The Godfather

I got to meet a big fish today. In the name of internet anonymity, let is just say his name sounds like Brewy Loose and he is The Godfather of many of the other greats in the field. This is the guy that figured out that band gaps of semiconductor nanoparticles were size dependent in 1983 and furthermore, was the guy to figure out why. Quantum confinement? He's the man. Nobel Prize? Only a matter of time.

I realized that this may sound like bragging about reflected glory, but I am well aware of the fact that I just made about, oh, a whole whopping three readers of this blog green with envy. The rest of you wouldn't know the guy from a hole in the ground. Such is the small pond life of academia. I am merely a minnow excited to have met a trout.

Since my work is closest to publication, the boss singled me out of the group to have a short coffee meeting with The Godfather and discuss my results. The boss introduced me as "doing an excellent potdoc" and used his favorite descriptor for me: "and is learning Hebrew!"

I feel a little bit like a border collie. It is somewhat pathetic how hard I will work jut to get a little pat on the head from the master.

Anyhow, The Godfather asked good questions, had some neat thoughts on possible experiments that neither of us had thought about and generally seemed to like my research. YEA! Makes me want to stop writing this paper and get back in the lab.

Again. A little scratch behind the ears and I am ready jump off the back of the truck and herd sheep till I drop. Case in point, I just booked TEM time for 8-9 pm on New Years Eve. Sad and pathetic, I know.

These days I am mostly stuck behind the computer working on a paper which means writing and rewriting and making figures and fixing figures and more fiddling with figures. Last night after I thought everything was almost perfect, I realized that I had done all of my figures in Ariel and they have to be in Helvetica. More fiddling with figures. If you have ever written a scientific paper, you will know that everything has to be PERFECT and just so. It drives me bonkers. I am a scientist not a graphic designer.

Which brings me back to The Godfather. He gave a talk today and although he used powerpoint, many of his slides were scans of old overhead transparencies from the late 1980s or were powerpoint slides commandeered from his former students who now have big research groups of their own. This is a guy who invented some of the most powerful nanoparticle imaging systems out there, and he hasn't mastered powerpoint. Hilarious.

Merry Christmas everyone!

I hope you have a lovely time no matter what you ended up doing this holiday. My Christmas did not get off to a great start but ended so pleasantly, I have to smile thinking of it.

As you may have noticed, I wasn't feeling the May-West on Christmas Eve, but after a couple of slices of Pizza, a nap and an hour of belting out carols at the midnight service, my heart was singing with he Christmas spirit.

True to form, the church was packed with perhaps 200-300 people, about 30 of which were Christians and had any clue as to what was going or or knew the songs. This incidentally, included the organist. I know now that it is possible to sing Angels From the Realms of Glory to the tune of Angels we have Heard on High. The rest of the people were there for the show, perhaps expecting to hear full-on choirs, or see kids act out the nativity story like they do in the movies. I saw two people actually taking notes and must have been in some sort of anthropology or religious studies course. As I was leaving the church, I heard one of my few fellow Christians loudly complain "They are all tourists! Come, watch the Christians! This isn't a tourist exhibit!" I can see his point. At times it was a little annoying, but in the name of promoting religious tolerance, I would rather have it this way than, well- you know- persecutions, crusades, giant walls, etc. Or a further breeding of the young stupid, bigoted, racist jerks, that can be found here who think that because I am a Christian and western, I must be a slut.

But I got to sing loudly and happily and I was in a great mood and strutting it home humming Angels we Have Heard on High (with the wrong words) and carrying my bible in hand since I had given one of the readings. At that point, a SUV buzzed by me and a guy yelled out his window "EAZY PUSSAAAH!" at me. My first thought was to throw my bible at him- literally, but instead, yanked off my mitten and gave him the finger. "Well there goes the Christmas spirit" I thought. As down as I felt at that moment, I should have know that the Christmas spirit is pretty resilient and it would turn out OK.

I woke up in the morning and started moving and didn't stop until midnight. I had to go pick up the big bird from the butchers (which was five pounds bigger than I ordered), go to the grocery store, bake a cake, make butter tarts, stuff the turkey with stuffing and then stuff the over-sized beast into the oven, peel the potatoes, clean the house, decorate the house, make a salad, move furniture around, set the table, mull some apple juice, make gravy....and then had a wonderful evening with five friends. We laughed and laughed. I don't think I have ever laughed so much at Christmas. Everyone had to try on Mom's chicken hat and the Jingle-Bells singing Chicken was a big hit. There are some great pictures of the shenanigans but I figured I will keep them for blackmail. Somehow Ehud had not heard the Cow fetus story and when he found out he had tears rolling down his face and a few times I was afraid he was going to fall off the chair. Itai insisted on making and bringing eggnog, which no one had had before, despite the fact that I kept telling him egg nog was gross. But it wasn't so bad, especially since it was laced with copious amounts of 8 dollar brandy. David wrote and presided over the now famous and annual Christmas general knowledge quiz and Adam and Orpha brought a giant pile of mini gingerbread men whom after a quick drowning in coffee have provided most of my sustenance on Boxing Day.


To say the least, it was an unexpectedly wonderful Christmas.

Everyone helped out with the dishes and rearranging my furniture back before they left, so after they left and today I really only had a few pots and pans to clean, the floor to mop and the carcass to strip and turn into broth.

I must tell you, I did not do these things until about 4 pm today when I finally crawled out of bed and had a shower. Must have been the egg nog with the 8 dollar brandy.

8pm on Christmas Eve

It is Christmas Eve and I was the last one to leave work. I am not sure if this is a whole new level of bad-ass hard coreness, or a whole new realm of pathetic.

I am leaning towards pathetic.

I am going to now eat the entire contents of my fridge.

Butter tarts anyone?

It is Christmas Eve at 7:54 in the morning and I am lauging at the consequences of last night's genius idea to make butter tarts - a traditional Canadian treat- for my labmates.

I have yet to find shortening here, lard of course would take an act of god, but I did find packages of premade pastry in the freezer section last night. I picked one with a promising looking pictures on the package. I let it thaw in the fridge overnight and this morning got up nice and early to make warm, gooey, melt-in-your-mouth butter tarts.

You know, sometimes you just have to laugh. This is what happened:



Hopefully this is not foreshadowing for tomorrow's turkey.


Update: it is 11:23 am and I am cleaning the pan. I took the buttertarts to work anyway after taste testing one for breakfast. Despite looking odd, the locals didn't know any better and gobbled them all up.

Horray for Mrs. Claus, a.k.a Mom

The electrician was just here and he liked my story. He laughed when he read it and later told me it made everything clear what the problems were. Well, he said something along those lines that since I only understand about 60% of the words in what people say to me. Sometimes 60% is enough, most of the time it really isn't. But I got the jist.

Every day I have been opening little packages that my mom sent me along with a santa betoqued stuffed chicken that sings jingle bells and a Charlie Brown Christmas tree- complete with single red ball. Inside these little gifts are dollar store treasures: decorations and Christmas junk to make my house more festive. I now have three Christmas CDs (Michael Bublé, Diana Krall and -gasp- Celine Dion), a red string of tinsel, shiny paper snow flakes, stickers, snowmen candles and gell letters that spell "MERRY CHRISTMAS" for my window. Except the last S got squished in travel and keeps falling off, so it usually reads "MERRY CHRISTMA" with the S lying on the floor dejected like a very large green booger. Oh well, it is still fun anyway.

Never has dollar store treasure been so enjoyed. Yea for Mom. Who knows what I will open tomorrow? The anticipation is killer.

I need an Electrician

After the living room light got stuck on ON, we decided we needed an electrician but wanted to wait until after James' trip and after we met with the landlord at the end of the month. But a new problem has arisen and we just can't wait or I am going to start an electrical fire. But how do I explain the two problems to a Hebrew speaking electrician?
With childish Hebrew and sick figures of course!

I'll let you see if you can figure out what happened. Don't forget to read from right to left!

Problem 1:

On Saturday....


On Monday...


Problem 2:



So Graeme, do you think The Spectator will give me a job as a cartoonist if this chemistry thing doesn't work out?

For the Record

As I promised I got my butt in gear. For the record, today I:

Cleaned the bathroom
Figured out how to stop the toilet from constantly running (well that was embarrassingly easy)
Cleaned out the U trap in the bathroom sink (I am considering shaving my head now)
Took out the really nasty U-trap gunk filled garbage
Swept the floors
Mopped the floors
Changed the bag on the vacuum
Got the rug out for the winter
Vacuumed the rug
Did two loads of laundry
Made grilled cheese
Instant messaged with James (his talk went well. He schmoozed very successfully and got the inside scoop on some jobs)
Talked to mom and wished her a happy birthday
Tried to change a light bulb and flipped every circuit breaker in the house
Found flashlight, turned off dinner on the gas stove
Called Dad and then Asaf for advice
Got lights back on without being electrocuted
Finished making dinner and ate it
Noticed my comment on Solar Energy In Israel article on the CBC webpage is the "most agreed" with (Yea!)
Studied Hebrew and did my homework
Wrote 8 Christmas cards
Updated my CV
Started seriously pondering research proposals for job applications (Any good ideas, anyone)?


Well, I think it is time to put my feet up and watch another chick flick, how about you?

The week of Hanukah: a review

I really have no excuse this time for going so long between blog posts. It has been a busy and eventful week and it is not like I didn't have things to say, but I seemed to have gotten myself into a non-blog writing, spend all day in my pajamas slump. Since James left, I have let all of my slovenly bachelorette ways come back out. Two chick flicks in 24 hours, five hour afternoon naps, leaving my long hairs in the bathroom sink, breakfast bowl still on the table at 10 pm and diet of consisting mostly of the three C's of nutrition: coffee, cereal and cookies (although that has to stop after I nearly passed out getting out of the shower this morning).

Today I will stop procrastinating and get my butt in gear. Here is a very long blog post to prove it.

Last Friday James and I went to the Boss' house for the lighting of the first candle of Hanukah which was also Shabbat dinner. His brother and his kids were there and I was happy to find out that I am not the only one who is struggling to navigate the minefield of cultural and religious taboos around here. The boss' brother is a secular man but is a biology professor at a religious university. He said he has learned that after work when he takes his work-kippa off in the car on the way home, to roll it and not to fold it. This way there are no creases to give him away as secular. Then there is the remembering not to try to shake hands when he meets female students. And he had some hilarious stories of hiding out in various places in the university at 3 pm so he won't be pulled into praying.

James flew back to Canada last Sunday. He has been busy ticking off a very large list of errands and well as meetings with the family. As well as the usual blistering holiday schedule, he gave a chemistry talk at McGill on Friday and I am still waiting to hear how it went.

This past week was Hanukah, and Hanukia candelabras seemed to be everywhere. They come in every shape and size from giant lights on the Knesset parliament building, lights on every lamppost, 10 foot lights on street corners, traditional branched candelabra in window sills, tin boxes outside people's front doors- to my personal favorite: one made from and erector set that my boss' son made years ago and still gets pulled out every year. It even spins (somewhat wobbly) when you flip a switch. I think what I like about it so much is it reminds my of my family's Christmas tree which is always covered with decorations that don't match made by us years ago and full of memories.

I got to see this wonderful piece of family Judaica both on Friday night and at the group Hanukah party on Wednesday. After everyone but me heartily sang Hanukah songs they have all known from the womb, I was asked to sing a Christmas song. I balked and told them it was really hard to think of a Christmas carol that wasn't completely offensive to a room full of Israeli Jews which got a laugh. I didn't think "Oh come oh come Emmanuel and ransom captive Israel" was going to go over so well. I finally came up with Jingle Bells and sped my way though it at record speed to get the torture of singing in front of my research group over with.

Earlier in the week at work, Gabi asked me if I would like a sufgania. "A what?" I asked and he opened a box from a bakery. "Ooooooh, jelly doughnuts!" I said excitedly.

"These are NOT doughnuts!" Gabi replied haughty "They are sufganiot."

Well lah dee dah, I thought, but must have looked contrite enough to warrant getting a sufgania despite my earlier faux pas. These pastries only are sold at Hanukah and of course I have eaten quite a few, each time getting confectioners' sugar all over my face (the best Israeli food cannot be eaten with dignity). FYI, they taste like jelly doughnuts.

Here Bussy Bussy Bussy!

Given the limited size of J-town (725000 people), the bus system is not so bad. The buses are usually on time and the ones we use regularly come every 20-30 minutes. The routes can be a little confusing though and for some bizarre reason the bus company doesn't print or have available route maps. (Perhaps they think that if there are no maps, suicide bombers won't be able to find the buses.) The only way to find out where a bus goes is a somewhat sparse wikipedia page which lists the streets the buses go on. But figuring that out takes a good map, a computer, a prior knowledge of Jerusalem geography and some serious patience. And now that I have mastered the online Hebrew bus schedule, things go a lot more smoothly.

The bus company, Egged, has almost a monopoly on all the city bus systems and the intercity buses throughout the country. Despite the monopoly and the legislation to provide service to almost every obscure little town, I have to give them props; the bus between cities is really cheap, reliable and not too slow. On top of that, they run almost like a city bus, where people can and do get off and on at all these little along-the-road stops. These guys put Ontario Northlands to shame.

The stops on the side of the road make me laugh. If you are lucky, they have a bench with a covering curiously shaped like a question mark. I think this must be an ironic joke by a civil engineer. It makes me think of the questions all waiting bus passengers are asking themselves. "Where is the bus?" "Is it going to come?" "Did I miss the bus?"

If you are unlucky, the bus stop only has the tell-tale yellow sign marked with the bus route number. On our recent trip the the Negev, we saw what we consider possibly the worst bus stop in the world. It was so bad, I had to take a picture. Imagine the poor sucker waiting out here. (And the other side of the road didn't look any better.) I'll let you be the judge:

Now in Circus Ring Number Three...

Yet again, I got to be the performing animal in ring number three- oh, I am sorry, the hard working post doc who just happens to be working on the HR-TEM at 6pm on a Thursday night as an important group gets a tour of the nanocentre.

I know that this time was especially important because the boss wore a suit jacket and actually made myself and Elaina practice our talks.

This time it was the Board of the University. 18 prominent members of Israeli society came to visit me in my natural habitat, the electron microscope room. Included in the audience was the University President, University Rector, a head of one of the big Israeli Banks, a few extraordinarily successful business people, former Members of Knesset (parliament), and a former Chief Justice.

I didn't know any of them from a hole in the ground. Except for the Rector. I met her once before. She is really nice.

I did my little thing, showed pictures of my little nanoparticles, explained what I did and gave an example of how I used and needed the electron microscope in my own research. After I was through, there was a moment of silence and the little old lady who had been standing two feet in front of me and still squinting to see me said "You love what you do, don't you? I can tell." I guess it really doesn't matter if this crowd of big cheeses understood the science of everything that I said. I can be contented with conveying passion and excitement.

I also got asked my favorite question that gets asked in many ways but this time came as "Why are you here? How does being here advance your career?" I have answered this question in some very poetic round-about ways before but this time I went for the direct hit. I replied "to get a big fat resume," and promptly got a chorus of laughs. Sometimes the dead honest answer is the best one.

I had fun doing this, and I had almost forgotten how much I like pulling out my Park Ranger skills and talking to the public. Silly as it sounds, showing people the park for those summers was some of the best training for being an academic scientist I ever had.

Settlers' Protest

On the way home from our Hebrew midterm exam tonight the whole main drag was closed off for a big protest. Even though we fought through the crowd valiantly, we could not even go home the regular way since no one was allowed anywhere near the PM's house. We got home through a circuitous route, I grabbed the camera and headed back out to collect some photographic booty for you.

Speeches by big politicians were being made then a band came on. Even though the crowd of over 30000 was peaceful, full of tweens and families, the paddy wagon and many police were ready to go if anything went wrong.

So what was the big deal? Well first I need to give you a little Israel history lesson, if your political knowledge on the Middle East is a bad as mine was when I first came. After WWI, the Brits controlled the whole area. In 1948 Israel was formed and Jerusalem split in half. Jordan got the old city, East Jerusalem and all of the land east. Israel got the west bit. For many years there were bad things going on and there was a big no man's land in J-town just a few hundred meters from where I am sitting now. In '67, there was a war and Israel took all the land east down to the Jordan River.

Many Israelis predict that the land will and should go back to Jordan- as soon as there is security that there won't be more rockets. But others see the land as the properly gained spoils of war, or have entitlement to it for religious reasons. I am not really sure on the whole deal here, I am sure there are many more details and reasons, but needless to say, some Jews have moved in to this "occupied territory" east of "the green line" (the pre'67 border). Some have gone into homes left empty by people fleeing in the war, others have built neighbouring houses and extended existing towns. Others still have built entire towns in the middle of nowhere and others are building and rebuilding shacks in the Judean desert every time they get torn down. And there have been incentives to go. The land is cheap and the government has given subsidies.

The ruling government knows that keeping these people safe and with proper resources is a huge and expensive job and the further building of Jewish settlements pisses off the Arabs. The very strong opposition thinks settlement should occur "naturally." The government has put on a ten month settlement and building freeze ostensibly to bring on peace talks, but really to placate the wishes of Barak Obama. This has really cheezed off the settlers and their supporters. The protest was by and for the settlers.

So just who ARE these settler people? Are they all religious nut jobs? Alas there are some, but most are not.
A lady in my ulpan is a jeans wearing, British expat, Jewish convert, and nurse and has been living near Jericho for years and raised her three children there. I asked her if she was a "settler" and when she replied in the affirmative, I jokingly asked her where her bonnet and covered wagon were.

I thought, and still think, you have to be a bit crazy to live past the green line. You have no security. Who knows what peace deal will be made in 5 years or in 10 years? You may lose your home, community etc. I expressed this opinion to a labmate and learned a shocker. One of my other labmates is looking for a house in the occupied territory. The reason? He is 32, has two children under the age of two, a wife at home, a graduate student stipend and living in a very drafty house which was broken into while they were sleeping last year. Land in the occupied territory is cheap. He can give his family so much more by moving there.

Although I can stand on my little piece of moral high ground, how can I condemn a friend for trying to do what is best for his family? For now, I am going to sleep on it. We all know that the situation is complicated and I am finding it even more difficult to pick a side when I can put faces to the issues.

A tough decision

During the big holiday months of April and October, it seems impossible to get things done around here. The nanocentre is closed down so I can't use the microscope, labmates drift in and out of the lab like feathers on the breeze and it is dangerous to work alone. So while the place is working and everyone is here, I want to get as much done as possible.

As you all know, my project has been a big pain in the butt for the last few months. I only have two years here, and I want to get out as many research papers as possible as it is my publication list that will get me a real job. My PhD was merely average on that account, so this is my time to work hard and get 'er done.

Back in September when it was time to book flights for Christmas I had a project on the rocks, the useless month of October was looming ahead, and I couldn't justify making most of December a right-off too. I made a tough decision. I decided not to come home with The Chicken for the holidays.

I cried. And even now, I am dreading my two weeks alone while everyone is together at home.

What will I do? I will work like a dog so I can't get lonely, and on Christmas day I will lure my labmates over to my house with a little dose of pity and the promise of turkey with stuffing.

When one friend found out about my yuletide situation, he suggested The Chicken deserved a kick in the nads for leaving me alone over the holidays. First of all, I will be needing those nads in the future, so there will be no kicks. Secondly, The Chicken desperately misses his family, and hasn't seen much of them in the last two years. And after a MIT post doc and a Science paper, his future doesn't depend on his performance in his job the same way mine does. So he is going home. Why should I guilt and manipulate him into staying? I have already asked so much of him to put his career on hold and move across the world.

So don't feel sorry for me too much. I made this decision.

The Negev

Last weekend, The Chicken and I decided to rent a car and head out for a warrior weekend. South to the Negev Desert we went to see what was there. And yep, sure enough, there were bedouin shacks beside the main road, herds of camels grazing in the ditch, ibexes meandering though the towns, people riding horses bareback though the grocery store parking lot in Be'er Sheva, a giant field of sabras cactus, beautiful scenery, funky geology, a spy Zeppelin parked in the middle of nowhere, a "chocolate factory" that gives off gamma particles and some great history lessons.

A highlight was a visit to Avdat, an ancient city on the spice route high on a hill. What amazes me is how they collected enough water for all of those people! As I was walking though the ruins, pondering the amazing thing that was the spice route, I tried to imagine what it would have been like in the town. I imagined an overpowering smell of frankincense, myrrh, cardamon, pepper, cinnamon, camel and unwashed men. James was less moved. "Five bars, Hen!" he exclaimed as he held up the cell phone.

We spent much of the second day in Mishpeh Ramon, a huge geologic crater that looks a bit like the grand canyon. We did some hiking through a wadi to a spring that had dried up for the season, and are we ever glad we made the trip in December and not July. Hoooooot and dryyyyyyy.

Our friends Danny and Itai had told us to drive Route 227 as it was a pretty drive and at one time was the only way to get to Eilat. We turned off this wonderful straight, flat, wide, four-lane highway onto a one lane road of which a good foot of each side was eroded away. This is where the cursing of Danny and Itai began. We ended going up this intense set of switch backs with too few barrels full of gravel serving as the guardrail. I was petting the dashboard of our rented Hyundai Accent all the way, coaxing her to the top. She made the "scorpions ascent" in a noisy manner since James wisely insisted on honking the horn at every blind corner- which was every corner. Despite the tense moments the view to the desert valley below was worth it. Since it was near dusk, the shadows were long and the colours very red and the whole effect was breathtaking.

After getting lost in Be'er Sheva for the second time on the way home, we headed into J-town and back to reality. The real achievement of the weekend was renting the car and driving in Jerusalem. I would only recommend driving in this town if you know EXACTLY where you are going and how to maneuver though the maze of twisting one way streets. Like I said, this city was planned out by a four year old with a crayon.

Guest Post: Aunt Sandy

Here is a little note James wrote for you to see. You may recall me writing a note to James' Aunt Sandy when Operation Cast Lead started last December. Again, you should not confuse this Aunt Sandy with my Aunt Sandra, (one of my most faithfull readers and commenters) whom is alive and well and living in NZ.


This past week we received some sad news. My dear Aunt Sandy Mackay (nee Ashenhurst) has passed away in her home in Stony Creek.

Aunt Sandy was a real fireball. By training, she was an emergency room nurse and was extremely good at it. During parts of summers our family spent together in Port Charlotte, Florida and innumerable colourful family dinners, I will always remember her as a tough, vigorous lady who spoke her mind and kept everyone on their toes. Primarily though she was a loving mother, grandmother, and aunt - who worried about us being in Israel so much last year we had to write a special message to calm her down. Mother of four and grandmother to nine, her family and friends will miss her dearly.

Rest in peace Aunt Sandy.

Blow out

I lost my temper today for the first time since I started this job.

I really had had enough of someone else not doing their job with anything resembling competence and it adversely affecting me. And nice words had not worked in the past- trust me this was a long time coming. So after I had wasted yet another two hours of my time because of their incompetence and they finally showed up to work at ten, I let them know exactly what I was thinking.

I am happy to say that this occurred in a closed room and not out in public, there was no personal name calling, no tears (which usually happens when I am really angry) but there was a fair amount of embarrassing finger pointing ("this is not MY job, it is YOUR job."and "I always seem to be left solving YOUR problems")

At lunch, I had to tell The Chicken I had royally screwed up and lost my temper at work. I was expecting a sigh of disappointed resignation,a bit of a reprimand and then a frank discussion of what I needed to do next which I figured would be the dreaded apology.

The Chicken's response:
"Good. About time."

Did I ever tell you The Chicken is awesome?

Street Food

Israel has some pretty darn awesome street food that can be purchased from booths or little itty bitty restaurants where you are lucky if it seats five. For instance:

Every once in a while my labmates and I pile into cars and head to a shawarma place called Hashemen which means "The Fat Guy". On tall spits are piles of chicken, turkey and beef. The guy shaves off some of the meat with a special electric shawarma meat shaver that looks like a rotary sander/hand held circular saw into a special shawarma meat catcher that looks suspiciously like a metal dust bin. The meat goes into a pita along with hummus, tehina (sesame paste), cucumbers, tomatoes, onions, hot sauce, eggplant and possibly other mystery vegetables and sauces. What results is a pita full of yumminess. Despite a foil lined paper expertly wrapped around your meal, with all those sauces and vegetables, by the time you are done, there is tehina smeared across your chin, a piece of eggplant stuck to the side of your mouth, your hands are covered and dripping, there is a good chance there is a drip on your shirt and your belly is protruding proudly with the after effects of gluttony.

Let us not forget the national snack of felafel, of which I think "snack" is a bit of a misnomer. Felafel is again a pita packed to bursting with yumminess that can leave you full for hours. Apricot sized balls of this chick pea mixture are deep fried, and then stuffed in a pita with many of the vegetables and sauces mentioned above, but also some pickled cabbagy stuff and grated beets and a few french fries thrown in for good measure. There is a felafel joint outside Damascus gate to the Old City that we frequent since it is the cheapest felafel in town at an amazing 6 sheck (2$). And since everyone goes there, everything is fresh from the high turnover. But you can't eat felafel without basically sticking your face right into the foil lined bag and taking a huge bite. And napkins are not just nice, they are a necessity with felafel. By the time you are done, the foil lined paper bag is dripping from one corner onto you, the street and/or your shoes.

And the bakeries, oh the bakeries, make these wonderful arrays of pastries that they display at the shook, warm and fresh for you to smell. On top of that, you see men walking by with trays of them on their heads, leading the way like the pied piper from the ovens to the booths where they are sold. Some sweet, some savory, some cheesy, all of them addictive. With a sigh of happiness you take your first bite which then causes a veritable white out snow storm of pastry flakes that fly everywhere – some of which inevitably cling on your clothes and rest there for several hours unnoticed.

The truth of the matter is Israeli street food is seriously yummy, but it cannot be eaten with anything resembling dignity. On top of the sloppy and flaky messes, they think of nothing of garlic and great piles of raw onion at lunch time. Here is my recommendation for you if any of you are planning first dates: Israel is not the place to go. Save this place until you get to know each other a little better.

Uh, Thanks Mom

A bulky package arrived the other day from my Mom. Knowing it was a gift, we video conferenced with her when we opened it. I should have known when she started giggling before we even got the scissors out.

Years ago, I told The Chicken that we have opened ourselves up to years of poultry jokes and chicken related gifts of every variety. Indeed, I once received a huge yellow stuffed chick from my normally very serious mom-in-law's hubby Major Pete, which I then had to take through security in the TO airport. "Nice Duck" the security guy said as the chick, perched in a grey bin, was conveyered into the X-ray machine. I was afraid to correct the guard at the time. Then there was the time an old friend gave me a itty bitty tiny rubber chicken and said "I don't know why this reminded me of you, but I thought you would like it." Then there was the time The Chicken Dance was requested by the bride and groom at a wedding I MCed as "our song". And then there are the various chicken related birthday cards and such that have found their way into our lives over the years. Not that we mind. We like that we are in your thoughts and we like that you appreciate our unique personal endearments of the Hen and Chicken. But this year my Mom takes the cake.

So when we opened the package, with Mom giggling on, I was expecting silly. But this was extraordinarily silly, with the added bonus of chicken-ness. She had knitted us matching touques covered in a chicken and eggs motif. To top it off, instead of pom-poms we each have three wee chickens hanging off strings.

Mom says we don't have to wear them in public, but I have no shame. Can't you see these hats on the ski hill with chickens streaming behind in the wind?

And they will be great for the winter about the house here. Since our apartment is usually the same temperature as outside, it means the day time high in the living room was about 15 degrees today. This afternoon we were both wearing our new hats in the kitchen as I gave The Chicken his first baking lesson. We were listening to the greatest baking music ever, Black Sabbath, and head banging our pom-pom chickens around the kitchen.

Perhaps it is best that the neighbors can't see us though the kitchen window.

Husband Training

A year ago today, James was arriving at the door having flown from TO through Kiev to Tel Aviv. This is a real milestone since it was also the beginning of us living together. It is not our wedding anniversary, but rather our marriage anniversary. It has been a year of adjustments to be sure. Mostly for James since I was born perfect, and he of course is constantly trying to achieve the same, especially under my caring guidance and tutelage.

To tell you the honest and humble truth, I have husband training down to an art form. Let me tell you some of my achievements to give you examples of a hubby that is well "hen" pecked.

I have the chicken shopping trained, oh miracle of miracles. Normally he would wear clothes until they fell off his body, but not after training. I gently start mentioning his ratty clothes weeks before to get him primed for the event. I carefully choose ONE store to blitzkrieg, because I know that only one store is what his patience will handle. Last Thursday, I dropped him and his bags in front of a full length mirror and just started tossing medium sized sweaters and shirts in his favorite colors (blue and green) at him. Twenty minutes later, we left with two shirts and two sweaters. Now he looks schnazy.

As well, I have the chicken well trained on Friday mornings. Janet-sleeping-in time is sacred and he brings me coffee once I wake up. All this time, James quietly hangs out in the living room and reads what ever boring book he is obsessed with this week or plays a baseball computer game, and doesn't complain a peep.

Later in the afternoon while I clean the bathroom, James diligently moves all the furniture around to sweep and mop the floors, like a good, well heeled hubby.

And if I get on a sewing blitz, James entertains himself (see pic courtesy of Siu- and yes I realize we are wearing matching sweaters like septagenarian love birds).

On weekday mornings, James makes the PB&J sandwiches and packs four pieces of fruit for our daily lunch meeting at 11:30.

I could go on and on about the amazing progress he is making.

But wait. Now that I read this over, I am noticing a few things. Clothes shopping down to twenty minutes? Leaving James hours to read and play computer games and nap? I hate cleaning the bathroom! I used to eat lunch like a normal person at noon.

What the heck is going on here? Could it be possible? Am I a trained wife!?!

Good Idea

To have a really good nano-paper these days, you can't just make something cool. You also have to show that it does something. Catalysis, charge transfer, gas storage, julienne fries, - it doesn't really matter and it doesn't really have to be that great at it- it just has to show potential. Only then can you think about submitting your research to a killer Journal.

For a year now, I have been working with this material that I hoped would be good for X. After months of fighting with the synthesis, I finally had enough this week to really and conclusively test for X. However, it was soooooo bad at it, it actually had negative activity. That's right, it went backwards. This may sound interesting in itself, but unfortunately the reason is extraordinarily mundane.

Anyhoo, I broke the news to the boss- softened by telling him some other good news first- and he finally said the magic words, "We could just write it up as is..." but just as I was about to reply, he closed his eyes, held up a finger to stop my words and said,

"Wait, I have an idea coming...."

Then out of nowhere, on 30 seconds notice, he comes up with a genius idea to test for a different type of function, something I hadn't really though about. I totally wish had thought of that.

Now I am not saying all of my boss' ideas are good ones, and I have shot down my fair share, but I know a good idea when I see one and this one goes to show why the boss is the sage and the rest of us merely his protégés.

It is such a relief to be released from trying to prove activity for X. When no one was looking I was doing Toyota jumps in the hallway and leprechaun leaps on the way home.

Now, to work. I still have to see if this new idea works and there is a lot of reading time and lab time ahead in the next few days.

Nice try, but I am not taking the bait

Just to remind you before I get into this story, Friday and Saturday are the weekend here in the land of Jews and Muslims. By Thursday afternoon, my work week is almost over and all I can think of is watching "House" after dinner and two blissful days of sleeping in.

So, it was announced to me by my favorite TEM tech that there will be new rules and times that users can book the TEM. "You will be able to work 'till ten o'clock on one night per week!" he said enthusiastically, while I inwardly moaned imagining myself eating dinner at 11:30 pm because the only TEM slot left was the last one.

But then his announcement got better. "We will keep the TEM open late on Thursday night!"

Ha ha ha. This had to have been my boss' idea to get us to work more hours.

Considering yesterday morning I was at work by 7:30 to start the instrument up for the day and get a few samples in before group meeting, fat chance I will be booking evening hours. I earned my weekend and darn tootin' I am going to take it.

Transgendered love in Jerusalem: An analysis

A while ago, this graffiti showed up on the fence around the building next door. (Which, incidentally, is a grand old mansion that is being renovated) We didn't think much of it. It seemed like a simple confession of love for Yossi ('Brew for Josef) and a plaintive hope that it is requited.

But hold on a minute here folks. Verbs (love) and subject pronouns (you) are not gender neutral in Hebrew. After further analysis, this graffiti gets a little more titillating.



In the sentence on the right, the verb is in a male form, implying the speaker is a dude. Therefore, Dude is confessing his love for Yossi, another dude. Openly, in spray paint, for all of us to see and analyze.

But wait, it gets better! In the the second sentence, the question, the gender of the words again makes things even more spicy. The subject pronoun "you" is female in "Yossi, do you love me?" Therefore Yossi is a chick!



Ahhh, transgendered love in Jerusalem.

Interior of the Ministry of Interior

The day we went to Ramallah was a little stressful because of what I noticed in my passport that morning. My student visa was valid for another thirty days, but my "multiple entry visa" had expired the night before. What ensued was conversation over whether we were leaving the country or not by going into the occupied territory.

When push came to shove, I deftly showed the check point chick only my student visa and got though with no problem.

But I knew it was time to begin the arduous task of getting my visa renewed. After three hours of calling the Ministry of Interior and listening to annoying hold beeps, I got an appointment for both James and I. "Come Sunday," he said "or else the next appointments are in December. Bring, letter from University, health insurance, money, proof you are living here, and bring your marriage certificate." Really? My marriage certificate? OK.

Wait. Where IS my marriage certificate? I haven't seen it since the day I got married. One hasty closet search by Mom and a rushed fax by Dad (thank-you taxpayers) and I had a copy in hand. We have been hearing nightmares from our Ulpan comrades about visas as well as the news has been saying there has been a crack down of foreign workers. We had to make sure everything was perfect.

James and I made our way to the Ministry in time for our appointment. The door was locked and a sign proclaimed the office closed. Confusedly, we knocked and a security guard stuck his head out. "Name?" he demanded. He checked our named on a list, checked our passports and let us in through a half closed door. Two other security guards were lounging about in the entrance of the closed ministry.

The waiting area was surrounded my brown boxes strewn everywhere with years written on them in permanent marker. Some of them were open displaying pictures and forms of past visa applicants. We sat down and waited and suddenly noticed one of our forms wasn't filled out, so we madly pulled out our Hebrew skills and translated Georgetown, Dwight, Craig, Alexander etc. Then we waited more.

After waiting an hour, we finally asked and we got sent to room 209. Then in room 209 we got sent to Judith in Cubicle Three. Judith just yelled at us in Hebrew and refused to see our application. So we asked the lady in Cubicle Two what to do. When we told her Judith won't see us, she rolled her eyes, took our forms and three minutes, 640 shekels, and four stickers for our passports later, we are legal for another year. All hail the lady in Cubical Two!

On the way out, one security guard had his feet on the desk and was twirling a toothpick in his mouth. Another was leaning against the metal detector. The last was seated on the desk, feet on a chair playing "Hotel California" on a guitar held together with packing tape.

As soon as the door closed behind us, we both looked at each other and broke out laughing - both out of amusement and out of relief.

Another Unfortunate English Translation

Not only do these guys take care of domestic gas lines, there are gas stations all over town named this.

Lord of the Twizzlers

We are still slowly savoring the treasure trove of Canadian candy that arrived courtesy of Mom and Siu. We have a carry-on suit case with treasures like Twizzlers, Coffee Crisps, Salt and Vinegar Pringles and oh-so-tasty Reese's Peanut Butter Cups. I keep our booty in this suitcase right next to my side of the bed, only inches away from my ears.
James likens me to Smog the dragon from The Hobbit. Poor Bilbo can't take any of the gold for fear he makes a noise and wakes the dragon sleeping atop. James tries to sneak up while I slumber, but the rustling of the plastic packages, immediately wakens the sleeping hen and the deadly flailing of limbs. "Noooooo!" I yell, as the foot suddenly flies out from beneath the covers to block his passage. Bilbo, I mean James, giggles and makes a hasty retreat.

This Shabbat morning, we lounged in bed and snuggled up with a couple of cups of coffee and a movie on my lap top. James kindly suggested that I could have the first shower after the credits rolled. I, being the trusting person that I am, thought my husband a very considerate man, but was brought back to reality ten minutes later. Wrapped in a towel, James tried to get a kiss, but I shied back at the last moment. "YOU!" I exclaimed. "YOU have eaten a peanut butter cup! I can smell it on your breath!"

Now, I am not only Smog the Dragon, I am also the dreaded Eye of Sauron, that sees all. James claims I am going to terrify our children because nothing gets past me.

HA! Any child of mine will be smart enough to cover their tracks better when they sneak candy. Like brushing their teeth afterwards!

Mystery Fruit #14: Starfruit

I bet you didn't know that my love of fruit is genetic. My grandmother always ended meals with a bowl of something with a sprinkle of sugar and milk. My mother, her daughter, was a champion of cherry pie making. Furthermore, blueberries, strawberries and, well, any sort of berry do not last long in her house. My father is part of the genetic line of fruitiness too. His passion is my mom's homemade applesauce, and one famous, or rather, infamous Christmas, he deigned to give her a fancy apple peeler. This was met by a chorus of boos since everyone knew it was a thinly veiled ploy to get more applesauce.

James couldn't agree more with the idea that you are what you eat and my family tree is therefore full of fruits.

Even the love of mystery fruit starts with my mom. Many years ago, when we still lived at the Frost Centre, my mother went on an mystery fruit kick. Every other week for a season or so, some strange fruit came back from the exotic shores of the Huntsville A&P along with the milk, bread and eggs. I don't remember any of the fruits that we tried except the starfruit, which I remember as being almost too pretty to eat.

We have been seeing these funky yellow fruit for a long time at the shook and the other week, James bought three for the the unholy price of 20 sheck (~7$). We carefully place them in the bag on top of the weekly hoard of apples, pears and plums since they looked a little squish-able, and brought them home where they decorated our fruit bowl for a few days.

Siu was excited because he had not eaten them since he was a child in Hong Kong. He sagely old us to cut the points of the star off so the slicing would be easier. Chick-Chack ('Brew for likity -split) and we had a cutting board full of beautiful yellow stars.

Let me tell you, starfruit are TAS-ty. Or aweSOOOME, as James put it. They were sweet and tangy. There were no pesky inedible seeds to pick out. No bitter peel to remove. These were definitely a great fruity treat. I have great dreams of putting them on a pavlova the next time I get the NZ kick.

Between the two of us, we give two thumbs up for the yumminess, one more for beauty but unfortunately, one thumb down for the price.

(Photo credits to Siu!)

Oh the GLORY! PUBLICATION!

The paper is finally published! We got the Galley proofs last week which are a mock-up of how that article would look as a published document. We caught 19 errors that had to be fixed. The most heinous being an extra s on "was" on line 225, a missing capital in reference 26, and a wrong figure number on line 235.

I sent off the corrections Thursday, and by Sunday our paper was published for the world to see, criticize and hopefully cite often.

So who the heck are these people with my name? Gabi and Yossi are my labmates, Inna is the goddess of the High Res TEM and Uri is the boss-man.

Some of you may not know, but the order of our names is very important. It goes in order of who did the most work, so hence Gabi gets his name first for doing almost all the experiments and writing. I'm next because I worked hard with Gabi on the writing and did about half of the HR-TEM work and analysis. The boss is almost always last, as a convention to say he/she is the boss.

Some bosses, like James' old one, are dufuses in my opinion and intentionally always put their name first. Why do they do this? So when people cite you in future papers it doesn't say "Student, Hard Working; et al. J. Fantastic Chem. 2009." it says "Boss, Self Important; et al. J. Fantastic Chem. 2009."

It is always nice to have your name on a paper, as in this case, but the real glory comes when you are fist author. All in time, I hope.

In case you would like a translation about what the paper is about, here it is. Everyone is hot and bothered lately about making nanoparticles with two different parts. Why is this? Well, think synergistic properties. Sticking a metal part on a semiconducting nanparticle opens a whole realm of usefulness. It is the bit to the drill, the blade to the scalpel, the feather to duster stick.

Making these is hard. All sorts of processes happen that prevent one material growing on another, or the two parts attach in a crazy willy-nilly manner. Gabi managed to make CdS/CdSe nanorods with gold tips on only one end and nowhere else, which is way sexy. Not only that, he figured out why and how this happens.

An I-hate-this-place Day

All I want to know is whether I made the sulfide or not. Therefore I will need to make an XPS standard. All I need to do is to heat the reagent to 600C for one hour under Argon. Likity splikity, right? WRONG. This is Israel. Nothing it seems can be done here without making it painfully complicated.


So I go hunting for a tube furnace which are somewhat ubiquitous in chemistry departments. Material goes in a little porcelain boat, which you slide in a glass(quartz) tube, send inert gas flowing though the tube and heat the sucker (see pick from my friend Chico's lab). My old lab in Alberta had three of these set ups. After going on a wild goose chase and constantly being pointed to muffle furnaces and not tube furnaces, I found one in another group, but, fair enough, they won't let me use their tubes because my reaction has sulfur in it.

So I need to get 3 cm diameter quartz tube with two standard glass joints on the end. So after a few days, I finally get a hold of the glass blower, who only works part time and on his schedule. I show him the pick, he says he already has a quartz tube and everything sounds copacetic. A day later he shows up in my office and tells me he wants to put quartz joints on the end since you can't put quartz next to glass. So a week and calling four suppliers later, we discover we can't get quartz joints in Israel. So glass blower has to put a quartz-to-glass connector in between the 3 cm tube and the glass joints. All right, fine, go ahead.

Now the boss wants to buy a whole freaking furnace. I am the first person in the group who needed one (and only for one experiment), a lab upstairs will let me use theirs as long as I have my own tubes, but no, the boss wants a whole furnace for us. And he wants it stored in my fumehood so the other students, who have never asked for one before nor know what one is, can use it without moving it from the bench. It will take up at least half my hood.

This is now about a month later since I first wanted to make the standard.

I went to pick up my tube at the glass blowers this morning. The connectors he put on are about one cm in diameter so there is a narrow bottle neck between the 3 cm tube and the joint. Therefore, I won't be able to fit in the porcelain boat nor do my experiment.

Why is everything so complicated here? I am going to bruise my forehead from hitting it against the wall.

Shook Guitar Dude

This guy at the shook on Saturday was having a great time. I couldn't help but smile.
I love how this video catches the crazyness of the shook. People passing by, some dancing by, the guy with the board on his head, the cart of boxes, the strollers, the dollies and the ever present Irsaeli yelling into his cellphone while he should be concentrating on something else. If you are really keen eyed, you might spot a Jerusalem Chicken.

The Oven Saga

We wanted to replace the old broken oven and we found a cheap used one in the English online classified. We called the lady, Miriam, to come and see it and she gave us lovely ambiguous directions like "take the street that goes down the hill and then turn right at the street that is at the bottom." Jerusalem, if you have never been here, was built on a landscape like bubble-wrap and the street layout planned by a four-year old with a crayon. We ignored her vague directions and with he help of google maps, we found the place.

While inspecting the oven, opening the door and peering inside, we discovered that it was gas. Or rather, she told us it was gas. Then she told us repeatedly that ALL ovens in Israel are gas. I didn't believe her since our current old beastie was electric.
But whatever, it was not what we needed so we left.

Ten minutes later, after climbing halfway up the big hill in the rain, we get a phone call. "Did you mean the inside part? Well that part is electric." So back down the hill we go. Then she emphatically tells us that ALL ovens in Israel are electric.
Regardless, it is electric, it works and it is cheap.

So then I had to organize a movers. Unfortunately, the guy that was recommended to us speaks only Hebrew so I had to get a labmate to organize (he will get the first batch of cookies). But we were told the mover was honest and he was cute. (I have to admit, I was dodged out by the movers advertised in the English classifieds. Many said "Only Jewish Labour". Frankly I don't care who your mom was as long as you do an honest job and it bothers me that they would advertise such a thing.)

Then the other morning, after Siu and I got back from schleping in the pouring rain to and from Miriam's apartment to give her money for the oven, we get a call from the mover. "Where Miriam? She not here!"

Miriam has her cell phone off. Grrrr.

Anyhoo. Eventually the mover got the oven to our house. My eyes just about boggled out of my head when he just tossed the oven on his back and hauled it up four floors of stairs. But let me tell you, the recommendation was a little off. Sure he was honest and efficient and all sorts of good things, but unfortunately he would only be cute if I was about 50. Too bad! I was all ready to ogle some moving-man muscle.

Here is a pic of The Chicken with our inaugural chicken.

On Walls and Segregation

You know, Jerusalem wasn't always this racially segregated. It is within memory that the school in the picture- which is kitty corner to our grocery store- was full of Arab Christians, Jews and a few Arab Muslims and Armenians. The Terra Sancta was one of the best schools in the city. It was run by the Franciscans, which is funny because most of the students, including the Christians, weren't Catholics. The racial segregation only really started in earnest after '48 and became extreme with the building of the wall within the last decade.

I thought you would like to know what my friends' responses were to my story of going through the check point coming back from Ramallah. Besides being unsafe these days, it has been forbidden for Israelis to go into Ramallah since the second infatada, so many were curious about the checkpoint.

My officemate is the only Israeli I feel comfortable with not holding back and saying what I really think. We often disagree, in the politest academic manner, but our conversations give me insight into the thinking of the relatively secular right wing. My officemate seems to be stuck on recent historical record and has a complete lack of trust for the Palestinians. It bothers the crap out of him that there is a mosque on top of the holy temple. And when Jordan had control, no Jew could pray at the Western Wall, and yet when the Jews have control, the Muslims get to go pray and yet they still throw rocks and cause a regular stink. It worries him and dismays him when he hears about misinformation and untrue history teaching in the Muslim community. He says the wall is bad and a humanitarian crisis, but if it is saving lives, it is a necessary evil.

We argued for a while- me upholding my idealism. My big coup was when I managed to get him to admit that the mosque on top of the temple isn't so bad; if Mohammed visited in his dream, he could see how it is an important place for Muslims. What really bothers him is that the Islamic community doesn't recognize it as an important site for Jews and give them according freedom to pray and do their thing on the Temple Mount.

All right, so that was one extreme. Many of my labmates are seriously secular left wingers. One of them loathes all religion since he has seen it bring out the worst in people, and hates it with a passion that fundamentalists would envy. There was a lot of tisk-tisking and shaking heads when I described my experience to them. And the general feeling was that the wall had to go as soon as possible- they just needed to find a way without starting complete chaos.

One labmate had an insight on the flippant guard. He said that these guards are often eighteen or nineteen years old, not the highest pick on the army duty assignments (i.e. not the smartest), and are bored out of their minds from sitting at a checkpoint all day. They are given power without the life experience to wield it with the right attitude. He stated that this, of course, didn't justify her behavior. Some labmates suggested that I make a formal complaint with the unstated notion that my foreigner's voice would be louder than an Palestinian one. I didn't, when I considered my visa is up for renewal this week, and that what am I going to do, complain that a guard was a bitch?

Since I come from a peace loving country with lots of space, I have the freedom to be an idealist. There is no question, the wall has to go. It is a moral necessity. It is the responsibility of the Jewish and Muslim leaders to constantly fight to find a way to bring it down, and to not do so is morally repugnant and a disservice to both their peoples.

Refreshed to Write Again

Last week, we got the first real rains of the winter which lasted three days nearly non stop. Since last winter wasn't wet enough and the land has just gone through six months straight of baking sun, it felt like the earth was singing with every drop. Little purple flowers have already popped up out of the mud in gratitude to the sky. Even the locals were not really grumbling about the rain, despite shivering in their damp apartments. And when the last day of rain came to an end, there was a wonderful sunset to be seen from the window next to the lab oven.

The rain unfortunately corresponded with Siu's trip. Which wasn't all that bad since it meant that it wasn't too hot to wander around all day and it gave him an excuse to spend a day napping and getting rest on his first vacation in a very long time. I had a great time visiting and exploring with him, and well, not writing blog posts. I know my dear, mostly-silent friends, I have been neglecting you. But have no fear, I am writing a heap of blog posts right now so there should be one every day for the next few days.

Ramallah

After a sleepy morning, we three amigos hiked our way through the old city to Damascus Gate and picked up a sherut to the famous city. Once there, amoungst the vibrant madness, we drank tea in a seventh floor cafe, got stared at by men gossiping and smoking shisha from big colourful water pipes, wandered the streets, walked though the colourful but very dirty market and fed Siu his first felafel (7 bucks three felafels and three cokes). Ramallah is a colourful bustling place, but there isn't much there- tourist wise- to see, so a few hours was enough for us.

On the way home we had to go past some of the more interestingly gratified parts of "the wall". I am a little too chicken to take pictures of it near the checkpoint with soldiers around but the graffiti was witty. My favorite was "ctrl alt del". And every once in a while you see soccer balls stuck in the barbed wire on top.

The checkpoint was an eye opener compared to the other ones we had been through. The check point coming back form the Dead Sea was just a quick glance at the passengers in the car. Coming back from Bethlehem, we had to get out of the sherut. The soldier checked everyone's papers carefully and with gravitas, but it was all over in about three minutes. So I was shocked by this checkpoint.

Coming back from Ramallah reminded me of going to an abattoir. We got out of the sherut and followed the crowd though a parking lot to a big low building. Then through a wide set narrow, tall, iron barred passageways. Then to a crowded holding pen where we waited for about 15 minutes with a crowd of 40 or so in front of us. One nice young Palestinian student tried to help us get in the right line but it turns out we were to just crowd in with the Palestinians. The crowd moved forward slowly and haltingly to get pushed though a soldier-controlled turnstile - but only two or three at a time. Then to a metal detector and bag x-rays and to have my visa checked. The soldier at the checkpoint was way too immature for her job and to have such power over people. She treated us and everyone else with a nonchalant bitchyness and without any compassion for how humiliating the whole process was. She was an embarrassment to Israel. I felt great sympathy for the Palestinians. Even on a Saturday afternoon, the process was annoying and slow to just get to a city 30 km away. I can't imagine doing this every day during rush hour. Indeed, one lady from Ramallah in our Hebrew class told the class last week that she gets up at 5 am to make it to her job in J-tow on time at 8:30.

"Real Winter"

Here is one for all you getting your toques out and ready for the season.

Siu's first days

For months I have been telling Siu Jerusalem is perfectly safe and that is never rains.
Sure enough, the day he gets here, there is the first rain in a month( but only ten minutes) and there are bad things going down in the old city. But these things blow over most of the time, and the old city is back to its usual self.

So Siu is off today for a most worthy endeavor: intentionally getting lost in the old city just to see where it takes you.

He arrived Sunday night and presented us with an entire suitcase full of halloween candy, salt and vinegar pringles, ketchup pringles, popcorn seasoning, coffee, halloween decorations, my long lost birthday present (collected set of Hamish MacBeth DVDs), and all sorts of treasures from the home land courtesy of my mom and Siu himself.

Two bags of mini coffee crisps. TWO whole bags!

I woke up the next morning to James tiptoeing over to the suitcase of yummyness, trying
to score some twizzlers before I woke up.

Rush Rush Rush

Argh!

James and I spent all yesterday cleaning our coop.

In the next hour I have get to the mall to buy sheets and a pillow and make it back home because......

SIU IS ARRIVING!

Yea!

Baby Vivian,

Both James and I wish to congratulate you on achieving the great milestone of your first birthday. We trust this day will be less traumatic than your last one.

We were unsure what to get you for this momentous occasion. James suggested a copy of War and Peace, but I wasn't sure if you had read it already. I suggested some artwork for your "office", but James pointed out that there was little room between the spinning pig, rocking horse and the plastic cow on a bendy stick.

Suffice it to say, we have admitted defeat and are only sending you this short missive.

Vivian, may the next year bring you as many joys and achievements as your first. On your happy day may you overindulge on cake and later, during nap time, dream of fields of soothers.

Love,
Aunty Janet and Uncle James.

A Whole Year

Can you believe it? It has been a whole year since I arrived in Israel. This time last exactly one year ago, I was dragging 70 lbs of luggage though a narrow street in the old city trying to make it to the Austrian hospice. For the next few days, I had a terrible tummy ache and wondering if I had made a good decision.

So did I? Absolutely.

It's funny, now at the very middle of my time here and having said so much already, I find my self strangely at a loss for words. And you all know, that rarely happens. Perhaps I will have something more sage to say when I leave.

So I simply take my teacup of bad Golan wine and head out on to the little balcony off the kitchen that looks south over the twinkling lights of the city towards Bethlehem. A toast to Jerusalem. L'chaim!

Response to Bad Papers

In response to my earlier post on the peer review process Anonymous asked, "what would one do if say JACS let massive mistakes go through? Should one contact them?"

My response it too long to leave in the comments section. So here it is.

Authors are human, so papers are riddled with errors, some only type-os, some a little bigger, and some ginormous mistakes, and occasionally some ginormous lies. If you can go through your career yourself without publishing a paper with any sort of mistake, you should be awarded sainthood.

Well in my wee experience, you have several good options:

1) Give the paper the evil eye, bad mouth it to your friends, but do nothing else.

2) Contact the authors and request the information missing and point out their error. Ethical authors will happily provide the info, and if the authors deem their mistake egregious enough, they will publish their own correction/erratum.

3) If you think the authors handled your letter badly and/or the error is something really off the mark–especially if it grossly effects the conclusions drawn from the results, the procedure reported is unsafe, the authors plagiarized or did something else unethical– you can contact the editor of the journal yourself and let them be the heavy. But remember, this is like tattling to mom. It is only worth tattling for this important things. It is a lot more PC if you can resolve the issue with the authors directly if their mistake was an honest one.

4) Publish a Response/Reply to the original paper. Write a well cited and well written your-paper-is-full-of-crap note and submit it to the journal the original article was written in. It will get published with your name on it for everyone to see but the authors will also be given the chance to publish their response just after. These are always so juicy to read when they show up in the literature. Sometimes the Authors put their tail between their legs and admit their mistake. Other times you are surprised the notes don't have cat claw marks all over them. Writing such a published note should be considered a very public act of war and should only be done under serious provocation and with proportionate force (ha ha, just had to get an Israel reference in there). Do not expect the author to buy you a beer at the next conference or objectively review your next peer reviewed grant application. And if you let your claws show, everyone will read it.

(FYI, A few years ago, my name went on one of these notes with regards to an unsafe procedure in the literature that was getting a lot of citations. It took about a year, but the authors published erratum in the journals with the original papers so that hopefully no one has a jet of flame coming out their argon bubbler like we did.)

Good luck!

We need the Maytag Man

Elvis, our violently shaking washing machine who lives on a couple of cinder blocks beside the tub, flew off the handle last night. Or rather, the handle flew off. Right off into James' hand leaving a load of white t-shirts hostage inside.

But we will not let such an icon die. Who needs a handle when you can use a butter knife to open the door? My husband, the pantsless wonder, demonstrates the technique:


In other news, the oven died a few weeks ago when the glass on the front broke. Incidentally, right after I spent two hours cleaning it. Normally one can repair this, but our oven is circa 1960 and the thermostat didn't work anyway. On top of the that, a previous owner had removed the range and replaced it with a piece of vinyl covered plywood.


Only the classiest appliances for us!