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.
Monday, October 29, 2007
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!
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