Weekend Warrior Princess goes to Nazareth

On Friday I hopped on a bus and ended up sitting next to a Texan who was still shell shocked from the ultimate back-packer in Israel story. He had forgotten his back pack under the last bus he took and when he remembered and ran back to get it.... well, the scene wasn't good. They blew it up.
A guy in a bomb proof suit handed him his shredded belongings in a garbage bag.
Seeing as the Texan still had all the important stuff in his day-pack, he was laughing rather than freaking out.

Then on to Nazareth, where I spent the afternoon wandering around through the old city, a very un-touristy Arab market, in and out of some churches, up a huge hill for the view, and into one of the tastiest restaurants I have been to in Israel. Lemon grilled chicken, rice with almonds and middle eastern spices, a roasted red pepper, and a big tall beer. Mmmm. My mouth waters just thinking about it.

Just so you know, the haze in the above picture isn't pollution. It was the humidity as a side order to go with the 30 degree heat and blasting sun. Climbing the hill to get that picture, even at 6 pm was a bit of a sweat-fest.

The old part of Nazareth has many confusing narrow streets against a tall hill. Many of the streets are lined with big mysterious green doors closed with padlocks. During business hours, the green doors open to reveal shops for simply everything: clothing, spices, coffees, cafes, felafel stands, veggies, fish, notions, fabric, underwear, head scarves, shoes, toiletries, pot and pans, appliances, upholsterers, metal workers and even carpenters (yes I found carpenters in Nazareth!)

I spent the night right at the heart of the town at a convent, which was actually fantastic. Those sisters know how to keep a pristine dormitory, or a "dormatoria", as one of them called it. The 10 pm curfew wasn't a bother since I wasn't planning to wander around after dark anyway.

2000 years ago, Nazareth was only 400 people, making my home town of Dorset look big. Now it is 70 thousand and bustling. The crusaders, as you can imagine, had fun there building lots of churches. Although there is only one big noticeable mosque in the center of town, there is also a large Muslim population in addition to the endemic Christians, judging from the number of hijabs I saw.

The next day, I went to a great outdoor exhibit on village life 2000 years ago. I learned how they made wine, about the synagogue (which wasn't sex separated and was more a community centre) and other little tid-bits. I might force James to go back with me in the fall to see them work the giant olive press. And maybe another meal at that restaurant.

Then I decided to head home. Since it was shabbat and the buses weren't running till after dark, I had to take a couple of sheruts. The Arab sherut vans run all the time, but go only once they are full. I headed to where they were waiting, and an old man with three teeth from across the street asked "Tel Aviv?"

When I nodded yes, he motioned me into a blissfully air conditioned room where I spent the next 45 minutes waiting for the sherut on a white plastic lawn chair. The other occupants of the room were six Arab men who were checking out the deals in the Super-Pharm flier, discussing/yelling about something or everything, gossiping on their cell phones and smoking the odd cigarette. In simple English we discussed where I am from and my favorite Israel foods. When I said I like baklava they all exclaimed "bakLAAAAva! YES! GOOD!"

They made a pot of Arab coffee by tossing a whole bunch of grounds in a special silver pot, boiling it at length over a gas burner, and adding copious spoons of sugar. The smell of coffee and cardamon filled the air and they graciously served me some in a itty-bitty cup. The tiny cup was all I needed; one sip of that stuff has more kick than an angry donkey.

As for the bakLAAAva, Nazareth boasts a fantastic shop of these tasty nuts-coconut-dripping-with-honey treats. Got a glove and a box and picked out a selection. The problem is, with so many to choose from....., well I got a tummy ache from eating too much.

Shanah Tovah!

Happy new year everyone! Shanah tovah! Welcome to the year 5770! May it bring you all sorts of good things.

We got invited, yet again, by my boss and his generous family for a BBQ- feast. With grandparents, three families and what seemed like a dozen kids under the age of 10, it was a loud, boisterous affair with Guitar Hero being the highlight of the kids' night. The table was piled with food and my flavour buds were happy indeed (especially since gfilte fish was thankfully not served), while everything, from research, to vaccines, to breaking an arm falling off the monkey bars, to our bad but progressing hebrew, to car seats was discussed.

I am all for the edible symbols of Rosh Hashana (literal translation: head of the year).

Apples and honey to bring you sweet things.

Pomegranates for the multiplicity of fruitfulness

Mandrake liqueur for fertility and, well, you know, X-rated things. (James informs me that the neighbors at five thirty am were vigorously and vocally feeling the effects of last night's mandrake liqueur)

At the market on Friday they were selling these giant vegetables that the veggie dude told us were "ka-rah" and with some pointing and bad Hebrew, we determined they are in the zucchini family. We decided to buy one to try and of course came home with the largest one- just for a silly picture.

The grandma, Sarah, tells me, Ka-rah too is an obscure symbol of Rosh Hashana- so obscure that she had only seen the word for the first time yesterday in a booklet about the holiday. Something, she said, about defeating enemies. All I can see is that you could probably beat your enemies over the head with it. Since I don't have many enemies here, I would prefer to eat it. Because the Israelis were pretty unfamiliar with it too, we are still stuck with a giant vegetable on the counter, don't know the English name and have no clue what to do with it.

All right you readers with all-vegetable-knowing Chinese Grandmas, I need you to help me out here. What is it and how do I cook it?

Fitting the Part

Recently, I got a call out of the blue from my old roommate Captain Kirk. He wanted to see how things were panning out for me in Jerusalem. I told him things were great and we had a little chat. A few days later I got another call from him and we were invited to the neighbours' house for shabbas dinner. These are the same folks hat had invited me in my first few weeks in J-town. James and I happily agreed.

But now James could no longer put off a task that he had been avoiding for months. James had to buy a kippah. At the shook there are a couple of Judaica sellers with their booths full of menorahs, silver cups, double handled mugs, rams' horns, Star of David key chains and a whole table full of kippas.

Of course, being The Chicken, he picked out a kippa with blue on it. (I vetoed any kippa that had a sports team logo knitted into it. As well The Chicken wisely avoided black ones- they are for the hardcore people.)

James' suit pants are black and his dress shirt white, so combined with the kippa, my hubby looked like seriously Kosher Chicken as we headed out for dinner. This made me giggle considering the man practices religion like he irons shirts: only on special occasions and only under wifely duress. If you are wondering what I was wearing it was modest. Long skirt. White T-shirt. Flat shoes. If I was really trying to play Haredi dress-up, I would have had long sleeves, nylons and have covered my hair with a scarf since I am married.

We had a lovely dinner and again, I got to ask lots of questions about the religious communities since the family is what is commonly called "black". This is not a reference to their skin colour but rather the black suits the men wear amongst the more religious communities. We laughed when Taniel told of us a sect of Jews who jump out of vans on red lights and dance around until the light turns green. Likewise, they got a kick of our description of what Happy-Clappy means.

I also learnt that some of my secular friends may have it slightly wrong. They often complain that religious men only study in the Yeshivas (torah school for life), the women start poppin' out kids in their teens, neither work and basically the families suckle off of the government teat. This family tells me the government stipend is only 300 shekels per month (100CAD) and that many "black" families work at least part time, many under the table. In this family, the man studies at the Yeshiva in the morning and works as a computer programmer in the afternoon. The wife teaches women's studies at a women's religious school a few mornings a week and otherwise takes care of her two kids with another on the way. Like me, they didn't understand how the hardest of the Hard-Cores, who really don't work at all, survive on such a pittance. There must be some charity going on or something.

Since cabs are hard to find on Shabbat, we had a long walk home in the cool evening. James de-kipped, I de-skirted and we both crawled into bed. Today woke up and managed to spend the day doing absolutely nothing. I have to say, this shabbat thing is pretty nice.

Shavuot

Israelis have been known to have cactus-like exteriors but I think the stabs you get are less prickles and more elbows in the ribs at the market. Outside of shopping and lining up in the airport when the elbows are in full force, the truth is, the Israelis we have met have been exceedingly kind and generous people. To prove my point, a labmate and his wife kindly invited us to a family holiday dinner at his mom's house in Ashdod.

Starting last night and into today is Shavuot. According to Wiki, this holiday hearkens all the way back to Noah and is a celebration of the harvesting of the first fruits of the year. Then it was forgotten, but Moses brought the holiday back. Now the holiday also celebrates the giving of the Torah on Mount Sinai.

I was a little confused. I though the burning bush was at the same time as the ten commandments, but my friends here, who studied all this stuff in school, got me straightened out. The flaming shrub told Moses to get the people out of Egypt. Mt. Sinai was later. (I blame the VHS bible stories we had as kids that someone taped off the TV. I think someone forgot to press record after one of the commercial sets and we were missing a bit of the story. Hence the confusion. I am lucky I don't think Noah survived a flood of locusts)

To add to the symbolic confusion, for some odd reason dairy products are eaten this day, so we pigged out on cheese, quiche, rice pudding, pizza, creme caramel, cheesy pasties and these awesome things called blintzes which are like crepes with a sweet cheese in them. (Blintz are a 10 out of 10 on the awesome cultural food scale; the passover fish blobs rate a 2.) To the Christians, this is also the beginning of Pentecost (who knew?) which in my apple pie experience is not a big holiday. I am all for bringing this tradition home. Just like Pancake Tuesday, I am going to start Cheesy Thursday!

There is one part of the holiday that I cannot see myself transferring back to Canada. Last night the religious folks in the city spent an all-nighter studying the Torah. Indeed, as we were driving back into the city we saw flocks of people filing into a synagogue at 11 pm. Then this morning they walked to the western wall before dawn. Although walking to the western wall for sunrise would have been cool, I am not into all nighters. No thanks. I survived all of undergrad without a single one.

Anyway, back to the party.

Our Hostess has an amazing apartment with a view out over the Mediterranean and the sunset was spectacular. Each of her children brought some friends so there was a lively crowd chatting about. Since the family has spent a lot of time in Africa, they had some items made out of an animal that rates high one the don't-kill-me-cause-I'm-cute scale. I asked how they got the items in the country and I mentioned my seal skin slippers that I wisely left in Canada. This dead-seal slippers comment got silence with couple of shocked gasps from the crowd. Oops. Clearly, not a good way to make friends. It turns out our Governor General's recent seal heart snack even hit Israeli media. So now they probably think that all Canadians are seal killers.

Ashdod is a new city, the most of which is only forty years old or so. It has a HUGE port, and James is dying to see it. Our hostess has invited us back so we can go see the port and go for a swim in the Mediterranean.

One more thing. After royally screwing up the "touching taboo" I got one right last night. I wore a skirt and a white T-shirt. Apparently white is the festive color in Israel. And that was all by accident.

Seder Supper for Passover

Last night was the first night of Pessah and throughout the city, people were burning little fires on the side of the road in in parks to burn the last of the chametz in their house. We were invited for Seder meal at my boss' parents-in-law's in Rehovot in the evening. The boss picked us up and as we booted it out of the city in his new car (he is very proud of it), we could see a line of cars trying to get to Jerusalem that reminded me of the 400 leaving Toronto on a July friday night.

The evening was what a family dinner is all about and we are very glad to have been a part of it. The whole family are really nice and super interesting people. There were five kids under the age of nine so the volume of the dinner party was quite high and the mood energetic. There are so many details of the evening that I could tell you about, but I have done my best to adhere to the code of blogging brevity.

Out from deep in a closet, Sarah, the family matriarch brought out a bunch of well loved copies of the Haggadah, a book with the ceremony of the Seder written in it. James and I played "guess what page we are on" with our English copies as the lengthy texts were read and sung by everyone at the table throughout the meal. The boss' six year old son put my Hebrew reading to shame even though the text was like Shakespeare-Brew.

The Seder itself is a traditional meal where many of the food items are symbolic of the story of slavery in Egypt and the exodus. There were matsot, hard boiled eggs, a paste of apples and pecans, chopped liver (it was a lot less tasty after I was told what it was), parsley dipped in salt water, bright red horseradish, red wine (some of which is flicked about when each of the plagues were mentioned) and some odd fish blobs that were over processed to the point of hotdog status. I guess really traditional people still buy the fish alive and keep them in the bath tub for a couple of days and there is a whole ceremony to making these fish blobs. This solves the mystery of why we had seen live fish for sale for the first time at the market on tuesday.

And then there is the feast part. Lots and lots of yummy food. After we had read and sung and ate our way through the Seder, Rami the Grandpa brought out his accordion and played as the rest of us hummed along and chatted and drank coffee.

By the way, James says the kippah he was lent really hides his bald spot well. I have a sneaking suspicion the one he was given was a old reject children's kippah, so perhaps we should buy him his own to keep on hand.

Late, late in the evening, full and happy we piled into the car whereupon James and the Boss' six year old son nodded off on the drive home.

I will end this post with the phrase that ends the Seder:

Next Year in Jerusalem.

Do fatigues make me look fat? Maybe I ate too many Bamba Crisps.

Israel is a nation of immigrants. Sound familiar? And just like Canadians, most of their favorite foods originated somewhere else. Instead of our culturally hijacked perogies and roast beef, Israelies have taken hummus and falafel as their own. We immigrants don’t steal everything. By our very nature we are enterprising, creative and adventurous folks even when it comes to food. We Canadians can be proud of the Nanaimo bar, butter tarts and everything maple (including, this here blog, the maple shekel!). Recently, I discovered a uniquely Israeli treat: Bamba crisps. Looks like a cheesy but instead is peanut buttered flavoured. Sounds gross? Not so. Those suckers are strangely addictive. I’ll be sure to bring some back for you to try. My lab mate invited me over for a gathering with some friends on Saturday and introduced me to Bamba Crisps and some of the other local chemists and significant others.

I am giving them a cultural education too. After hearing a local correctly use the phrase "your cup of tea," I felt it was necessary to teach them a better phrase: "whatever floats your boat" They were amused by the rhyming.

Going to a new place and meeting new people is, at first, about finding similarities in your experiences. The littlest things can be the beginnings of a conversation (and hopefully, friendship) like milk being sold in bags, the common experience of horrid exams, and great chocolate cake recipes. Today, I unexpectedly discovered that my rather surly labmate, who swears he isn’t a nice guy, loves the Trailer Park Boys.

My lab mates have lead very different lives than my own – far more than the city-country split I have been living with for a decade. Every single one of them has spent at least two years in the army (many more than three) and consequently, they are all at least a few years older than you would expect for their education levels. I am one of the younger people in the lab, and yet I am the post doc. Which goes to show their dedication to getting a graduate degree. Frankly, at 29, I am pretty much done with this living in near poverty and school business. And yet, many of them at my age are at the beginning of gradschool.

No kidding, I was a wordless observer to a nonchalant conversation today amongst my academically inclined colleagues about which weapons are easy to fire. What was I to say? My gun experience is limited to shooting a BB at a margarine container in Ashley’s back yard when I was fifteen.

I can’t imagine being forced into anything, let alone the military (I am not so good with taking commands), but they grow up knowing this is part of life and it seems to be perceived as a rite of passage towards adulthood. In fact, I feel a little left out of the club because I didn’t spend time in the military. Oh well. Maybe it is for the best; the Chicken tells me I don't look good in cammo.