And I thought we had legal loopholes...

Given that my best friend lives in Norway, I have, over the years, developed something of an affinity for various aspects of life in this bastion of blondness (labor unions that boycott Israel and Jostein Gaarder not withstanding, of course). I am rather fond of Norwegian brown cheese, otherwise known as Gjetost (which I can indeed pronounce, thank you very much), Norwegian salmon makes my mouth water, I enjoy lefse, and would love to try lutefisk, if for no other reason than to be able to tell people that I've eaten fish that's been treated with lye. The Husband and I both have beautiful Norwegian sweaters that keep us toasty warm in winter, and the coffee mug I keep at work has pictures of the Norwegian flag on it.

I've been to visit twice, and can even still remember a few words in Norwegian, which is nothing short of a miracle given that it is one of the more difficult languages that I've come across, sounding at times like a cross between words that almost sound like they're in English, and words that sound like the speaker is making them up. Three of the bloggers on my blogroll are Norwegian (blogging in English, obviously), and I had the pleasure of meeting one of them when he came to Israel during the summer.

And of course, because I am a news junkie, I also keep up with the goings on in Norway by periodically reading the English online version of the Norwegian newspaper Aftenposten. Though many of the headlines do not catch my fancy (quite a few of the stories seem somewhat mundane and – for me at least – irrelevant when compared to current events in Israel), I occasionally come across stories that scream for attention, stories that make one realize what passes for headline news in "normal" countries. Like the story I came across today, for example. While skimming the headlines, I was immediately drawn to one in particular...

"Bestiality ban proposed

Minister of Agriculture and Food Terje Riis-Johansen wants Norway's Animal Protection Act updated to expressly forbid sex with animals.

The existing act only specifies the kicking and beating of animals as abuse, and the agriculture minister now wants to close loopholes.

"This is a punishable offense that shall not occur," Riis-Johansen told NRK (Norwegian Broadcasting).

The ban will come into effect with the new Animal Protection Act, which will also prevent violence against animals and the use of live animals as feed or bait.

"It will still be legal to use a riding crop on a horse that must be trained. But beating a dog will be illegal," the minister said.

According to a 2006 survey of 650 veterinarians last year, bestiality - sex with animals - occurs far more often than people think.

"Every fifth veterinarian has either established or strongly suspected the sexual abuse of one of its animal patients. The extent of sexual abuse of animals is far greater than we had reason to believe at the beginning," said Live Kleveland of the Norwegian Animal Welfare Alliance.

She said that bestiality was first and foremost a problem with farming animals like cows, pigs, and sheep but also extended to domestic pets like cats and dogs, as well as sporting animals like horses."

Kind of makes you think, doesn't it? And I thought we had legal loopholes...

80s Music Video Sunday #42

While in Israel during the winter of 1991, two friends and I decided to go to Cairo. Once we'd gotten all of the required bureaucracy out of the way, the trip involved a very long, tedious bus ride from Tel Aviv, through the Rafah crossing (more about that later, but keep in mind that the crossing was administered at the time by Israel and Egypt, prior to the establishment of the Palestinian National Authority...), across the Suez Canal, past the charming seaside town of El Arish, and endless hours across the stark, barren desert.

Cairo was fascinating, and I wouldn't be exaggerating if I added that it was a serious assault to all of my senses. The sites, the sounds, the smells... The city is crowded and lively, and the people we encountered were friendly. The Egyptians who thought that I was Israeli (on account of my winter jacket at the time being like the ones worn in the Israeli military) often greeted me in broken Hebrew with a smile. The pyramids were stunning, and the Egyptian Museum and the Museum of Islamic Art were exceptional. I even managed to teach myself how to read and write Arabic numerals while at the Egyptian Museum, and if hard-pressed, I might even remember a few of them...

As I recall, Egyptian drivers were worse than Israeli drivers, and for those of you who have encountered Israeli drivers, you can imagine what the streets of Cairo must be like for drivers and pedestrians alike – especially pedestrians like me, who tend to act like a deer caught in the headlights while crossing the road as cars bear down on them, whizzing past and making one feel as though they were trapped in a real-life version of the game Frogger. Buses barely stopped at the designated stations, slowing down just enough for more people to jump on, often hanging out of doors and windows, crammed in like sardines and hanging on for dear life as the driver made his way through the streets, clearly imagining that he was traveling along the German Autobahn instead of the traffic-infested roads of Cairo.

Driving across the Egyptian desert after dark was often nerve-wracking, as it seemed to me that vehicles would drive using either high beams or no lights at all. At one point, you feel like your bus (or car) was the only one on the road, an illusion that was frequently shattered in an instant when you were suddenly blinded by the high beams of an oncoming vehicle whose driver had clearly opted to use only the slivers of moonlight to find his way.

And then there was the border crossing. I had difficulties in both directions, and my passport was always the last one from our bus to come out (once, the person responsible for our group even had to go into the offices to retrieve it). This was prior to obtaining Israeli citizenship or being in possession of an Israeli passport, and while traveling on my American passport (the only passport I had at the time) the folks at passport control were convinced that I was trying to hide the fact that I was Israeli, despite my protestations that I was American. For some reason, they had gotten it into the heads that I must be Israeli, because my last name is "Rosenberg", which was, according to them, a very Israeli name. I did my best to convince them that it was also a very Jewish name, and in the end, I prevailed, but it was frustrating nonetheless, as I could see that they weren't terribly keen on the idea of believing me.

While I enjoyed my trip to Cairo, to be honest, I'm not sure that I'd want to go back. It was a huge, crowded, congested, dirty city, and frankly, one that I am too timid to take on. I have a feeling that as far as Arab capital cities go, Amman or Beirut would be much more to my tastes. Of course, missing my trip to Cairo would have meant that I'd never have discovered that, when it comes down to it, the Cairenes perambulate just like everybody else. In other words, I didn't come away from my visit knowing how to walk like an Egyptian...



Walk Like an Egyptian
The Bangles

All the old paintings on the tomb
They do the sand dance, don'cha know?
If they move too quick (Oh-Way-Oh)
They're falling down like a domino

And the bazaar man by the Nile
He got the money on a bet
For the crocodiles (Oh-Way-Oh)
They snap their teeth on a cigarette

Foreign types with their hookah pipes sing:
Way-oh-way-oh-way-ooo-aaa-ooo...
Walk like an Egyptian.

The blonde waitresses take their trays
Spin around and they cross the floor
They've got the moves (Oh-Way-Oh)
You drop your drink then they bring you more

All the school kids so sick of books
They like the punk and the metal band
When the buzzer rings (Oh-Way-Oh)
They're walking like an Egyptian

All the kids in the marketplace say:
Way-oh-way-oh-way-ooo-aaa-ooo...
Walk like an Egyptian.

Line your feet astreet, bend your back,
Shift your arm, then you pull a clock
Like Sergeant O (Oh-Way-Oh)
So strike a pose on a Cadillac

If you want to find all the cops,
They're hanging out in the donut shop.
They sing and dance (Oh-Way-Oh)
They spin their clock and cruise on down the block

All the Japanese with their Yen
The party boys call the Kremlin
The Chinese know (Oh-Way-Oh)
They walk along like Egyptians

All the cops in the donut shops say:
Way-oh-way-oh-way-ooo-aaa-ooo...
Walk like an Egyptian
Walk like an Egyptian

80s Music Video Sunday #38

We took a lot of family vacations while my brother and I were growing up. Sometimes, these getaways were relatively close to home (such as the one at Golden Acres Farm and Ranch, where my parents received special permission for me to join the hotel day camp's boys group instead of the girls group because the boys did fun stuff like dodge ball while the girls group took nature walks to pick flowers, and I was too much of a tomboy to do girly stuff), but other trips took us to far-flung Caribbean islands like Curacao and Saint Martin. The best vacations of all though, were the Caribbean cruises we took as teenagers.

Cruises are the perfect family vacation, as you don't actually have to spend all your time with your family. My parents would wake us up as they were leaving for breakfast, and then we might spot them around the ship during the course of the day. The only meal we shared as a family was dinner, prior to which, we would all squeeze around each other in our miniscule cabin, lining up to use the tiny bathroom and fight over mirror space in order to get ready. After dinner, my brother and I would once again take leave of our parents and run off to find the friends we'd made, usually heading off to the ship's disco for the rest of the evening, and eventually wandering over to the midnight buffet.

While I certainly enjoyed the various ports of call we visited along the way, the best times were to be had on-board. While memories of the first cruise we took are sketchy, I still have fond memories of the second cruise – taken when I was 17. Our group of new friends included Mexicans, Canadians and Brits, as well as an assortment of Americans. Days on-board were spent together, as well as our one-day docking on the cruise line's private island. As I mentioned above, evenings were spent in the disco, where I did my best to catch the eye of one of our young British acquaintances. To this day, I still don't know whether or not I succeeded (I was far too innocent and naive, and needless to say, utterly clueless about things like sending signals and making passes), but David and I remained friends, and managed to keep in touch quite regularly for approximately ten years after that vacation took place, meeting up once in NYC and again in London – no small feat given that this was the pre-email era and my snail mailing skills were questionable at best. We kept in touch during my gap year in Israel (he had spent a year in Israel as well before we met), throughout my years in Boston and during my initial years back in Israel. We exchanged camp stories while I worked at a Jewish camp in NY and he worked at a Jewish camp in Michigan, and we exchanged Israel stories for the duration of our correspondence. The last time I heard from him (at some point after I got married, as I recall), he was very happily living and working in Sydney, Australia, and had married a woman of Dutch-Lebanese descent. Somewhere, I still have all the old letters he sent (as well as nearly all the letters that anyone has ever sent me, including some real winners from a certain friend who reads and comments on this blog quite regularly), and I can even still remember his parents' address in London (I have a bizarre memory for random tidbits of information and trivia).

For some reason, there's one song that I always associate with those nights in the ship's disco. It was probably played at least once every evening, and whenever I hear it, I'm transported back in time, back to that disco. Who'd have guessed that "Tarzan Boy", by one-hit wonder Baltimora would be the song to evoke these memories of good times with "vacation" friends? Certainly not me, but given that it was the 80s, I suppose anything is possible...



Tarzan Boy
Baltimora

Jungle life
I'm far away from nowhere
On my own like Tarzan Boy
Hide and seek
I play along while rushing cross the forest
Monkey business on a sunny afternoon
Jungle life
I'm living in the open
Native beat that carries on
Burning bright
A fire the blows the signal to the sky
I sit and wonder does the message get to you

Night to night
Gimme the other, gimme the other
chance tonight
Gimme the other, gimme the other
Night to night
Gimme the other, gimme the other world

Jungle life
You're far away from nothing
It's all right
You won't miss home
Take a chance
Leave everything behind you
Come and join me
Won't be sorry
It's easy to survive

Jungle life
We're living in the open
All alone like Tarzan Boy
Hide and seek
We play along while rushing cross the forest
Monkey business on a sunny afternoon

Night to night
Gimme the other, gimme the other
Chance tonight
Oh Yeah
Night to night
Gimme the other, gimme the other
Night to night
You won't play
Night to night
Gimme the other, gimme the other
Chance tonight
Oh Yeah
Night to night
Night to night
Gimme the other, gimme the other

Documents, rashes and one Norwegian blogger

Life has been rather hectic in something something world, lately, hence the lack of blog entries. The Little One has been sick on and off for the past week, beginning with a throat infection last week and ending in a rash and swelling that was serious enough to warrant a trip to the hospital yesterday evening, at his doctor's suggestion. According to the Husband, he's already looking better this morning, and with any luck, they should be on their way home soon. One humorous moment passed last night during a visit to the eye doctor, who asked us if the Little One has any allergies. Husband and I looked at each other, and then looked at our son, whose face, hands and feet were severely swollen, and whose body was covered from head to toe with a rash. I turned back to the doctor, answered, "apparently", and the Husband and I laughed.

And of course, while this whole situation was unfolding, my old friend Murphy came to pay me a visit. For the past few weeks, I've been totally swamped at work, drowning in over two hundred pages of last-minute documents and tight deadlines. The individual managing the project believed that it wouldn't take too long, given that the documents only required formatting, and that checking the English wouldn't be necessary. Ummmm… Yeah… Sure… They believed that checking the English was "extra", especially since the target audience isn't made up of native speakers either (and are living in a third country, not known for excellence in its mastery of the English language). Knowing that I was essentially shooting myself in the foot, I begged to differ, and won approval from my boss to, ahem, "do my job". Suddenly, I was drowning in a torrential sea of badly written documents, I had other work-style projects on the burner as well, and at home, we were in crisis mode. Hopefully, now that the Little One is returning to his usual dimensions and he's no longer the color of a strawberry, life will revert back to its normal hectic state.

There has been one very bright spot during this period. Last Thursday evening, I had the opportunity to meet up with a really terrific politics and current events blogger, Jan, from Secular Blasphemy. Jan is a Norwegian blogger whose blog I've been reading for years, and whose writings tend to be very pro-Israel, unlike a great deal of the Norwegian mainstream media. Anyway, while reading Jan's blog just over a week ago, I discovered that he was vacationing in Israel. I quickly sent him and email and left him a comment, asking if he'd like to meet up at some point during his trip. He quickly responded in the affirmative, and on the day he arrived in Tel Aviv we all (all being Jan, his two friends, and me) met for drinks and dinner. It was a fascinating, very enjoyable evening, where we discussed everything from politics to lutefisk, and I was once again amazed by how well Norwegians can hold their beer.

Anyhow, I really must go read Harry Potter do something productive before the family returns…

Wahat al-Salam - Oasis of Peace

Neve Shalom ~ Wahat al-Salam (in English, Oasis of Peace) made headlines last year when former Pink Floyd frontman Roger Waters performed there. This unique cooperative village was founded jointly by Jewish and Arab Israelis in an attempt to show that the two peoples can live side by side peacefully, as well as to conduct educational work for peace, equality and understanding between the two peoples. The community was founded on land that was originally leased from the adjacent Latrun Monastery, mid-way between Jerusalem and Tel Aviv, and there are currently more than 50 families living in Neve Shalom ~ Wahat al-Salam, with an equal number of Arabs and Jews. Many more families from both groups are on the waiting list to join this very special place.

Neve Shalom ~ Wahat al-Salam's school system was the first bilingual, bi-national Jewish-Palestinian educational facility in the country, and the Jewish and Palestinian teachers each speak exclusively in their own languages to all the students, creating an atmosphere that allows the students to explore their own identities as well as gain appreciation for another culture.




As you can see in the above video clip, the people of Neve Shalom ~ Wahat al-Salam – those who live there, those who work and volunteer there, and those who choose to benefit from the wide variety of services and resources provided – are committed to dialog and co-existence.


So, here's your chance to check out a four-time nominee for the Nobel Peace Prize up close and personal. If you're going to be in the area (and it's a beautiful region, so I highly recommend it – don't forget to pick up a few bottles of wine made onsite at the Latrun Monastery), pop in and say "shalom" or "salam" and I'm sure they'll be happy to have you.

80s Music Video Sunday #27

I've decided to do something a little different with this week's 80s Music Video Sunday, which is certainly my prerogative, given that I'm the owner of the joint. I've been tagged by Life Out East (who is now back in the UK) to do a meme about music, and thinking about it, I realized that I could use the meme as a tie-in to 80s Music Video Sunday. As usual, scintillating commentary will be added as I see fit.

5 - You're going on a long journey, what five albums MUST you take with you? Albums that you need to listen to regularly.

Maroon 5's "Songs About Jane". This is one of only two CDs that I've purchased during the past few years. I love their sound, and I love all the songs on the album. I'd love to get my hands on their new album, "It Won't Be Soon Before Long", and I haven't even heard any of the songs yet. That's how much confidence I have in these guys. They're brilliant.

Santana's "Supernatural". I bought this album shortly after it was released, and it's one of the few albums I've ever listened to that actually sent chills up and down my spine. Absolutely amazing.

Vanessa-Mae's "The Violin Player". While not generally passionate about classical music (though it's definitely part of my collection), this album simply blew me away. It inspires me, and I've even discovered that when it's playing in the background, I can actually write faster. What can I say – the woman is incredible.

David Broza's "First Collection". David Broza has long been one of my favorite Israeli performers, singing in Hebrew, Spanish and English. I've attended a number of his concerts, and even had the (mostly) amazing experience of organizing one while attending university. Give the man a guitar and a stool to sit on, and he turns into a god. Back in the day, one of my friends put it best when she said during a performance, "my god! It's like he's making love to the guitar!" This album is a great collection of a lot of his earlier stuff.

"James Taylor Live". I have always loved the music of James Taylor, and especially connected with his references to New England and the Berkshires, an area where I spent a great deal of my childhood. His music just washes over me and relaxes me, no matter what my mood. Definitely one of the most talented singer-songwriters ever.

4 - What four albums/songs do you most associate with a journey or travel experience? You know, the ones you listen to that instantly transport you back to a place and time.

REM's "Green". During my sophomore year in university, I went away to Jamaica with friends for Spring Break. While there, we hooked up with a group of young cadets from West Point, and this was the album that we took to the beach with us every day. There may have been other albums, but this is the only one I can remember. We just kept flipping that cassette over and over, and never seemed to get tired of it.

A-ha's "Hunting High and Low". As I wrote back in this post, I broke my ankle shortly after arriving to spend a year in Israel after graduating from high school. While in the hospital, I listened to this album constantly, in order to block out the hospital sounds. It's probably what saved my sanity during my stay there.

Chava Alberstein. We have one of her collections at home, as the Husband is a big fan, and I got it for him as a birthday gift many years ago. I can't remember the name, but I will forever associate it with a road trip we once took in the US for a few days. We listened to that set over, and over, and over, and over again. To this day, whenever I hear any of the songs from that collection, I'm instantly taken back to that trip.

Depeche Mode's "The Singles 81 > 85". My serious Depeche Mode awakening came about during the aforementioned year in Israel. Their songs were playing in all the clubs, and I had a friend who was particularly keen on their music (to put it mildly). I bought this album (the version with the original cover) in Israel that year, and given how frequently I listened to it, I'm amazed that the cassette still plays. Whenever I hear any of the songs on the album, I'm immediately transported back to that year, to the dance clubs of Jerusalem, many of which, are undoubtedly long gone.

3 - Your three favourite songs of all time?

This one is definitely a tough one. Let's see if I can limit it to three...

"Mr. Jones and Me" by the Counting Crows. I love this song. It was this song that led me to all their other songs, and I could listen to it over and over again. It could definitely be an answer to the next question as well, but I don't want to double up, so I'm only listing it here.

"Unforgettable", the duet version from Nat King Cole and Natalie Cole. After we decided to get married, we were going nuts trying to come up with a song that we could use for the first dance. We didn't have an "our song" as such, and were trying to come up with something that worked. I went to visit a friend in New Orleans for a weekend, and while wandering around a shopping mall in the city, this song came on. I knew immediately that this would be "the song". And the rest, as they say, is history.

Shlomo Artzi's "Melech Haolam" ("King of the World"). It's a beautiful song about a mother and her young son, how she talks to him while she dresses him, telling him that he can be anything he wants to be because for her, he is king of the world.

2 - Two feel good songs, the ones that are guaranteed to lift the blues and put a smile on your face.

"September", by Earth, Wind and Fire.

"Cliffs of Dover", by Eric Johnson. This obscure instrumental is one of those songs that seems like it was created for playing at high volume in the car during the summer with the windows rolled down. Check it out here. One of my apartment-mates was a music student, and she's the one who introduced me to the song.

1 - Absolute, overall, undoubtedly the best album of all time, in your opinion.

The Beatles – 1962-1966 (The Red Album). Need I say more?

Hmmmm. That was definitely harder than I thought it would be, having to narrow down, leave things out, etc. Before moving on to today's featured video (drawn from the lists above), I think I'll tag the following folks: Beth, Raanana Ramblings, Lisa, and Anglosaxy. Oooh! I'll also tag (if one can tag after the fact...) TAFKA PP, as not only has she expressed interest over doing this meme, but we are also supposed to meet for coffee in the near future, and don't want the fact that I didn't tag her initially to cast a pall over the proceedings...

And now, back to our regularly scheduled blog feature...

After much deliberation, I've decided to go with REM's "Stand", taken from the aforementioned album Green. This song takes me straight back to that Spring Break in Jamaica, which was, without a doubt, one of the more interesting social experiences of my life. While I definitely had fun that week, I also realized just how much I wasn't cut out for the whole shallow party scene, something I'd pretty much figured out at that point anyway, but kept trying to deny. I've never been good at shallow small talk, never been a big drinker, and couldn't flirt to save my life. While I absolutely loved Jamaica (we even went there on our honeymoon) and for the most part had fun with the friends with whom I'd traveled, that trip was definitely one of the defining experiences of my youth, in that it helped me to realize who I'm not.



Stand
REM

Stand in the place where you live
Now face North
Think about direction
Wonder why you haven't before
Now stand in the place where you work
Now face West
Think about the place where you live
Wonder why you haven't before

If you are confused check with the sun
Carry a compass to help you along
Your feet are going to be on the ground
Your head is there to move you around

Stand in the place where you live
Now face North
Think about direction
Wonder why you haven't before
Now stand in the place where you work
Now face West
Think about the place where you live
Wonder why you haven't before

Your feet are going to be on the ground
Your head is there to move you around
If wishes were trees the trees would be falling
Listen to reason, season is calling

Stand in the place where you live
Now face North
Think about direction
Wonder why you haven't before
Now stand in the place where you work
Now face West
Think about the place where you live
Wonder why you haven't before

Defining moments in the Diaspora

I have spent a fair amount of time during the last week-and-a-half reflecting on our recent trip, thinking about various moments and highlights, mentally rehashing certain experiences as one often does after returning from vacation. There were two events in particular that stand out, each one positively reinforcing my connection to Israel, yet so different from one another. The first one occurred during our flight from Atlanta to Sarasota. I was beyond exhausted, having not slept much on the flight from Israel, and having successfully navigated US customs and Atlanta's massive airport, not to mention successfully keeping the Little One entertained enough so that he fell asleep in my arms shortly before boarding the plane. The flight was full, and our seatmate waited patiently while I got the Little One settled, carefully propping him against the pile of blankets I'd managed to acquire and stack against the window. He even offered to move to another seat so that we'd have more room, and after I assured him that this would be unnecessary, we fell into the usual airplane banter that is so often marked by the knowledge that, in all likelihood, you will never see the person again, nor will you even go so far as to exchange names. He asked where we were from, which inevitably defined the direction our conversation would take, for our seatmate turned out to be a card-carrying member of the unconditional-love-for- Israel Christian right (and a firefighter to boot, which of course led to the Little One – once he woke up – referring to our seatmate as Sam).

What began as an ordinary, in-flight conversation with a stranger led to a fascinating exchange of ideas and experiences as he shared his convictions and I told him about life in Israel. He's never been here, but desperately wanted to visit, to see his belief system come alive, to see that which he'd only heard about, to commune with history. He told me of his great respect and love for Ariel Sharon and shared his opinions about Israel's current state of affairs vis a vis her neighbors. As a result of his religious beliefs, I actually found him to be more "pro-Israel" than many of the Israelis I know, and certainly more in favor of many of Israel's policies than I am. Despite his unwavering attitude that Israel could seemingly do no wrong, it was more than a little refreshing to meet someone who "got it", someone who didn't force me to defend my country, someone who understood that Israelis are not warmongering aggressors out to take over the region, and that neighboring countries are not simply innocent victims of Israeli aggression, that the situation is far more complex than many would have you believe.

The hour-long flight passed quickly and pleasantly, and while I desperately wanted our long journey to end, I was also a little sorry when this particular segment was over. I had enjoyed the company of our seatmate, who disappeared as we were getting ourselves ready to get off the plane. While we obviously didn't agree on every point (after all, living here on a daily basis, it is becoming increasingly more difficult to love my country unconditionally), and had we discussed other hot topics we might have come to blows, when it came down to it, I liked the guy. It was nice to talk to someone who passionately loved Israel instead of passionately hating it. I suddenly felt that maybe it wasn't so crazy to live here, that there are indeed those who do not believe that we should not exist, or even not have a right to exist. Despite my exhaustion, I was pleased that I had managed to stay awake during the flight and engage an anonymous young firefighter in conversation.

Israel's Memorial Day for Fallen Soldiers and Victims of Terror fell towards the end of our trip. It felt strange knowing that I wouldn't be commemorating it in Israel, as I don't believe I've ever missed it in all of my years living here. For me, the day is special, a day of reflection and remembrance, a day when I feel connected to my fellow citizens as we collectively go through a state of mourning, even though it is one that has, to some extent, been imposed upon us (see Lisa's Memorial Day posts here and here, with the latter including a brief video taken during the siren). I imagine it would have been especially poignant this year, given that it would have been the first Memorial Day following the war last summer, and I wondered how I would commemorate the day while in the Diaspora. I was pleased when I discovered that the local Jewish Federation (in conjunction with another Israel-related group) would be holding a ceremony to commemorate Israel's Memorial Day. It was interesting to observe, as those in attendance were mostly from two distinct groups – elderly American Jews who have retired to Florida, and young Israelis and their families who had left Israel, but had chosen to remain connected. The program was led by the local Israeli emissary, and aside from one bizarre, rather long-winded rant given by one of the elderly American Jews (who I assume plays some prominent role in the local Jewish community), the events were rather well-done, if not a little frustrating for those who couldn't understand the Hebrew captions in the video clips that had been taken straight from Israeli television. We stood in silence, we sang meaningful songs, we watched as pictures of the fallen were projected onto the large screen at the front of the room. We said the mourners' prayer, sang Hatikvah, and then a break was taken in order to get the room ready for the next part of the evening – Israeli folk dancing and food to celebrate Israel's Independence Day, which begins at sundown at the end of Memorial Day.

I'm glad I went, but I felt a bit odd nonetheless. I felt like I didn't belong to either group in attendance, yet at the same time, I felt connected to both. To some I was Israeli, while to others I was American. I inexplicably found myself wanting to somehow let the Israelis know that I was "one of them", but was I really, or would they just have seen me as an American who lives in Israel, despite the fact that I have been here for so long, speak the language fluently, and feel that I have successfully integrated? I suppose this comes down to the very core of the expat experience, and knowing that I will always feel the draw of the other, no matter where I find myself. That night, due to the nature of the event, I imagine that I felt more connected to my Israeli side than to my American side, but given the circumstances at hand, I strangely did not feel completely at home with either. I assume this had something to do with the fact that aside from my parents and my son, I didn't really know anyone there, and no one really knew me. I did, however, run into someone I'd met before.

The last time we visited Florida was two years ago. The day after we arrived, my parents took us a beach known as South Lido Park. While we were unwrapping our sandwiches, two people approached from the parking lot, staking out the tables next to ours. As luck would have it, the people were speaking in Hebrew. Within about twenty minutes, we found ourselves exchanging pleasantries with a group of 15-20 Israelis and their partners/families, all of whom, live in Sarasota. It was a surprisingly enjoyable afternoon (and, incidentally, the only time during our entire stay that I felt comfortable nursing the Little One in public, knowing that those around me wouldn't look at me strangely, or even look at me at all), as we all chatted and laughed, and even drank Turkish coffee, which they had in abundant supply. Apparently, we made quite an impression, as one of the women in attendance (an American married to an Israeli) at the Memorial Day ceremony remembered having met me on the beach, two years ago. So very Israeli.

80s Music Video Sunday #20

After what seemed like an interminable journey, the Little One and I are finally home from our vacation. Our return flight was, ummmm, interesting and fraught with far too much excitement, as our flight from Sarasota to Atlanta was delayed by three hours because apparently, the plane was hit by lightning before coming to Sarasota. Three hours was bad. Very bad. We would never have made our connection, and Sarasota being Sarasota, not only was that the last flight of the day to Atlanta, there were also no other flights to Atlanta on other airlines. There was, however, a flight from Tampa – an hour to the north – that would give us enough time to make our connection. Jumping back into the car, we raced up the highway to Tampa, cursing the lane cutters and the traffic (after all, if it had to happen, why not have it happen at rush hour...), with Dad pulling off some most excellent maneuvering across exit lanes when the Little One just couldn't hold it in any longer. Nor could I, and as we crawled through the traffic, Little One kept saying, "Grampa, you have to stop. Mommy has pee pee." Somehow, I made it to the airport, where we checked in after my mad dash to the loo.

The Little One was restless, and to our dismay, we discovered that the airport play area was gateside. Not wishing to drag out our last moments running around the terminal after a three-year old, we said our goodbyes, jumped on the train to the concourse and went through security, which is when we found out that the play area had been closed, leaving us with 45 minutes to kill. In a big, crowded airport. With a very active small child. I received looks that were a combination of amusement and pity as I chased him around the terminal, trying to get him to the gate when our flight was called, trying to get him to get up from the floor, trying to get him to stop running in circles. I received a look of disgust from our seatmate, as she spotted my son and spilled over into my seat. Fortunately, she was in the wrong seat, and we soon found ourselves sitting next to a funny young grandmother who had had a few drinks in the airport to calm her down and another one on the plane, and who made the trip that much easier to bear as she helped me to entertain my son (with much assistance from the in-flight satellite TV).

The scenes from Tampa were replayed in the airport in Atlanta as we got close to the gate, with me chasing, and the Little One alternately laughing and throwing tantrums, and almost escaping mid-wardrobe change. Finally making it onto the plane, and he fell asleep shortly after takeoff, but not before getting magic marker on me and on himself. My original plan had been to get him off to sleep and then catch up with the fabulous entertainment system, but it didn't pan out, as the system had malfunctioned for half the passengers and the entire system had to be reset, a process which took several precious "me" hours. The Little One slept for about eight hours, partially on me and partially on the sweet Russian grandmother who sat beside us, allowing him to kick her and rest his feet on her all night long. More hijinks ensued once my devil child precious son woke up, and no one was happier than I when we finally made it off the plane.

Passport control was a breeze. Grabbing the suitcases was a bit trickier, as the carts were not made with children in mind, but fortunately we were assisted by those around us, and three of our suitcases came out rather quickly. It's possible the fourth one did as well, but I was so out of it at this point, that I'd forgotten what the fourth suitcase looked like, and once the area was clear and I didn't recognize any of the few lone suitcases, we made our way to the lost luggage counter, where a young woman led us back to the carousel and I felt terribly foolish for not having remembered which suitcase I had. Somehow, we made it to the arrivals hall without being stopped by Customs officials (I'm guessing the pity came into play again), and a joyful reunion with the Husband and Father was had by all.

This journey from hell reminded me of a movie I've always enjoyed, National Lampoon's Vacation, starring Chevy Chase (and written by 80s powerhouse screenwriter John Hughes. The theme song was written and performed by Lindsey Buckingham (of Fleetwood Mac fame), and it's today's featured song for 80s Music Video Sunday.



Holiday Road
Lindsey Buckingham

I found out long ago, oooohhhh
It's a long way down the Holiday Road, oooohhhh

Holiday Road
Holiday Road

Jack be nible, Jack be quick, oooohhhh
Take a ride on a West Coast kick, oooohhhh

Holiday Road
Holiday Road
Holiday Road
Holiday Road

I've come back long ago, oooohhhh
Long way down the Holiday Road

Holiday Road
Holiday Road
Holiday Road
Holiday Road

Oooohhhh

Travels, trials and tribulations, and why there's no 80s Music Video Sunday today

As you have probably noticed, there was no 80s Music Video Sunday today, and I'm guessing that some of you are a bit disappointed. We were away for the weekend and only returned a few hours ago, and though I could probably cobble something together, I've decided not to post, given that Memorial Day for Fallen Soldiers and Victims of Terror begins Sunday evening in Israel, and it just seems wrong to post a peppy little 80s song on such a solemn occasion. This is the first year since I moved to Israel more than 15 years ago that I've not been there to commemorate Memorial Day or to celebrate Israel's Independence Day, which begins Monday evening at sundown, and it feels strange. We will, however, be going to an Israeli Independence Day celebration tomorrow at the local Jewish community center, and Memorial Day will be noted as well.

We've generally been having a good trip, and as usual, there's a part of me that doesn't want to return to Israel later this week. The Little One (who has tried my patience on almost a daily basis) is speaking mostly in English these days, albeit with an Israeli accent. We spent the weekend visiting with my brother and his family, and the Little One managed to utterly charm his young cousins, one of whom could not stop talking about how cute he was (she called him "cutie buns") and how all she wanted to do was to hold him and squeeze him. It was all rather adorable, and he kept crying her name for a good part of the trip back home to Grandma and Grandpa's house.

We've seen lots of animals and reptiles (mostly in various aquariums and other such establishments), played in the majority of playgrounds around the city, eaten rather well (the Little One immensely enjoyed the boneless spareribs after we told him that it was chicken), and done a fair amount of shopping (though of course, there's more to be done).

Oh, and I'm very, very tired. I've also developed an even greater respect for stay-at-home- and single parents. I don't know how you do it folks. I love my son to bits, but if I had to do this all the time, I think I'd lose it. I'm absolutely full of admiration for people who can do this, and a bit frustrated because I know I can't. As much as I'd like to stay here, I'm really looking forward to getting back to my husband and allowing him to spend some quality time with the Little One, while allowing me to spend some quality time with myself.

In any event, it is now nearly 9pm, and I've got phone calls to make and a small child to bathe. This week will be hectic, but normal blogging will resume next week.

You know you're in Florida when...

1. You see an alligator behind the house within an hour of your arrival.
2. Your hosts talk about hitting the early bird special for lobster night at one of the local restaurants.
3. You've seen three alligators behind the house within three days after your arrival, and are told that you might see more, because it's mating season.
4. Your Little One begins to say words in Spanish before he feels comfortable in English.
5. Your host strongly recommends not going past the last house at the end of the street, as just beyond the grass is the beginning of the lake, and alligators like to hang out there. To bring the point home, your host mentions how she once took a walk down to the end of the street, walked in the grass, looked down at the lake, and saw an alligator staring back at her.
6. The obituaries column in the local newspaper shows that no one is actually originally from here.
7. If you see an alligator by the local bank machine (in close proximity to a lake, lest you think they can be found wandering the city streets), you can call someone to come and take him away.
8. Taking a walk through the neighborhood involves looking both ways at golf cart crossings.
9. You learn how to say "alligator" in Spanish.
10. You feel like the youngest person wherever you go. By a lot. Especially when you find yourself having lunch in a restaurant before noon.
11. Streets downtown display signs with arrows, indicating evacuation routes in the event of a hurricane.

Three shirts have been added to the Official Clothing Count.

80s Music Video Sunday #18

We've been ensconsed in American life for approximately 52 hours, and the culture shock is palpable. So many television commercials! And hey! Why are there commercials for adult party phone lines on Nickelodeon during the day? We haven't been to Target. We've been to Super Target. Seriously! It's really called Super Target! Because regular Target just isn't big enough, I guess. The place is massive. I've already been to two supermarkets, and the sheer variety of products and brands has left me dumbfounded.

The flight was surprisingly not nightmarish. The Little One slept for eight out of thirteen hours (having managed to stay awake until the plane started to taxi down the runway in preparation for takeoff), and the rest of the time was spent reading and playing. At one point he told me that he wanted to get off the plane, but other than that, he was quite the little trooper. I actually apologized to one of the flight attendants for his behavior and she responded with, "he was good. Trust me." By the way, for those of you flying from Israel to the southern US, you should definitely consider Delta's direct flight from Tel Aviv to Atlanta. The service was excellent (everyone was so nice and so incredibly helpful!), the food surprisingly good, and the entertainment system kept me thoroughly entertained.

I drank my first cup of Starbucks coffee at the airport in Atlanta. Aside from being surprised to see that my medium-sized latte was larger than any large coffee that one can find in Israel, I was saddened to discover that what my husband and some of my friends had been saying was indeed correct. The coffee was nowhere near as good as the coffee in Israel. It didn't seem to bother anyone else in the terminal, though, as everyone seemed to be walking around with large cups of Starbucks coffee, and the garbage bins were full of empty Starbucks cups. They do, however, make a lovely chocolate chip scone, and I don't envy the person responsible for cleaning the area where the Little One ate his precious scone.

We've had an easy few days so far, aside from the jetlag and the fact that the Little One is barely speaking any English, chattering away to everyone in Hebrew, not at all bothered by the fact that almost no one understands him (he's even gone so far as to repeat answers in Hebrew, saying them louder and more slowly after his grandparents told him that they didn't understand). We've visited with friends, gone to a birthday party and made some new friends, and I've even managed to do a little shopping, after the Little One went down for an afternoon nap. The Official Shopping Count stands at two pairs of capri pants and one short-sleeved shirt (and sorry, NRG, but they're all in my "usual" colors. I did try on a red top, but it bunched funny under the arms...).

So, in honor of our trip to the US, today's 80s Music Video Sunday entry is devoted to an artist who I find to be quintessentially, unquestionably American. Our rocker was born in the USA, in the state of New Jersey. I've always been a Bruce Springsteen fan, and really enjoy his tunes from the 80s. Oh, and a gold star goes to the first person to name the girl dancing with Springsteen in the video below.



Dancing in the Dark
Bruce Springsteen

I get up in the evening
And I ain't got nothing to say
I come home in the morning
I go to bed feeling the same way
I ain't nothing but tired
Man, I'm just tired and bored with myself
Hey there baby I could use just a little help

You can't start a fire
You can't start a fire without a spark
This gun's for hire
Even if we're just dancing in the dark

Message keeps getting clearer
Radio's on and I'm moving 'round the place
I check my look in the mirror
I wanna change my clothes, my hair, my face
Man, I ain't getting nowhere just living in a dump like this
There's something happening somewhere
Baby I just know that there is

You can't start a fire
You can't start a fire without a spark
This gun's for hire
Even if we're just dancing in the dark

You sit around getting older
There's a joke here somewhere and it's on me
I'll shake this world off my shoulders
Come on baby the laugh's on me

Stay on the streets of this town
And they'll be carving you up all right
They say you gotta stay hungry
Hey baby I'm just about starving tonight
I'm dying for some action
I'm sick of sitting 'round here trying to write this book
I need a love reaction
Come on now baby gimme just one look

You can't start a fire sitting 'round crying over a broken heart
This gun's for hire
Even if we're just dancing In the dark
You can't start a fire worrying about your little world falling apart
This gun's for hire

5, 4, 3, 2, 1 meme and 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 blast off

Not that I am very tizzy-prone, but I'd have to say that today, I'm definitely leaning in that direction. The Little One and I are off to the US tonight for a three-week visit with Grandma and Grandpa, and I have stocked up on a variety of coloring and sticker books, play-doh (Delta Airlines, please forgive me in advance for the mess...), crayons, puzzles and books for our journey, which will take a hair-raising twenty hours or so door-to-door. We will have personal seat-back monitors, and with any luck, he'll sleep for at least half of the first 13-hour leg of the trip. If there's any additional luck to be had (not to mention complimentary alcoholic beverages, though I will pay if necessary), perhaps I'll even manage to get a decent amount of sleep as well. I'm still debating whether or not to take our stroller, mostly for use in the airports when the Little One will either be sleeping or will want to be picked up (which happens with increasing frequency these days), as well as for some of our longer days out during the visit. The disadvantage will raise its ugly head during those moments when he'll want to walk and then tries to run off while I'm saddled with the stroller and a knapsack. Your thoughts and advice are definitely welcome...

I'll try to blog during the trip, but I'm not sure how much time I'll have. 80s Music Video Sunday entries will be posted later in the day due to the time difference, but they will be posted.

**********

As I don't really have either the time or the energy for a "real" post, I'm going to hit you all with a meme. I've been tagged by The Armenian Odar, a Dutch expat living in – where else – Armenia. Check out her blog, folks, and get a chance to learn about life in a country that isn't on the radar for most.

5, 4, 3, 2, 1 Meme

Name five things you love in your new country:

1. The way that everyone lives life to the fullest.
2. The coffee (you can get great coffee virtually anywhere!).
3. The beautiful scenery, from snow and lush greenery in the north to desert landscapes in the south.
4. The complex quirkiness of the people!
5. The wide variety of foods that are available – everything from sushi to jachnun!

Name four things that you miss from your native country.

1. My family and friends.
2. Autumn foliage.
3. Trousers and jeans that come in "petite" sizes. Whenever I buy these items here (which is rare), I always have to get them fixed. How annoying is that? And it's not like I'm really short – I'm 5'2"/158 cm tall.
4. Shallow pleasantries and good manners. Call me pathetic, but I like it when salespeople tell me to have a nice day or ask how I'm doing today.

Name three things that annoy you a bit (or much) in your new country:

1. Israeli drivers suck big time! Being on the road here is like being in a war, and every other car an enemy that must be humbled and/or destroyed. It's gotten so bad lately that there's even an ad campaign where careless drivers are branded terrorists.
2. The lack of environmental awareness vis a vis garbage. Children are practically born knowing that picking wild flowers is a serious no-no, but no one will think twice if you toss your garbage around the unpicked wild flowers.
3. The government and the sorry state of the educational system. Need I say more?

Name two things that surprise you (or surprised you in the beginning) in your new country:

1. The lack of education regarding environmental awareness (see number 2 in the previous section). I don't understand how Israelis can be so enthralled with nature on the one hand, yet have no problems whatsoever about ruining it with garbage.
2. The extent to which people seem to think that rules don't apply to them, whether they be rules of the road, legal issues, etc. There's a big problem with sexual harassment here, and I'm constantly in awe of the fact that it is so prevalent at so many different levels in both civilian and military life.

Name one thing that you would miss terribly in your new country, if you had to leave it:

1. My friends.

Tagging:

Stefanella, who's always up for a good meme.

Beth, whose answers will inevitably entertaining.

Anglosaxy, since (a) these kinds of questions are right up his alley, and (b) I just like tagging him.

NRG, whose life has always run on a course parallel to mine (answer in the Comments Section, please).

Life Out East, who should have some interesting responses, given that he's moving back home shortly.

**************

Wish me luck on the journey tonight. God knows I'm gonna need it...

Can you say that in English?

I can't believe it's been nearly a year since we were last in the US. I remember the trip vividly, as though it took place just last month, yet suddenly I find myself making preparations to fly once again. It will be different from last time though, for two reasons. First of all, we will be flying to Florida instead of New York, and second of all, the Little One and I will be flying solo without the Husband, as he has too much going on work-wise and can't get away right now.

I'm really looking forward to the trip, though not without some trepidation. We'll be flying the route recommended by SavtaDotty, which involves a direct flight from Tel Aviv to Atlanta lasting just over 13 hours, a layover of just under three hours, during which we'll have to go through Customs, grab luggage, return luggage, and probably take a train to our next gate (which I plan to milk for maximum entertainment value). The last leg of our journey should take a little more than 90 minutes, where the Little One's grandparents will be waiting for us by the massive aquarium to help us collect our luggage and make the fifteen-minute drive back to the house. I've ordered kiddie meals for the kiddie and selected our seats for all four flights (sadly, no bulkhead seats were available), and have more or less decided that potty training will be put on hold while in transit so that we won't have any unfortunate incidents at inconvenient times. The last thing I need while standing in the Customs line is "Mommy, doody/pee pee", and not having any place to run (and not wanting to give up our place in line).

But I digress. One of the things that concerns me the most about this trip (aside from having to keep my son entertained for three weeks straight) is language. As time goes by, he is speaking more and more in Hebrew, and less and less in English. He understands everything we say to him in English, he chooses books and videos in English, but the language he usually opts to speak in is Hebrew. If I ask him how to say a certain word in English, he can tell me, and occasionally initiates in English, but for the most part, his primary spoken language is now Hebrew. Our conversations usually occur with me speaking to him in English and him responding in Hebrew. I'm not overly thrilled with this situation, but don't like the idea of trying to force him to use English, as I don't want him to rebel against the language. I don't want him to see English as a chore.

I've begun preparing him for the trip, and he knows that in a few weeks we'll be getting on an airplane and flying to visit Grandma and Grandpa (and possibly Mickey Mouse, which has proved an effective deterrent when I want him to do something or stop doing something, as he doesn't want to miss meeting the mouse), and a slew of cousins, and aunt and uncle, etc. While gently pushing him to speak more English, I've been trying to explain to him that when we go to visit Mommy's family, he has to speak in English, as they don't speak Hebrew, but I'm not sure he understands yet. He seems to understand the concept in reverse, in that if we tell him to say something to someone else, and we tell him in English, he switches to Hebrew, even when it's a word that he normally uses in English. I'm hoping that once he's fully immersed in a totally English-speaking environment, the language will come to him naturally, and that after three weeks there, his English speaking skills will be on par with his Hebrew speaking skills. Needless to say, I don't relish the thought of having to play full-time translator for the duration of our trip, and I know that my parents will be incredibly frustrated if he responds to them only in Hebrew.

Given that he is not yet three years-old, I'm not sure how much he comprehends of his bilingualism. He understands that there's an accent he uses on certain letters when speaking in Hebrew and that the accent changes when speaking in English. Sometimes, if I ask him to say a particular word in English, he simply repeats it in Hebrew, using an American accent. While watching Balamory last week, Archie came on the screen. I made some innocuous comment about Archie and was immediately chastised by my son, who explained that it wasn't "Archie", it was "Ahhhrrrchie", and no amount of explaining and cajoling would convince him otherwise, even though Balamory is in English. On the other hand, while being read to in English by one of his young Israeli cousins recently, when the girl stumbled over a word or two, the Little One (who knew the book virtually by heart) corrected her while using his American accent.

Before we flew to the US last year, he was speaking, but not really connecting words into sentences yet. While there, he had something of a language explosion, and because it happened while we were in an English speaking environment, the "explosion" was mainly in English. After we returned to Israel, his Hebrew caught up with his English, and then surpassed it as he began to truly interact with his peers and other Israelis who were, of course, all around him. I am hoping for a similar explosion (or at least concrete recognition of the fact that there are two distinct languages, and that not everyone speaks both) during this trip, but given that his language skills are far more developed this time around, I'm not quite sure what to expect.

*This post cross-posted to Brio.

Liza – Queen of the Desert

"Welcome to Jordan and thank you for using UMNIAH GSM network. We wish you
a pleasant stay in Jordan. For customer care inquiries please dial XXXX"

This was the SMS text message that I received on Saturday morning as we drove along a trail known as the Peace Road, running parallel to the Jordanian border, deep in the Arava Desert between Moshav Idan and Moshav Ein Yahav.

As you may have surmised from the cacti photo in the blog header (taken on our porch), we are big fans of the desert. Without fail, whenever we head down south to either the Negev or the Arava, my mind immediately kicks into high gear as I try to come up with a feasible plan for relocating. Such was the case this past weekend, as we made our way through the Arava with various members of Husband's family, stopping here and there to see the sights and to hear absolutely nothing aside from the sounds of our own voices.

The desert in Israel is simply magnificent. While I've never been much of a hiker, there are few sights that I enjoy more than the stark desert landscape, with its ragged-edged mountains and snaking wadis, and as we delve in deeper and deeper, I feel more and more at peace with myself. Suddenly, nothing else matters, and my stress is gone. In fact, here's the text message that I sent to nrg after we arrived at our desert accommodations (with a few minor modifications):

"We're down in the desert. I'm sitting on a sofa outside of our little cottage, drinking coffee and watching the stars come out. It's absolutely incredible. Wish you could see it. Just had to tell someone how amazing it is here. We're right on the border with Jordan, and Husband's cell phone has even switched to a Jordanian network (as mine did the next morning). So incredible here. I don't want to leave."

And it truly was that incredible. We stayed at a little place on Moshav Hatzeva called La Siesta, and as you can see from the pictures, it was absolutely idyllic. We relaxed, we barbecued, we relaxed some more (especially after I downed my own mini-bottle of white wine at breakneck speed), and for the first time in a long time, I almost felt like me again. And, needless to say, I miss that feeling. Exhausted by the rat race and growing increasingly wary of hi-tech, my soul is in dire need of rejuvenation, which will hopefully happen before it's sucked away completely.


Anyway, back to the desert. We left mid-morning on Friday, stopping to drop off the dog with family and pick up one of the nephews, who would act as a playmate for the Little One during the long drive south. Following a brief detour through the bowels of Beersheva, in a fruitless search for a long-closed yet fondly remembered ice cream parlor, we left the world behind us, watching as the buildings were replaced by Bedouin communities and the cars were replaced with camels. Husband had put together an itinerary that ensured we would have a journey of never-ending vistas, and as usual when it comes to all things desert, he did not disappoint. We ooohed at lookout points over the big and small craters, we aaahed over the rock formation that somehow resembles a frog. We held on tight as we wound our way around the hairpin turns along the narrow road that hugs the crater wall, and we dragged the children on foot to admire the views and the solitude of the desert.


Upon arrival at our cottage, I gently placed the napping Little One in the middle of our big bed, and woke him up when dinner was ready. I spent the interim leaning back on the pillows on our patio, looking up at the stars and wishing that I could stay in that position forever. There is no sky like the desert sky at night, with its velvety blackness peppered by millions of sharp pinpoints of light. The desert and the sky seemingly go on forever, and without realizing it, you have become an integral part of this magnificent, awesome setting. The feelings of oneness with the surroundings are total and undeniably soothing, and suddenly, you feel complete and at peace in ways that you have forgotten are even possible. And this is how I felt.

Of course, it certainly helped that the weather was perfect, and unusually warm for this time of year. Winter nights in the desert are quite cold, and somehow, we'd lucked out. Our luck would continue into Saturday, as we saw the desert sights while wearing short-sleeves, and sometimes no sleeves, as Little One felt the need to remove his shirt whenever it got wet, which happened with greater frequency than one might expect. After making our way from one end of the Peace Road to the other (periodically thinking about my Jordanian friend Rami, knowing how much he misses the desert in his native country, and knowing that he would have enjoyed these views just as I did) and stopping briefly to view desert sculptures, we ended up at Park Sapir, where some of the adults prepared lunch while others chased a certain small, topless child over bridges, around a lake and through trees and bushes (who'd have guessed that such little legs could move so fast?! Pant pant...).

Following lunch and a tad more chasing, we packed up, collected all children, and headed for home, accompanied for most of the journey by an all-encompassing dust storm that turned the skies and the air a dull shade of brownish gray and making everything look hazy and blurred. The Little One slept, and I daydreamed about moving to the desert. As we say in this neck of the desert, life is something something...

80s Music Video Sunday #8

I've always found it interesting how some musicians can be so popular in Europe, yet remain almost unheard of in the US (and vice versa, I would imagine). I'm not referring to musicians who don't perform in English (and whose chances of succeeding in the US without singing in English are virtually nil), but rather those who do sing in English and are filling stadiums throughout Europe, Asia, Australia, etc, yet for some reason are unable to crack the American market (Robbie Williams comes to mind, though for the life of me, I can't understand why he hasn't made it in the US – face it, the man can sing and dance, and is rather easy on the eyes to boot).

And so it was, only three-and-a-half years ago, that I discovered one of Britain's more popular 80s bands, which, as far as I know, never made it big in the US. Husband and I (in our "pre-Little One" days) were in Europe for about a week. Aside from a weekend spent in Norway, the trip was primarily for business purposes, with one day spent in Holland and several days spent meeting business contacts around England. We rented a car to reach all of our far-flung meeting points, and got to see quite a bit of the beautiful English countryside, as well as a number of charming cities, villages and off-the-beaten-path attractions. We spent a lot of time in that little Ford Focus of ours, and the radio was always on. It was during one of the seemingly endless drives from point A to a distant point B when a certain song came on. And I was hooked. The song was by a band called The Housemartins, and even though the song was a cover, it was, simply put, amazing. I loved their voices, I loved their style. I had to have more.

We returned to Israel, and I got my hands on every song by The Housemartins that I could find. My pal Anglosaxy, ever the helpful Brit, introduced me to Beautiful South, the band formed by several members of the Housemartins, and their music became part of my growing repertoire as well. My favorite Housemartins song would have to be The Light is Always Green. For today's 80s Music Video Sunday, however, I've decided to go with the song that brought about my ongoing love affair with this incredibly talented group, since it's not only a beautiful song, but it also serves as a wake-up call regarding the current depressing status of the world we find ourselves living in, I think. A "make love not war" sentiment from my inner hippie chick, so to speak (thanks for reminding me, Maryam). Enjoy!



Caravan of Love
The Housemartins (original lyrics by Ernie Isley, Chris Jasper and Marvin Isley)

Are you ready
Are you ready
Are you ready
Are you ready
Are you ready for the time of your life
It's time to stand up and fight
S'alright
S'alright
Hand in hand we'll take a caravan to the marvel land
One by one we're gonna stand up with pride
One that can't be denied
Stand up
Stand up
From the highest mountain valley low
We'll join together with hearts of gold
Now the children of the world can see
This is a better place for us to be
The place in which we were born
So neglected and torn apart

Every woman every man
Join the caravan of love
(Stand up) stand up
Stand up
Every body take a stand
Join the caravan of love
(Stand up) stand up
Stand up
I'm your brother
I'm your brother don't you know
She's my sister
She's my sister don't you know

We'll be living in a world of peace
And the day when everyone is free
Bring the young and the old
Won't you let your love flow from your heart

Every woman every man
Join the caravan of love
(Stand up) stand up
Stand up
Every body take a stand
Join the caravan of love
(Stand up) stand up
Stand up

I'm your brother
I'm your brother don't you know
She's my sister
She's my sister don't you know

So are you ready (he's coming)
Are you ready (he's coming)
Are you ready (he's coming)
Are you ready (he's coming on the caravan)
You better get ready (go for it)
You better get ready (go for it)
You better get ready (go for it)
You better get ready

Liza's guide to Amsterdam...

Shortly after checking in at the fabulous Hotel New Amsterdam (check out my online review of the hotel here), we made our way out into the city, heading towards the “Shenkin-like” Jordaan neighborhood, with its funky shops and trendy restaurants and cafes. We walked and walked, wandering into little shops and ethnic food markets. We bought jewelry from a lovely Afghani man, who told us that his shop would be closed for the next two days because he was off to Germany to meet up with a friend whom he hadn’t seen in twenty years, a man who had taught German in Kabul. Our Afghani friend pointed us in the direction of an excellent Persian restaurant, after we asked him whether or not there were any Afghani restaurants in Amsterdam (he claimed that not only were there no Afghani restaurants in Amsterdam, but he didn’t know of any in all of Holland). We made our way to the Persian restaurant – called Didar, if I remember correctly, stopping to browse in different shops along the way, enjoying the weather and the fact that we were together in Amsterdam.

I won’t bore you with the moment-by-moment description of our three days in this fabulous city, but I will share some of the highlights and more amusing anecdotes.

Museums. We had intended to go to a number of museums, but given how perfect the weather was, we opted to spend as much time as possible outside. We did go to the Anne Frank House and the Dutch Resistance Museum, and while both were quite sobering, if I had to make a decision about which left a greater impact, I would have to say the latter. I was already quite familiar with the story of Anne Frank, and as incredible and moving as her story is, I think I was more impressed by the stories from the Dutch resistance, stories that provided inspiration and hope, stories of great daring and personal risk in order to defy the Nazis. We also went to the Hollandsche Schouwburg theater memorial, stumbling across it after leaving the resistance museum. In the 19th century, this was a regular Dutch theater, located in the Old Jewish Quarter. When the Nazis came to power, they turned it into a Jews-only theater, and it later became the point to which all Amsterdam Jews were brought prior to being deported to concentration camps. The majority of the structure no longer stands, and it has been turned into a memorial to those Jews who were deported from the site, with a listing of names and an eternal memorial flame. This memorial left a greater impact on me than either of the other two museums, and during our unplanned visit, I found myself returning over and over to stare at the names on the wall and to read the Hebrew inscription.

Food. Wherever we went to eat, the food was simply outstanding. In addition to the Persian food at Didar, we went Italian (though I can’t remember the name of the restaurant, located on Haarlemerstraat), Spanish (Centra, located in the heart of the Red Light District – excellent paella, and I discovered a fondness for sangria), and Japanese (if you’re in Amsterdam and you feel like Japanese food, you must, I repeat must, go to Akitsu, located on the outskirts of the Jordaan neighborhood on Rozengracht. We both agreed that it was, quite possibly, the best sushi we’ve ever eaten). For our remaining two lunches, we went the café route and weren’t disappointed. Our first café was the Café de Jaren, and we sat on the second floor overlooking the Amstel. The other café was a small street café in the Jordaan. As I sit here, thinking about the sandwiches with warm goat cheese and honey (among other things, including walnut pesto), I am trying very hard not to drool. Words cannot adequately describe this heavenly combination of tastes that come together in a positively orgasmic culinary explosion. I’m definitely going to have to find the right goat cheese and try this one at home. Don’t even get me started on the Dutch syrup cookies, which I must find out where they can be purchased locally (Bert?)…
Shopping. Between street markets (especially the one in the Waterlooplein) and the shops, we managed to fill our expandable suitcases to overflowing, laying across them to work the zipper (okay, that was just me), and both of us carrying shopping bags onto the plane, because there just wasn’t any more room. We bought books at the American Book Center, toys at Gone with the Wind (if you want to buy toys in Amsterdam, come here first. Not only did they have a great selection of unique wooden toys and mobiles, but the service was outstanding), jewelry at Kabulistan, and a number of ponchos, jackets and scarves from various Nepalis working in shops and markets throughout the city.

People. Without fail, nearly every individual who crossed our path was friendly, helpful, and quite often, highly amusing, whether it was a hotel staff member, a salesperson, restaurant wait staff, etc. There was Pierre, the friendly French shop owner, who, upon finding out that I was from Israel, told us how most of the items in his shop came from Israeli suppliers and any money spent there would end up in a bank in Tel Aviv. Pierre decided to “put me in the mood” by putting on a Meir Banai CD, and explained why buying a poncho for the little one wasn’t necessary. I would be hard-pressed to remember the speech verbatim (nrg?), though it did have something to do with the fact that he is so young that he would never remember whether or not I bought him said poncho. I liked Pierre well enough to buy the funky poncho that he recommended for the husband, though.

Then there was this young Nepali chap. Friendly as can be, but couldn’t speak English to save his life. I decided, far too late in our trip, that I had to get a poncho for the little one (Pierre’s attempts to convince me otherwise fell on deaf Mommy ears). We happened upon one shop where our Nepali was working, selling a veritable plethora of items from (where else?) Nepal. When we questioned him about a poncho, he responded that he did not have any in that particular store, but that he would be working in another store later on that did have the ponchos. We asked our new friend for the shop’s name and location, and received an intelligible answer. We asked him to spell it out and mark it on our map for us. He couldn’t spell, and simply put the letter “B” on the outside of the map, and tried to explain. It was this brief exchange that had us wandering through the side streets off the Damrak and into Chinatown looking for a shop called “Bilibev”. We looked high and low; we asked earnestly in other shops (Bilibev bilibev bilibev). We laughed, we despaired. Finally, while walking down one of the main roads in Chinatown, we hit upon a store called “Believe”. We peered inside, and lo and behold, our Nepali friend was there. Somehow, “Believe” had become “Bilibev”, and it would seem that we were quite lucky to have found it at all, given that he’d mispronounced both the name of his own store (!) and the road that it was on, and had neglected to mention that it was in Chinatown. Thanks to nrg’s bargaining skills (seriously, this is a person you want to have with you for all of your haggling needs), we managed to knock 10 euros of the price, and I triumphantly carried my purchase out of the store.

I could go on and on about this trip, how perfect it was from every standpoint (the company, the location, the weather, the activities, etc), and indeed, looking back over the length of this post, I have. Although it is already quickly turning into a distant memory, I’m still floating from the excitement of having been away on such an incredible weekend. Can’t wait for the next time…

Greetings from Amsterdam

Greetings from Amsterdam! Here we are on day three of our sojourns, and having an amazing time. Lots of walking and talking, lots of shopping, and surprisingly little eating, which is not for lack of trying, to be sure. For example, yesterday, at around 1:45 in the afternoon, we started talking about going for lunch. We'd just left the Resistance Museum (which was excellent, if a tad overkill), and began discussing lunching possibilities and how they would fit into our meanderings. We ended up sitting down for lunch at around 5pm. Yes, that's right, it took us three hours to get to lunch. We were distracted by markets (I got two Nepalese fleeces for the price of one!), museums and memorials, canals and shops, and nothing we passed seemed quite right.

We've been to the Anne Frank House, wandered through the Jordaan neighborhood (heading back there today for a street festival), strolled along the Amstel and various other canals, stopped in at a multitude of food shops, and pet a plethora of four-legged creatures. But mostly, we've just been walking. Everywhere. The weather has been absolutely glorious (I've gotten a tan!), and we are taking full advantage. We're already talking about coming back, and the thought of having to leave this charming, wonderfully quirky city tomorrow pains me greatly.

Anyway, I suspect the hour is nearly up on my internet café credit, so instead of taking the chance of being cut off, I'm going to stop here. More posting will come at the beginning of the week, I should imagine, when I will get into the nitty gritty, with links (expect a huge plug for our hotel, run by a charming team of gay men who have positively added to our trip and made our stay at the hotel a joy), maybe a few photos, and the usual witty yet intelligent commentary. Hope you're all having as much fun this weekend as I am, but somehow, I seriously doubt that's even possible...

Running Away with my Best Friend

Given all of the stress that I’ve been feeling lately, I keep fantasizing about getting away from it all, even if it’s only for a few days. Time away from the politics, the belligerence (was I being redundant there?), the day-to-day responsibilities… My brain is fried and my nerves are close to the edge, and there’s no better remedy I can think of than some time away with a good friend.

What a crazy coincidence! In just over a week, I’m flying to Amsterdam, meeting up for what promises to be a marvelous girly weekend with my eternal partner in crime and all things silly – the fabulous NRG (and if you don’t know who that is, then you clearly haven’t been reading the comment sections for any of my blog entries). After months of planning, we’ve booked the hotel, coordinated our flights (she arrives 30 minutes before I do – don’t forget, that’s one large latté with low-fat milk and one artificial sweetener, please; I’ll get the next one), and begun discussing our sightseeing options (though of course, if we end up spending the weekend sitting in a café drinking lattes for three days straight, that also wouldn’t be a bad thing). I’ve read the Irreverent Guide to Amsterdam from cover to cover, and am now going through it again, making lists of things to do to share with NRG. Lots of walking, lots of coffee, a few museums, shops, street markets and festivals galore – I can hardly wait!

And who better to go with than NRG, my dearest friend. If you have even one friendship like the one I have with NRG, consider yourselves extremely lucky. Friends since high school (despite having gone to different schools), we have seen each other through thick and thin (sometimes thicker and sometimes thinner), good times and bad. I would never have made it through the dark days without her, and I am in awe of all that she has given me over the years. When we are together, I am the “me” that I’d like to be all the time – more confident, funnier (I know hard to believe I could be even funnier, but it’s true), and more outgoing. Despite the fact that we haven’t lived on the same continent in more than 15 years, we have remained closer than ever, communicating on an almost daily basis and always keeping each other in the loop of our lives. No one knows me better than she does – she is one of the only people in the world who has ever seen me cry. I don’t let anyone see me cry, so that should tell you something. What started at a mutual friend’s Halloween party when we were teenagers, continued through scorpion bowling in Boston’s Chinatown (which was often followed by raucous all-night backgammon sessions on the floor outside my dorm room), worked its way through the myriad problems of youth and young adulthood, and finally taking us to where we are today, not seeing nearly as often as we’d like, but using modern technology to stay in closer touch than ever before, while forcing preparing our sons (born just 2 ½ weeks apart, thank you very much) to carry on the tradition.

Of course, I could easily continue to wax on lyrically and poetically about our friendship, but since the chances are excellent that I’d make her cry and everyone else sick, I will reluctantly stop singing NRG’s praises and return to the topic at hand – Amsterdam. I must admit, I’m not looking forward to the flight, as it leaves just before 5 in the morning. I’ll be leaving the house at around 1:30 am to get the first train to the airport, and I expect the whole experience will be nothing short of painful, riding a brightly lit train at an hour when most normal people are asleep, then being required to act in a coherent manner when I should be stuck deep in my dreams. With any luck, I’ll manage to sleep on the plane, but to be honest, I’m not holding my breath. I imagine I’ll get through the first day on pure adrenalin and unusually large quantities of caffeine, which I’m more than willing to accept, given that I’ll be sucking that caffeine down in Amsterdam with a good friend.

We will probably spend some time discussing politics and religion – two of the only subjects on which we are not more or less in synch with our opinions. It should be interesting, and certainly easier to do in person than via email or chat applications. We will discuss our lives, our families, our jobs. We will try to figure out what directions we’d like to see our lives take (and I may monopolize this one, given that I’ve been feeling at a crossroads for some time now), and what we need to do to realize our dreams. But first and foremost, before everything, we will make sure that I can pronounce the name “Jostein Gaarder” correctly (I’ve been practicing). Those Norwegian names get me every time!