The War of the Chick Pea

It is simply chick peas, sesame paste, lemon juice and olive oil.

But that doesn't stop Israelis from loving hummus to a passionate extent. It is the filler of bellies, the ubiquitous appetizer, and the elixir of life. Did you know that there is an entire dairy case for just hummus in the grocery store? The variety is overwhelming. When I have to buy it, I get into a panic of decision making, and just close my eyes and pick one at random.

What kind of olive oil? What is the chickpea to sesame ratio? What do you want on top? pesto? paprika? other unidentified green stuff? Little pool of olive oil? Are there whole chick peas floating around?

And no Israeli restaurant could open up shop with out at least four different kinds listed on the menu, usually fresh that day. The one we went to for my birthday had at about eight varieties and because of the open kitchen we saw the magic firsthand.
The cook takes a big serving spoon and dips it into a large pot to bring out a giant blob of warm hummus. With a flick of the wrist and a satisfying plop, the blob lands in a shallow bowl awaiting in the cook's other hand. With the back of the spoon he deftly swoops the hummus around the the edge and fills the resulting cavity with warm chick peas, olive oil or some other topping. Then the bell dings and the waitress carts it off to another hungry customer with a pate full of fresh pitas.

Besides all the culture and ceremony surrounding the eating of hummus, it has also has become a way for Israel and Lebanon to express their dislike of each other without using soldiers.

Last October, some dudes in Lebanon broke the Guinness Record for the biggest bowl of Hummus ever made. There Lebanon was, strutting around claiming to be the Queens and Kings of Hummus.

In January, those Hummus guys in Abu Gosh, in a surprise attack made a four tonne bowl of hummus to usurp the title. It was probably the only time the viciously competing Abu Gosh Hummus restaurants worked together for something. The nation of Israel celebrated.

Well this really cheesed off the Lebanese. By May, they had retaliated with a larger, ten tonne bowl of hummus and reclaimed their coveted title.

Do you think Israel will back down? NEVER! I am sure there are thicker plots and pots cooking in Abu Gosh as we speak.

Food from Home

Even after a over a year and a half the grocery store in Jerusalem is still an adventure.

Last night we needed to stock up for today's BBQ and thought that serving Killer Spicy Canadian Caesars would be a great idea.

Tabasco? check!

Vodka given to us free by someone doing pre passover cleaning? check!

Celery? check!

Clamato? beeeep.
We knew it would be impossible to find (clams don't meet the scales, feathers or cloven hooves laws of kosher meat) and furthermore, the locals got these horrified grossed out faces when I told them what it was. So, tomato juice it is.

Celery Salt? beeeep.
We hunted through the six kinds of paprika, several zatar spices, something called Yemenite Hwaig Seasoning, the usual cloves and cinnamon, but did not find any celery salt. We did however find a spice that seemed appropriate for Canada Day, but we decided to pass over "Redness" due to its complete dodginess.

I guess they will be a weak imitation of Killer Spicy Canadian Caesars. We will change their name to Weak Less-than-Fantastic Israeli Caesars.

To further the theme of Canadian food, James opened up his birthday presents this morning. Since he never did tell me what he wanted, while I was home I went to the grocery store and stocked up on impossible-to-find treats and then spent part of last evening wrapping them each up in my old Hebrew homework: fajita seasoning, salt and vinegar popcorn seasoning (they only have regular and BBQ potato chips around here and popcorn seasoning is a genius second best to potato chips), and the piece de resistance: two boxes of Kraft Dinner.

I also bought him pajama bottoms, in his beloved blue, and he promptly put them on and started dancing and twinkle toeing around the apartment like a lead footed ballerina.

The PJ bottoms are a compromise. The Chicken owns an old pair of track pants that with their high waisted draw string closure and gathered cuffs, they would compliment any human body by turning it into into the shape of a potato. Since I don't think I can convince The Chicken to wear a James Bond style tux around the house, I will trade the PJ bottoms for the dirty, old track pants.

Happy Birthday Chicken.

Attack of the Killer Fre-Brew

The bus driver this morning forgot to let off a couple of French tourists at the museum and then was trying to give them directions to walk from a much later stop in Hebrew. I decided to be a good Samaritan and help out. What resulted was a shameful display of my current foreign language skills.

"Je parle un peu de français. Je voudrais donner vous le direction" I said. Not bad. A bit awkward and a misplaced object pronoun but the point was clear an the tourists looked thankful.

I hopped off the bus with them since it was only one stop before mine. And the French went downhill from there.

"J'ai étudé français beh Canada. Aval maitenant, j'étude Hébru. J'ai...... J'ai.... J'ai..."

"melange de languages?" the nice man finished for me.

"Oui." I replied and then got down to business. "Zeh ha rue." and pointed down the road. "Vous marchiez cinq minutes, veh le museon est à la droit. Il y a un simon gadol" I said as I made a big box shape with my hands to indicate the big sign. "Beseder?" I asked.

They seemed to understand me, nodded, and happily headed on their way despite my dreadful Franken-language. Good lord, I didn't even realize I was doing it! Is this the horrible state my French as degraded to in only a year an a half? I used to be able to discuss philosophy and world politics in French. How humiliating!

The Chicken said it was completely endearing, but I disagree. It was completely disheartening.

Getting my head and hat on straight

A few weeks ago in Hebrew class we watched- as a treat- an Israeli movie called Bonjour Monsieur Shlomi. It was about a teenage boy who has a crazy family and everyone thinks he is an idiot but he is actually a dyslexic math genius. It is a odd little coming of age story. I give it a solid B grade. There is a little swearing and some funny crude comments by his crass older brother, and yes, there is some depiction of teenage sexuality complete with nipples.

A very sweet lady in our ulpan from Missouri was about to get up and leave after the first set of comments about the brother's "attributes." With an embarrassed laugh she said "OK that is enough for me" and grabbed her books. Our teacher, assured her that the bad stuff was over. But it wasn't, and before long, this nice lady, who works for the baptist interfaith centre, got up and left. Everyone has their own limits to what is acceptable in movies and this clearly was well past her limit of sexuality, especially teenage, unmarried sexuality. I felt bad that she was told that the bad stuff was over and it wasn't. I chalk it up to our teacher not really understanding what was so offensive about the movie to an evangelical christian.

This story probably doesn't seem all that surprising to you. But the shocker for me was who didn't leave. Of all the students in the class, she was the only one offended by the content of the movie. This included a scarf wearing muslim, and a black-kippa white-shirt wearing Jew.

So now that I have had a little kick in my ignorant pants, I can say that people need not be so afraid of others who wear their religion openly in their clothes. I think people sometimes fear religious clothing as representation of a movement of religious fundamentalization, a loss of rights and freedom of speech. From this anecdote, it seems the prevailing sentiments against Muslims in the world and orthodox Jews within Israel has it wrong. The anecdote seems to say that the people we most need to worry about would be western Christians wearing jeans and a tee-shirt.

I am not saying that scary fundamentalist movements in Islam, Judaism or in Christianity don't exist, but I am saying that if we are taught to not judge a book by its cover, we should not judge a person by their head covering.

Three things I avoid

Female travelers are always a little more wary and cautious, not only for the obvious safety concerns. We simply have extra needs that make things sometimes more difficult. But we persevere in the name of adventure. Out of necessity and with only one horrifying brick-shaped mistake, I have now mastered the feminine hygiene aisle without being able to read a label. I have braved the dichotomous and adjacent stores of One-Size-Fits-Slut and Haredi-Humble to buy new tops. I feel pretty confident about getting around and getting what I need these days. Unfortunately there are three things that I avoid still:

1) Buying cosmetics. When my blush ran out in the fall, I headed to the Superpharm (Israeli version of the Shoppers Drug Mart). In the cramped cosmetics aisle, I braved five or six overly painted sales ladies, standing around like bored and hungry venus fly traps. When they were distracted by a cute baby in a pram, I quickly found what I needed and luckily checked the price before I headed to the cash. It was 55$ to replace my blush that costs 6$ at home. I dropped it like a hot potato and made a bee-line for the door. I used every little last crumble of my old blush and had my mom send me a new tin with my X-mas presents.
But then I ran out of mascara, and well, I bit the bullet last week and headed back in to the Superpharm with a mission: buy the cheapest mascara I could find. I did. It was 17$, marked down from the original 35$.

2) Getting a hair cut. For the most part, Israeli women have lovely, thick, long hair, sometimes with great wild curls. I imagine that most of the hair dressers here have never touched hair like mine- thin and poker straight- let alone give it a half decent cut. One of James' favourite hair cutters in the Christian Quarter of the old city, a man with the biggest pompador I have ever seen, tried to convince me with a pick of some blonde chick with layers and body and curls, cut out from a hairdressing magazine. "This," he tapped the photo "This look good with you," he said. I declined his offer kindly and laughed on the inside.
As a result, I have not cut my hair since I left Alberta. It was a cute little bob. Now, a year and a half later, I officially have the same hair cut I had in grade twelve. Lovely.

3) Buying jeans. A good percentage of the female population in this city never wear pants. And secondly, after we went through the settlers' protest a couple of months ago, I realized how very tall I am compared to the general population. Making my way through the crowd was like wading though tall grass. And those fabulous boobs that I see around here? They often come with appropriately sized hips. All in all, finding jeans in a 28 long that doesn't have that weird gaping part in the back is going to be interesting. I am down to two pairs and have had to put my dress pants into regular rotation.
I am soon going to have to buck up and find a half decent jeans store (Tel Aviv perhaps?) or hold out till the Munich conference and hope I luck out with the Germans.

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.

Fetal Cow Fiasco

Never have I been so relieved to be wrong about something. Turns out I misread the letter dalet for the letter resh and the word I thought meant "fetus" actually means "processed." We did not eat "roast calf from fetus" but rather "roast calf processed." Guess I had better stick with those Hebrew lessons.

All the same, the roast was so under par, the fact that we even considered it was fetus goes to show just how bad beef is here. What I wouldn't do for a Triple A Alberta T-bone, medium, on the BBQ.

Worst Meal Ever

It is Friday night – the start of Shabbat – and James and I always cook a big special meal. But this one will go down in the record books as one of the most special.

First of all, we decided to finally cook up some of the Karah. Thanks guys for your suggestions and investigative journalism. Polly's farmers' market guy was a little vague with "You cook. You eat.", as was Bryan's slightly better suggestion of "Soups and stuff." Siu's ideas were more specific but unfortunately shrimps and oyster sauce are not kosher so not available in our grocery store. (Which, as you will read, is somewhat tame compared to what we discovered IS available in the grocery store)

So I went my own route and tried frying slices, because everything tastes good fried. Right? The whole thing was like a cucumber out of control. Well first of all, the skin was like boot leather and I almost lost fingers cutting the slices. The inside had watery flesh, a non-descript smell and huge seeds. I fried them up, sprinkled them with salt and pepper and hoped for great things. The reviewers comments?

"These are awful. F-ing awful."

Two thirds of the plate ended up in the trash. Of course, I still have a foot an a half left of this not very tasty vegetable. Any takers?

But the real epicenter of the meal was the roast beef. We have not cooked beef since the spring because it is expensive and not very good here in Israel. But every once in a while I have to let my inner Alberta girl out and gnaw on some red meat. We decided to splurge on a roast from the frozen food section that was next to some other roasts with pictures of cows on them. I swear we spent at least five minutes trying to make sure we bought the right animal this time.

This afternoon I roasted it up, but the result was very disappointing. The flavor was so odd that we questioned whether we had accidentally purchased a piece of old mutton or something. To figure out where we had gone wrong, after dinner I dug though the slimy pieces of karah skins in the trash to locate the label from the roast started translating it. First word meant "roast" and the next "calf". So far so good. Roast veal. Not bad.

But what did the last word mean? I now wish I had never looked it up and would still be in blissful ignorance. But no..... I had to know it all. I looked it up in the dictionary, and when I saw the translation, I immediately shut the book, put my hand over my mouth and exclaimed "Oh, God." I told James. He turned pale and said, "I think I am going to hurl."

The last word meant "from fetus."

Who would sell such a thing in a grocery store! And there is no getting rid of it. The whole house smells like roast cow fetus. I have been laughing hysterically with tears rolling down my face and poor James is switching between denial ("It can't be fetus!") and getting shivers of the heebeejeebees. Nasty. I think we will just stick to chicken from now on.

At least the boiled carrots were ok.

Janet 1, Travel Agent 0

Lately, I have been in short temper with my coworkers and my science. To boot,
the university is closed for the week along with the TEM, making chemistry difficult. And the guns and the security everywhere and the almost pathological fear of the neighbors have been grating on my nerves. I need a break.

So James and I decided to book a last minute trip to ANYWHERE- just not in the Middle East. After navigating a heap of Hebrew travel websites and visiting a travel agent who thinks Greece isn't in Europe, we settled on a sweet internet deal to Crete for five days.

With the help of a trusty Hebrew-speaking lab mate, Itai, who read to me all the fine print, I booked the trip this afternoon. Strangely along with my credit card number they wanted my nine digit "Identity Number" but being a Canuck, I don't have one so I put in my 9 digit student number. Itai, suggested that he call and tell them, out of courtesy, just to make sure everything goes though.

Travel agent lady gets worried and emails me a "form" to sign that she tells Itai only confirms that I will be returning to Israel with a foreign passport. The form shows up in my email in-box and I wisely translated it. At the very bottom it sneaks in something about a mystery "2.5% credit surcharge". One email and four phone calls later the Lady tells me I am charged extra because I have a foreign Visa Card.

Any other time I would have caved over the extra 23$, but in the last two weeks I have been in a constant bad mood and so I behaved out of character and proceeded to lash out with the full power of the thundercloud that has been hanging over my head.

I balk. We argue. She threatens to cancel my reservation. I tell her the policy is ridiculous and I say I'd like to cancel and hang up.

Two minutes later I get a phone call. The are not going to charge me the 2.5%.

For the first time ever, I called an Israeli's bluff and won.

Just when I am starting to get cranky enough to start negotiating like an Israeli, I am heading out of the country to get back my Canadainess. I relished in the victory all the walk home but it will be nice to get away for a bit so I can begin to recognize myself again.

Han-oo-ee-ot חנויות

Let me tell you about one of the great awsomesses of living in the "Old world": it is all the little stores or "han-oo-ee-ot" in Hebrew. They are the environmentalist's/too-poor-to-own-a-car-ist's dream.

In Edmonton, I could not go to the hardware store for the five months of the year where ice and snow kept me off my bicycle. Many a small repairs were left for months because buying the right sized nut was going to be a multi hour journey or 25$ worth of cab rides. The hardware store was a giant Home Depot about 5 km away with a bus route that ran only once an hour, on weekdays, and only during the full moon. Edmonton is a city for drivers and it was one of the few things that I truly disliked about my lovely Edmonton.

In Jerusalem, the mom and pop store reigns supreme. All shopping seems like boutique shopping. I have described the fabric stores before, and finally took a couple of pics-from the hip this morning. (FYI, I finally happened across a notions store and the source of needles and thread along with every possible kind of button and ribbon). But all the stores are like this. Housewares, hardware, socks and bras, toys, hats, electronics, each have their own little enclaves, and yes, there are entire stores dedicated to kippas.

Because these stores are small there are many dotting the city. Tiny, crowded and jumbled, these stores are best described by the phrase "Everything, there is. Selection, there is not." You will find the right kind of screwdriver there, and perhaps a half decent one to boot, but you won't find it in three different brand names in six different colours. For my purposes, these stores are great. I can access them in my neighbourhood year round, the prices are usually pretty fair, and I never feel like I am making journey worthy of an epic poem for a O-ring for a leaky U-trap.

I bought James' b-day present, a radio, at an electronics ha-noot that had no more than 20 square feet of open floor space. As I was looking at the radios, the lady asked me what I was looking for and I said "Radio katan" (small radio) "Rak radio simplisti" (only a simple radio). She shooed me away from the CD/tape/radio ones on display and pulled out the perfect specimen for our kitchen. She asked such a very reasonable price that I only haggled out of respect for the art. With simple questions and broken Hebrew from me, she wanted to know how long I was in J-town for, what I was studying at the university, where I was from, if I was studying Hebrew at an ulpan.... All very friendly. Service! Who knew such a thing still existed!

All hail the hanoiot!

Par-TAY time!

At 4pm yesterday, James hauled the BBQ down four flights of stairs and out to the nearby park to get ready for our Canada Day Party. I filled the waterballons and lugged the bucket of missiles out to the park. We had all of the necessary supplies in grocery bags and were rearing to go. At 4:15, a guy who runs the park pointed out that our BBQ was next to a large sign that had a picture of a flame with a big red bar across it (See pic of James at the grill).

Ooops. So we moved the BBQ to the sidewalk and set up everything else next to the see saw and slide. Of course, Costi and Danny had to try out the kiddie equipment. A grown man going down a slide never ceases to make me giggle. Assi and James let out their inner cave men and manned the fire and roasted the hotdogs to Neanderthal perfection. Unfortunately, my plan for s'mores was stopped by disturbingly well aimed water balloon by Ehud which landed directly in the last coals of the grill. Even Ehud was amazed by his own aim; he was doubled over in laughter, but I got the last laugh because I followed up with a purple ballon that gracefully lobbed though the air and broke in a spray of water at his feet.


Of course we had way more food than we needed. True to form, leftovers from a Israeli pot luck involve a metric tonne of hummus, a half a watermelon, delicious pastries that should be on the banned addictive substances list and about ten bottles of juice and pop.

For my birthday next week, my labmates presented me with an awesome two volume book of walking tours in Jerusalem. I am really stoked about this one. Our first adventure is planned for tomorrow morning.

For the past two weeks I have been thinking up some seriously diabolical questions for the Canada Day Quiz. I have posted them to see if you can beat the Israelis. The teams did not bad, but after they listed Alannis Morisette, Celine Dion, Bon Jovi and Pet Shop Boys on the list of Canadian musicians, I feel it is now my responsibility to include musical as well as chemical mentoring into part of my lab duties. Here are the questions with the teams' answers for your amusement at their expense:

1) Hebrew University is dotted with buildings built from money donated from the Bronfman family of Montreal. How did they make their money?
Team A: Alcohol Team B: Real Estate

2) About six weeks ago, Governor General Michaelle Jean visited a Northern Canadian town. She made international headlines for something she did there. What was it?
Team A: Eating a seal heart Team B: (uh, I can't remember what they said)

3) Name as many Prime Ministers that you can. Bonus points for knowing who the current one, the first one and extra bonus point for spelling the fist PM's name right.
Team A: Bob, George, Mike, Nick and MacKenzie King Team B: Stephen Harper

4) Name a city on Vancouver Island.
Team A: Vancouver City Team B: Vancouver City

5) Name as many provinces and territories that you can.
One team got six and the other got five

6) What is a toque? Hint: it is an article of clothing
Team A: Scarf and Mitts Team B: a traditional dress

7) This is related to Food: What is a double double?
Team A: Two Hotdogs Team B: (uh, I can't remember what they said)

8) What are loonies and twonies?
Team A: Cartoons Team B: (uh, I can't remember what they said)

9) Which of these is not city in Canada?
Medicine Hat, Lone Buck, Yellowknife, Whitehorse, Moose Jaw, Salmon Arm
Team A: Medicine Hat Team B: Yellowknife

10) What do the two red bands on the flag signify?
Team A: French and English Team B: The two coasts

11) MacKenzie King was Prime Minister five times from 1921-1948 and was the longest serving PM in the Commonwealth. Like many politicians he talked to people he trusted for personal reassurance. This included his mother and his dog named Pat. What was particularly weird about this situation?
Team A and B: They were dead

12) What is the national icon and is pictured on the 5 cent coin?
Team A: Moose Team B: a Duck

13) If Americans are called Yankees, English are called Brits, Israelis are called Sabraim, what are Canadians called?
Team A: Not Americans Team B: Polar Bears

14) What does it mean when a soldier wears a blue beret?
Team A: UN Team B: UN

15) A J-stroke is a maneuver belonging to what popular sport.
Racquetball, Hockey, Canoeing, Lacrosse, or Curling.
Team A: Hockey Team B: Canoeing

16) What is the Capital city of Canada?
Team A: Ottawa Team B: Ottawa

17) Name as many Canadian singers or bands that you can.
Team A: Celine Dion, Alanis Morisette, PetShop Boys Team B: Celine Dion, Bryan Adams, Nelly Furtado and Bon Jovi.

18) If you drove the whole length of the Trans-Canada Highway straight from Coast to Coast, with good weather conditions and obeying the speed limit, how many hours of driving is necessary?
Team A: 72 hrs Team B: 40 hrs

Guest Post: A Canadian's Guide to Israeli Supermarkets

This morning the Chicken and I divided to conquer: me to the market and him to the grocery store. It must have been an eventful trip –Fridays are always a mad house at the supermarket– because he immediately wanted to write a post. How could I say no when he was planning diagrams? Diagrams, for goodness sake. Just so you know, he used Chemdraw for this so if anything happens to look like a benzene ring, there is a reason for it. Also, this explains the odd picture quality and I lack the savvy to make it better. If you click on the pics, you will get a slightly better copy.

Let me begin by telling you my favorite Canadian joke.

Q: How do you get 10 Canadians out of a pool?

A: Say “Excuse me, could everyone please get out of the pool?”

I guarantee you that getting 10 Israelis out of a pool would not be that easy. One of the big adjustments that North Americans have to make when they move to Israel is dealing with the fact that Israelis are not as programmed toward avoiding conflict as we are. I don’t know exactly why that is, but I suppose when you grow up in a country that has fought a number of major wars in the past few decades, the shouting matches and long arguments that are a not-uncommon sight over here probably don’t seem like such a big deal. Every week, this important difference between our two cultures gets hammered into my head when I visit our local supermarket in Rehavia, otherwise known as The War Zone.

Here’s a classic example of Canadian supermarket behavior. When a checkout line becomes too long, Canadians seem to instinctively create an L-shaped line (Figure 1). This way, they stay out of the way of people who are still pushing their grocery carts around, thereby avoiding having people be angry with them for blocking their way. It also minimizes the chances of actually having to interact with anyone while they’re in the grocery store.

Figure 2 shows a naïve attempt to put this strategy in action at an Israeli supermarket. The Canadian, feeling uncomfortable since he is at the end of a checkout line where he is blocking cart traffic, instinctively forms the L-shape in order to minimize any chance of unnecessary human interaction. Unfortunately, this conflict-minimizing behavior is not recognized by the largely Israeli clientele, who do not perceive the Canadian as actually being in line. As a result, the L-pattern is not established, leading to increasing isolation of the Canadian as a “nub” on the line. The result is frustration and anger on the part of the well-meaning Canadian.


The situation is eventually resolved by the inevitable appearance of a frustrated shopping-cart wielding individual who must “break-through” the check-out line (Figure 3). If he has positioned himself well however, the Canadian can then take advantage of this opportunity to sneak back into line. This has the effect of causing heaving sighs and grumbles from those who were formerly “ahead” of him in the line (Figure 4).


The net effect of all of this is that the situation is exactly the same as it would have been if they had just done it the Canadian way, except this way everyone gets to go home much more pissed off.

Stanley's Cup

Every morning when I get up, I check my email on James' computer. Inevitably waiting for me is some baseball webpage discussing the minutiae of the Dodgers line-up or the statistical chance of a hit deflecting off of the pitchers out stretched glove, arcing though the air directly into the hands of the third baseman, who tosses it to the second baseman who does a pirouette mid air to send it to the first baseman who catches the ball with his teeth for a triple out. (It happened once in '43 in a double header game between the Yankees and the Cubs!)

As you can imagine, I don't tolerate much baseball talk. Poor James in his desperation for baseball conversation has had to lower himself to discussing the Dodgers with a local dumpster cat. I have presented the photographic proof.



Hockey, on the other hand, I can occasionally tolerate and even enjoy. When we were coming though the T.O. airport recently, I happily sat down and watched the last period of a game. There is something very comforting about the sound of the announcers' Canadian accents, the whack of a slap shot, the thunk of a player against the boards and the woosh of skates against ice as a player makes a 180 degree turn.

Now that it is so freaking hot in Jerusalem, the thought of ice, sweet cool frozen ice, makes my eyelids sink to half mast and my mouth release a sigh of desire. And don't think it is the hockey players that are the object of my affection. Despite years in Hicksville, Ontario, I have never had a thing for the toothless wonders wearing pull up diapers over knee high socks.

But last night I actually had a dream about the Stanley Cup Finals. Sad but true.
So given that it is game seven of the Stanley Cup finals on Friday, and I am actually dreaming about it, I will be getting up at 5 am to watch the third period. So if you are watching the game, think of me bleary eyed and drinking instant coffee, rapturously watching the computer screen just to get in my little piece of home.

Clothing

When I was moving to Israel my brother's friend Avi, who had just returned from a stint in the Israeli Army, told me that Israelis are more conservative dressers than Canadians. I always considered myself a rather conservative dresser anyways so I wasn't worried. But it is TRUE! Israelis LOVE bland colours (white, navy, brown and black are the staples). Although I have seen some horrifically tight/animal print outfits on fashionistas downtown, they are not very common and in general the populous doesn't show as much skin as Canadians, and they like to wear far more clothing than the temperature calls for. I swear we saw a fur coat at 15 Celsius one day.

To wear my favorite pink shirt is a statement about my identity. "I AM BOLD! I AM NOT RELIGIOUS! I AM WESTERN! HEAR ME ROAR!" It cries out with enthusiasm.

I could blather on for hours about how clothing defines class and religious beliefs far more than any place I have ever heard of. A day in the old city is a great game of "Guess that Christian!" Armenian Monk? Catholic Nun? Coptic Priest? A walk on Shabbat is a display of all sorts of cool hats. Askanazi? Haredi? Reform? Secular? Hockey Fan? (I'll explain that in a later post). The Arab Quarter is a lesson in femininity. Women, completely covered except for their hands and faces are the most elegant looking people I have ever seen in their long tailored coats and fitted head coverings.

When traveling Israel, it is not worth putting anything in your suitcase that is above the knee. Sure there are lots of places you can wear those soccer shorts, but it is a pain when touriting far a day and find out you can't go in somewhere because you look like a tart for wearing a tank top. You may as well save the suitcase space and bring a pair of capris and a longish flowing skirt, some t-shirts and a light cardigan.

But this is the kicker. Where do you think I found the clothing issues are most restrictive when traveling? Look at the sign. Where do you think I took this picture?



a) At a kosher restaurant specializing in Ashkenazi food.
b) Recommended clothing posted outside a tour-guide place for seeing the Arab city of Acco.
c) In the door of an Orthodox church in the "new" part of Jerusalem.

To make you guess, I have posted the answer to the question in the comments section (click on the orange word "comments" below).

Hugs and High Fives

Sometimes I feel like I am in a cultural minefield. With every step, I may or may not make a mistake. Today I made a new one.

Back in Alberta, my labmates gave high-fives so hard that my arm ached at night. High fives were for celebration and greeting and were occasionally a supreme act of athleticism as the slap of the palms was combined with a run, jump and a 360 degree turn.

One of my labmates here had a great result while I was gone and when I held my hand up for a celebratory high five...

I was shafted.

Utterly.

Normally, I would feel hurt, but the shafter was the kind of person who would never be rude intentionally. So I just went on with my work. Later he came to me and shyly said "I hope you weren't offended, but there is a rule for religious Jews that we cannot touch a woman that is not our wife." I replied that I was in no way offended. (In fact, I was a little pleased that one of my labmates realized I was female under the very stylish lab coat and glasses.)

Five minutes later, after thinking about how often I give high fives, hugs and even handshakes to members of the opposite sex, I had to ask him for a clarification. Can he hug his mom? Apparently, moms are the exception. Sisters are officially OK too but still a bit taboo.

He asked me if my religion had such rules and I initially answered no. But now I realize that is not exactly true. All sexual harassment issues aside, we do have cultural taboos about how we touch the opposite sex. Many Canadian men are the kings of the weak two pat hug. And taboo and religion are almost one in the same, aren't they?

Air Raid Sirens

The air raid sirens went off this morning.

Today is the day Israelis remember the Holocaust. So instead of being scary, the two minutes of sirens were just sad and eerie.

Our hostess for the Seder supper told me that her mother in law, was raised in the city Warsaw and was a real city girl. In what probably was the 20s, she met a very dashing young man who was moving to Israel soon as he had purchased a house there. They fell in love, got married and got on a train all within the space of a few weeks. She had been imagining a life similar to to the one in Warsaw but when she arrived in Israel in her fur coat and heels, she discovered that her new husband had purchased not a house in one of the cities, but a farm house, complete with farm. Later in life, when they had retired and moved off the farm, she and always said she would die five years ahead of her time. She claimed that everyday on the farm she would wake up and pray "Please God, I will give you five years of my life if you would just take away the cows!" We all laughed and laughed at the story.

But then our hostess shrugged and said something that stuck with me.

"Well, even though she hated the cows, look what would have happened if she had stayed in Warsaw."

So many people died that the decedents of survivors are left to tell the quirky stories of why their families remain.

My Map Stinks

Every newbie to every city has a perpetual look of intense concentration on their face. They are either a) trying to visually memorize everything so they don’t get lost b) trying to figure out where they are c) trying to figure out where to go d) the look is not from confusion, but from indigestion problems resultant from changing diet.

Lucky me, I have not had a problem with d) but have frequently had the look of a, b and c. And I discovered this morning that it is not all my fault. My map sucks.

I bought a map from Chapters before I left. All of the street names are in English (which is fine ‘cause all of the street signs are in Hebrew and English), but the map is only of the very centre of the city. It is missing lots of important stuff, which has been confusing enough, but I have been learning to deal. But this morning, as I was making my way to Captain Kirk’s, I noticed an even bigger problem with my map (and the source of my geographic confusion about the university): IT IS MISSING A FOUR LANE HIGHWAY that runs past the campus. Now, I can forgive the odd typo. But a giant highway? I have attached a pic (courtesy of wikipedia) to emphasize the absurdity.

You may be wondering why the maple shekel has not been posting her own photos. Well, because as some of my stuff was in transit across Canada, some reprobate halfwit pilfered in one of my packages. The handy little cable from camera to computer is now gone along with my computer satchel, USB camera, life jacket, frying pan, and three copies of my transcript. It is all just annoying. When I buy a new cable/card reader there will be more photos, I promise. In the mean time, if you see someone wearing a yellow life jacket, video chatting with a T-fal frying pan, hit them over the head with the frying pan.

Oh and two posts in one day? This one is for you Mel.

Heck, I can do this!

Today, I was very productive. I got up, had a shower, ate breaky and headed for the lab. When my boss told me that his students work Friday mornings, what he really meant was that he wished his students worked Friday mornings. The place was dead. So I went to the mall.
This may seem like a minor achievement, but finding the right bus and making it there with no hassle or mistakes with no help was a big deal for me. I managed to buy a cell phone (at the office depot), buy a SIM card (at the Orange cell phone provider) and buy a prepaid card (at a booth). Of course, this was complicated because I wanted the cheapest possible deal. Frugalness is part of my genome. Plus, really, what do I need a contract and a big plan for? Who am I going to call?

I also found these awesome stickers for my keyboard which have the Hebrew letters on them. I have spent the afternoon working on memorizing my numbers.
One, Two, Three
E-had, Shnime, Shlo-sha
אהד שנימ שלושה
Handy trick, eh? Although, I haven’t yet figured out where the comma goes when I change to the Hebrew keyboard. Baby steps. Baby steps.

My favorite number is five, ha-mi-sha. The “ha” is super throaty and it is really fun to say. Ha-mi-sha may be second only to shi-sha, six. Can’t you just see six old Arab men sitting around with those big colorful pipes smoking shi-sha?

Today, I also managed to avoid being scammed by a cabbie. My butt, his meter was broken. 40 shekles to Rehavia from the mall? You must be kidding! You think I am a sucker 'cause I am German? (They all think I am German for some reason. I thought the freckles were more telling.) I got back out of the cab and got in another, who’s driver asked me why I switched. When I said “lo mon-eh” (no meter), Mohammed, my new driver, drove up and gave the guy a piece of his mind. It turns out it is illegal for taxi drivers to not use their meters and the ones who play by the book apparently really hate the ones who don’t. There was a lot of honking and yelling in a mixture of Hebrew and Arabic involved.
Just so you know, it turns out it was just over 30 shekles to Rehavia.

It is dusk on Friday night, so Shabbat has started. The boss has just called to invite me to dinner and tomorrow I am going to a labmate’s house for lunch. Besides getting to know people, I am looking forward to eating something besides the lonely stale pita and hummus I have in my hotel room fridge.

Shabbat Shalom!

Good Lord, what have I done?

My second night in Jerusalem was not a good one. I got into a big stew about “I don’t belong here”, “What the hell am I doing here”, “I am too old for this”, “I can’t do this”…etc. I stewed so much that I couldn’t sleep, gave myself a wicked headache and a tummy ache to boot. My imagination ran wildly through the dark hours in my hostel bed. In the morning, it was all I could do to force down a bowl of fruit cocktail without throwing up. I took another body and jaw clenching nap and then later in the morning my heart gained some courage and told my aching tummy to get a grip. I decided the word for the day was “plucky” and I got off my butt and wandered the streets of the old city. I figured I have to take ownership of the place and get out there and explore. Make it my city. After three hours of wandering, sight seeing, and gaining some much needed confidence, I felt much better.

The hero of this day was my hostel rommie Maxie (short for Maxiemiliane) from Germany. She too is studying at Hebrew U (a different campus though) and arrived three days before me and is in much the same boat. I think she figured out what was going on and did her best to be sympathetic and encourage me in her own way. She brought me pistachios. You can always win my loyalty with food.