I Survived Bet Plus

Yet again I find myself at the Ben Gurion Airport at a ridiculously early hour. I really need a nap. But instead of trying to curl up on hard airport lounge seats, I will write a blog post.

Yesterday afternoon I wrote my final exam for Hebrew level Bet Plus. I read the text, filled in some blanks, conjugated some verbs and prepositions, and wrote an essay about my Uncle Bob. Those essays are like mind bender games; how can I make a coherent essay, fitting is as many grammar points and vocab from the course, while limited to my very small bank of vocab that I can remember and spell? I wrote the exam early because of my trip home, and consequently when the class started everyone was asking me how hard it was. Meh, after surviving Statistical Mechanics, no exam seems that hard.

Then it was class party time. Ariel, the Chilean songwriter, serenaded us and demonstrated why he has songs on the radio and MTV made famous by pop stars. The man has skills, I tell you. He has come to Israel to study at a yeshiva and to get married to a yet unidentified girlfriend.

Our class has lost a few people to frustration and evil work schedules since the beginning but let me introduce you to some of the others:

Achlam works as a psychologist, and has some really scary stories about very large, very angry, very paranoid, mentally ill people.

Shelly, American expat who spent a decade in Germany, has followed her husband to Israel who is a genius expert in languages. Needless to say she finds it really frustrating that she works so hard at our simple Hebrew and her hubby can learn entire languages in a flash. She too is flying home soon for her son's wedding and to perform her duties as mother of the groom: "smile, shut up and wear beige"

Oliver and Max are our UK expats. You wouldn't guess it to look at him, especially with the British accent an all, but Oliver used to work for Jack Layton.

Nomi was our teacher this term. She speaks Russian, Hebrew, English, Spanish, some French and German and is researching connections between Aramaic and Hebrew for her PhD thesis. I am humbled.

The class is always lively and often funny. Besides the funny students, Nomi does her best to not use English to define words so it is amusing to watch her charades for things like the difference between "to kill" and "to be killed" and to describe the ongoing war between her cats to introduce the words "themselves", "itself", etc.

It seems like everyone in Ulpan has an interesting story. Even though I really don't need to take more lessons, the fascinating people, the challenge of the language and the great teachers has led me to sign up for another term of torture. Two weeks off then I start level gimmel!

Beer and Wine in Palestine

A few weeks ago, I went out for beers with some folks after Ulpan: Max, the Welshman, who started dating an Israeli in suddenly found himself in Jerusalem, Elana, who is a returned Palestinian refugee, and her boyfriend, a date farmer from near Jericho who also was part of the Palestinian diaspora until the time of Yasser Arafat.

Max and I could have spent all night listening to what they had to say and asking questions. The fact that we were drinking wine and beer should tell you something about where the Palestinians sit in the religious strata. As for Max, beer is of course one of the main food groups in Wales. Part of our conversation revolved around where you can and can't get booze in the West Bank. The answer: If you find the Christians, you can find the booze.

Both Elana and her boyfriend are well educated, relatively affluent, and have roshim gadolim. This means big heads in Hebrew, and is an expression that actually means that they think grandly and deeply, rather than being egotistical. And by date farmer- I think minor date magnate might be closer to the truth.

There are four things that were impressed upon me from our conversation that have really stuck with me. I relay them to you here:

1) They are worried about the increasing religiousness in both the Palestinian and Israeli populations. (No news there. My secular Israeli friends complain bitterly about the same thing.)

2) The thing they were most concerned about was how four decades of isolation and oppression had really closed the minds of the local population. No fresh ideas are flowing in and people are not thinking beyond their own little world. I was told an anecdote of someone their 20's from Ramalla never having seen Nabulus, which is the next biggest Palestinian city and is only 45 km away. They were concerned that the education system, at its best, gets the basics of the three R's done, but there is no analytical thinking or deeper thought nurtured. And now that it has been like that for a couple generations...

3) Elana said she was so angry when she returned from England to Palestine (i.e. the West Bank) a couple of years ago. Like many, her family's story isn't a nice one and she has grown up hearing it. She said it took her a long time just to be able to function, communicate and be around average Israelis without being angry.

4) You can be a date farmer and still love dates. I think I may change vocation.

A Stitch in Time

I didn't want you to think I quit my quilt. I am slowly stitching away and now have 12 blocks. I realize now that I am working on a rate of just over one block a month. That is pretty darn slow, but what can I say. I think each block takes me about 6 to 8 hours.

I am stealing my design from a big super-dee-duper version that my friend Renske organized the making of and just finished a few months ago. The colossal masterpiece took 200 quilters and two years to make and just won an honourable mention at the Canadian Quilt Shin-dig. Mazel Tov! The plan is that it will be sold at the Mennonite Relief Auction for charity.

Since there is only me, perhaps I don't need to feel so bad about my speed. But I am not being so charitable. My quilt is going on my bed.

I've 12 blocks finished, but I think I need 16 for my less intense version. Renske, who kindly sent me the fabric for this project, only sent me 13 colours, and 15 tan background blocks. Hmmm. I think I need a consultation.

Happy Cheese Holiday!

I love Jewish holidays. The just sneak up on me unexpectedly like a surprise party.

Today is Shavuot. A day to celebrate the receiving of the Torah on Mt Sinai. Before that great day, the Israelites were making cheese burgers and coveting their neighbours' wives left, right and centre.

For some odd reason, this is a holiday where everyone eats dairy products. Not being party poopers, we are celebrating with grilled cheese.

For Christians, the same holiday is called Pentecost and celebrates the same thing, but also a second event that happened after the death of Jesus. The disciples were celebrating Shavuot together and while making the cheese blintzes, they got touched by the holy spirit and suddenly were able to speak in languages they could not before. Personally, I could do with suddenly being able to speak Hebrew, but no luck yet.

Last night, the horn that blows each Friday night throughout the city to mark the beginning of Shabat also sounded to mark the beginning of the holy day. It is like psuedo-Shabbat and all the stores are closed and everyone is taking the day off to hang out with family, go camping, or in James' case, to work on a paper.

I am coming home!

Well only for a short while. At on the 27th of May- barring serious volcanic activity- I will be flying back to the big TO for a couple of weeks.

There I will be giving a talk at the Canadian Chemistry Conference, an event I sure you have all been waiting for with bated breath and had marked on your calendars. It will be my big chance to schmooze which the chemistry community in Canada, get the gossip on who is hiring this year, knock their socks off with a presentation on my research in Israel, and generally try and find leads for employment.

After that, I am heading up north to Muskoka and Haliburton for a few days of R and R, right after I have a doctor's check up, go to the pharmacist, get my drivers license renewed, have a chat with someone at the bank, stock up on reasonably priced deodorant, buy James new underwear with crotches intact, etc.

As soon as The Mothers found out that I was coming home, they started making noises and mentally filling my schedule. I immediately quelled the planning of The Lone Arrangers. It is going to be hard enough getting the really important stuff in: going to a five day conference, schmoozing shamelessly looking for a job, spending time with Uncle Bob (he turns 65 this year!), seeing Al who missed out on the trip and planting his flower garden, seeing close friends that I never see. And on top of that, find time to relax and loose the thick layer of crusty stress that seems to be surrounding my usually sunny aura.

As nice as those things other things would be, I really need a vacation- a real vacation. One where I sit on my butt or spend time with trees and lakes and rocks and find myself again. Trust me, I have had enough of adventure for the next little while.

Despite all this warning, there are so many of you I'd like to see- but I make no promises. Let's say it this way: if it is going to take minimal planning, stress and energy for us to see each other, we should do so! I look forward to having cups of tea with those of you with whom my path crosses. For the rest of you that I can't fit in, just think- if I can actually swing a job in Canada, this whole visiting you thing will be a whole lot easier!

Ahhh, the weekend

On Dr. Chicken's orders, I am spending this weekend resting. If you need to find me, I can be found in one of three places: snuggled up in bed with a book, curled up on the couch catching up on five (five!) episodes House or rummaging through the kitchen looking for cookies.

Shabat Shalom.

The tea cup that broke the camel's back

It could have been any number of problems that I had to solve while my family was visiting.

It could have been the plugged sink which took 45 disgusting and wet minutes of taking the plumbing apart and plunging to unclog.

It could have been the letter that told me the phone was getting disconnected.

It could have been the email from the boss saying "he tried to call me twice in my office" that seemed to imply I wasn't at work yesterday when I was actually armpit deep in the glovebox.

Or it could have been the pipette that I dropped that hit the Schlenk flask arm and broke it, which sent broken glass all over the inside of the glovebox.

Or it could have been the enormous pile of Hebrew homework I have to do with every second word needing to be looked up in the dictionary.

But this morning we forgot to put all the shower stuff on the sink shelf, so when Elvis, the washing machine from hell, powered up for the spin cycle, he shook a cup off and smashed it on the floor.

I burst into tears.

Lord, just let me make it to the weekend.

Cut the Phone but for Goodness Sake Don't Take the Toilet!

Any guesses what this letter means? This lovely, incomprehensible beast was in my mail box today and it is from the phone company. With the help of my trusty Hebrew-English dictionary, this is what I translated:

Respected Customer/Customerette,

From a check we reevaluated that there exists a financial debt of value 63.89 (about 20$) that (something incomprehensible). Here we ask to pay off the debt immediately portion to prevent the leaving of services (this word ironically is a homonym with the word for "toilet"). If within 7 days is not paid the debt and (something incomprehensible) forced to remove the services without all the seeing early.

Something something something. Pay your bill or else....

Invoice number 251665157
Invoice period 07/09
Payment date 04/09/09

F-U,
Your Phone Company


So let me get this straight. I didn't pay my bill for July, but I have paid all the subsequent bills and so now I am getting my phone cut off?

I would have thought that if you missed a payment the value would just get tacked on to the next bill. But yet again, I unwisely assumed Israel would be similar to Canada, and was dead wrong. So, for a 20$ debt that happened in September, I am getting hate mail from the phone company.

The phone number the letter gives leads to a nightmare maze of recorded messages that I can conveniently do in my choice of language: Hebrew, Arabic or Russian.

I tried to just hang out on the line to get someone, but nope. Didn't work. Then I started pressing buttons. Also didn't work.

Since I received the letter on the 11th of May, EIGHT days after the letter was dated, I guess our phone is getting cut off.

Meh. I'll use the cell.

The Turkish Bath

After an early morning in Eilat, surviving the border crossing though to Jordan and a whole day wandering though Petra, our family - or Team Turtle, as we like to call them- was feeling a little dusty and dirty two weekends ago.

Being in Jordan, we decided to follow the phrase "when in Rome..." and all partook in an ancient Arab tradition: the Turkish Bath. There was one at our hotel, and of our party James, Colin and I were the first victims *achem* volunteers. We had absolutely no idea what happens in a Turkish bath besides something about a steam room and a massage.

When we arrived there was an older British gentleman wrapped up in about six blue fuzzy towels so that all we could see of him was his flushed face and knobby knees and feet. "There is a fine line between pleasure and pain" he said with a cryptic smile when we asked what would happen to us.

In bathing suits and thin striped cloths to wrap around us, we were directed with broken English and a waving arm to the steam room. We sat down on the marble benches and as soon as the guy turned on the steam, Colin and James' heads began to disappear into a cloud. Although they were close enough to touch, I soon found my self chatting and giggling with disembodied voices over their hairy shins and wooden clogged feet.

Many minutes after I thought my lungs couldn't take it one second more, a lady came in and said "Yes, excuse me" (her only English line) and lead me into a room with a massage table and smooth stone walls and floors. I started getting really worried when she started rolling up her pant legs. But it wasn't so bad. it was very pleasant actually.

While laying on a massage table, I had bowls of warm water thrown over me. Then with something akin to a sand paper mitt, a layer of my skin was taken off any piece of skin not covered my my bikini bottoms. You may think I'm kidding but she actually showed me the skin she took off. Every part of me was scraped. Let me tell you, I have had breast examinations that were gentler. Then I got soaped and massaged all over right down to each of my fingers individually and more bowls of warm water thrown on top of me. Then, feeling cleaner than I have ever felt before, she wrapped up in those towels like a big blue burrito and sent me out to a rug covered reception room to drink chamomile tea and await Colin and James.

All the ladies in my family had very lovely experiences. We all oohed and awed and sighed pleasantly as we were pampered. James told me that from the waiting room he could hear my mother who sounded like someone was making love to her.

But my father sounded like he was being tortured on the rack. The men, it turns out, had a different masseur and their "massage" was a little more vigorous with their limbs and joints yanked and bent in all sorts of directions. There might have been tools of torture involved. They probably should have known it was coming; the masseur was wearing latex gloves. If the guy found a knotted muscle, he would push till you couldn't take it any more and then push a little farther. Although all the men said they felt like Gumby afterwards, some weren't sure that they liked it or not. James said he'd go again. Colin flatly said once was enough for him. I thought they were just wimps. My massage was great.

Two days later, we were swimming at a beach in Tel Aviv. Dominic had a pair of weird markings on his back, and when my brother turned around to head out into the waves, I noticed he had them too. Their red welts matched those that could be seen James- even though his were masked a bit by freckles. Dad also had similar pair of lighter marks. I have a feeling that his screaming must have made the masseur go easy on him compared to the others. Those marks must be the masseur's trademark or something.

Maybe their massage was a bit rough. Six days later, I could still see the welts on James' back. Here is a pic to prove it.