad we went through the shuk: I have to admit, it was a fascinating trek. The shuk is basically an alley just a few feet wide - so narrow, in fact, that the awnings over the shops on either side were often overlapping each other, creating the illusion that we were walking through a tunnel. Dozens of shops line the alley on either side, selling all kinds of merchandise: hot food, clothing, hand-carved wooden chess sets, silver-plated shofars, fresh and dried fruits, nuts, baseball caps, scarves - you name it, all in a bright cornucopia of colors, shapes, sizes, and smells. I only wish I would have come at some time other than mere minutes before the onset of Shabbos, when I would have been able to slow down and look around a bit.
After proceeding through the shuk for a while, turning the occasional corner, we finally reached the Kosel security checkpoint. I thanked my "guides" as we patiently waited in line among the throngs of people waiting to pass through the metal detector. I finally got through security, and headed out of the security booth to the top of the staircase leading down to the Kosel plaza.
Have you ever felt like you wanted to laugh and cry at the same time? That's a bit of what I felt like at the sight that greeted my eyes: there was my beloved Kosel, but somehow, it was not the same as I had seen it before. There was something different about it, something special. The arrival of the holiest day of the week to the holiest place in the world, filled with people of the holiest nation was perhaps the formula that comprised the special feeling that seemed to permeate the very air.
I proceeded down the stairs, put my remaining 5 shekels in the pushka, and headed across the plaza to the Kosel, joining the crowds of people at the Wall. There were literally thousands of people there, from all walks of life - chasidish and litvish, ashkenazim and sefardim, frum and non-frum. There were young teenagers with ponytails or Mohawks and backpacks the size of telephone booths, older tourists wearing cardboard yarmulkes with expensive cameras around their necks - an assortment of humanity that a cross-culture integrator could only dream of.
As I got closer to the Wall, the composition of the crowd shifted more toward the serious kind: aside from the occasional ponytailed spirituality-seeker clinging to the Wall, the people were mostly religious people going about the sacred ritual of welcoming the Shabbos. That's not to say the crowd became stereotyped at this point: on the contrary, there were many different minyanim, davening according to different nuscha'os, from chasidish to mizrachi. Perhaps the largest was the Vizhnitz minyan, occupying the leftmost twenty percent or so of the Kosel. Although I actually davened in the minyan next to them, I nevertheless immensely enjoyed overhearing their davening. Actually, it would have been kind of hard not too - especially their rendition of Lecha Dodi, sung by everyone in the minyan together with a sweetness that could probably not be matched by any earthly sound.
After I finished davening, I joined up with my host and his sons, and we headed back toward Arzei Habira, taking the route through Sha'ar Shechem. If anything this route was even more dangerous, but like I said before, there's something to be said for the power in numbers, and we were far from alone.
After the seudah, as I walked back to my dira, my mind inevitably began to wander. I thought of everything I had seen that night, of how Jews from all walks of life - from the most devout chasid to the simplest non-frum tourist - had all joined together for one single purpose: to visit the House of Hashem. Even those who only came to the Kosel merely as a tourist destination surely felt something, the feeling of the pintele yid longing to return to its source. That's what a saw: a melting pot, a potpourri of elementally pure souls, all yearning to somehow, in some way, do the right thing. All yearning to come home.
May we be zoche to see the fulfillment of that yearning speedily in our days.
Friday, November 23, 2007
Give Thanks to Hashem
Today is part of Thanksgiving weekend, which is a holiday that commemorates something or other involving the pilgrims who arrived on the Mayflower. Apparently they were thankful to have made it all the way to the New World with most of their internal organs pretty much intact, which was quite a feat when you consider the fact that motion-sickness pills had not been invented yet.
Thanksgiving is not, technically speaking, a Jewish holiday, although that doesn't stop too many of us from eating turkey anyway. However, for those of us living in Yerushalayim - particularly in the Bais Yisroel neighborhood, this year is different: we have our own reason to be thankful this Thanksgiving weekend, to celebrate and thank Hashem for the wonderful miracle which occurred last night.
Last night, at 2:22 AM, there was a tremendous explosion on the fourth floor of 24 Rechov Zonnenfeld (which happens to be just two short blocks away from my dira). The huge fireball pretty much destroyed the entire fourth floor, hurling debris in every direction. The shockwaves of the explosion shattered dozens of windows of both cars and buildings in the area, including one in my dira. The sound of the explosion was heard as far as Sorotzkin and Ramat Eshkol.
No one knew what caused the explosion - whether it was an accident, or chas veshalom a terrorist attack. Initial reports speculated that several people were killed, and dozens more were wounded.
Within minutes, the sounds of sirens could be heard, as dozens of emergency vehicles came rushing to the scene. Police, firefighters, ambulances, Zaka motorcycles, army vehicles - everyone feared for the worst. Magen David Adom even called for an MCI - a Mass Casualty Incident - expecting an untold number of victims. Hundreds of curious spectators filled the streets - quite a few in their pajamas - trying to find out what happened. The police cordoned off the area around 24 Zonnenfeld while they investigated.
As time went on, the picture became clear: somehow, a propane tank (or perhaps several) in the fourth floor of the building had exploded. So Baruch Hashem, it was not a terrorist attack. Even more amazing was the casualty count: zero. That's right: not a single person was killed or even seriously injured by the blast. A few people were lightly injured - some cuts and bruises, but nothing major. As one Hatzalah member told me, "we didn't have to take anyone to the hospital".
Another amazing fact is that no one was hurt by the flying debris. I saw chunks of stone and cement the size of a sack of potatoes - but obviously way heavier - that had been hurled more than two hundred feet. It is an absolute miracle that they didn't hit anyone while airborne, since I doubt a person would've survived the impact. Okay, granted, it was after two o'clock in the morning and most people belong in bed, but it was Thursday night, and thus there were still people in the street even at that hour. Besides, the fact that the explosion did not occur in middle of the day when the streets are crowded is a miracle in itself.
Indeed, the whole story consists of one miracle on top of another, cleverly woven by the Guardian of Israel, the Master of Miracles. Hinei lo yanum v'lo yishan shomer yisrael!
Thanksgiving is not, technically speaking, a Jewish holiday, although that doesn't stop too many of us from eating turkey anyway. However, for those of us living in Yerushalayim - particularly in the Bais Yisroel neighborhood, this year is different: we have our own reason to be thankful this Thanksgiving weekend, to celebrate and thank Hashem for the wonderful miracle which occurred last night.
Last night, at 2:22 AM, there was a tremendous explosion on the fourth floor of 24 Rechov Zonnenfeld (which happens to be just two short blocks away from my dira). The huge fireball pretty much destroyed the entire fourth floor, hurling debris in every direction. The shockwaves of the explosion shattered dozens of windows of both cars and buildings in the area, including one in my dira. The sound of the explosion was heard as far as Sorotzkin and Ramat Eshkol.
No one knew what caused the explosion - whether it was an accident, or chas veshalom a terrorist attack. Initial reports speculated that several people were killed, and dozens more were wounded.
Within minutes, the sounds of sirens could be heard, as dozens of emergency vehicles came rushing to the scene. Police, firefighters, ambulances, Zaka motorcycles, army vehicles - everyone feared for the worst. Magen David Adom even called for an MCI - a Mass Casualty Incident - expecting an untold number of victims. Hundreds of curious spectators filled the streets - quite a few in their pajamas - trying to find out what happened. The police cordoned off the area around 24 Zonnenfeld while they investigated.
As time went on, the picture became clear: somehow, a propane tank (or perhaps several) in the fourth floor of the building had exploded. So Baruch Hashem, it was not a terrorist attack. Even more amazing was the casualty count: zero. That's right: not a single person was killed or even seriously injured by the blast. A few people were lightly injured - some cuts and bruises, but nothing major. As one Hatzalah member told me, "we didn't have to take anyone to the hospital".
Another amazing fact is that no one was hurt by the flying debris. I saw chunks of stone and cement the size of a sack of potatoes - but obviously way heavier - that had been hurled more than two hundred feet. It is an absolute miracle that they didn't hit anyone while airborne, since I doubt a person would've survived the impact. Okay, granted, it was after two o'clock in the morning and most people belong in bed, but it was Thursday night, and thus there were still people in the street even at that hour. Besides, the fact that the explosion did not occur in middle of the day when the streets are crowded is a miracle in itself.
Indeed, the whole story consists of one miracle on top of another, cleverly woven by the Guardian of Israel, the Master of Miracles. Hinei lo yanum v'lo yishan shomer yisrael!
Monday, November 19, 2007
On Top of the Mountain
First of all, I would like to start out by thanking all of the people who took the time out of their busy schedules to call, email, or otherwise contact me to inform me that something I wrote ended up in the paper.
For those of you who have just arrived from some distant, newspaper-free galaxy, I should point out that I am referring to the fact that someone apparently sent in one of my blog posts (specifically, the serious one about my first trip to the Kosel) to the "Reader's Forum" section of this past week's Hamodia. It was in the "Community News" section, page 39.
I actually did not send it in on my own; I don't have the guts to send anything to a newspaper that lots of people actually read (as opposed to my blog, which for all I know probably has just a small handful of really bored people reading it). Although I was glad to hear that someone else did send it in - I figured getting published in the Hamodia would be a great first step in becoming a famous syndicated journalist, and I would become so fabulously wealthy that I would regularly leave luxurious mansions with 4-car garages as tips. Or perhaps I would end up living under a highway overpass in a refrigerator carton. Whatever. It can go either way.
Now that I've gotten that out of the way, we can move on to more important topics, such as my trip to Har Nof, where I spent this past Shabbos. My brother-in-law told me that years ago, people used to refer to it as "Har Nof, USA" because it is a rather American-intensive area. Although in recent years, things have changed, and the American influence is more visible in other areas as well - even Meah Shearim is starting to strongly resemble 13th Ave. in Boro Park, minus the double-parked cars (here we have triple-parked mopeds instead).
So there I was, at 3:00 PM on Friday afternoon, walking to the bus stop in Geulah, hoping to catch the number 15 bus to Har Nof. Someone warned me that he heard the last bus was at 2:30 PM, and that I would have to take a taxi, but I figured I would try my luck anyway.
If you're one of the people who has absolutely nothing better to do with your life than to waste your valuable time reading my blog, you may recall that a little while ago, I posted a rather negative rant about the bus service here, claiming that the buses are unreliable. However, I'm afraid I must retract that statement: to my utter surprise, a number 15 bus to Har Nof rolled up to the stop where I was waiting at promptly 3:10 PM, just five minutes after I got there. So now I don't know what to believe. Are the buses reliable or not? Perhaps we should demand that the US Congress stop fooling around with silly things like tax reform and illegal immigration and convene a special blue-ribbon investigative panel to focus on the more important issue of Israeli bus punctuality.
I know what you're going to ask me: "But why on earth would the United States Congress care about the buses in some other country?" My answer is quite simple: be quiet, and stop asking me silly questions that I don't have good answers for. Besides, I don't really care whether there's a good reason or not; I feel that if Congress can waste billions of dollars on stupid programs like "National Eggplant Ripeness Week" or "National Tractor Mechanic Appreciation Month", then they can afford to spend another few bucks to help a desperate American tourist figure out what on earth is going on with the Israeli bus schedule.
But getting back to my trip to Har Nof - which, as you may recall (although I highly doubt it) is supposed to be the topic of this post - I boarded the number 15 bus, and settled down for the 15 to 20 minute journey. I got off on Katzenellenbogen street (perennial winner of the prestigious Most Unnecessarily Long Street Name With Approximately Two Million Syllables In One Single Word award), and proceeded to number 76, where I would be staying for Shabbos.
Har Nof is designed in a very interesting fashion. Because it is built directly into the side of a mountain, and not on flat ground, many of the buildings have two entrances: on one side of the building the entrance is on the first floor, while on the other side of the building, the entrance is on the fifth floor or so. Really. I am not making this up. The buildings also have 2 addresses because of this; for instance, the building where I was staying was 76 Rechov Katzenellenbogen only from the fifth floor entrance - from the first floor address, it is known as 43 Rechov Agasi. Likewise, the buildings on the other side of Rechov Agasi have their second entrances even lower down the mountain, on some street whose name escapes me at the moment (not that I really care, and therefore neither should you).
Shabbos in Har Nof was very nice: not too Israeli, but not too American either. It was a nice blend of the cultures (at least as far as an uncultured individual like me could tell). On Shabbos afternoon, I went for a walk with my hosts to the very top of the mountain. The view from there was magnificent - we could see as far as Hadassah hospital.
As we marveled at the view of the spectacular mountains surrounding us, my host told me a vort that he personally heard from Rav Hutner z"l: the pasuk says "Yerushalayim harim saviv lah, v'Hashem saviv l'amo" - just as Yerushalayim is surrounded by protective mountains, so too Hashem surrounds and protects His nation from their enemies. Imagine, says Rav Hutner, just like the mountains surround and protect Yerushalayim - they are the "taful" (secondary) and Yerushalayim is the "ikar" (primary) - so too Hashem, out of His great love for His people, makes Himself "taful" - secondary (as it were) - to His people to protect them from their enemies.
It was with these words of inspiration in mind that I left Har Nof on Motzei Shabbos, after thanking my hosts for their warm hospitality. As I walked across the street to the bus stop, I thought to myself: we are indeed surrounded by evil enemies on all sides - whether the Arabs who would think nothing of taking our lives, or Chiloni instigators who would think nothing of taking our souls. But who can possibly harm us when Hashem is personally protecting us?
For those of you who have just arrived from some distant, newspaper-free galaxy, I should point out that I am referring to the fact that someone apparently sent in one of my blog posts (specifically, the serious one about my first trip to the Kosel) to the "Reader's Forum" section of this past week's Hamodia. It was in the "Community News" section, page 39.
I actually did not send it in on my own; I don't have the guts to send anything to a newspaper that lots of people actually read (as opposed to my blog, which for all I know probably has just a small handful of really bored people reading it). Although I was glad to hear that someone else did send it in - I figured getting published in the Hamodia would be a great first step in becoming a famous syndicated journalist, and I would become so fabulously wealthy that I would regularly leave luxurious mansions with 4-car garages as tips. Or perhaps I would end up living under a highway overpass in a refrigerator carton. Whatever. It can go either way.
Now that I've gotten that out of the way, we can move on to more important topics, such as my trip to Har Nof, where I spent this past Shabbos. My brother-in-law told me that years ago, people used to refer to it as "Har Nof, USA" because it is a rather American-intensive area. Although in recent years, things have changed, and the American influence is more visible in other areas as well - even Meah Shearim is starting to strongly resemble 13th Ave. in Boro Park, minus the double-parked cars (here we have triple-parked mopeds instead).
So there I was, at 3:00 PM on Friday afternoon, walking to the bus stop in Geulah, hoping to catch the number 15 bus to Har Nof. Someone warned me that he heard the last bus was at 2:30 PM, and that I would have to take a taxi, but I figured I would try my luck anyway.
If you're one of the people who has absolutely nothing better to do with your life than to waste your valuable time reading my blog, you may recall that a little while ago, I posted a rather negative rant about the bus service here, claiming that the buses are unreliable. However, I'm afraid I must retract that statement: to my utter surprise, a number 15 bus to Har Nof rolled up to the stop where I was waiting at promptly 3:10 PM, just five minutes after I got there. So now I don't know what to believe. Are the buses reliable or not? Perhaps we should demand that the US Congress stop fooling around with silly things like tax reform and illegal immigration and convene a special blue-ribbon investigative panel to focus on the more important issue of Israeli bus punctuality.
I know what you're going to ask me: "But why on earth would the United States Congress care about the buses in some other country?" My answer is quite simple: be quiet, and stop asking me silly questions that I don't have good answers for. Besides, I don't really care whether there's a good reason or not; I feel that if Congress can waste billions of dollars on stupid programs like "National Eggplant Ripeness Week" or "National Tractor Mechanic Appreciation Month", then they can afford to spend another few bucks to help a desperate American tourist figure out what on earth is going on with the Israeli bus schedule.
But getting back to my trip to Har Nof - which, as you may recall (although I highly doubt it) is supposed to be the topic of this post - I boarded the number 15 bus, and settled down for the 15 to 20 minute journey. I got off on Katzenellenbogen street (perennial winner of the prestigious Most Unnecessarily Long Street Name With Approximately Two Million Syllables In One Single Word award), and proceeded to number 76, where I would be staying for Shabbos.
Har Nof is designed in a very interesting fashion. Because it is built directly into the side of a mountain, and not on flat ground, many of the buildings have two entrances: on one side of the building the entrance is on the first floor, while on the other side of the building, the entrance is on the fifth floor or so. Really. I am not making this up. The buildings also have 2 addresses because of this; for instance, the building where I was staying was 76 Rechov Katzenellenbogen only from the fifth floor entrance - from the first floor address, it is known as 43 Rechov Agasi. Likewise, the buildings on the other side of Rechov Agasi have their second entrances even lower down the mountain, on some street whose name escapes me at the moment (not that I really care, and therefore neither should you).
Shabbos in Har Nof was very nice: not too Israeli, but not too American either. It was a nice blend of the cultures (at least as far as an uncultured individual like me could tell). On Shabbos afternoon, I went for a walk with my hosts to the very top of the mountain. The view from there was magnificent - we could see as far as Hadassah hospital.
As we marveled at the view of the spectacular mountains surrounding us, my host told me a vort that he personally heard from Rav Hutner z"l: the pasuk says "Yerushalayim harim saviv lah, v'Hashem saviv l'amo" - just as Yerushalayim is surrounded by protective mountains, so too Hashem surrounds and protects His nation from their enemies. Imagine, says Rav Hutner, just like the mountains surround and protect Yerushalayim - they are the "taful" (secondary) and Yerushalayim is the "ikar" (primary) - so too Hashem, out of His great love for His people, makes Himself "taful" - secondary (as it were) - to His people to protect them from their enemies.
It was with these words of inspiration in mind that I left Har Nof on Motzei Shabbos, after thanking my hosts for their warm hospitality. As I walked across the street to the bus stop, I thought to myself: we are indeed surrounded by evil enemies on all sides - whether the Arabs who would think nothing of taking our lives, or Chiloni instigators who would think nothing of taking our souls. But who can possibly harm us when Hashem is personally protecting us?
Monday, November 12, 2007
Of Feathers and Fridges
As you are doubtlessly aware, the value of the US dollar keeps on falling lower and lower each day. Just turn on the radio and tune in to any station, and you'll hear numbers like 3.88, 3.90, and 3.91. Don't get your hopes up; that's just the price for a gallon of gasoline. The actual exchange rate for shekels is way lower.
While digesting these important facts, one thing immediately became clear: there is no way in the world I am going to write a blog post about economics. I cannot do my readers the disservice of providing them with possibly useful information; in fact, before each and every entry gets posted on my blog, it undergoes a thorough fact check by a crack squad of proofreaders equipped with pruning shears. If they encounter any bit of information that looks even remotely like an important or useful fact, they rip it out immediately, with great force.
So instead of economics, we'll do something far more interesting (well, at least to some of you) today: an update on life in my dira.
First of all, we have a new roommate. We finally got a bird: a gray cockatiel (which looks like a large parakeet, except that it has a hairstyle strongly reminiscent of Tintin). My roommate, who bought the bird, claims it's a female. (I don't know how he knows this. Perhaps the bird is always talking on the phone. Or perhaps it's always asking him "do these feathers make me look fat?")
The bird has so far been named "Tutzy" (pronounced "TOOH-tzi"), and for a very good reason: a sensible, smart person like me was not consulted first - my roommate decided to give it that name on his own, although I wonder what kind of narcotics he was under the influence of at the time. I personally cannot think of any logical reason to give the poor thing such a weird name, but that's none of my business, is it?
At least the turtle has a semi-normal name: Norman. We chose that name because it acts like an old geezer, spending most of its time sleeping or bonking slowly but deliberately into the walls of its tank, and we decided that Norman sounds like a real geezer-ish, Harry-esque name.
Norman and Tutzy are good neighbors: Tutzy's cage is perched (har!) on top of Norman's tank, and except for the time Tutzy pooped straight into Norman's tank, scoring a direct hit into his water bowl, they each seem to mind their own business. I doubt each one even knows the other one exists.
In other animal-related news, the highly annoying neighborhood rooster has been very quiet lately. Perhaps the rooster read my blog, and realized what he would be in for if he didn't shut his noisy little beak. Or perhaps he thinks Tutzy and Norman are gonna gang up on him. Although if that's the case, he really doesn't have much to worry about: poor Norman doesn't even seem capable of ganging up on his food bowl.
At least his food doesn't need to be refrigerated, thank goodness, since the dira fridge has still been neither fixed, nor replaced. At this point, the mold colony growing in the fridge has grown so advanced that they're registering to vote in the upcoming elections. Rumor has it that we may be soon getting a replacement, second-hand fridge, but I'll only believe it when I see it. Call me a pessimist, but as far as I'm concerned, the chances of actually getting the fridge issue resolved once and for all is so low you gotta dig to find them.
Personally, I already gave up on the communal fridge, and so I bought my own fridge. It's a cute little blue portable mini-fridge with a carry handle on top. And I do not use the term "mini" lightly: the interior of my fridge is roughly the size of an ice pack, only less likely to keep things cold. But hey, I was getting desperate already. I needed someplace to keep my... ummmm... my... what did I need a fridge so badly for, anyway?
Seriously, though, I usually keep a couple of small items in the fridge: a small jar of mayonnaise, a small bag of milk in a small pitcher, a small package of cold cuts, and a small container of chumus (did I mention that everything is small?) I don't know if it was worth the 320 shekel (around 80 bucks) I paid for it, but at least now I can eat my cans of tuna fish. In my humble opinion, they taste much better with mayonnaise (the tuna fish, that is, not the cans), but your preferences my vary - perhaps you like to eat tuna fish with chicken soup; although in that case, I assure you that you are completely insane.
So that's my approach for coping with the lack of a communal fridge. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for coping without a decent phone line. In a previous post, I speculated that Bezeq had perhaps excised our phone line using a commercial-grade blowtorch. Little did I know that I wasn't so far from the truth: upon opening a phone jack in the wall near my room, I discovered that the actual phone wires had been ripped from the wall completely. So any thoughts of getting it reconnected have been scrapped.
There is another jack downstairs in our erstwhile "kitchen", but while that one still has its wires intact, it nevertheless does not work. But at least maybe there's hope for getting Bezeq to hook it up to the network someday, and eventually, maybe I can even run a wire upstairs to my room and install my own phone jack.
Although if we do that, it's probably gonna be impossible to get Tutzy off the phone.
While digesting these important facts, one thing immediately became clear: there is no way in the world I am going to write a blog post about economics. I cannot do my readers the disservice of providing them with possibly useful information; in fact, before each and every entry gets posted on my blog, it undergoes a thorough fact check by a crack squad of proofreaders equipped with pruning shears. If they encounter any bit of information that looks even remotely like an important or useful fact, they rip it out immediately, with great force.
So instead of economics, we'll do something far more interesting (well, at least to some of you) today: an update on life in my dira.
First of all, we have a new roommate. We finally got a bird: a gray cockatiel (which looks like a large parakeet, except that it has a hairstyle strongly reminiscent of Tintin). My roommate, who bought the bird, claims it's a female. (I don't know how he knows this. Perhaps the bird is always talking on the phone. Or perhaps it's always asking him "do these feathers make me look fat?")
The bird has so far been named "Tutzy" (pronounced "TOOH-tzi"), and for a very good reason: a sensible, smart person like me was not consulted first - my roommate decided to give it that name on his own, although I wonder what kind of narcotics he was under the influence of at the time. I personally cannot think of any logical reason to give the poor thing such a weird name, but that's none of my business, is it?
At least the turtle has a semi-normal name: Norman. We chose that name because it acts like an old geezer, spending most of its time sleeping or bonking slowly but deliberately into the walls of its tank, and we decided that Norman sounds like a real geezer-ish, Harry-esque name.
Norman and Tutzy are good neighbors: Tutzy's cage is perched (har!) on top of Norman's tank, and except for the time Tutzy pooped straight into Norman's tank, scoring a direct hit into his water bowl, they each seem to mind their own business. I doubt each one even knows the other one exists.
In other animal-related news, the highly annoying neighborhood rooster has been very quiet lately. Perhaps the rooster read my blog, and realized what he would be in for if he didn't shut his noisy little beak. Or perhaps he thinks Tutzy and Norman are gonna gang up on him. Although if that's the case, he really doesn't have much to worry about: poor Norman doesn't even seem capable of ganging up on his food bowl.
At least his food doesn't need to be refrigerated, thank goodness, since the dira fridge has still been neither fixed, nor replaced. At this point, the mold colony growing in the fridge has grown so advanced that they're registering to vote in the upcoming elections. Rumor has it that we may be soon getting a replacement, second-hand fridge, but I'll only believe it when I see it. Call me a pessimist, but as far as I'm concerned, the chances of actually getting the fridge issue resolved once and for all is so low you gotta dig to find them.
Personally, I already gave up on the communal fridge, and so I bought my own fridge. It's a cute little blue portable mini-fridge with a carry handle on top. And I do not use the term "mini" lightly: the interior of my fridge is roughly the size of an ice pack, only less likely to keep things cold. But hey, I was getting desperate already. I needed someplace to keep my... ummmm... my... what did I need a fridge so badly for, anyway?
Seriously, though, I usually keep a couple of small items in the fridge: a small jar of mayonnaise, a small bag of milk in a small pitcher, a small package of cold cuts, and a small container of chumus (did I mention that everything is small?) I don't know if it was worth the 320 shekel (around 80 bucks) I paid for it, but at least now I can eat my cans of tuna fish. In my humble opinion, they taste much better with mayonnaise (the tuna fish, that is, not the cans), but your preferences my vary - perhaps you like to eat tuna fish with chicken soup; although in that case, I assure you that you are completely insane.
So that's my approach for coping with the lack of a communal fridge. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for coping without a decent phone line. In a previous post, I speculated that Bezeq had perhaps excised our phone line using a commercial-grade blowtorch. Little did I know that I wasn't so far from the truth: upon opening a phone jack in the wall near my room, I discovered that the actual phone wires had been ripped from the wall completely. So any thoughts of getting it reconnected have been scrapped.
There is another jack downstairs in our erstwhile "kitchen", but while that one still has its wires intact, it nevertheless does not work. But at least maybe there's hope for getting Bezeq to hook it up to the network someday, and eventually, maybe I can even run a wire upstairs to my room and install my own phone jack.
Although if we do that, it's probably gonna be impossible to get Tutzy off the phone.
Thursday, November 1, 2007
The Wheels on the Bus Go Round, Round, Round...
Today's topic is: how do you get from place to place in Israel? (Short answer: you don't. Trust me, you're much better off staying put.)
For those of you unfamiliar with Israeli society, I should point out that the primary method of getting from place to place is by walking, and not necessarily on the sidewalk, either. Israeli pedestrians have been sighted in middle of the street, sprawled across the hoods of taxis, anywhere - they have even been sighted walking on the surface of Mars. Walking is a fine idea if you plan on only going to local destinations. If you're going more than just a few blocks, though, you have several options:
OPTION #1: You can take a taxi. This option is the best method for learning how to curse fluently in Hebrew, Arabic, and a number of other languages. It also provides the immense benefit of leaving you at the mercy of the taxi driver, who - if he thinks you're a newcomer - may attempt to charge you 500 shekel per oxygen molecule you breathe (which is actually quite a bargain, considering how little oxygen some of the cabs contain). So you have to try not to get ripped off. I've already learned that the average trip can be made for 20 shekel (about $5) or less. Some people consider taxis to be a relatively expensive option, but I prefer a more positive outlook: where else can you be driven somewhere in a chauffeured Mercedes for less than five bucks? Definitely not in New York, I can tell you that. New York cabbies expect five bucks just for the privilege of not spitting on you.
OPTION #2: You can get a "tus-tus", which is the local name for a moped. Don't ask me how on earth "tus-tus" translates to "moped" - I'm a journalist, not a linguist, for crying out loud. (Personally, I wonder why they have to call it a "tus-tus" - shouldn't one "tus" be enough?) A moped is a great, economical way of getting around, with the added bonus that you get to wear a helmet that makes you look like an invading space alien from planet Zork. The only drawback of driving a moped is that the busses are WAY bigger than you are and travel at roughly the speed of a New York taxicab (which is 175 miles per hour on the sidewalk), so if you inadvertently get in the way of a bus, you will involuntarily help manufacture a new speed bump at that spot. Which brings us to our next option:
OPTION #3: You can take a bus. This seems to be the most popular option among most people, presumably because it's such a great opportunity to shove yourself, cattle-car style, into a group of random strangers, some of whom you would never have anything to do with voluntarily. You see all kinds of passengers on busses: Chareidim, Chilonim, tourists, Arabs, the occasional head of cattle, etc. A bus fare is 5-and-a-half shekel (roughly $1.38), for which you get a little receipt which you are required by law to keep until your dying day. I was told that if I don't, I run the risk that the Bus Police will burst into my dira in the middle of the night with vicious dogs, guns drawn, and take our pet turtle hostage.
Now, any one of these three options will get you where you want to go. The question is, which one is right for you? Well, we can rule the moped out right off the bat. Most people look silly on mopeds (although that probably wouldn't stop me from riding one if I had the opportunity - it sure doesn't stop anyone else), not to mention that insurance costs a fortune these days. So that leaves the cab or bus.
Busses are the cheaper option, but are ideal only if you have a LOT of time to kill, waiting at the bus stop. That's one lesson Egged seems to have learned from the MTA: promise busses every 10-20 minutes, but have them only come once every hour or two, especially if it's a bus that a lot of people really need. In fact, the more popular a bus is, the less likely it is to come.
Many Israelis tell me the bus system is usually punctual. I guess perhaps it's just my bad luck, then. I personally waited at a bus stop last week for the popular number 2 bus for over an hour. During that time, I watched more than 70 busses go by, and not a single one of them was a number 2 (I eventually gave up and took a cab). That got me thinking: you know how the Israeli security people claim that they actually thwart over %80 of terror attacks? Well, I'm betting that most of the time, they accomplish that by having busses never come, causing the terrorists to get so angry and frustrated that they go attempt to blow up useless targets instead, such as law firms.
Getting a cab is much easier. Taxis are about as plentiful in Israel as skunks are in the Catskill Mountains, except they often smell worse. The procedure for hailing a cab is quite simple: when you see a white car with a little yellow taxi sign on the roof drive by, you raise your hand, then immediately bring it down sharply with tremendous force on the head of anyone who tries to get into the cab ahead of you. Depending on your destination, the driver will either offer you a flat rate, or he will turn on the meter. Or if he's really cunning, he'll try both - like I said before, the trick is not to let yourself get ripped off.
At least that's what everyone tells me: I, on the other hand, have the bargaining skills of a slab of Formica, and usually just pay whatever I'm told to. But if the trip was beyond walking distance, then it's a small price to pay for the convenience of getting where I wanted to go in one piece. After all, I don't really want to end up walking on the surface of Mars, do I?
For those of you unfamiliar with Israeli society, I should point out that the primary method of getting from place to place is by walking, and not necessarily on the sidewalk, either. Israeli pedestrians have been sighted in middle of the street, sprawled across the hoods of taxis, anywhere - they have even been sighted walking on the surface of Mars. Walking is a fine idea if you plan on only going to local destinations. If you're going more than just a few blocks, though, you have several options:
OPTION #1: You can take a taxi. This option is the best method for learning how to curse fluently in Hebrew, Arabic, and a number of other languages. It also provides the immense benefit of leaving you at the mercy of the taxi driver, who - if he thinks you're a newcomer - may attempt to charge you 500 shekel per oxygen molecule you breathe (which is actually quite a bargain, considering how little oxygen some of the cabs contain). So you have to try not to get ripped off. I've already learned that the average trip can be made for 20 shekel (about $5) or less. Some people consider taxis to be a relatively expensive option, but I prefer a more positive outlook: where else can you be driven somewhere in a chauffeured Mercedes for less than five bucks? Definitely not in New York, I can tell you that. New York cabbies expect five bucks just for the privilege of not spitting on you.
OPTION #2: You can get a "tus-tus", which is the local name for a moped. Don't ask me how on earth "tus-tus" translates to "moped" - I'm a journalist, not a linguist, for crying out loud. (Personally, I wonder why they have to call it a "tus-tus" - shouldn't one "tus" be enough?) A moped is a great, economical way of getting around, with the added bonus that you get to wear a helmet that makes you look like an invading space alien from planet Zork. The only drawback of driving a moped is that the busses are WAY bigger than you are and travel at roughly the speed of a New York taxicab (which is 175 miles per hour on the sidewalk), so if you inadvertently get in the way of a bus, you will involuntarily help manufacture a new speed bump at that spot. Which brings us to our next option:
OPTION #3: You can take a bus. This seems to be the most popular option among most people, presumably because it's such a great opportunity to shove yourself, cattle-car style, into a group of random strangers, some of whom you would never have anything to do with voluntarily. You see all kinds of passengers on busses: Chareidim, Chilonim, tourists, Arabs, the occasional head of cattle, etc. A bus fare is 5-and-a-half shekel (roughly $1.38), for which you get a little receipt which you are required by law to keep until your dying day. I was told that if I don't, I run the risk that the Bus Police will burst into my dira in the middle of the night with vicious dogs, guns drawn, and take our pet turtle hostage.
Now, any one of these three options will get you where you want to go. The question is, which one is right for you? Well, we can rule the moped out right off the bat. Most people look silly on mopeds (although that probably wouldn't stop me from riding one if I had the opportunity - it sure doesn't stop anyone else), not to mention that insurance costs a fortune these days. So that leaves the cab or bus.
Busses are the cheaper option, but are ideal only if you have a LOT of time to kill, waiting at the bus stop. That's one lesson Egged seems to have learned from the MTA: promise busses every 10-20 minutes, but have them only come once every hour or two, especially if it's a bus that a lot of people really need. In fact, the more popular a bus is, the less likely it is to come.
Many Israelis tell me the bus system is usually punctual. I guess perhaps it's just my bad luck, then. I personally waited at a bus stop last week for the popular number 2 bus for over an hour. During that time, I watched more than 70 busses go by, and not a single one of them was a number 2 (I eventually gave up and took a cab). That got me thinking: you know how the Israeli security people claim that they actually thwart over %80 of terror attacks? Well, I'm betting that most of the time, they accomplish that by having busses never come, causing the terrorists to get so angry and frustrated that they go attempt to blow up useless targets instead, such as law firms.
Getting a cab is much easier. Taxis are about as plentiful in Israel as skunks are in the Catskill Mountains, except they often smell worse. The procedure for hailing a cab is quite simple: when you see a white car with a little yellow taxi sign on the roof drive by, you raise your hand, then immediately bring it down sharply with tremendous force on the head of anyone who tries to get into the cab ahead of you. Depending on your destination, the driver will either offer you a flat rate, or he will turn on the meter. Or if he's really cunning, he'll try both - like I said before, the trick is not to let yourself get ripped off.
At least that's what everyone tells me: I, on the other hand, have the bargaining skills of a slab of Formica, and usually just pay whatever I'm told to. But if the trip was beyond walking distance, then it's a small price to pay for the convenience of getting where I wanted to go in one piece. After all, I don't really want to end up walking on the surface of Mars, do I?
Monday, October 29, 2007
What Were You Thinking?
It's 2:30 in the morning, and I can't sleep. You know why? Not because of perfectly normal reasons like jet lag, insomnia, or wondering if there's a big vicious cockroach hiding in the closet waiting until I fall asleep so it can consume my entire food supply undisturbed. No, I can't sleep because someone is being inconsiderate, and making a ton of noise outside my window.
Normally, under such circumstances, the correct procedure would be to stick one's head out the window and yell "SHEKET!!!" ("QUIET!!!") with enough force to cause an avalanche. But in this case, that's not an option, because the culprit is not human. The culprit is a rooster.
Now, I am aware that roosters are supposed to crow at dawn. I even make a bracha every morning to that effect. But it's TWO THIRTY IN THE MORNING, for crying out loud. It's not even close to dawn, but that doesn't stop our intrepid little neighbor. He crows at any random time of the day or night, be it 12:00, 2:00, 3:30, etc. Probably what happened is someone bought the rooster one of those digital watches that tells you what time it is all around the world, and the rooster - unable to figure out how to work it properly - keeps thinking he's behind schedule. Personally, I'm strongly tempted to reprogram the rooster using an electric chainsaw at this point. But that would probably violate some kind of zoning law or something.
At times like this, I wonder: what on earth is the rooster's owner thinking?! Doesn't he hear how night after night, innocent civilians have to endure his rooster's antics? Why does he even HAVE a rooster in today's day and age? Perhaps no one has explained to him that the electronic alarm clock has been invented. Or perhaps he doesn't like electronic alarm clocks. After all, I know I hate mine - I'm surprised mine still has the courage to ring every morning after all of my half-asleep attempts to destroy it (let's just say it's a good thing I left my blowtorch at home). Why doesn't he duct-tape the rooster's beak shut, or at least keep it indoors?
The answer is simple: he just doesn't think. People never think. The world is full of people who don't begin to realize the consequences of their actions. Such as the people who consistently call me when it's 9 PM in the states, despite the fact that simple math would tell them that it's 3 AM here in Israel. The only reason why I don't favor having such people fined a minimum of $50,000 per offense for such cases is that most of the time, I'm up anyway, listening to the rooster. Besides, these people are not evil; they're just not thinking.
Or how about the crack squad of professional "contractors" who installed the tub/shower in my dira - they clearly weren't thinking either. People have asked me to write about the shower conditions in the dira, and believe me they are not pleasant. I don't mean cleanliness-wise, I mean safety-wise. Consider the following chilling facts:
CHILLING FACT #1: The tub is made out of porcelain-enameled cast iron.
CHILLING FACT #2: Cast iron is hard. VERY hard.
CHILLING FACT #3: The tub does not have those "anti-slip" treads like most American bathtubs do.
CHILLING FACT #4: The Australian bird-eating spider is over 6 centimeters wide and 16 centimeters long - almost the size of a human hand, and - whoops! Sorry! Wrong list of chilling facts! I'll try not to let that happen again...
CHILLING FACT #5: Porcelain enamel is EXTREMELY slippery when wet.
So what does the genius installing the tub do? He installs it at an angle, with the floor sloping AWAY from the drain. Ha ha! What fun! Anyone who has ever been to a water park and seen how a waterslide works will surely appreciate the wacky hijinks involved in trying to stand on a slippery surface - ankle-deep in a non-draining puddle of water (making it even slipperier) - and take a shower without slipping and having your brains surgically remove themselves from your head without the benefit of an anesthetic. How exciting!
And then, of course, there is the best example of someone who is not considerate enough to think of others: me. If you have read this far, then I have just wasted several precious minutes of your life, making you listen to me ramble and complain incessantly about seemingly trivial matters, when I could be writing about something more useful, like National Avocado Appreciation Week. What's wrong with me? Doesn't it occur to me that maybe people have more important things to do than reading my blog? And why do I keep asking people to please write something in the comments section - don't I realize that people are busy with more important things, like forwarding e-mail jokes? Don't I ever think?!
Of course I don't - I'm too busy hoping the rooster won't notice me sharpening the chainsaw.
Normally, under such circumstances, the correct procedure would be to stick one's head out the window and yell "SHEKET!!!" ("QUIET!!!") with enough force to cause an avalanche. But in this case, that's not an option, because the culprit is not human. The culprit is a rooster.
Now, I am aware that roosters are supposed to crow at dawn. I even make a bracha every morning to that effect. But it's TWO THIRTY IN THE MORNING, for crying out loud. It's not even close to dawn, but that doesn't stop our intrepid little neighbor. He crows at any random time of the day or night, be it 12:00, 2:00, 3:30, etc. Probably what happened is someone bought the rooster one of those digital watches that tells you what time it is all around the world, and the rooster - unable to figure out how to work it properly - keeps thinking he's behind schedule. Personally, I'm strongly tempted to reprogram the rooster using an electric chainsaw at this point. But that would probably violate some kind of zoning law or something.
At times like this, I wonder: what on earth is the rooster's owner thinking?! Doesn't he hear how night after night, innocent civilians have to endure his rooster's antics? Why does he even HAVE a rooster in today's day and age? Perhaps no one has explained to him that the electronic alarm clock has been invented. Or perhaps he doesn't like electronic alarm clocks. After all, I know I hate mine - I'm surprised mine still has the courage to ring every morning after all of my half-asleep attempts to destroy it (let's just say it's a good thing I left my blowtorch at home). Why doesn't he duct-tape the rooster's beak shut, or at least keep it indoors?
The answer is simple: he just doesn't think. People never think. The world is full of people who don't begin to realize the consequences of their actions. Such as the people who consistently call me when it's 9 PM in the states, despite the fact that simple math would tell them that it's 3 AM here in Israel. The only reason why I don't favor having such people fined a minimum of $50,000 per offense for such cases is that most of the time, I'm up anyway, listening to the rooster. Besides, these people are not evil; they're just not thinking.
Or how about the crack squad of professional "contractors" who installed the tub/shower in my dira - they clearly weren't thinking either. People have asked me to write about the shower conditions in the dira, and believe me they are not pleasant. I don't mean cleanliness-wise, I mean safety-wise. Consider the following chilling facts:
CHILLING FACT #1: The tub is made out of porcelain-enameled cast iron.
CHILLING FACT #2: Cast iron is hard. VERY hard.
CHILLING FACT #3: The tub does not have those "anti-slip" treads like most American bathtubs do.
CHILLING FACT #4: The Australian bird-eating spider is over 6 centimeters wide and 16 centimeters long - almost the size of a human hand, and - whoops! Sorry! Wrong list of chilling facts! I'll try not to let that happen again...
CHILLING FACT #5: Porcelain enamel is EXTREMELY slippery when wet.
So what does the genius installing the tub do? He installs it at an angle, with the floor sloping AWAY from the drain. Ha ha! What fun! Anyone who has ever been to a water park and seen how a waterslide works will surely appreciate the wacky hijinks involved in trying to stand on a slippery surface - ankle-deep in a non-draining puddle of water (making it even slipperier) - and take a shower without slipping and having your brains surgically remove themselves from your head without the benefit of an anesthetic. How exciting!
And then, of course, there is the best example of someone who is not considerate enough to think of others: me. If you have read this far, then I have just wasted several precious minutes of your life, making you listen to me ramble and complain incessantly about seemingly trivial matters, when I could be writing about something more useful, like National Avocado Appreciation Week. What's wrong with me? Doesn't it occur to me that maybe people have more important things to do than reading my blog? And why do I keep asking people to please write something in the comments section - don't I realize that people are busy with more important things, like forwarding e-mail jokes? Don't I ever think?!
Of course I don't - I'm too busy hoping the rooster won't notice me sharpening the chainsaw.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Life in the Dira
Many people have asked me to write about life in the dira, as well as life in Israel in general. Personally, I think those people are - pardon my French - insane. I mean, you want to know about Israeli life, fine, I can understand that. But dira life?! Are you sure you want to know what it's like?! Do you have ANY IDEA what you're getting into? I'll give you a little hint: have you ever seen what the average teenager's room looks like? Good. Now multiply that by seven, twelve, maybe even twenty. Do you see what kind of mess we're dealing with?
But what can I do? I'm a mere journalist, whose job it is to keep the public informed. If the public wants to know, then I have to write whatever will satisfy the public's curiosity. I can, however, leave out some of the gorier details (such as what we do with the dead bodies of any Arabs caught breaking into and stealing from the dira). So here goes:
I live on the second floor of a three-floor dira on Rechov Adani in the heart of Yerushalayim. At least I think that's where I live - it's hard to tell since the roads (and especially the alleys) are so poorly marked, and all the buildings look alike. My policy is quite simple: if I walk into the building, and I get run over by seven little kids chasing a cat, then I've most probably entered the wrong dira. Personally, I don't have the slightest clue how the mailman can figure out which address is which, yet the pile of bills in front of our door keeps getting bigger, so he must be managing somehow (I suspect perhaps black magic is involved). To me, it's a jungle of stone look-alikes.
Which, by the way, brings up an interesting point: just about everything in this country is made of stone. And I mean everything: the walls, the floors, the ceilings, the sidewalks, a good deal of the food supply, etc. I guess I should be thankful the Gemaras are not made of stone, or I would no doubt sustain a massive hernia. (Insert corny comment about Artscroll's "The Stone Edition" of Tanach here.)
Anyway, my dira is located a short distance away from Meah She'arim, so shopping is quite plentiful - provided that you can find what you’re looking for. I base this statement on my trip there last week for the sound journalistic purpose of purchasing an alarm clock, which I figured would be useful for waking me up in the morning for at least four consecutive seconds until I ram the "snooze" button with a hammer (sold separately). I went through Meah She'arim, trying to determine which kind of store might sell alarm clocks. This can be quite tricky in Israel, since some vendors seem to have their priorities messed up. I mean, I saw a shoe stores selling tzitzis, and a barber shop selling (why not?) umbrellas. So I kept my eyes peeled, and with Hashem's help, soon found an electronics store.
Well, not really. The store I found actually sold soda, cartons of cigarettes, various knickknacks, and also some electronics and appliances - a rather eclectic mix. I ended up buying an alarm clock, a multi-outlet adapter, and two little power-plug-adapters for 80 sheks (20 bucks).
But getting back to my dira, it's actually a pretty decent place. My roommates so far consist of a human named Avrumy, and a turtle who we haven't named yet. We're also supposed to get a bird as soon as we find a pet store somewhere.
Either way, it's definitely a lot better than I expected. On the plus side, we have a standard Israeli dual-flush toilet. This means that the toilet has two flush handles, a big one and a small one. Being a rather tasteful individual, I will not explicitly describe the circumstances under which each handle is to be used, except to use the following high-class, tasteful euphemisms: the small handle is for "drive-thru", whereas the large one is for "full service". (For a real "act of Knesset" you can try both handles simultaneously, but I don't think it makes much of a difference.)
On the down side, we have no phone (not even a local Israeli line). Apparently, the previous occupants ran up a phone bill roughly equivalent to the US federal budget deficit. When they did not pay the bill, Bezek graciously cut the phone lines (presumably using a blowtorch), until such time as some selfless hero (hint: NOT me) will step forward and offer to pay the outstanding bill.
Another problem is that we do not have a kitchen - our kitchen has been converted into a bedroom (I suspect that one guy sleeps in each sink, and one more in the oven). Also, our refrigerator is broken. Someone is supposed to come fix it, but I don't think that's a good idea: since the fridge died, the interior has developed a very sophisticated (meaning "smelly") colony of mold that has already succeeded in capturing and eating the last so-called repairman. Personally, I think the best solution would be to tackle the fridge with a flamethrower, but the compressor might not like that.
My yeshiva is about a five to ten minute walk away from the dira. That's the easy part: the hard part is once you get there, you have to climb several flights of cement stairs that were clearly designed by some crack squad of pro-women-and-minority-groups masonry "designers": no two steps are the same shape and size. Some are tall, some are short; some are straight, some are crooked, etc.
Once you do reach the top, there is a large, open space divided into a beis medrash and dining room (using bookshelves and banks of lockers as partition walls), a tiny kitchen (probably the one they stole from my dira), some bathrooms, and an office. It's a relatively simple setup, but it seems to work.
Meals are served in the yeshiva, and they're usually edible, provided you like to eat chicken in all of its various possible incarnations pretty much every night of the week. And if you don't like what's being served, you can always go to one of the local establishments where you can get some decent American-style food for the low, rock bottom price of just an arm and a leg.
Okay, I believe I wrote enough for now. If you'd like any more information on anything else in my Israeli life, leave a comment in the comments section below. Or you can mail me your questions. And if you do, please tell the mailman to show me how he finds my dira, once and for all.
But what can I do? I'm a mere journalist, whose job it is to keep the public informed. If the public wants to know, then I have to write whatever will satisfy the public's curiosity. I can, however, leave out some of the gorier details (such as what we do with the dead bodies of any Arabs caught breaking into and stealing from the dira). So here goes:
I live on the second floor of a three-floor dira on Rechov Adani in the heart of Yerushalayim. At least I think that's where I live - it's hard to tell since the roads (and especially the alleys) are so poorly marked, and all the buildings look alike. My policy is quite simple: if I walk into the building, and I get run over by seven little kids chasing a cat, then I've most probably entered the wrong dira. Personally, I don't have the slightest clue how the mailman can figure out which address is which, yet the pile of bills in front of our door keeps getting bigger, so he must be managing somehow (I suspect perhaps black magic is involved). To me, it's a jungle of stone look-alikes.
Which, by the way, brings up an interesting point: just about everything in this country is made of stone. And I mean everything: the walls, the floors, the ceilings, the sidewalks, a good deal of the food supply, etc. I guess I should be thankful the Gemaras are not made of stone, or I would no doubt sustain a massive hernia. (Insert corny comment about Artscroll's "The Stone Edition" of Tanach here.)
Anyway, my dira is located a short distance away from Meah She'arim, so shopping is quite plentiful - provided that you can find what you’re looking for. I base this statement on my trip there last week for the sound journalistic purpose of purchasing an alarm clock, which I figured would be useful for waking me up in the morning for at least four consecutive seconds until I ram the "snooze" button with a hammer (sold separately). I went through Meah She'arim, trying to determine which kind of store might sell alarm clocks. This can be quite tricky in Israel, since some vendors seem to have their priorities messed up. I mean, I saw a shoe stores selling tzitzis, and a barber shop selling (why not?) umbrellas. So I kept my eyes peeled, and with Hashem's help, soon found an electronics store.
Well, not really. The store I found actually sold soda, cartons of cigarettes, various knickknacks, and also some electronics and appliances - a rather eclectic mix. I ended up buying an alarm clock, a multi-outlet adapter, and two little power-plug-adapters for 80 sheks (20 bucks).
But getting back to my dira, it's actually a pretty decent place. My roommates so far consist of a human named Avrumy, and a turtle who we haven't named yet. We're also supposed to get a bird as soon as we find a pet store somewhere.
Either way, it's definitely a lot better than I expected. On the plus side, we have a standard Israeli dual-flush toilet. This means that the toilet has two flush handles, a big one and a small one. Being a rather tasteful individual, I will not explicitly describe the circumstances under which each handle is to be used, except to use the following high-class, tasteful euphemisms: the small handle is for "drive-thru", whereas the large one is for "full service". (For a real "act of Knesset" you can try both handles simultaneously, but I don't think it makes much of a difference.)
On the down side, we have no phone (not even a local Israeli line). Apparently, the previous occupants ran up a phone bill roughly equivalent to the US federal budget deficit. When they did not pay the bill, Bezek graciously cut the phone lines (presumably using a blowtorch), until such time as some selfless hero (hint: NOT me) will step forward and offer to pay the outstanding bill.
Another problem is that we do not have a kitchen - our kitchen has been converted into a bedroom (I suspect that one guy sleeps in each sink, and one more in the oven). Also, our refrigerator is broken. Someone is supposed to come fix it, but I don't think that's a good idea: since the fridge died, the interior has developed a very sophisticated (meaning "smelly") colony of mold that has already succeeded in capturing and eating the last so-called repairman. Personally, I think the best solution would be to tackle the fridge with a flamethrower, but the compressor might not like that.
My yeshiva is about a five to ten minute walk away from the dira. That's the easy part: the hard part is once you get there, you have to climb several flights of cement stairs that were clearly designed by some crack squad of pro-women-and-minority-groups masonry "designers": no two steps are the same shape and size. Some are tall, some are short; some are straight, some are crooked, etc.
Once you do reach the top, there is a large, open space divided into a beis medrash and dining room (using bookshelves and banks of lockers as partition walls), a tiny kitchen (probably the one they stole from my dira), some bathrooms, and an office. It's a relatively simple setup, but it seems to work.
Meals are served in the yeshiva, and they're usually edible, provided you like to eat chicken in all of its various possible incarnations pretty much every night of the week. And if you don't like what's being served, you can always go to one of the local establishments where you can get some decent American-style food for the low, rock bottom price of just an arm and a leg.
Okay, I believe I wrote enough for now. If you'd like any more information on anything else in my Israeli life, leave a comment in the comments section below. Or you can mail me your questions. And if you do, please tell the mailman to show me how he finds my dira, once and for all.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Coming Home to the Wall
I decided to pay a visit to the Kosel tonight. I had been pushing it off until now, because I was worried about getting lost, and was waiting for a friend to be available to come with me. But tonight, however, having been in Israel almost a week, I decided to risk the journey on my own.
I once heard a tape by Rabbi Dovid Orlofsky about how many people do not prepare properly for a visit to the Kosel. Oh sure, they think they're prepared - in fact, they have a whole fantasy about how they will approach the Wall, and as they reach it the clouds will part, and a lone ray of sunlight will shine upon them, and the angels will sing, and they will just generally be swept away in a tidal wave of holiness.
What often actually happens, though, is unfortunately far more mundane. They cross the plaza, and find: a wall. Hmmm... all I see is a wall. A very old wall. It seems like there's nothing too special here. I'm looking around now... hmmm... I wonder what's wrong with that guy - why's he crying like that? Hey, you! Get away from me - I gave you money already!
Why do people feel that way? Simple - because it's not magic. It's an investment. As much as you put into it, that's what you'll get out of it. The more you mentally prepare yourself for the experience, the better and more spiritual the experience will be.
It was with these thoughts in mind that I boarded the number 2 bus to the Kosel. I hoped I'd prepared myself at least somewhat for the experience to come. I realized, of course, that I probably wouldn't experience the full feeling of kedusha that I'd like to feel all at once, but I hoped at least I would be zoche to feel something...
The bus ride was relatively uneventful, unless you count the few times that the bus felt like it wouldn't make it to the top of the hill that we were ascending. But we made it all they way there nonetheless. As soon as I got off the bus, I put on my "kriyah shirt" - an old shirt with a cut near the collar to make it easier to tear the required tefach - over my regular shirt, just under my jacket. I headed through security (I wisely elected to leave my Leatherman back at my dira, so I had no problems at the metal detector), and proceeded toward the plaza.
Up until this point, I had not been able to see the Kosel, due to various walls and other objects blocking me. As I entered the plaza, however, the Kosel suddenly appeared before me in all its glory, almost all at once. I was so overcome by the sight that my eyes began to tear. I approached the Kosel slowly, instinctively fighting back the tears. But when I reached the wall and kissed it, I just couldn't hold it back any longer. I burst into tears. All the pain I felt - my pain, as well as the pain of Klal Yisroel as a whole - just came pouring out as I cried like a lost child who has finally found his way home. I felt a little self-conscious, but told myself that it didn't really matter, since crying people are a common sight at the Kosel. Besides, it was raining steadily, so most of the people were in the "indoor" area of the Kosel, so no one was too close to me anyway.
For several moments I just stood there and cried - not saying any Tehilim, not having any particular cholim in mind, not even thinking about the things I had been planning on davening for - just crying for the ancient wall in front of me, for the magnificent edifice it once was, for the pain and suffering of Klal Yisroel who have nowhere to call home, for the Shechinah Hakdosha which has nowhere to call home. Mipnei chato'einu ga'alinu mei'artzeinu...
After a while, I composed myself, and went about the routine business of any Kosel visitor: davening, giving tzedaka, writing a kvittel. To the many people around me, I imagine I looked as if I returned to normal. Like I wasn't still feeling anything special. Perhaps even like that ordinary tourist in Rabbi Orlofsky's story. Like I was just another ordinary American bochur.
Perhaps I was. But that feeling - that sense of a child longing to come home - still has not left me.
I hope it never will.
I once heard a tape by Rabbi Dovid Orlofsky about how many people do not prepare properly for a visit to the Kosel. Oh sure, they think they're prepared - in fact, they have a whole fantasy about how they will approach the Wall, and as they reach it the clouds will part, and a lone ray of sunlight will shine upon them, and the angels will sing, and they will just generally be swept away in a tidal wave of holiness.
What often actually happens, though, is unfortunately far more mundane. They cross the plaza, and find: a wall. Hmmm... all I see is a wall. A very old wall. It seems like there's nothing too special here. I'm looking around now... hmmm... I wonder what's wrong with that guy - why's he crying like that? Hey, you! Get away from me - I gave you money already!
Why do people feel that way? Simple - because it's not magic. It's an investment. As much as you put into it, that's what you'll get out of it. The more you mentally prepare yourself for the experience, the better and more spiritual the experience will be.
It was with these thoughts in mind that I boarded the number 2 bus to the Kosel. I hoped I'd prepared myself at least somewhat for the experience to come. I realized, of course, that I probably wouldn't experience the full feeling of kedusha that I'd like to feel all at once, but I hoped at least I would be zoche to feel something...
The bus ride was relatively uneventful, unless you count the few times that the bus felt like it wouldn't make it to the top of the hill that we were ascending. But we made it all they way there nonetheless. As soon as I got off the bus, I put on my "kriyah shirt" - an old shirt with a cut near the collar to make it easier to tear the required tefach - over my regular shirt, just under my jacket. I headed through security (I wisely elected to leave my Leatherman back at my dira, so I had no problems at the metal detector), and proceeded toward the plaza.
Up until this point, I had not been able to see the Kosel, due to various walls and other objects blocking me. As I entered the plaza, however, the Kosel suddenly appeared before me in all its glory, almost all at once. I was so overcome by the sight that my eyes began to tear. I approached the Kosel slowly, instinctively fighting back the tears. But when I reached the wall and kissed it, I just couldn't hold it back any longer. I burst into tears. All the pain I felt - my pain, as well as the pain of Klal Yisroel as a whole - just came pouring out as I cried like a lost child who has finally found his way home. I felt a little self-conscious, but told myself that it didn't really matter, since crying people are a common sight at the Kosel. Besides, it was raining steadily, so most of the people were in the "indoor" area of the Kosel, so no one was too close to me anyway.
For several moments I just stood there and cried - not saying any Tehilim, not having any particular cholim in mind, not even thinking about the things I had been planning on davening for - just crying for the ancient wall in front of me, for the magnificent edifice it once was, for the pain and suffering of Klal Yisroel who have nowhere to call home, for the Shechinah Hakdosha which has nowhere to call home. Mipnei chato'einu ga'alinu mei'artzeinu...
After a while, I composed myself, and went about the routine business of any Kosel visitor: davening, giving tzedaka, writing a kvittel. To the many people around me, I imagine I looked as if I returned to normal. Like I wasn't still feeling anything special. Perhaps even like that ordinary tourist in Rabbi Orlofsky's story. Like I was just another ordinary American bochur.
Perhaps I was. But that feeling - that sense of a child longing to come home - still has not left me.
I hope it never will.
Friday, October 12, 2007
Touchdown!
Okay, I'm in Israel, and I think I finally figured out how to post to the blog from my phone. Let’s see if it works...
I was supposed to catch El Al flight 012 from JFK at 1:20 AM Thursday morning. Every air traveler hopes for minimal or no delays, but that was apparently not meant to be: air travel technology has become so sophisticated that my flight was delayed an hour-and-a-half already a full day in advance. (Give airlines enough time, and they'll figure out how to already delay your flight by a week even before they schedule an original departure time for it.)
Still, one thing I gotta admit is that air travel is not so bad these days - provided, of course, that you are some alien being that is only 17 inches tall and has a digestive system capable of tackling the steel-and-cardboard "meals" they serve you. For actual humans, though - especially tall people like me - you feel like the seats were imported from S'dom, and you half-expect the flight attendants to come around with hacksaws to trim your feet down to size. The meals, too, wouldn't have been so bad if their primary intended usage had been as paperweights.
But getting back to my actual flight, I was assigned seat 54H - that's an aisle seat in the right-most section of the plane, four rows from the back. I squeezed myself in - probably shattering both kneecaps in the process - and waited apprehensively to see who would have the center seat, praying hard that it would NOT be another person my size. You can imagine my pleasant surprise, then, when my seatmate turned out to be not only a normal-sized person, but even someone I knew: the son of the director of the camp where I worked this past summer. Hashem was looking out for me even better than I could have imagined, though: five minutes into the flight, my seatmate announced that he had a friend on board elsewhere on the plane who had an empty seat next to him, and thus he was going to sit with his friend, leaving the seat next to me empty. Thus, I was able to stretch my legs considerably for the remainder of the journey, making the so-called "economy class" bearable.
The rest of the journey passed by somewhat uneventfully, Baruch Hashem. We landed - judging by the amount of taxiing the plane had to do after the landing - about 79 miles away from Ben-Gurion airport in Tel-Aviv, pretty much on schedule. Passport control, baggage claim, and customs went off Baruch Hashem without a hitch, and now it was time to figure out how to make it all the way to my dira in one piece - well, technically, one piece plus three pieces of luggage plus one piece of hand luggage plus one hatbox, for a total of six pieces. But you get my point...
I ended up taking a "tender", which is a van of sorts that carries 10 passengers and their baggage. The trip to Yerushalayim took about 40 minutes, and I learned lots of new useful Hebrew words, thanks to the driver's constant cursing. I was dropped off in front of a bakery about a block away from my dira, to the tune of 50 shekels (hereafter known as "sheks", since that what everyone calls them). Just when I was beginning to worry how I was gonna get all my stuff over to my dira, hashgacha pratis struck again: an old friend of mine from Vyelipol just "happened" to be using the payphone outside the bakery. He helped me find the dira, and helped carry my luggage there.
So Baruch Hashem, nearly 24 hours after leaving my house, my journey came to a happy conclusion in Yerushalayim Ihr Hakodesh, the holiest city in the world. Yup, definitely worth the trip...
I was supposed to catch El Al flight 012 from JFK at 1:20 AM Thursday morning. Every air traveler hopes for minimal or no delays, but that was apparently not meant to be: air travel technology has become so sophisticated that my flight was delayed an hour-and-a-half already a full day in advance. (Give airlines enough time, and they'll figure out how to already delay your flight by a week even before they schedule an original departure time for it.)
Still, one thing I gotta admit is that air travel is not so bad these days - provided, of course, that you are some alien being that is only 17 inches tall and has a digestive system capable of tackling the steel-and-cardboard "meals" they serve you. For actual humans, though - especially tall people like me - you feel like the seats were imported from S'dom, and you half-expect the flight attendants to come around with hacksaws to trim your feet down to size. The meals, too, wouldn't have been so bad if their primary intended usage had been as paperweights.
But getting back to my actual flight, I was assigned seat 54H - that's an aisle seat in the right-most section of the plane, four rows from the back. I squeezed myself in - probably shattering both kneecaps in the process - and waited apprehensively to see who would have the center seat, praying hard that it would NOT be another person my size. You can imagine my pleasant surprise, then, when my seatmate turned out to be not only a normal-sized person, but even someone I knew: the son of the director of the camp where I worked this past summer. Hashem was looking out for me even better than I could have imagined, though: five minutes into the flight, my seatmate announced that he had a friend on board elsewhere on the plane who had an empty seat next to him, and thus he was going to sit with his friend, leaving the seat next to me empty. Thus, I was able to stretch my legs considerably for the remainder of the journey, making the so-called "economy class" bearable.
The rest of the journey passed by somewhat uneventfully, Baruch Hashem. We landed - judging by the amount of taxiing the plane had to do after the landing - about 79 miles away from Ben-Gurion airport in Tel-Aviv, pretty much on schedule. Passport control, baggage claim, and customs went off Baruch Hashem without a hitch, and now it was time to figure out how to make it all the way to my dira in one piece - well, technically, one piece plus three pieces of luggage plus one piece of hand luggage plus one hatbox, for a total of six pieces. But you get my point...
I ended up taking a "tender", which is a van of sorts that carries 10 passengers and their baggage. The trip to Yerushalayim took about 40 minutes, and I learned lots of new useful Hebrew words, thanks to the driver's constant cursing. I was dropped off in front of a bakery about a block away from my dira, to the tune of 50 shekels (hereafter known as "sheks", since that what everyone calls them). Just when I was beginning to worry how I was gonna get all my stuff over to my dira, hashgacha pratis struck again: an old friend of mine from Vyelipol just "happened" to be using the payphone outside the bakery. He helped me find the dira, and helped carry my luggage there.
So Baruch Hashem, nearly 24 hours after leaving my house, my journey came to a happy conclusion in Yerushalayim Ihr Hakodesh, the holiest city in the world. Yup, definitely worth the trip...
Monday, October 8, 2007
Happy Columbus Day!
Today is Columbus Day. Well, technically it isn't - Columbus Day is supposed to be October 12 - the day the Nino, the Pinto, and the Santa Claus arrived at the Americas (the Pinto, of course, exploded just before reaching the shore; fortunately, the concept of "lawsuits" had not yet been invented). However, the government decided years ago that it would be more prudent to celebrate on the second Monday in October, for a very sound federal reason: it gives federal employees an excuse for a federally extended 4-day weekend. However, ordinary citizens like you and I must go about our business as usual (unless we still happen to be on vacation anyway, like I am).
Which is why I was quite surprised to find out that the USPS tried to deliver a package for me this morning. As far as I can tell (based on my understanding of the Wikipedia entry for Columbus Day), the Postal Service is supposed to be on vacation today. I was expecting a package (namely, the cellphone I ordered for use in Israel) to be delivered by USPS Priority Mail, but not today. You can imagine my surprise, then, when not only do they appear to be on duty today, but they even went out of their way to attempt to deliver the package very early in the morning, before anyone was available at my father's workplace to sign for it. Personally, I think that they had Postal Inspectors hiding in the bushes with Secret-Service-style earpieces in their ears, watching the front door, and whispering "The coast is clear! Deliver the Shadow's package NOW!" into the microphones hidden in their sleeves as soon as the last person
left the office last night. Not that I'm paranoid, of course. Although the only flaw I can see with this line of reasoning is that in the commercial neighborhood where my father works, there are no bushes (or anything even resembling any form of vegetation, except possibly potted marijuana plants).
Anyway, upon further investigation I've discovered, to my relief, that I am not a victim of racial discrimination (although this being America, I could probably sue anyway). It seems that only express mail and priority mail is being delivered today, so an attempt should have been made. But upon calling my father, I discovered that someone WAS there at the time of the so-called delivery attempt, and they say nobody tried to deliver anything. So I don't know why USPS thinks nobody was there to receive it. Perhaps the delivery person was under the influence of the, shall we say, "vegetation" at the time. Or perhaps not. Or perhaps the truck was struck by a fallen alien spacecraft, this whole thing is just a government cover-up.
Although I doubt the government would be working on cover-ups today - they're still out celebrating their 4-day weekend.
Note: I really appreciate feedback on my writing. Please leave a comment below, and please sign it with at least your first name or nickname so I'll know who you are. Thanks!
Which is why I was quite surprised to find out that the USPS tried to deliver a package for me this morning. As far as I can tell (based on my understanding of the Wikipedia entry for Columbus Day), the Postal Service is supposed to be on vacation today. I was expecting a package (namely, the cellphone I ordered for use in Israel) to be delivered by USPS Priority Mail, but not today. You can imagine my surprise, then, when not only do they appear to be on duty today, but they even went out of their way to attempt to deliver the package very early in the morning, before anyone was available at my father's workplace to sign for it. Personally, I think that they had Postal Inspectors hiding in the bushes with Secret-Service-style earpieces in their ears, watching the front door, and whispering "The coast is clear! Deliver the Shadow's package NOW!" into the microphones hidden in their sleeves as soon as the last person
left the office last night. Not that I'm paranoid, of course. Although the only flaw I can see with this line of reasoning is that in the commercial neighborhood where my father works, there are no bushes (or anything even resembling any form of vegetation, except possibly potted marijuana plants).
Anyway, upon further investigation I've discovered, to my relief, that I am not a victim of racial discrimination (although this being America, I could probably sue anyway). It seems that only express mail and priority mail is being delivered today, so an attempt should have been made. But upon calling my father, I discovered that someone WAS there at the time of the so-called delivery attempt, and they say nobody tried to deliver anything. So I don't know why USPS thinks nobody was there to receive it. Perhaps the delivery person was under the influence of the, shall we say, "vegetation" at the time. Or perhaps not. Or perhaps the truck was struck by a fallen alien spacecraft, this whole thing is just a government cover-up.
Although I doubt the government would be working on cover-ups today - they're still out celebrating their 4-day weekend.
Note: I really appreciate feedback on my writing. Please leave a comment below, and please sign it with at least your first name or nickname so I'll know who you are. Thanks!
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
New Hampshire Report
I traveled to New Hampshire the other day with a busload of friends for the sound journalistic reason of investigating whether or not it still exists (yes, it does), is still part of the United States (yes, it is), and contains a decent kosher pizza shop (no, it does not). New Hampshire, as you may know, is the ONLY state that not only lacks a sales tax, but doesn't even have a personal income tax (why people from Boro Park and Williamsburg aren't moving out there in droves is beyond me).
New Hampshire is nicknamed "The Granite State", and for a very good reason: whoever was in charge of making up the Official State Nickname was under the influence of both alcohol AND very powerful narcotics at the time. It also, as I soon discovered, contains a rather large quantity of cold air. Personally, I think that the next time Al Gore or somebody starts whining about global warming, we should make him spend the night in his pajamas atop Mt. Washington, and see how fast he changes his mind. My personal feeling about global warming is that if G-d wanted us to worry so much about it, He would have given us giant air conditioners.
Our stay in NH was rather pleasant despite the weather, though (probably because I didn't have to spend the night atop Mt. Washington in my pajamas). During the day, it wasn't as cold - I only needed a jacket outdoors and not a coat (which was a good thing, since in my infinite wisdom, I forgot to bring one). We went mountain biking and rock climbing, although I personally did not get to climb the wall, since they claimed they didn't have a safety harness my size. Bah - they were probably just worried that I'd break records by racing up the wall faster than they ever did. Or maybe I would just break the whole wall. Whatever.
Before New Hampshire, we also went to Six Flags of New England, where we got to watch David Garrity do a magic show, featuring a pivotal moment where he dropped a white handkerchief into a cage and out popped - you guessed it - Al Gore in his pajamas.
No, seriously, out popped a young lady, who we were supposed to believe was some kind of "spirit". Yeah, right. If she really was a spirit, well, then, they don't make spirits quite like they used to. I don't recall any spirit ever causing so much trouble without saying a single word, but maybe that's just me. At the end of the show she finally disappeared in some kind of spirit-exorcising ceremony involving a cape and (shhh! Don't tell anybody!) a trapdoor in the stage floor. Mysteriously, though, she reappeared on stage moments later to take her final bow (I didn't know spirits bowed to anyone; but then again, I don't know a lot of things).
All in all, it was a fun trip, and a welcome distraction from the anxiety that I've been feeling since I decided to go to Israel. Sometimes it's good to get away from reality for a while (at least until reality whacks you on the back of the head with a resounding blow), and this was definitely one of those times (the getting away part, not the resounding blow part, although that's probably still to come). Now that I'm back, though, it's time to start biting my nails again in earnest...
Note: I really appreciate feedback on my writing. Please leave a comment below, and please sign it with at least your first name or nickname so I'll know who you are. Thanks!
New Hampshire is nicknamed "The Granite State", and for a very good reason: whoever was in charge of making up the Official State Nickname was under the influence of both alcohol AND very powerful narcotics at the time. It also, as I soon discovered, contains a rather large quantity of cold air. Personally, I think that the next time Al Gore or somebody starts whining about global warming, we should make him spend the night in his pajamas atop Mt. Washington, and see how fast he changes his mind. My personal feeling about global warming is that if G-d wanted us to worry so much about it, He would have given us giant air conditioners.
Our stay in NH was rather pleasant despite the weather, though (probably because I didn't have to spend the night atop Mt. Washington in my pajamas). During the day, it wasn't as cold - I only needed a jacket outdoors and not a coat (which was a good thing, since in my infinite wisdom, I forgot to bring one). We went mountain biking and rock climbing, although I personally did not get to climb the wall, since they claimed they didn't have a safety harness my size. Bah - they were probably just worried that I'd break records by racing up the wall faster than they ever did. Or maybe I would just break the whole wall. Whatever.
Before New Hampshire, we also went to Six Flags of New England, where we got to watch David Garrity do a magic show, featuring a pivotal moment where he dropped a white handkerchief into a cage and out popped - you guessed it - Al Gore in his pajamas.
No, seriously, out popped a young lady, who we were supposed to believe was some kind of "spirit". Yeah, right. If she really was a spirit, well, then, they don't make spirits quite like they used to. I don't recall any spirit ever causing so much trouble without saying a single word, but maybe that's just me. At the end of the show she finally disappeared in some kind of spirit-exorcising ceremony involving a cape and (shhh! Don't tell anybody!) a trapdoor in the stage floor. Mysteriously, though, she reappeared on stage moments later to take her final bow (I didn't know spirits bowed to anyone; but then again, I don't know a lot of things).
All in all, it was a fun trip, and a welcome distraction from the anxiety that I've been feeling since I decided to go to Israel. Sometimes it's good to get away from reality for a while (at least until reality whacks you on the back of the head with a resounding blow), and this was definitely one of those times (the getting away part, not the resounding blow part, although that's probably still to come). Now that I'm back, though, it's time to start biting my nails again in earnest...
Note: I really appreciate feedback on my writing. Please leave a comment below, and please sign it with at least your first name or nickname so I'll know who you are. Thanks!
Sunday, September 30, 2007
I've decided to start a blog
I've decided to start a blog. There are a number of reasons for this.
First of all, everyone who is anyone has a blog. Even William Shakespeare had a blog. In fact, historians now believe that Hamlet - when stripped of all the fancy nonsense words such as "ergo", "heretofore", "restaurant", etc. - was actually a blog post in which the bard was ranting about the guy ahead of him on line at the supermarket who had the nerve to try to check out more than 10 items in the Express lane.
Second of all, I'm going to Yeshiva in Israel this zman. I figure if I write a blog, then all of my friends and relatives who are interested in what's going on in my life (yes, all 3 of you) can keep tabs on my current events, without me going through the tedious chore of making dozens of boring long-distance phone calls at bizarre hours to keep people informed of the exciting, non-stop Israeli action. ("Yes, the sun rose today, and then set in the evening, just like America." "Yes, the sun rose again today, and then set again in the evening." "Yes, the sun rose AGAIN today..." I think you get the picture. At least I hope you do...)
Finally, it just seemed like a cool thing to do. Especially if it's on Blogger, and thus being hosted by good ole' Uncle Google free of charge!
Anyway, so that's my justification for this potential waste of time. So far I'm still in America; I don't know how often I'll be able to update this once I get to Israel. But that's when the REAL fun starts, so it would be a shame not to...
So come, dear reader! Take my hand, and join me on my journey - both into the blogosphere, and eventually to the country of Israel. Together we shall venture into uncharted territory, seeing what we can learn along the way from our (or at least my) experiences.
But first, let go of my hand - otherwise, it's gonna be awfully hard for me to type.
First of all, everyone who is anyone has a blog. Even William Shakespeare had a blog. In fact, historians now believe that Hamlet - when stripped of all the fancy nonsense words such as "ergo", "heretofore", "restaurant", etc. - was actually a blog post in which the bard was ranting about the guy ahead of him on line at the supermarket who had the nerve to try to check out more than 10 items in the Express lane.
Second of all, I'm going to Yeshiva in Israel this zman. I figure if I write a blog, then all of my friends and relatives who are interested in what's going on in my life (yes, all 3 of you) can keep tabs on my current events, without me going through the tedious chore of making dozens of boring long-distance phone calls at bizarre hours to keep people informed of the exciting, non-stop Israeli action. ("Yes, the sun rose today, and then set in the evening, just like America." "Yes, the sun rose again today, and then set again in the evening." "Yes, the sun rose AGAIN today..." I think you get the picture. At least I hope you do...)
Finally, it just seemed like a cool thing to do. Especially if it's on Blogger, and thus being hosted by good ole' Uncle Google free of charge!
Anyway, so that's my justification for this potential waste of time. So far I'm still in America; I don't know how often I'll be able to update this once I get to Israel. But that's when the REAL fun starts, so it would be a shame not to...
So come, dear reader! Take my hand, and join me on my journey - both into the blogosphere, and eventually to the country of Israel. Together we shall venture into uncharted territory, seeing what we can learn along the way from our (or at least my) experiences.
But first, let go of my hand - otherwise, it's gonna be awfully hard for me to type.
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