The Dude Abides in J-town

If you haven't seen the movie "The Big Lebwoski" this will post will mean absolutely no sense. Just move on to the next one.

We see these symbols in car windows every once in a while. The Chicken was convinced they meant:

"This car doesn't roll on shabbos."



Someone a while ago told us the symbol was for disabled people. Hunh. Really? Disabled 10-pin bowling must be really big here.

Guest Post: James versus The Volcano

Uh, well, I'm doing fine but James sounds like he is going to bust a blood vessel. Here is what he has to say:

The volcano. Eyjafjallajokull. Whatever its name is. I hate it. I hate it so freaking much. I have turned into a volcano of hate toward everything to do with the volcano to an extent which surprises myself.

Let me tell you how I got to this point.

Over the past few months, Janet and I have been making plans. Ambitious plans. Plans for a big family visit. How big? We made plans to transport 8 family members, from 3 different cities, all to Jerusalem, and all on the same day within 2 hours of one another. We also made a whole bunch of other plans for the two weeks they would be here. Like, for example, booking an apartment for everyone to stay in. And a trip to the Dead Sea. And a trip down to Eilat (found cheap hotels too - not easy) followed by 2 days in Jordan visiting Petra and riding camels in the Jordanian desert near Wadi rum. But wait. There is more. We rented vehicles. I called around for a 9 seater van (with car seat- I had to make sure of that) and a second car so that we wouldn't get all smushed. Janet found a stroller for Vivian. We even hunted down our old Ulpan classmate Taufiq to see if he could be our tour guide in Jerusalem for a few days. And we mailed shekels to everyone several months in advance so that when the Big Day arrived, everyone could take the sherut from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem and pay in Israeli currency.

All was set for the big day, which was to be this Wednesday: 2 days from now.

But we failed, dear reader. We failed to plan that a BIG FRICKING VOLCANO would suddenly erupt, and leave Western Europe ensnared in a huge cloud of volcanic ash, effectively shutting down air traffic and delaying/canceling/inconveniencing the flights of hundreds of thousands of individuals around the globe.

Clearly, Wednesday is not going to happen the way we planned. What is going to happen? I am not sure.

One thing I am sure of is that I dislike this volcano very much. I got so upset on Saturday night that in a flurry of activity, I started an "I HATE THE ICELANDIC VOLCANO" Facebook group and sent messages to all my friends to join it. In this whirlwind of activity I am ashamed to say that I even joined Twitter. Never in a million years did I ever imagine I would join Twitter. But there I was, on Saturday night, twittering to the world. One of my first tweets was " I VOTE WE NUKE THE VOLCANO".

I have calmed down considerably since then. But I am still immensely frustrated. My mom is stuck in England, Janet is stuck in Munich, and we have all these busted plans for a trip we were so looking forward to and we aren't sure how to proceed. It's heartbreaking. We aren't sure what the prognosis is or when/if our family will get to visit us after all. It's still a work in progress. Let's keep our fingers crossed that the jetstream starts dispersing the ash.

Of course, if a well-placed nuclear warhead right down Eyjafjallajokull's pie-hole was sufficient to do the job, I'd still be all for it.

Good Friday in the Old City

Katrine and I went to the mid-day procession on the Via Delorosa for Good Friday. And we got a front row seat to all sorts of craziness.

We hung out, squished against the display of an Arab clothing shop somewhere near station number four. For over 35 minutes, thousands of people filed past us. We saw crucifixes ranging in size from twelve feet of metal and carried by several monks to hundreds of little wooden ones each clutched in the hands of believers. Some were silent, some were praying, some were singing, some were crying, some were smiling, some were talking on their cell phones.

And yep, there was even the guy doin' the Mel Gibson, with the crown of thorns covered in blood, towing a big honkin' wooden cross. We are still debating whether the blood was fake or not. In his wake was a big loud speaker with a woman plaintively crying "Help him! Help Jesus!"

The crowd was very pushy as they passed us. I got felt up by so many nuns it isn't even funny.

Despite being in the Holy city on one of the the holiest days of the year, Katrine and I didn't feel holy, we just felt squished.

Abu Gosh

On Saturday we headed to Abu Gosh, a little town only 15 km or so from the city. We went with Max and Noa whom we know though our Ulpan classes. It seemed like the whole country was out having a picnic in the near by national forest reserve since the day was sunny and warm. Furthermore all the spring flowers are out making the hills look idylic with wee yellow dasies, red poppy-like flowers and purple flowers that I have only seen before in florists. We went for a small hike to work up an appetite for Abu Gosh's other main attraction: Hummus.

Abu Gosh totes itself as the Hummus capital of Israel. We had lunch at a restaurant that is supposed to be number one and should not be confused with the hummus restaurant next door with the same name and claiming that they instead are number one.
Out in the street, men are directing you to their restaurant in a rushed hurried way. "Come come, my friend! Best Hummus in Israel! Sit here. This table for you! "
When they aren't hassling passers by, they are hassling each other: taunting, making faces and even calling each other liars. I hear a rumour that this hummus rivalry has gotten serious in the past. One of the hummus places burnt down mysteriously not that long ago. I let the taunting wash over me in a wave of little understood Arabic and Hebrew and enjoyed our table piled with plates of three types of hummus, pita, salads, pickles, eggplant, french fries, stuffed grape leaves and stuffed peppers.

People come from all over to eat the Hummus of Abu Gosh, especially on a sunny Shabbat. The place was so packed that even at the odd hour of 3:30 pm, if you weren't chewing you got kicked out to make room for the next party. I think the picture sums up the whole scene nicely. People mulling outside waiting for a table. Man on left trying to entice people to HIS restaurant. Two restaurants next door to each other both claiming to be number 1. The only thing missing from the pic is the ten year old waiting tables like the was born with a plate of fresh pitas in his hand.

I ate so much that all I could do when I got home was curl up in a little ball and sleep. I didn't get hungry again until this morning.

Mazel tov to Michal and Itai!

The chicken and I got gussied up for another wedding last night. Michal and Itai are now a happily married couple and now that the hooplah of the chuppa is past, they are eagerly awaiting the beginning of their honeymoon to Japan. Michal excitedly told me me she is "going to be so fat!" from eating sushi the whole trip.

They had a Yemenite Rabbi with a great tall bowler hat do the chuppa. I was excited because I understood a bunch of the words this time, but suddenly I didn't understand anything. I was getting pretty disheartened about my Hebrew skills when Ophir whispered that it was a Yemenite prayer and he didn't understand any of it either.

In Hebrew, to live like two doves is to live closely and happily in marital bliss for ever and ever, Amen. In the James and Janet version, we live like two chickens in a coop, but that is besides the point. The Rabbi opened the chuppa by telling a story of a young couple who returned home from their wedding to find two doves sitting on their kitchen table. They went to the Rabbi and said "Rabbi, we came home from the chuppa and found tow doves on our kitchen table. What does this mean?" The Rabbi though for a long time, looked a the bride and groom solemnly and replied, "I think it means you left you kitchen window open."

The venue was surrounded by orange and grapefruit trees. I was so excited to pick my own orange off the tree. James pointed out the irony of stealing fruit in Israel. "Forbidden fruit" he tisked. Of course, Benny and Cesar, with whom we were sharing a ride, are sometimes boys in men's bodies- especially after a few whiskeys- felt that my one stolen orange was not enough. And so we now have a whole bowl of forbidden fruit in our kitchen and I believe there are still more rolling around Ophir's trunk.

Sweater Sweater

Just when I think that I might be starting to understand this place it sends me a curve ball.

Waiting for me in my mail box tonight was a letter, with my name on it in Hebrew. Above my name there were a couple of odd words that seemed out of place on an envelope.

I ripped open the letter to find confirmation of a health insurance policy- just like the ones we received a couple of months ago when I renewed our policies. That's strange, I thought. And then I looked more closely at the name on the health insurance policy:

Needless to say, Sweater Sweater is going to be calling the Harel Insurance Company come Sunday.

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.

Scooter Spectacular

Further proof that no day in Jerusalem is "normal". The other morning, James and I did our usual hike through the Valley of the Cross, and up the hill to the museum on the way to work. We popped out of the valley and into the park an this is what greeted us. In the trees, hundreds of scooters and the odd motorcycle collecting like fruit flies on a banana peel.

I am sure there was a reason, but this is Jerusalem, so I have no idea what the story was.

I can tell you this: there was not a Harley in sight. J-towner's are big on their rice rockets and their completely sooped up scooters.

Update on last night

Sounds like a few of you would like an update.

The dispatcher spoke pretty good english and the two cops showed up about ten minutes later. I had to point out to them which house it was and then promptly went back inside my apartment. The police training/credentials here are said to be not nearly as rigorous as they are in North America, but they were still intimidating probably because the girl had a very large assault rifle strapped around her shoulder.

By this time the waste-of-skin had taken a break from beating his wife, and things had quieted down. The police went in and came out about 10 minutes later. Sadly, without the low life pond scum in tow. The police probably have their hands tied like they do in Canada; they can't press charges unless she does. What I am hoping is that the call the Israeli version of Social Services about the kids and get this family some help.

I had to call a friend last night to get the number for the police so he was curious about what happened this morning. So the story got leaked a bit and those who found out about the misadventure were horrified.

The prison guard with the blind eye

This evening, I watched a documentary about the 1971 Stanford Experiment where average college students were put in the roles of prisoners and guards in a fake jail in the basement of the psychology building. In very short order power was abused and human nature showed its darker side. One “guard” in particular became abusive in the extreme with what can only be described as creative sadism.

Even more disturbing was that the “good” guards, the ones uncomfortable with their peer’s behavior, did nothing. The avoided being around when the abuse was happening and turned a blind eye.

Heros were hard to find in the story. Perhaps only one: the lead psychologist's girlfriend who convinced him that the experiment needed to stop after only six days rather than the planned fourteen. People were suffering and it was within the experimenter’s control to make it stop. Even the experimenter had been caught up with his role as “prison supervisor.”

After this, James and I had a long discussion about the nature of evil, taking responsibility for one's actions and how we cope with bad things that we have done ourselves. Decades later, the worst of the guards in the Stanford Experiment can laugh about his atrocious behaviour, and finds ways to justify it despite knowing that his actions were amoral.

Little did we know that our discussion would be put to an actual test in under an hour. As we were laying down to bed the screaming started. First the man and the woman and then the children too. There were yells of fear, cries of anguish and frustration, and screams of physical pain.

Running though my head is the question: What is going on over there is not okay, but what might happen if he find out it was us who called the police? We live in a neighbourhood where almost all of the residents are rich and influential and clearly this particular resident is violent. I will admit, I am a little scared.

But I am no hero. This is the humiliating part to admit: this is not the first time I have heard the screaming. I just had hoped that it would go away and that I could bury my head in the sand pretending there was no tragedy going on so nearby. I can make all sorts of justifications for my behaviour, but that solves nothing and does nothing.

I decided to not be the guard with the blind eye anymore and picked up the phone. We called the police.

Tel Aviv

Since the big smoke is only a 45 minute bus ride away, James and I decided to do a day trip to Tel Aviv on Friday.

We had hoped to get party decorations for Canada Day from the consulate, but that just was a hot and frustrating misadventure. I won't go into details because the rest of the day sounds worked out well.

We gave up on decorations and went to Ben Gurion's house, the first Prime Minister. Dude, did that guy have HAIR. The tufts off the side of his head made him look like he had great white horns. Complete with a slightly paunchy Napoeonic stature, I am trying to remember what cartoon character Gurion reminds me of. He offered the presidency to Einstein when he was in the PM's office, and had Einstein accepted, they would have been The Hair Pair.

We ventured into the market area, which was about half cheap clothes and beach stuff and half fruits, veggies and meat. It was more touristy than the big market in Jerusalem, but touristy in that it is geared to Israeli tourists and beach goers. If I hadn't have been so hot, I might have made a better effort to get a new bathing suit for 7$ out of this big bin surrounded by elbow-armed, bargoon hunting women. Since it was Friday, there was also a big street craft sale on. We walked the several block length and admired all of the posh stuff that is pretty to look at and nice to have, but clutters shelves and eats into the weekend warrior budget.

After J-town, Tel Aviv seemed positively Dyonisian. The hot and humid weather matches the culture: dancing glittered swan street performer ("Not a closet in the world big enough for that guy," exclaimed James), bikini tops, shameless amounts of leg and- gasp!- pork at some of the restaurants. We passed this one restaurant and peeked over the hedges where we saw two women on pedestals in angel costumes swaying and playing fake white violins to strange electronica as middle aged people in polyester lined up for a buffet. I really didn't know what to make of that, but it all seemed very Greek and excessive to me compared to the more religious and restrained Israel I am used to.

Since Shabbat was well on its way, there wasn't much do do in the afternoon but do what most of the locals do on a hot weekend. Go to the beach! I got to go for my first swim in the Mediterranean along with what seemed like half the city. I always forget two things about the sea: to remember to swim with my mouth shut, and how easy and pleasant it is to just float. The beach was super crowded with bathing suit clad folks with perfect tans.
We stood out for our extreme pastiness, but this other dude stood out for his extreme creepiness. Notice in the pic of James here, looking studly. Now look to the right. See the dude to the fully clothed and on his laptop? I caught him aiming his web-cam at passing melons. Ick.

As I was taking my swim, the dude in the life guard hut started yelling stuff out over the PA system and people frantically started running out of the water and flocking to one part of the beach. I had to ask another swimmer for a translation. It wasn't a rip tide or a shark, or even an angry eel. Turns out, two guys started fighting on the beach and the lifeguard was running commentary through the PA system to the great amusement of the crowd. Having seen that wonderful display of professionalism, I don't really trust the lifeguards to save me now.

Two mild sun burns, two ice creams and a bus ride later, James and walked home from the Jerusalem bus station in the setting sun, tired and happy.

A New Varriation on Cats Hiding Between the Straw Bales

Last night we went grocery shopping at our favorite discount supermarket and to celebrate my success in the lab, decided to splurge on a cab and a ten dollar bottle of red plonk for tonight's shabbas dinner.

While in the toilet paper section in the back corner of the store, contemplating cost versus chafing, I heard an odd noise for sanitary paper.

Meow.

Hunh? I thought I must be going crazy.

Meow.

Nope it really was there. Deep within Mount T.P. was a cat crying for release from its two-ply prison.

Much to James' embarrassment and amusement, I decided to dig the cat to freedom. Out from between the packages scampered a black kitten, which promptly skidded around the corner and was last seen headed for the canned goods section.

Here is a pic of me rebuilding Mount TP with tears of laughter rolling down my face.

How not to pick up married women

On Thursday night I walked home from the grocery store, laden down with a full back pack and three grocery bags. I was hiking it up the hill to our building when I was stopped by a stranger whom I thought was going to ask me for directions- which is common enough; this is Jerusalem, whose civil engineers don’t own a compass. Alas no, he was stopping me on my sherpa-style summit to mac on me.

First he asked me if I spoke English and if I lived nearby. OK- so far so good, sounds like a directions question coming up. But then he straightened his jacket, puffed up his shoulders and suggested that maybe I would like to “show him around town.” The line was so lame I was tempted to ask, “has that ever worked for you?” This one was almost as good as the time I got told I “looked spiritual” by some dude by the newspaper shop in Rehavia.

What the heck? I NEVER get hit on and yet here it seems like a common occurrence. Did that overnight flight do wonders for my complexion and turn me into a raving beauty? Perhaps the sheen of sweat on my forehead and the three hundred pounds of groceries screamed out “I am looking for a good time” like a tube-top and a miniskirt. Do you think I am easy because I am not Jewish? Because that is ridiculously offensive. (And this time, this dude gets no breaks for being from another culture; his perfect English accent was either Montreal or New Jersey.) And this guy was a full-on kippah wearer. As a Christian, I am not the kind of girl these guys dream about taking home to their mothers. I don’t get it.

The nice thing is, when I have been hit on, there have been no catcalls or anything truly rude said. And at least they are not persistent. Perhaps they do know that their weak pick up lines are completely lame. They do know how to take no for an answer. But really. Who falls for this crap?

I saw Jesus yesterday

I saw Jesus yesterday in the old city. He was drinking an energy drink, because the Messiah needs a bit of a pick me up after returning to save mankind. Seeing as I had accidentally picked up someone else’s grocery bag on Friday and had been enjoying ill-gotten pastries, I really didn’t want to talk to Jesus. So I shot this pic from the hip.

Jerusalem syndrome is the real deal, and if the Israelis catch you strutting around proclaiming to be King David or the Second Coming, you end up in the nut house on a good dose of antipsychotics and get a free a plane ticket home. Apparently most of the people who get this are protestant Christians and have come from very conservative, literal-interpretation-of-the-bible upbringings. I will admit that my upbringing was a little more apple pie than most, but thank goodness my parents are evolutionists.

What I want to know is, who sold that guy his outfit? REALLY? Come on!

On another note, Thursday was Einat’s going away party. She has finished her masters and is going to Cambridge for a PhD. We were discussing the posh English accent she is going to get to supplement her Hebrew one. James suggested to the group that talking with an English accent requires not moving your upper lip, i.e., having a stiff upper lip, and proceeded to demonstrate. Amit, in a vain attempt to gain a posh British accent, was holding down his upper lip with his finger and asking everyone “Do I sound Eengleesh?” in his thick Hebrew accent. Assi, our local cynic, replied acerbically “You sound like a sixty year-old woman.” I got a horrible fit of the giggles. Despite the tears of laughter rolling down my face, I couldn’t help but watch Amit’s attempts at a stiff upper lip. It was like watching a train wreck. I have been giggling about this all weekend.